This Little Piggy Went to Murder (16 page)

“Well, you’re the English lit major. Unless it’s a direct quote from Ezekiel or Jeremiah, I might not recognize it.”

Bram grinned. “Let me think about it.”

“And another thing. Remember that newspaper article I saw on Jack? The one that said he was going to donate a year of his time to a place called Damascus Gate. Unless I’m losing my memory, that was the same year he supposedly entered Stanford.”

“What’s your point?”

“The point! The point is he couldn’t be in two places at once.”

“I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.”

“Really? Then why did Amanda get all weird about it when I mentioned it to her this morning? We were having a cup of coffee in the dining room and she asked where I’d seen the clipping. When I told her, she said it was a mistake. Tried to make light of it — you know, newspapers are so inaccurate. Poked me in the ribs. Laughed about my doing an occasional job for the enemy. She changed the subject almost immediately.”

“All right, I’ll grant you, it does sound like she was trying to hide something. But what’s it got to do with these murders? It seems like a rather big leap in the dark to me.”

“Maybe. But there are an awful lot of secrets around here. Something’s not right.”

“What do you mean? I haven’t noticed any secrets. You’re exaggerating.”

“I am not.”

“Name one other secret.”

Sophie squared her shoulders. “Amanda and Claire are having an affair.”

Bram’s head banged against the sloped ceiling. “Christ!”

“Yes, and they’ve got some information on Jack — something Amanda told him she’d burned.”

Gingerly, he rubbed the top of his head. “I don’t know how you do it, Soph. You shouldn’t have taken a job as managing editor of that arts magazine. You missed your calling. You should be a gossip columnist.”

She flashed him a sickly smile. “This is not gossip. Look, all of this is important. You can sneer if you want —”

“No, you’re right. I didn’t mean to sneer. I’m just frustrated like everyone else. I mean, what the hell’s going on?”

“I don’t know, but there’s more.” She thought of Claire finding that mysterious bottle in Amanda’s purse.

“More? Like what?”

“I’ll fill you in on everything later, okay? Right now I want to get back in that living room and see how Amanda’s chat with Wardlaw went. I think Luther’s supposed to talk to him next.”

“Sophie,” said Bram, firmly grasping her by the shoulders, “promise me something. Tell me you’re going to show the police that note you found under our windshield wiper.”

“All right,” she said. “Anything you say.”

“Good.”

“On one condition.”

Bram raised an eyebrow.

“That you make an attempt to work here for a few more days. I need some time. Please, honey. I can’t just pick up and leave right now. I promise I won’t put myself in any danger. Scout’s honor.” She held up her right hand.

“Sophie —”

“Oh, come on. If we leave, it’s going to be cold cheese sandwiches and tepid beer. You know those cabins don’t really have any decent cooking facilities. And Alice has cassoulet on the menu tomorrow.”

He closed his eyes. “You know that for a fact?”

“I do.”

“Well, I suppose I could consider extending our sojourn. But only if matters calm down around here. I know this sounds selfish, but I’ve got to finish those last four chapters. And you, my dear, have to keep your promise to talk to the police.”

“Of course. First thing in the morning.”

Luther opened the door quietly and entered the bedroom. Wardlaw was sitting in a leather armchair by the window, his face barely visible in the diffuse light from a small table lamp.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Jorensen. I assume by now you’ve been told what’s happened here today.”

Luther nodded, sitting down and pulling a pipe out of his sweater pocket. “Do you mind?”

Wardlaw pushed an ashtray toward him. “I understand you were taking a nap when the death occurred. Your wife mentioned you’d been asleep for quite a while.”

“I suppose our Puritan forefathers thought it a lazy habit, but it’s one I enjoy.”

Wardlaw watched Luther fill his pipe and then press a lighted match to it. “Do you often take such long naps?”

He sucked on it for a moment before answering. “To be truthful, I haven’t been feeling well lately. I get tired easily. I don’t have much stamina, so I take naps. They seem to help.”

“Did you fall asleep right away?”

“As soon as my head hit the pillow.”

“And you heard nothing unusual?”

“Unusual? No. My wife came in to get a sweater out of the bureau drawer. I’d say I’d been in the room for about ten minutes. I imagine she thought I was asleep since I had my eyes closed.”

“How did you know it was your wife?”

“I peeked.”

Wardlaw cleared his throat. “Were you aware that your daughter, Chelsea, was here this afternoon?”

Luther bit down hard on the pipe stem. “No. I wasn’t aware of that.”

“She came to the lodge to meet Mr. Woodthorpe.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You know that for certain?”

“We do. According to Mr. Woodthorpe himself, she arrived around three-thirty. He got her a plate of food and they spent an hour together in the east sun room. Are they good friends?”

“Perhaps,” said Luther, his voice thoughtful. “And perhaps not.”

“Jenny Tremlet led me to believe she and Mr. Woodthorpe were planning to be married.”

“I think that may be a bit premature.”

“I see. I’m curious, Mr. Jorensen. How would you feel about Ryan marrying into your fmnily?”

Luther smiled. “It won’t happen.”

“Why is that?”

“Because my daughter isn’t stupid. May I say, Detective Wardlaw, that your interest in the potential conjugal interrelationships between my friends and family is most touching. But perhaps we should get on to something more pertinent.”

“All right.” Wardlaw opened his briefcase and lifted out a brown plastic bottle enclosed in a clear plastic bag. He set it on the table between them.

Luther stared at it indifferently.

“Do you recognize this, Mr. Jorensen?”

He picked it up. “I think it’s the poison I bought last spring. We had a small mouse problem downstairs in the furnace room. I find mice an embarrassment, don’t you?”

“When was the last time you saw this bottle?”

“I don’t know. We store that kind of thing in an old cupboard. It’s not locked. It seems I do remember bringing it up for Alice, our cook, about a month ago. I think she said she saw a mouse in her bedroom. You can ask her about it if you like. She was terribly distraught.” He placed it back on the table.

“But you haven’t seen it personally for the last month?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Then how did it get into the pocket of your gray suede coat?”

Luther jerked the pipe out of his mouth. “It what?”

“One of my men found it a few minutes ago. If I’m not mistaken, it’s the same substance that killed Mr. Sherwin.”

Luther looked hard at Wardlaw. “You found it in
my
coat pocket?”

“Yes.”

He began to laugh. “If I’d tried to murder Sydney, I certainly wouldn’t hide the poison in anything of my own. Surely you can’t believe I had anything to do with this?”

“We’ll have to get the fingerprint report from the lab before we come to any conclusions.”

Luther shook his head. “
‘For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak with most miraculous organ.’
“

“What was that?”

“Why, that was Shakespeare, Detective Wardlaw.” A slow smile appeared on his face. “This doesn’t make any sense, you know. But then, I suppose I’d be the perfect scapegoat.”

“Why do you say that?” Wardlaw looked genuinely confused.

Luther shrugged. “Oh, I am sorry. I was just thinking out loud. It’s an obnoxious habit, I agree. I meant nothing by it.” He crossed his arms. “Are we finished?”

“I’m not done with any of you,” said Wardlaw, the first hint of strain in his voice. “But for now, that will be all.” He got up, stuffing the tape recorder, notes, and bottle of poison into his briefcase.

After he was gone, Luther rose and turned off the table lamp. He crossed to the window and pushed it open, breathing in the gentle, rain-scented night wind.

Wardlaw leaned across the desk, taking the sheet of paper from Sophie’s hand. The bright morning sunlight streamed in through an open window behind him. Sophie had driven into town right after breakfast, giving Amanda the excuse that she wanted to spend the day shopping. Amanda had begged off, saying she was simply too upset to come along. After a whispered phone conversation, Amanda had retreated to her bedroom carrying a bottle of aspirin. Luther hadn’t come down to breakfast at all. As Alice was clearing the buffet table, she mentioned that he’d taken a walk along the water. And Jack and Nora were still asleep upstairs in the bedroom next to Bram and Sophie.

“How did you receive this piece of paper?” asked Wardlaw, laying it down on the desktop and pressing a button on his intercom.

“Someone put it under the windshield wiper of my car the night the Gasthaus reopened.”

A young man entered the office. Wardlaw handed it to him and told him to take it downstairs for analysis.

“Did you find the woman with the poodle?” he asked, peering over his bifocals. “The one mentioned in the note?”

Sophie knew she was being carefully scrutinized. Thankfully, Wardlaw didn’t seem angry that she hadn’t shown him the note last night. “Yes, well, actually I drove over to the Mudlark the next afternoon. The woman in question’s name is Dolores Benz.”

The detective nodded.

“She apparently saw Lars Olson get into a car with someone the night he was murdered. She didn’t know who it was.”

“We’ve talked with her at some length,” said Wardlaw, picking up a pencil and jotting a few words down on a notepad. “Why do you suppose someone sent you this message?”

Sophie shrugged. “Beats me.”

Wardlaw studied her for a long moment. He was obviously busy. “Is there anything else?” he asked with undisguised impatience.

Sophie was somewhat embarrassed. There was something else. Something that had happened earlier in the morning, but something she wasn’t sure she wanted to share with the police. If Bram found out she’d held it back, he’d hit the ceiling. Perhaps it was best to tell everything. After all, the police weren’t the enemy. “Well, to be honest, this morning I found another note slipped under my bedroom door. My husband was up before dawn. He’s trying to finish some important writing this trip. I would guess the note was pushed under after he left, otherwise he would have seen it.”

“Did you bring this note with you?”

Sophie drew it out of her purse and handed it over. Opening it, Wardlaw adjusted his glasses and read, “
Find the Child’s Garden, find the murderer
.” He looked up. “What do you make of it?”

Sophie shook her head. “I have no idea. I did wonder why the words
Child’s Garden
were capitalized. It’s kind of odd, don’t you think? The thought occurred to me that maybe the two notes could be from someone who wants to help catch the murderer, but someone who, for whatever reason, doesn’t want to be identified. At least, that’s the first thing I considered.”

“And now?”

“Well, I don’t know. I suppose it’s possible it could even be from the murderer himself. Or herself. But I don’t understand why. I saw the note that was found yesterday in Sydney’s hand. The messages sent to me were typed on a different typewriter. An electric I would guess.” She looked eamestly at Wardlaw, hoping he could give her an answer. “I don’t know, maybe the murderer
wants
to be caught. He’s trying to give clues.”

Wardlaw smiled for the first time. “You have an active imagination, Ms. Greenway, but in this case, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” Sophie was terribly upset. Unfortunately, Wardlaw knew things he wasn’t about to tell her. That unavoidable fact made her furious. Couldn’t he break his rules, just this once, and tell her what was going on?

“Because of the nature of these murders,” continued Wardlaw, “we’ve asked the FBI to help us develop a psychological profile of the perpetrator. These are not serial murders in the strict sense. There’s nothing random about them. The murderer, whoever he or she is, has everything very well thought out. For the moment, I don’t believe you and your husband are in any danger. Otherwise, we’d advise you to leave Brule’s Landing. We’re positive one of the eight people with keys to that house is our man, so to speak. I know some of those people are your friends. That makes these notes all the more interesting.”