A Clue in the Stew (A Soup Lover's Mystery) (16 page)

Chapter 38

N
ATE PULLED HIS
cruiser into an empty parking space at the side of the Drake House sheltered by the bordering hedges. There were plenty of spaces to choose from, now that Barbara Drake’s first-floor tenants had all been released from questioning. Nate was certain none of them had had any involvement in either of the two murders. He climbed out of his vehicle slowly and walked toward the front entrance of the bed-and-breakfast. He pushed open the door and almost collided with Derek Stone.

“Ugh.” Derek let out a grunt as if the air had been knocked out of him. He took two steps backward.

“Mr. Stone,” Nate said, “you seem to be in a hurry. Going somewhere?”

“Oh!” Derek stared at Nate, his eyes wide. “Uh, no. Just stepping out for a walk, that’s all.” His eyes were still red-rimmed, his complexion pale and pasty.

“I’m glad I caught you though.” Nate smiled.

“You are?” Derek stuttered. “Why?”

“Oh, just a couple more questions. Why don’t we step into the sitting room here.” Nate gestured toward the large front room with a fireplace at the far end. The space offered several seating arrangements of overstuffed couches and chairs. “Please.” Nate gestured, indicating Derek should enter first.

Derek plopped onto the nearest chair. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

Nate took a chair opposite and leaned forward. “When I asked you about the details of the night of the book signing, you neglected to mention that Audra had handed you a large manila envelope that had been delivered to the New York office. It was addressed to your mother.”

“Oh, yes?” Derek wiped his forehead. “Yes. That’s right. I guess it just slipped my mind.”

“What did you do with that envelope?”

Derek’s eyes grew wide. “Well, I . . . uh . . . I gave it to my mother. It was addressed to her.”

“When did you give her that envelope?”

Derek shook his head. “I don’t really . . . no, I do remember. I brought it to her room and left it on the desk.”

“When was that?”

“It was . . . when I came back here to take my mother to the book signing.”

“I see. Did she open the envelope at that time?”

“No. We didn’t have time. There was just enough time to get to the event.”

“Well, do you have any idea where that envelope might be now? It wasn’t among your mother’s possessions in her room.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No.”

“Well, I can’t imagine . . . I guess someone must have taken it. We were out that evening at the book signing. I brought Mother back and checked on her a little later. But I don’t remember seeing it. Perhaps she packed it away in her suitcase?”

“No. I’m afraid she didn’t.” Nate waited to see if Derek would offer any further information. Derek sat up straighter. “You don’t think—”

“I don’t think anything, Mr. Stone. I’m merely curious what happened to that envelope. Do you remember who it was from?”

“Uh, no. No. I don’t. I don’t think I even glanced at it. It was addressed to Mother at our New York office, that’s all I remember.”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I have a look in your room, would you?”

“No. Of course not. I have nothing to hide.” Derek heaved a sigh. “I want you to get to the bottom of whoever did this to Mother.”

“Thank you.” Nate rose from his chair.

“Is there anything else?”

“Oh, yes, one little thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I asked you about the woman who was waiting in the lobby, who you say was a fan. Did she by any chance give you her name?”

Derek shook his head from side to side. “I already told you, she didn’t.”

“It’s just that Barbara Drake seemed to recall you talked to her for several minutes outside on the entryway.”

“Oh. That. Yes. She was just going on and on about how much she loved
Murder Comes Calling
. I thought I’d never get rid of her. Mother was always pestered by people like that.”

Nate pulled a photo out of his pocket and held it up for Derek. “Is this the woman you spoke with by any chance?”

Derek stared at the photo.

“Mr. Stone? Do you recognize this woman?”

“No.”

“This isn’t the woman you spoke to that day?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I suppose it could be. It’s hard to say from this photo.”

“All right,” Nate relented. “You’re free to go.” He turned away and started up the stairs.

Derek’s eyes followed Nate’s progress to the second floor.

•   •   •

S
OPHIE PEERED UP
through the windshield at the hulking red brick monstrosity of a building. “Downright Gothic,” she shuddered. “Can you imagine the horror of being confined here a hundred years ago?”

“Definitely dreary,” Lucky remarked.

“I hope times have changed.”

“I hope
treatments
have changed. Maybe they’ve even stopped using chains and electroshock therapy.” She smiled. “Come on, let’s see what we can find out. Let’s start with locating Dr. Cynthia Cranleigh’s office.”

They entered a remodeled lobby, paved in tile with pastel walls and music emanating from hidden speakers. Lucky noticed a stack of newsletters on a long table just inside the door. She picked one up and tucked it in her purse. A smiling woman, this time in a blue smock, greeted them from across the lobby. “May I help you?” she called.

Lucky raised a hand in greeting. “No thanks, we’re fine.” Nudging Sophie’s arm, she led the way to a bank of elevators at the rear of the lobby.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Sophie hissed.

“Not a clue, but I didn’t want to be told Dr. Cynthia is no longer with us. And then we’d be asked what our business is. I’m hoping she has an office somewhere in this building and maybe we can get a little information if she has a receptionist or an assistant or something.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sophie agreed.

At the edge of the lobby, near the elevators, Lucky spotted a glass-enclosed directory. She quickly scanned it and noted the name “Cranleigh” under the Department of Psychiatry. Suite 304. She pressed the
UP
button on the elevator pad and waited. Thirty seconds later, the doors opened, and several people spilled out, including a man on crutches with his leg in a cast. Lucky stepped back quickly to give him room. Once the way was clear, she and Sophie stepped inside. They were alone in the elevator. Lucky hit the button for the third floor and glanced at her friend as the elevator lumbered upward.

Sophie whispered, “I think this elevator only looks modern. Maybe there’s a little guy in the basement powering it with a foot pedal.”

Lucky giggled in spite of herself. “Behave yourself and don’t make me laugh.”

Sophie winked and made a zipping motion with a finger across her lips.

The doors opened to a long empty corridor. They followed the images of footprints laid on the tile to the end. Several closed doors stood on either side of the corridor, numberless, but next to the last door was a nameplate,
CYNTHIA
CRANLEIGH
,
M
.
D
. Lucky knocked once on the door and entered.

A desk dominated the center of this room. The walls were lined with plastic armchairs and seats in vibrant colors. “Hello,” she called.

“I’m here,” a disembodied voice called back. “Just give me a minute.” They heard scuffling noises and a head appeared at the desktop. “Hang on.” A woman of sixty-plus years with a head of very short silver hair rose from the floor behind the desk. She leaned on top of it. “My back gets stiffer every day. Sorry about that, just dropped a bunch of files. What can I do for you?” She peered over her glasses at them.

“We . . . uh . . .” Lucky wasn’t sure how to begin. “Did you work for Dr. Cranleigh?”

“Yes, dear.” A shadow passed over the woman’s face. “I did. For fifteen years. You know she died, don’t you?”

“Yes, we know. We live in Snowflake, where she was found.”

“Oh! I see.” The woman sat heavily in the chair behind the desk. “So you’re not patients of hers then, are you?’

“No.” Lucky shook her head. “We . . . well, this is rather a long story. You may not know this but another woman was murdered in Snowflake a few days ago in the same manner. A friend of ours is implicated and we think there might be a connection.”

“Another woman?” The gray-haired woman peered intently at them. “My name’s Fern, by the way.”

“I’m Lucky, Lucky Jamieson and . . .” She turned to Sophie.

Sophie smiled. “I’m Sophie DuBois.”

“Well, you’ve piqued my interest. How ’bout a cup of tea? I was just about to take a break.”

“Sure, we’d love that.”

“Come on in the back. We have a teeny kitchenette back here.” She opened the door behind her and led them down a short corridor. A door to the left stood open. Lucky peeked inside as they passed. Bookshelves lined the walls; the lighting was dim and comfortable. A large desk stood on one side and, on the other, a sofa filled with brightly patterned pillows and a wing-back chair. A box of tissues was placed on a small table in front of the sofa.

Fern noticed Lucky’s interest. She turned back. “That’s the doctor’s office where she saw her patients.” She opened a door at the end of the corridor. It led into a small room with a sink, a small counter, a round table and three chairs. “Have a seat.” An electric kettle was steaming on the countertop. Fern reached up and retrieved three mugs, filled each one with a teabag and then poured boiling water into the mugs. She unplugged the kettle and relayed the mugs to the table with a sugar bowl. “Milk or cream?” she asked.

“No, thanks,” Lucky and Sophie answered in unison. The room had an aroma that reminded Lucky of a teachers’ lounge in elementary school. An ever-mysterious inner sanctum where grown-ups gathered.

“Sorry, I don’t have any lemon to offer you.” She dipped a teaspoon of sugar into her mug. “So tell me all about this woman in Snowflake. Are you talking about Hilary Stone?” Fern asked.

“That’s right. You see, they died within a few days of each other and they were both strangled. I can’t help but think there’s a connection between Ms. Stone and Dr. Cranleigh. That’s what brought us here. A possible connection.” Lucky took a sip of her tea. It was delicious, some sort of mint and orange flavor. “We’ve also learned that the author, Hilary Stone, had a daughter years before, maybe forty years ago, who was given up for adoption. I’ve been trying to trace her.”

“Why?” Fern asked.

“Because . . . well, this is hard to put into words. I lost both of my parents a couple of years ago in a car accident. That’s part of it, and I can’t help but think this girl, this woman now, might have wanted to find her mother and someone needs to let her know that her mother is dead.”

“Hmmm. Maybe. Happens a lot. You’d be the bearer of sad news.”

“I know, but I still think she’d want to know, don’t you?”

“Could be. Not everybody feels that way. I’ve seen a lot, working in this system.” She waved an arm that seemed to indicate not just the building itself, but the institution, the mind-set, the bureaucracy. “You know, adoption records are strictly confidential. The laws have changed in recent years and there are extenuating circumstances that could be involved, but I certainly wouldn’t know anything about adoption. Dr. Cynthia wouldn’t have either.”

“This little girl was adopted, but when she was nine or maybe ten, her parents died in a house fire.” Lucky noticed a shift in Fern’s expression. “She was named Georgina Ellers after the adoption.” Lucky remained silent, watching the woman. “You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”

Fern groaned and put her face in her hands. “I knew it. I knew it had something to do with her.”

“She was a patient of Dr. Cranleigh’s?”

Fern’s jaw tightened. “I can’t tell you that. I can’t give you the names of Dr. Cynthia’s patients.”

“You don’t have to. We’d just like to know how to contact her.”

“I can’t help you. I have no idea where she is now.”

“Now?” Sophie asked.

“She took off.” Fern stared at them a moment, then seemed to make up her mind. “Hell, what difference does it make. This is it for me. I’m retiring. This is my last job. I’m packing up Cynthia’s office. I only have a few more days here. By all rights, I shouldn’t even be here today, but I want to get this finished. After that, I’m sure they’d let me go anyway, but it’s all right, I’m ready.” Fern cradled the mug of tea in her hands. “I thought the world of Cynthia. She was so caring about all her patients. She wasn’t one of those shrinks that just throw pills at people. She really went the extra mile whether they had insurance or were stone broke. She didn’t care what their situation was, but she really cared about Georgina. She had treated her off and on for years.”

“Was she institutionalized?”

“No, no, nothing like that. The girl had spent her life in a series of foster homes, none of them were ideal situations. She . . . how can I put this? She had problems. A certain imbalance, I guess. She never seemed to have a solid footing. No wonder, considering what happened to her and how she had to grow up. She came here through a state-funded community mental health program. She lived in the area, managed to hold down a job, but I always felt she was one who could easily go off the rails. Cynthia took extra pains with her.” Fern looked up quickly. “You know the police have been here, don’t you? Asking about her patients?”