Murder at Teatime (26 page)

Midway through the index, the pages opened up on a manila envelope that had been inserted into the book. Opening it, she found a slim manuscript with the title:
The Charles W. MacMillan Collection of Rare Botanical Books—A Short Title Catalogue
. The neatly typed text duplicated the handwritten notes she had found among Thornhill’s papers. It was the typed manuscript of MacMillan’s private catalogue, the manuscript that she had presumed to exist but had been unable to find. Not only did it include the books that MacMillan had supposedly sold to Thornhill, it even included a reproduction of the iris woodcut from
Der Gart
, along with a disquisition on the influence of
Der Gart
on botanical illustration. And it was dated December, 1959, proof positive that Thornhill had stolen the books from the MacMillan estate.

But what was it doing stuck in
Der Gart
like a bookmark? It couldn’t have been there when Kevin stole it: Tracey had said that Daria examined the books afterwards. She would have found it and put it with the other documents. Then she realized that “like a bookmark” was exactly it: someone had absentmindedly used the envelope as a bookmark, like the reader of a library book might use Aunt Ethel’s postcard from Myrtle Beach. She was returning the manuscript to its envelope when a loose page slipped into her lap. As she picked it up she realized that it wasn’t part of the manuscript, but a sheet of letterhead stationery on which was typed a list of seven names. Next to each name was a “yes” or a “no.” In some places, the “no” had been crossed out and a “yes” substituted in its place, for a total of five “yeses” and two “noes.” The names meant nothing to her, but the letterhead did. “That’s it,” she said to the stone-faced portrait of John Gerard. The pieces fit together as neatly as the mortised rafters on the roof of the Saunders’ barn. She now knew who had murdered Thornhill, and why. All it would take to confirm her theory was a phone call or two.

But, she thought as she sat down at the secretary to make the call, her theory didn’t explain who had tried to kill Daria. And then she discovered the answer to that question as well. On the secretary was a “While You Were Out” message pad with a message for Daria from Chief Tracey, dated yesterday. The message, which had been taken by Grace, said: “Chief Tracey wants to change meeting time. Will meet you tomorrow at ten.”

15

As Charlotte sat on a driftwood log, watching Stan prepare the lobster bake, her thoughts turned to the Red Paint People, who had held their clambakes on these shores when lobsters were still so plentiful they could be picked up by the dozens off the rocks. Named for the red ochre with which they painted the bodies of their dead, they had disappeared mysteriously around 4000
B.C.
, replaced by the ancestors of the modern day Penobscot and Passamaquoddy tribes. Each spring, after planting their crops of corn and squash and beans, they had paddled down river in their birch bark canoes to camp on the coast and feast on the plentiful seafood. The grassy slope that led down to the bar at the foot of Broadway had once been one of their campsites. For many years a shell heap had marked the spot, but it had long since disappeared, the crushed shells hauled away to surface local roads. In the old days, Stan had said, one could still see the stone circles that had surrounded their campfires.

The preparations for the clambake had been going on all day. The Saunders were going the traditional route. Not for Stan the fifty-gallon oil drum, the aluminum trash can, of the sealed barbecue grill. This would be an authentic bake, right down to the stones used for cracking open the lobster claws. The time-honored method had begun with the gathering of round stones worn as smooth as softballs by the waves. Next came the driftwood fire, which had been built on a bed of round stones on the rocky shore at the foot of the Ledges. Once the fire had burned down, it had been covered with damp rockweed. Then had come the food: first the clams and lobsters, which provided moisture for the steam, then the hard-boiled eggs, the foil-wrapped vegetables, and the corn on the cob. Wes and Virgie had donated the clams and lobsters, carrying bushel after bushel over from Wes’s lobster boat, the
Virgie G.
, which was docked at the Ledge House landing. The bake would now be covered by another layer of rockweed, sealed with an old sailcloth, and allowed to steam.

Charlotte surveyed the scene. The cast was nearly complete. Wes and Virgie were supervising Kevin and the Gilley girls, who were collecting more rockweed from the shore. Felix had just appeared at the foot of the Ledges. He looked like a Disney elephant-ballerina as he tiptoed across the rocks in fear of scuffing his shoes. Grace was right behind him, Felix appearing to have taken the place in her fantasies that had been previously occupied by Thornhill. Chuck and Marion were still descending the Ledges, Chuck carrying a large cooler. Behind them came Fran and John, who were loaded down with other supplies destined for the tables on the landing.

The only members of the cast who were still missing were Tom and Tracey, but they were both in sight. Tom was approaching in the Saunders’ runabout with Daria, who sat in the stern with her leg outstretched. Her cast made it impossible for her to negotiate the Ledges, so Tom had driven her over in the boat. Tracey was approaching in the police launch with Detective Gaudette and another police officer. All three would be armed. She hadn’t been an actress all these years without developing some talent for staging a performance. And she wanted Tracey and his colleagues waiting in the wings for the final scene. There was even music: the sound of the community band tuning up drifted clearly across the channel on the light offshore breeze.

“Looks like the weather’s going to hold,” said Stan to no one in particular as he pitched another forkful of rockweed onto the bake.

Rain had threatened all day, but it had held off, the threat of cancellation only adding to the anticipation.

“We’ve got the best seats in the house,” Stan continued, nodding at the crowd of early birds who had already set up their folding chairs and blankets in the park overlooking the town pier.

Charlotte smiled wanly. They had good seats for the show all right, but it wasn’t the one they were expecting. The show they were about to get was apt to be a lot more explosive than the fireworks.

The new arrivals headed directly for the drink table, which, with Kitty as barmaid, was doing a brisk business. Chuck was reminiscing with Kitty about past clambakes, their conversation punctuated by his braying laughter. Grace, already in her cups, was making sheep’s eyes at Felix, who looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or flattered. And Wes, who had given up supervising the kids, was lovingly tending the spigot of the keg of beer that he had tapped for the occasion. For that matter, thought Charlotte, she could use a little snort herself. She got up to fetch herself a drink.

An hour and a half later, the bake was nearly gone. Stuffed with seafood, the group sat on logs around the fire that Stan had rekindled. Here and there, the last stubborn morsels of lobster flesh were being sucked out of a leg or picked out of a claw. To one side was a shell heap that, if it failed to rival the Red Paint People’s, was nonetheless a respectable accumulation for one evening’s feasting. Tracey and the two other policemen had put away their fair share. Their presence had aroused no suspicion: it was assumed they would be leaving shortly to deal with the fireworks crowds. In addition to Gaudette, looking resplendent in his State police uniform, Tracey was accompanied by one of his own men, a dim-witted young man named Rodgers, with glasses that kept slipping down his nose and a severe overbite that gave him a rodentlike appearance. No wonder Tracey had been so eager for Charlotte’s assistance.

“Can I get you a drink?” asked Tom, who had risen to replenish his glass.

“Thank you,” she answered. “Gin and tonic, with lots of ice.”

Sweet Tom, she thought. He knew what she was going through. It was called stage fright, that paralyzing fear of failure that turns the legs to Jell-O and makes the voice a feeble croak. Ever since she’d first set foot on the boards, at the tender age of eight, she’d struggled to conquer her fear. Her case was a mild one: she’d never been completely paralyzed like some—some of the best. Oddly enough, it was the better actors who were the most susceptible to stage fright, because it was they who were the most likely to open up every nerve to the demands of the part. Nor was a good performance necessarily a cure. On the contrary, it sometimes made it worse. It was one of the mysteries of the stage that only rarely was a performance infused with the kind of electrifying power that turned it into an experience that audiences would talk about for years to come. But such a performance was a gift from God: if you strove for it, it eluded you. Like water in the Zen proverb, the harder you tried to grasp it, the more quickly it flowed through your fingers.

Tom brought her her drink, and she took a long swallow. He’d been coached to be her prompter, but it turned out to be Stan who delivered her cue. After whistling to get everyone’s attention, he stood up to address the group: “One week ago today,” he said, “we were shocked to learn that our good friend Frank Thornhill died as a result of poisoning. We are all aware that the police, with the assistance of our guest, Charlotte Graham,” he said, nodding at Charlotte, “have been conducting an investigation into the murder. But few, if any, of us have been informed as to the progress of their findings. I wonder if we could take advantage of your presence here, Chief, by asking you to fill us in on what’s happening. I think you can understand that this matter has been a source of great anxiety to us all.”

Charlotte recognized the speech as a mild reproof. The Saunders were put out at her failure to confide in them. She hadn’t done so partly because she didn’t feel right about revealing the details of a police investigation, but also because she hadn’t had much to tell them—until now.

Stan’s speech cast a pall over the gathering, reminding them of events they had been trying to put out of their minds.

By arrangement, Tracey, who had been sucking on a lobster leg, deferred the question to her. “I’d rather leave the explaining up to Miss Graham—she’s the one who figured it all out,” he said.

Rubbing her moist palms against her thighs, Charlotte put down her drink and stood up, whereupon her audience stopped eating and rearranged their positions, as if settling in after the rise of the curtain.

“Let me start by saying that we know the identity of Dr. Thornhill’s killer,” she said bluntly.

It was a startling opening line. The audience stared, dumbstruck.

“From the beginning,” she continued, turning to slowly pace the long, flat slab of granite at one side of the fire, like a professor delivering a lecture, “we thought that the death of Dr. Thornhill was related to the theft of the books. But we were wrong, as you know.”

The eyes of the audience turned to Kevin, who was playing with the Gilley girls some distance away.

It was better that the kids wouldn’t be around for what was coming up, thought Charlotte. “But we weren’t as wrong as we thought,” she said, stopping to look out at the group. “The murder of Dr. Thornhill
was
related to a book theft, a book theft that took place in a mansion in Worcester, Massachusetts, more than twenty years ago. And the thief was Dr. Thornhill himself.”

“Frank?” said Fran, bewildered.

“You mean that Frank
stole
some of the books in his collection?” asked Stan incredulously.

“Yes. Dr. Thornhill was the rival of another botanical book collector named Charles W. MacMillan. MacMillan was the owner of a rare German herbal called
Der Gart
, which Dr. Thornhill wanted for his collection. In fact, it had once been the subject of an auction room battle between the two of them.
Der Gart
and four other early herbals were the prizes of MacMillan’s collection; today, they are the prizes of Dr. Thornhill’s collection.”

“How did Frank get them?” asked Stan.

“In December, 1959, MacMillan died after a long illness. Having no heirs, he bequeathed his collection to the New York Botanical Society, of which he was a trustee. The Board of Trustees of the society, not being familiar with the contents of the collection, asked one of their members—a well-known collector of botanical books—to inventory the collection and oversee its transfer to the society’s library.”

“Frank Thornhill,” said Stan.

Charlotte nodded. Her audience was spellbound, but some looked faintly puzzled, as if they were wondering what all this had to do with the murder. Comfortable now in her role, she picked up the pace.

“Dr. Thornhill probably didn’t have theft in mind when he came across
Der Gart
in MacMillan’s library,” she continued. “But once the thought had occurred to him, there was no putting it out of his mind. If he stole the book, who would know? And if someone did find out the book was missing, who would dare accuse him, an eminent botanist and a trustee of the society? Once he had decided to steal
Der Gart
, it was only a small step to stealing the others.”

From across the channel came the rousing notes of “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” The band concert was in full swing.

“Charlotte dear, I should think someone would have found out. Wouldn’t MacMillan have kept some sort of record showing that he owned the books?” asked Kitty, who was standing behind Stan, her hands on his shoulders.

“Yes, he did. But Dr. Thornhill covered himself by drawing up a false bill of sale on MacMillan’s stationery and forging MacMillan’s signature to it. Then he took all evidence of MacMillan’s ownership, including the handwritten notes for a private catalogue of his collection that MacMillan had been about to publish at the time of his death, and the typed manuscript of the catalogue.”

“May I ask how you arrived at this conclusion?” asked Felix, who was puffing on a postprandial cigar, Grace at his side.

“We have you to thank for the first clue, Mr. Mayer—your account of the rivalry between Dr. Thornhill and MacMillan. Later I came upon the phony bill of sale among Dr. Thornhill’s papers. It would never have aroused my suspicion, however, had I not also come across the notes for MacMillan’s catalogue. The notes, you see, contained references to
Der Gart
and the other books that MacMillan had supposedly sold to Dr. Thornhill six months before.”