Tales of the Witch (23 page)

“Man, you could use a new tape,” Byron told the reverend. “Still, sounded like the same guy to me all four times. Let’s call the number. See who it is!” he said excitedly.

Allyn flapped a hand to calm his brother. “That was Hal. Calling Mrs. Floyd like he promised. To talk to her for us.”

Byron sagged. “Oh. I thought we had a mystery man. Someone she was seeing on the—” he glanced quickly at the reverend and shut his mouth.

Mrs. Risk moved again. Disregarding how close she now stood to the gun, she bent over the answering machine and examined it. “Your machine clock is behind by an entire hour. What time did you leave this morning, Reverend?”

“Eight exactly.”

“And arrived home…?”

“I left the 16th hole a few minutes before eleven—eleven’s when she wanted me here. She’d planned a birthday—I was anxious to see her—” He swallowed.

“Did you play here? Bellequot Hills?” asked Allyn.

The reverend nodded.

Allyn said to Mrs. Risk, “Five minutes away.”

“Did anyone see you leave?” ventured Byron.

Allyn said, “I wouldn’t think so. They run the sprinklers on Tuesday morning. Hardly anybody plays then.”

Byron planted his fists on his hips. “If the time’s off by an hour, then the last message came in at 11:02 instead of 10:02. She never played the messages, I bet she arrived home after that, when he did. He’s got to be the—”

Mrs. Risk cut Byron off with a fierce gesture. She turned to the reverend. “After seeing her…like this…you called—”

“Enough!” Newly agitated, the Reverend Floyd cocked back the hammer of the gun. His narrow chest rose and fell. “You just want to trick me. Wear me down! Vengeance—” His voice sounded thin.

Mrs. Risk touched his sagging shoulder. “Vengeance never warms an empty house. Is this how you want to honor her memory? Repaying unjust murder with unjust murder? Let me finish. You promised!”

After a tense silence, she added, “Won’t you feel better to know Byron’s guilt for certain? What you’re doing is bad enough without risking a mistake.”

He growled, “Finish.”

“When you first saw her, you were shocked. It took you a few minutes to recover…”

He shut his eyes.

“The painting, right away you knew who had made it. You wanted Byron, to make him pay. Then you used a few minutes more dialing Mr. Rigstone—how did you know his number?”

“I used the phone book.”

“That took even more time.”

The reverend nodded, then hesitated. “But the wall clock chimed eleven while I dialed Rigstone’s number. I remember hearing it. I counted the chimes.”

Allyn said softly, “Your clock’s a few minutes slow. Look at this place. Look at the condition your answering machine’s in. Your wife was obviously no great housekeeper, no disrespect for the lady, but who knows how well that old wall clock runs?”

“Well first, look at the painting,” said Mrs. Risk. “It’s lying face up. We can safely assume she was examining the painting when she was struck. The direction of her body indicates she faced the door as she looked at the painting. From the position of the wound we can conclude that it was inflicted from in front of her, with a downward arc. She pitched forward, pulled by the painting’s weight.

“Reverend. Boys. If her husband walked in as she stood facing the door, looking at her painting, he wouldn’t have known what it showed. He would only see the back. So he’d have no reason to become enraged and strike her. Plus, if she was facing her husband as he walked in, don’t you think it likely that she would have proudly turned the painting around, so he could see it?

“You’re correct about the housekeeping, Byron. But turn the facts this way: his love of golf must be well-known or else the governor wouldn’t have presented him with a gift set. He left at eight this morning and returned at eleven. Three hours. Nine holes, which is a natural stopping place, can be played in two hours or less on a mostly empty course. So, understandably, he played a few more holes.

“But he interrupted his game, right in the middle of the sixteenth hole, to rush home to be with her at the time she specified. He must’ve found great joy in his wife to stop just two holes short of a complete eighteen. The course was deserted, remember! Maybe twenty minutes more and he could’ve finished. Twenty minutes is a short time to be late—very forgivable. So he must’ve been eager to please her. Regardless of housekeeping or cooking, I think he adored his wife. And she must’ve loved him very much, too, to give him such a present. Reverend Floyd would never have harmed his wife.”

She added softly, “He might even have loved the portrait, if he’d had a chance to receive it.”

A swiftly choked-off cry came from the reverend.

Tears welled in the brothers’ eyes.

However, Mrs. Risk hadn’t finished. “Now. Look at her fingers. See how tightly they grip the edge. The painting is heavy. Still, she held on to it when she died. The pool of blood beneath and surrounding her head lies unmarked by any disturbance. Therefore, no one tried to pull the painting away from her dying grasp. And as the reverend knew, the painting points out Byron’s presence.

“But think. Why would he bring it here at all? If Byron was disturbed enough about the situation to kill her, why make himself the main suspect by leaving behind so obvious a signature of his presence? He didn’t even want her to have it!”

“NO!” Reverend Floyd’s voice was hoarse with emotion. “Byron LeFarge killed her. Byron…or Allyn, protecting his brother…” He stood, pushed the gun shakily towards Byron. Everyone froze.

A minute passed. Another. Finally, he replaced the cocked hammer, then opened his fingers. The pistol clattered as it hit the thinly carpeted floor.

Byron exhaled. Allyn hung a hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Then who?” the reverend whispered.

“The agent. Harold Rigstone,” said Mrs. Risk.

Byron’s mouth dropped open.

“That’s ridiculous,” stated Allyn with dignity.

“Allyn, dear. How many people know—ah—who actually paints those nudes?”

The reverend’s head lifted. “Actually paints them?”

“Uh—me, Byron, you, Rachel, and…Hal. Or did you tell anybody else, Byron?”

“Nope. Who else could keep a secret like that?”

“Secret?” repeated Reverend Floyd.

Mrs. Risk turned to the reverend and asked gently, “Who purchased that cake on the table in the dining room?”

“Cake? My wife did. This morning.”

“Then she had to have been murdered after 9:00 a.m. That bake shop doesn’t open until nine. Both brothers were at my house, with myself and Rachel, since before nine, until we arrived here. And other than us, only Hal knew in whose studio to find the painting to bring it here. The murderer was Harold Rigstone, by process of elimination alone.”

“But the phone messages?” insisted Allyn. “That was his home number he asked her to call, not his cell. His house is at least—a half hour from here! If she’d called him back at his house, he couldn’t have made it here and back in less than an hour. He had no time to do that in between any of those messages, listen to the times! And if he’d used his cell, he would’ve blown his alibi!”

Mrs. Risk smiled patiently. “That’s right. Remember the answering machine clock is behind by an hour? Exactly one hour! If a clock runs poorly, how often would it be wrong by exactly sixty minutes? I’m guessing, therefore, that the times of the first three calls were genuine: 8:40, 9:07, and 9:35. She probably returned home after his 9:35 call and called him back. He probably told her he was coming to deliver the painting. After all, someone was supposed to deliver it before her husband came home at eleven.”

Allyn frowned. “Yes, but she didn’t know I’d decided to keep it!”

“So she expected delivery. And Rigstone knew you boys would be with me today. He called me to deliver the reverend’s phone message! So he took the painting from the studio after you left, Allyn, then went home to wait. After Mrs. Floyd returned his call, he arrived here, let’s guess, around 10:10, spent 10 minutes or so discovering that he couldn’t blackmail her—”

“Blackmail!” shouted the other three in chorus.

“—killed her, then set the answering machine clock back by an hour. He drove home and called again at 11:02, leaving a recorded time of 10:02. A perfect mechanical alibi. He didn’t know that a malfunctioning clock would be normal here. He assumed the gaps between the calls would be believed, and would let him appear to have been at home all morning.

“The Reverend’s speeches enhanced Byron’s and Allyn’s fame and fortunes. And you, Reverend, have also benefited, as Hal pointed out to the boys. However, someone else profited. The agent who collected a percentage from every LeFarge painting sold. As prices spiraled, so did the commissions.

“From Byron’s description of Rigstone’s greed, it would be logical to conclude that he wouldn’t miss this opportunity for more profit. He no doubt explained how your wife’s painting could harm your career, Reverend. He would assume her desire would be to protect you.

“But he found that the cliché is true…you can’t cheat an honest man—or woman. Your wife, according to you, was meticulously open and honest. Besides, she liked her painting and had no intention of hiding it. And do you agree, Reverend, that it would be characteristic of her to immediately inform you of Rigstone’s blackmail attempt?”

Reverend Floyd muttered dazedly. “Of course. She would.”

“However, being not particularly clever, she informed Rigstone of her intention, making her swift elimination imperative.

“And he didn’t hesitate. He knew what you didn’t, Reverend, that the brothers are kind, good-hearted men. They would’ve despised him for the blackmail and fired him. Even more likely, they would’ve handed him to the police. And he knew it.

“So it was vital to conceal his blackmail. Plus, consider the publicity: the body of the wife of the notorious firebrand Reverend Floyd, found sprawled, dead, across her own nude portrait, painted by his even more famous client. The headlines would scream. Too good an opportunity to miss. So he didn’t miss it.”

In a smooth swoop, Mrs. Risk retrieved the gun. She tucked it within her skirt. “A gun, ‘tchah’. It’s a good thing it was never here, think of the trouble it would cause.”

At a nod from Mrs. Risk, Reverend Floyd, his hand, visibly shaking, dialed 911.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Witch and the Fishmonger’s Wife (1994), The Witch and the Curse on Black Dan Harrington (1994), The Witch and the Rock Star (1995), The Witch and the Vampire (1995), and The Witch and Upright Maxwell (1997) previously appeared in
Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine
. The Witch and Uncle Harry (2000) previously appeared in
The Night Awakens: A Mystery Writers of America Anthology
.

copyright © 2012 by Angela Zeman

cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

978-1-4532-5706-7

This 2012 edition distributed by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media

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