English Tea Murder (23 page)

Quentin was all innocence. “No.”

“Dumped in the river in a plastic bag, no identification. Lady walking her dog discovered it.”

“I’m glad I don’t have a dog,” said Quentin, attempting a joke.

“Yeah.” Lucy laughed. “It’s dangerous—they’re always finding the most unspeakable stuff. My dog came home with half a dead rabbit the other day. So gross.”

“So, why did you come here?” Quentin couldn’t resist asking. “Do they think this girl was a student here?”

Lucy took another sip of cappuccino and licked her lip, slowly. “You know Ted. He’s always looking for an angle. He sent me over to ask if any students were missing.”

Quentin leaned back, a study in casual ease. “And was anybody missing?”

“Actually, yes. Somebody was. Or is.”

“Really?”

Lucy knew she had to drag this out; she had to play with him and make him tense if she was ever going to get anything out of him. “You know her, and so do I.”

Quentin narrowed his eyes. “I think you’re playing with me.”

“Me? Don’t be silly.” She licked her lips again and raised her eyes flirtatiously. “Autumn Mackie. Remember? From the London trip?”

“Sure.” He crossed his legs. “To tell the truth, that doesn’t surprise me. She wasn’t college material. She probably realized it and dropped out.”

“The registrar said she didn’t file a withdrawal or anything.”

“Her type never do. They just go on their merry way.” He paused. “She probably got mixed up with the wrong sort of guy.”

“I’m a little surprised at your attitude. I thought you two had something going on during the trip.”

“She may have had a bit of a crush on me,” said Quentin in a disapproving tone. “These girls today. They’re very forward. I’m afraid I had to discourage her.”

“You know, the more I think about it, the more it seems that the girl in the river fits Autumn’s description.” Lucy looked down at the table. “I hope it isn’t her. I hope you’re right, that she went on her merry way somewhere.”

“I’m sure that’s the case.” Quentin’s eyes were drifting toward the door, and Lucy sensed he was thinking of leaving. She had to do something, fast.

“The girl in the river was pregnant,” she said.

Quentin clucked his tongue. “Oh, my.”

“Perhaps you could offer to take a look at the body? You would know if it’s Autumn.”

“Why me? Why not you?”

Lucy fixed her eyes on his. “Because the dead girl has a tattoo of a
Q,
not an
L.
”

Quentin shrugged. “Okay, I admit it. I knew about the girl. The cops even interviewed me. I guess they did a computer search for everybody in the area whose name begins with
Q
—which is admittedly a rather small number. But I couldn’t help them. I didn’t recognize the girl—and I don’t know how she got in the river.”

Lucy pushed the cup and saucer away. “It is Autumn—they identified her from her dental records.”

She was watching Quentin closely, looking for some reaction. “That is terrible,” he said. “How awful for her family.”

“She didn’t have any family, thanks to George Temple, and you know it.”

He glanced at his watch. “You know, I think I ought to be going. It was great seeing you, Lucy.”

Lucy felt crushed, watching him leave. She was a complete failure. She hadn’t got anything out of him. She sat there at the table, replaying the whole conversation in her mind and wondering what she could have said that would have made a difference, when Horowitz materialized and took the other chair.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It was a long shot.” Horowitz sighed. “He’s smart—too smart for us. Don’t feel bad. You did your best.”

“Yeah.” Lucy pushed her chair back. “Well, I’ve got a deadline.” She was on her feet and out the door, eager to forget the whole thing. It left a bad taste in her mouth. She didn’t like it that a young girl was dead. She thought Quentin was appalling, disgusting, lower than low. She wanted him to pay for what he’d done, but she didn’t like being a snitch either.

She blinked, stepping out into the bright September sun, and made her way toward the parking lot. It was hot, a real scorcher. The asphalt had been soaking up heat for weeks, and the air above it was wavery, making her feel disoriented. She’d parked in the shade, thank heavens. The car was tucked beneath a large old maple that was just beginning to turn color, anticipating fall. The leaves were part green, part yellow, she noticed, clicking the button on the key that unlocked the door. She stepped into the shade, feeling the cooler temperature as she reached for the car door, and that’s when something tightened around her neck, yanking her backward.

She didn’t even get a chance to yell for help, managing only a startled cry, before she was overpowered. She had no air. She struggled, kicked, and tried to grab her assailant’s hair, his ear, gouge his eyes with her keys, but she was at a disadvantage. He was behind her and she knew her blows were weak. She was beginning to lose consciousness; black was blocking out the dazzling sunshine, and in one last, desperate effort, she grabbed below his belt, squeezing as hard as she could.

Then, suddenly, the pressure on her neck eased and she was thrown forward, onto her hands and knees.

“Stop! Police!” The voice was female, clear and sharp. “Raise your hands!”

Lucy pushed herself up and saw Detective Horowitz and a couple of uniformed cops thudding across the parking lot, guns drawn. The female state trooper was also holding a gun, legs spread apart, and she had Quentin firmly in her sights.

He was doubled over, clutching himself.

“You have the right to remain silent . . .” she began reciting the Miranda warning as Horowitz applied the cuffs.

“Are you all right?” One of the troopers was helping Lucy to her feet.

“I’m okay,” said Lucy, her hand at her neck. “How did you . . . ?”

“The wire. You were still wearing the wire.”

Lucy’s head was clearing. “GPS,” she said, glaring at Horowitz. “GPS! You used me! You knew he’d try to kill me! That was the plan all along.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That would be strictly against agency policy,” said Horowitz, sounding rather insincere. “Besides, you were never in any danger. We had you covered the entire time.” He glanced at the professor. “Anyway, he’s in a lot worse shape than you.”

“Somehow that’s not making me feel all warm and fuzzy,” said Lucy.

“Think positively,” said Horowitz as a cruiser pulled up. The handcuffed professor was pushed inside, still crouching in pain. “You’ve got a hell of a story. Ted’s gonna love it.”

Lucy saw red. “Ted was in on this?”

Horowitz consulted his watch. “You’ve got just over an hour before deadline.”

He was right, realized Lucy, hurrying to get behind the wheel. She was stiff and sore, her throat was ragged, and her hands were trembling as she started the car. But she had one hell of a story. Maybe Ted would even hold the paper for an hour. She found her phone and called him, popping two aspirin as she navigated the parking lot. “Hey, Ted,” she began, when he interrupted.

“Lucy! Are you all right? I’ve been so worried. . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now listen. Start typing. ‘This morning, state police arrested . . .’ ”

Epilogue

I
t was about a month later when Lucy received a call from DA Phil Aucoin.

“I need to clear up a few things,” he said. “Can you come in today around three?”

Lucy understood that while the time of the conversation might be negotiable, there was no way she was going to get out of the meeting. She knew she would have to testify about the attack, and Aucoin would want to make sure he knew what she was going to say; he wouldn’t want any surprises in the courtroom. She wasn’t eager to relive the fear she’d felt when that necktie had tightened around her throat but figured she might as well get it over with as soon as possible. “Sure,” she said.

Aucoin’s office was in the county complex in Gilead, a small boxy brick building dwarfed by the massive jail, with its razor-wire fence, and the stately nineteenth-century courthouse built of gleaming white granite. He didn’t look up from his cluttered desk when she entered, so she took the one available chair and looked around. Every surface in the small room, including the floor, was covered with stacks of paper. The one window had a fine view of the Civil War memorial that stood on the green lawn in front of the courthouse, but she couldn’t see it because of the pile of thick manila folders that threatened to slip off the sill any minute.

“Just a mo’,” he muttered, reaching for the phone. He listened a few minutes, then spoke. “Best I can do is six months served and two years probation,” he said.

Lucy could hear the outraged protest coming from the other end of the line.

Aucoin shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Your client assaulted an eighty-two-year-old woman who was on her way to a nursing home to visit her one-hundred-and-one-year-old mother, just like she does every Sunday after church. You wanna go to court with that and take your chances with a jury?”

The sound effects continued, and Aucoin rolled his eyes again. “I’m well aware that your client ended up with a concussion, but believe me, juries love that stuff. Little old ladies who fight back—trust me, we’ve got an aging population. Most of the jurors are going to be on the far side of forty, and they don’t like young punks.”

The outraged squawks ceased, Aucoin nodded a few times, said, “Okay,” and ended the call. He looked at Lucy. “One down,” he said, making a notation on the folder, closing the file and reaching for another, much thicker one. “Quentin Rea wants a deal,” he said, locking eyes with her. “He’s alleging that the members of a Winchester College tour to England last spring conspired to kill the tour leader, a professor named George Temple. He says you can corroborate the whole story.”

Lucy’s first reaction was outrage. What a worm! But the more she thought about it, the more typical it seemed. If Quentin Rea was going down, he wasn’t going down alone. Biting her lip, attempting to control her emotions, she studied Aucoin’s face: the deep grooves that ran from his nose to his mouth, the bags under his eyes, the wiry hair that refused to be tamed and shot up from his forehead in an unruly, oversized pompadour. He was a man who knew only too well that people were capable of doing terrible things to each other; nothing surprised him anymore.

“What exactly is he saying?” asked Lucy.

Aucoin began reading from five or six pages that were clipped together. “He says he was approached in his office last December by a student named Caroline Smith who was in a special support group for freshmen who were having trouble adjusting to college life. She’d figured out that three other students, and herself, had all come from families that had been defrauded by George Temple in the 1990s. These students were the late Autumn Mackie, who Rea is presently under indictment for killing; William Barfield; and Jennifer Fain. Apparently they’d all recounted their tales of woe during the group discussions, and Caroline recognized certain elements that led her to conclude they’d all been wronged by this George Temple, who was now an instructor at the college. She was able to confirm this in subsequent private discussions.”

Lucy listened, thinking this might well be true. Caroline’s parents, Tom and Ann Smith, had probably talked about Temple a lot through the years, making it quite clear to their surviving child that he was the source of all their troubles. Tom, she knew, had nursed his anger toward Temple. Of the four, Caroline probably was the one who was most aware of Temple’s crime. And if she had initiated the plot, she might well have felt guilty enough to try to kill herself by jumping off the Brighton Pier.

Aucoin continued. “George Temple was convicted of fraud, served time, got hired by Winchester thanks to some social connections. Stayed clean.”

Lucy nodded. “I understand he was quite a success at the college. Popular with students and faculty. He was even being considered for a tenure position.”

Aucoin made a note. “Not according to our boy, Quentin. He says Temple was unqualified, called him an ‘academic bottom-feeder.’ But even so, he says he was shocked when this Caroline said she and the others wanted his help in getting back at Temple. He says he absolutely refused to get involved in any way.”

“That would be the proper thing to do,” said Lucy, who was willing to bet that Rea had chosen to do the exact opposite. He would never pass up an opportunity to get rid of his rival, especially when someone else was willing to do the dirty work.

“However, Rea says he was troubled that the four might go ahead without him and kept an eye on the situation,” continued Aucoin.

That was clever of him, thought Lucy. It gave him a reason for knowing about the plot without admitting any responsibility for Temple’s murder.

“He claims the four kids and their families got together at a tailgate party at the Polar Bowl on New Year’s Day and worked out a plan to kill Temple.”

“Over the bratwurst?” asked Lucy.

Aucoin smiled, enjoying her little joke. “He didn’t say. I guess he wasn’t keeping that close an eye on things. He claims he just happened to see them in the parking lot.”

Right, thought Lucy. Like Rea hadn’t organized the meeting himself, probably cooked the bratwurst and mulled the cider and sent out the invitations. “Temple died on the plane,” she said. “I was sitting across the aisle from him. It was an allergy attack.”

“That’s what Rea says. The kids knew he had severe allergies, and one of the parents, a Dr. Cope, figured out how they could set off an attack.”

“Grandparent,” corrected Lucy. “Dr. Cope is Jennifer’s grandfather.”

Aucoin made another notation, then resumed his narrative. “To make a long story short, they all signed up for Temple’s trip to England, took turns waving around mildewed scarves and peanut trail mix, and when he started wheezing, this doctor rushed forward with a fake EpiPen and finished him off.”

“That would be a violation of his Hippocratic oath,” said Lucy. “I happen to know that Dr. Cope took that very seriously. We talked about it in St. Paul’s. He told me he wished he could have saved Temple.” She pressed her lips together, remembering the rest of the story, how Dr. Cope had later told her his son-in-law had committed suicide when he learned Temple had impoverished him and that his grief-stricken daughter had turned to drugs for consolation, leaving him to raise Jennifer. She thought of the Smith family, who trusted Temple to invest all their money and when he’d ruined them, lost their precious baby boy in a car accident. An accident they believed could have been avoided if they’d been able to afford new brakes. She remembered sitting in Bath Abbey and listening to Laura Barfield tell how her mother had suffered in that dreadful nursing home, because it was the best she could afford after Temple had lost all her money. She thought of Laura’s all-enveloping guilt that she wore like one of those suffocating black chadors Muslim women wrapped themselves in. And then there was Autumn, who’d survived the loss of her home and her parents and years in foster care only to be murdered by Quentin Rea when she posed a threat to his professorship. She came to a decision. She was certainly not going to cause these people any more grief. But she didn’t want to lie to Aucoin either. She was going to have to be very careful about what she said.

“It seems to me,” she said slowly, “that if anybody wanted Temple dead, it was Quentin Rea. He had the most to gain. Temple was going to get the professorship that Quentin wanted, that he’d worked for his entire life.”

Aucoin narrowed his eyes. “Do you think Rea was behind this plot to kill Temple?”

Lucy shrugged, hopefully indicating she didn’t have the faintest idea. “I know a little bit about asthma allergies—my oldest daughter is allergic. The hardest thing about being allergic is the unpredictability. Elizabeth knows what her triggers are, but sometimes she forgets and uses a feather pillow, something like that. She might have an attack, but she might not. It all depends on whether she’s been taking her medicine, how old the feather pillow is, a whole bunch of factors.”

“So you’re saying it would be pretty hard to kill someone by triggering an allergic attack?”

“I think it would be close to impossible,” said Lucy. She decided to mention something she’d been suspecting, even though it was little more than a wild guess. “You know Rea is an English professor, right? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he has an unpublished manuscript or two in a drawer.”

Aucoin’s eyes widened. “Actually, we found two.
Death in Florence: An Elizabeth Barrett Browning Mystery
and
Murder on Flight 214: An Homage to Agatha Christie.
Also about twenty rejection slips.”

Lucy resisted the impulse to let out a long sigh of relief. “Well, there you have it,” she said. “He couldn’t sell his little story to a publisher but figured he’d see if you’d buy it and cut him a deal for a reduced sentence.”

“I think you’re right,” said Aucoin, leaning back in his chair. “I’m glad we had this little talk. Some of what he said had the ring of truth. . . .”

“The best lies always do,” said Lucy.

Aucoin nodded. “But even if he was telling the truth, I’d never get a jury to believe it.”

“The media would love it,” said Lucy, putting the final nail in Rea’s coffin. “I can see the headlines now: “The Big Sneeze: Allergy Trial Goes to Jury.”

Aucoin looked like a man who’d driven to the edge of a cliff and braked just in time, saving himself from a fall down a deadly precipice. He snapped the file shut and pounded it with a rubber stamp. “No deals. We go to trial on what we’ve got. The murder of Autumn Mackie and the attempted murder of Lucy Stone. I expect we’ll put him away for life.”

Lucy stood up and smiled. “See you in court.”