Closer than the Bones (22 page)

The next thought chilled my blood.

They would have told Jack—unless one of them was the murderer and they were protecting each other.

No,
I decided. That’s too fanciful. I couldn’t see Miss McElroy doing such a thing. Her husband was still a bit of a cipher to me. He was such a dignified, Old-South gentlemanly type that I had a hard time seeing him doing such a thing either.

I sighed. This wasn’t a very scientific approach to solving the murders. Which was why, I reminded myself sharply, Jack Preston was in charge of the investigation. I might nudge things along here and there, but it would be Jack who’d probably crack the case first.

I was just getting to my feet when the door to the sitting room opened and in walked Morwell Phillips.

“Miss Carpenter,” he said, his voice clipped. “Mary Tucker would like to speak with you, if you wouldn’t mind going up to her room. I’m afraid this latest... incident”—his face twisted in distaste—“has upset her considerably, and I’ve put her to bed, per her doctor’s instructions.”

“I’ll go to her at once,” I said. I wondered whether he shouldn’t be in bed himself, his face was so gray. He moved more slowly than usual as he stood aside to let me precede him from the room.

“Thank you,” he said.

I almost ran up the stairs, and for some reason, when I reached the top, I paused, turned, and looked back down. Phillips stood there, staring up after me. His expression was fleeting, gone so quickly that I probably imagined it, because he moved away the moment he realized I was watching him.

But I would have sworn that what I saw on his face was fear.

I couldn’t afford to puzzle too long over the strange expression on Morwell Phillips’s face because I felt a sense of urgency behind his request for me to talk to Miss McElroy. Perhaps what I had seen on his face was simply his fear for the well-being of his wife. Surely he wasn’t afraid of me. Unless, of course, he was the murderer, and he knew that his wife and I were closing in on him.

I shook my head at the absurdity of it. I couldn’t see Miss McElroy’s husband as the person who had murdered poor Katie so violently.

I tapped at Miss McElroy’s door but didn’t wait for a summons to enter. Pushing open the door, I beheld her lying like a wax effigy in state on her bed. My heart almost stopped for a moment, then she moved, blinked her eyes, and said, “Come in.”

As I hesitated, she said, “Don’t stand there gawking, Miss Carpenter. I’m not ready for the bone yard just yet.”

Relieved, I did as she bade me, shutting the door behind me and advancing toward her bed. She gestured weakly for me to sit in a chair which had been pulled near the bed. I sat.

“How are you doing?” I said. Her pallor alarmed me, though I was a bit reassured by the tart tone of her voice.

“I’ll do,” she said, her voice gruff. “The strain seems to have gotten to me a bit, but I’ll be better by tomorrow morning. Just some rest, and I’ll be up and about as usual.”

I thought she might need more than one night’s rest, judging by the look of her at the moment, but I wasn’t going to argue with her. She had an indomitable will, from what I had seen, and she might well be up and bustling around tomorrow, leaving me eating the dust in her wake. I fervently hoped so.

“Mr. Phillips said you wanted to see me,” I prompted her gently. She had fallen silent, while her hands pleated and unpleated the bedspread at her chest.

“Yes,” she sighed. “No one will tell me exactly what has happened to that poor, misguided girl. Nor will they tell me anything else that’s going on, simply because I had a moment of weakness and nearly fainted.” She fixed her eyes upon mine and gave as good a glare as she could, daring me to contradict or deny her. “You, however, will tell me everything, and don’t leave anything out, no matter how trivial.”

I resisted the impulse to salute, though I thought it might actually make her smile. “Of course, because I know how irksome it is, not knowing.”

“Exactly!” she said, before I could continue.

I took a deep breath, then launched into a brief, dispassionate description of what I had seen when I walked into the summerhouse earlier in the day. Miss McElroy’s mouth twisted in pain suddenly, and I paused to ask her if she needed anything.

“No,” she said, her eyes closed. I feared she was seeing all too clearly the image that others had tried to protect her against, of Katie, brutalized and dead. “Go on.”

Not completely reassured, I complied. I told her of my talk with Selma Greer and the subsequent discussion with Jack Preston. She appeared alarmed when she realized that Brett Doran might be implicated in Katie’s murder because of where it had occurred and the possible drug connection, but I hastened to reassure her Brett most likely had a good alibi for it. I couldn’t tell her about the murder weapon, not without Jack’s permission. Fortunately she seemed not to have noticed my omission of that fact.

She smiled faintly. “Brett and his cigars! For once, they may have saved him.”

“I certainly hope so,” I said.

“At least it’s better than his smoking pot, or ingesting something worse,” she went on.

Before I revealed the most sensational information I had discovered—the fact of Alice Bertram’s malingering—I thought I had better tell her about the conversation I’d had with Lurleen Landry.

Miss McElroy already knew about Lurleen’s experiences with Sukey Lytton—or at least Lurleen claimed she did—so I doubted I was telling her anything new or startling. I truly feared how she would react when I revealed to her the depth of Alice Bertram’s deception. But I wondered how much Miss McElroy really knew about the dynamics of that marriage. Did she know the truth, I wondered, about what had happened the day the Bertrams’ son was killed?

I pushed those thoughts away for the moment and concentrated on recounting my conversation with Lurleen. As I was nearing the end, I heard a gentle snore. I hadn’t been watching Miss McElroy closely as I talked, and now I could see that she had fallen asleep. Just as well, because she needed rest now more than she needed to hear me babble out my report.

I extricated myself quietly from my chair and tiptoed across the room. Praying that the door wouldn’t squeak, I eased it open. Hovering outside was Morwell Phillips, an expression of anxiety stamped across his face.

“How is she?” he asked, his voice low.

“Asleep,” I said, shutting the door with great care behind me.

“Good,” he said, and his whole body seemed to slump, all of a sudden, as if he had been holding himself at rigid attention, bracing for the worst.

With a hand on his elbow, I guided him across the hall toward the door of my bedroom. “What happened to her?”

He rubbed a weary hand across his face. “When Jack Preston came to tell us what had happened, she fainted. Fortunately, she was seated at the time. I’m afraid the strain of all that’s happened has been too much for her. Ordinarily, she’s got the fortitude of any ten women, but for the last year or so, she’s been having these ‘little spells,’ as she calls them.” He smiled weakly. “To Mary Tucker, they’re ‘little spells,’ but to anyone else they’d be cause to rush to the doctor for all kinds of tests, I suppose.”

“Is she in any danger?” I asked, alarmed all over again.

He shrugged. “Her doctor thinks she’ll be fine, as long as she doesn’t let herself get too upset.” He threw up his hands. “But how on earth I’m supposed to keep her from getting upset, in the middle of all this mess, I surely don’t know.” His voice had risen sharply in frustration, and he made an effort to control himself. “She’s very obstinate, as I’m sure you’ve noticed by now. She won’t listen to what anyone says.”

I detected more than a faint trace of bitterness in that last remark. I could only imagine what it must be like to be married to such a woman, one used to having her own way in all things. Especially since, in our limited contact, Morwell Phillips hadn’t impressed me as a particularly forceful man. He was the perfect foil, I supposed, for a strong woman like Mary Tucker McElroy.

“I’m sure Jack Preston and his men will get this all sorted out very soon,” I said, as soothingly as possible. “Once the investigation is over and someone has been charged, Miss McElroy will be fine.”

He stared at me, one eyebrow raised. “Perhaps” was all he said.

I hoped my face hadn’t betrayed me by flushing. He wasn’t to be mollified by platitudes, and I felt foolish.

“Would you like me to sit with her?” I said. “I don’t think she should be alone tonight.”

He shook his head. “No, I’ll stay with her, and if necessary, Mrs. Greer will relieve me. She’s used to Mary Tucker’s little ways and her medicines. I do appreciate your kindness in offering.”

He was turning away, when on impulse I asked him, “Do you have any idea who’s responsible for all this?”

He swung back to me, frowning. “No, but if I did, I’d strangle the bastard with my own two hands. And if Sukey weren’t already dead, I think I’d kill her all over again for the mess she’s caused. I wish I had never laid eyes on that damn girl!” He stalked off, leaving me staring after him, openmouthed.

Miss McElroy’s bedroom door opened and shut, quietly and quickly, and there I stood, alone in the hallway, gaping after Morwell Phillips.

I shut my mouth and unlocked my own bedroom door. Now that I wasn’t engrossed in conversation, I realized that I needed to do something, rather soon, about all that coffee I had drunk earlier. I headed for the bathroom.

In due course, I stood at the sink, washing my hands and staring into the mirror. I had been pondering several questions, and I realized I needed more information. With luck, I could catch Farrah Lockett still at the library and ask her to do a bit more research for me.

I dried my hands and went to the telephone in my bedroom. I plopped myself down on the bed after I had punched in the number. As I sat, waiting to be connected to Farrah’s voice mail, I glanced toward the door. A small envelope lay on the floor, just inches from the door. I frowned. Who was slipping notes under my door?

Farrah’s voice came on the line, asking me to leave a message. Hastily gathering my distracted wits, I did that. I knew that, if the information was available, she could find it for me. If she found nothing, that in itself would be an answer, a confirmation of sorts. But just in case, to make sure people were telling me the truth, I thought it best to find out as much as possible.

Placing the telephone receiver back in its cradle, I sat and stared at the envelope on my floor. Something about it spooked me, though for the life of me I couldn’t have said why. It was just odd, and I was probably overreacting. But in view of what had happened today, anything out of the ordinary bothered me.

I got up from the bed and approached the envelope slowly, as if it were going to explode. Wondering whether I should be wearing gloves, I picked it up, very carefully, by one corner.

Gingerly, I carried it over to the desk, where I placed it on the blotter. I opened the drawer and rummaged inside for a pencil and a letter opener. Using the letter opener, I flipped the envelope over. There was nothing written on the outside, and the flap hadn’t been glued down. Using the pencil in my left hand to hold down one corner of the envelope, I took the letter opener in my right hand and worked open the flap.

There was a card inside, and I could see the initials BD emblazoned across the top in dark blue ink. Below the initials were hand-printed words, in block capitals. Catching one corner of the card between thumb and finger, I eased the card out so that I could read the message.

“Ernie: can you meet me ASAP out by the summerhouse?” Below that was a scrawled signature which looked like it could be “Brett.”

I stared down at the card on my desk.
Very odd,
I thought. Why didn’t he simply knock at my door and talk to me here? Or at least ask me to accompany him to the summerhouse?

Maybe I was making too much of this. Brett was probably just rattled by what had happened today. After all, he had to be aware that it was his computer that the killer had used as a murder weapon. That would be enough to make me a bit scatterbrained, I supposed.

I looked out the window and down toward the summerhouse. I couldn’t see anyone. Brett couldn’t be inside because the sheriff’s department had sealed it. Where was he?

Enough dithering,
I told myself.
Just go down there and see if he’s there!

I started to leave the note where it was, on the desk, but at the last moment I got a handkerchief out of my purse, picked up the card and envelope, and took them out into the hall with me. The hall was empty, and I walked a few paces to my left and hid the card and envelope under the cushion of a chair there. It wasn’t a great hiding place, but it was the best I could do at the moment.

Tucking my handkerchief in my pocket, I walked down the hall toward the back staircase. I paused at the top, staring down. The stairs were a bit darker than usual because the door at the bottom was shut. Frowning, I started down the stairs, moving with care as I continued to think about the oddity of Brett’s having left that note for me. I was a little over halfway down the stairs when I nearly stumbled and went headlong down the rest of the way. I managed to steady myself, thankful that I hadn’t been going down the steps as fast as I normally would have taken them.

I sat down, the impact of my rump making the stair creak. I leaned over and stared down.

Someone had arranged for me to have a very nasty accident.

Chapter Fifteen

I’m not sure how long I sat and stared down at the neat little trap someone had laid for me.

What looked like fishing line had been stretched across the length of the step, fixed at either end around a small nail in the boards along the sides of the staircase. If I had been going down the stairs any faster, I would have tripped and probably not been able to stop myself from falling down the rest of the way.

I shuddered. I could have broken my neck, at the very least, not to mention any number of other bones. I could even have died as the result of such a fall.