This Little Piggy Went to Murder (18 page)

“Don’t worry. You don’t look anything like your normal self.”

“Thanks. Will you join me?”

“Just for a minute. I can’t stay. It’s movie night at Brule House, and Amanda’s invited me for dinner.”

“Movie night?”

Claire unwound a silk scarf from around her neck and unbuttoned her raincoat. “Several months ago Luther finally broke down and bought a VCR. Amanda thought it was a silly waste of money, but she’s really gotten into it lately. We all have standing invitations to come for a movie on Tuesday nights. Sometimes dinner. Ryan and Jenny are usually there. And Jack and Nora, when they’re in town. Didn’t Amanda say anything to you about it?”

Sophie shook her head. Just one more thing Amanda had failed to mention.

“Well, with everything that’s been going on, I’m sure it just slipped her mind. You won’t be very interested in dinner after after you’ve eaten here, but come down to the rec room when you get home. That’s where everything is set up.” Claire held a newly matted and framed print under one arm. “I came to give this to Gilly. She’s the new night manager. Her brother is the handyman here, and I want him to hang this in Amanda’s office. Do you like it?” She held it up.

Sophie did. It was an etching of two Raggedy Ann dolls sitting at a small table, having their morning tea. “Very nice.”

“Amanda liked it so much I thought I’d buy it for her. So, are you doing a review for that Minneapolis paper?”

“I am.”

She pulled out a chair and sat down. “Tell me, how did you learn so much about food?”

Sophie took a sip of her beer. “Well, my parents own the Maxfield Plaza. It’s a lovely, Old World hotel in downtown St. Paul. It’s now considered a landmark, part of the historic register. There’s a wonderful restaurant on the top floor, so I’m afraid I grew up rather spoiled. On the other hand, when I was young, my enthusiasm for food was fairly indiscriminate. The delight I’ve found over the years in learning how to discriminate is at the heart of my more mature appreciation. It’s something I’d like to pass along. I have no formal training, just a good nose and a keen palate — and a witty writing style that has earned me more attention than I perhaps deserve. I’ve also traveled to Europe and the Far East on occasion as a culinary adventurer. I simply love to eat!” She patted her stomach.

“And this new job? Managing editor of
Squires
. I used to have a subscription to that years ago.”

“It was started in 1959 by a man named Hillary Squire. He was a great devotee of the arts and didn’t find any of the current magazines to his liking. His son took it over several years ago, but Hilly didn’t like the way things were headed. Actually, when it came time for a change of guard, he called me. He’d seen my work at the
Midwest Forum
and was very impressed. I worked my way up from staff writer to associate editor in less than two years. I’ve been managing editor there for the last eight. But
Squires
is more what I’ve always wanted. I couldn’t be happier.”

“How wonderful for you.” Clairie waved at a waitress. “Coffee,” she mouthed.

The young woman came over immediately with a cup and a fresh pot. “Hi, Mrs. Van Dorn!”

“Good evening, Beth,” smiled Claire. “How’s that paper coming?”

“I haven’t finished it yet.” She placed the cup next to the napkin and poured the coffee. “I’m off at eight and then I’m going over to the library to do some more research.”

“Have you met Beth?” asked Claire, nodding to Sophie. “She’s in one of my classes at the academy.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Beth, extending her hand. “You are?”

“Martha Finchly.” Sophie shook hand warmly.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes for your orders.” The young woman rushed away into the kitchen.

“I didn’t know you taught anymore,” said Sophie, pouring the last dregs of her bottled beer into her glass. “I guess I just thought you … administered.”

“I did for the first few years, but I missed teaching entirely too much. Since I’m the head honcho, so to speak, I can pretty much do as I please.” Claire held the coffee cup to her lips, her expression turning serious. “That was awful yesterday, wasn’t it? I can’t stop thinking about it. That horrid Sydney Sherwin was a disgusting little man, but still, such a tragedy.”

“Terrible,” agreed Sophie. “I’ve been mulling it over in my mind all day. These
pig murders
, as they’re being called, are happening for a very specific reason.”

“
Pig murders
? “

“Haven’t you seen the morning paper? It’s the headline. PIG MURDERS CONTINUe.”

Claire shivered. “Leave it to the press. Picking upon that children’s poem. It’s disgusting.”

“I think Detective Wardlaw was right. Someone with a key to Brule House is no doubt behind everything. The only thing is, there can be a lot of motives for murder.”

Claire nodded, carefully unfolding her napkin and laying it in her lap.

“For instance, what if someone had an important secret they wanted kept quiet? What if it was something so important they were willing to kill to prevent it from getting out?”

“Sounds like a stab in the dark to me.” Claire looked out the window.

“Maybe.”

“The police are doing their job, Sophie. They’ll figure it out sooner or later.”

“Were you called down to the police station today?”

“Me? No. Well, to be accurate, I haven’t been home since early this morning. But I’m sure Wardlaw realizes I have no motive. I hardly knew Sydney and I only knew Herman Grendel socially. There’s not much to talk about.”

“Uhm,” said Sophie. “I suppose you know Luther was asked to come in after lunch.”

Claire shook her head. “That’s too bad. I’m afraid the police think he had some rather strong feelings about each of the victims. From what I hear, he may be their primary suspect.”

Sophie groaned. “I was afraid of that.”

“I know he’s a close friend of yours, but even you must admit he’s a strange man. Hard to figure. Who knows what’s going on in that mind of his?”

“For that matter, who knows what’s going on in anyone’s mind? Oh, come on, Claire. You don’t really think Luther had anything to do with those murders.”

Claire leaned forward, elbows on the table, her head resting on her hands. She seemed to be thinking. “All I can say is, I wish I knew. It’s a nightmare. You know, when I talked to Amanda this afternoon, she said the police had even called her daughter down to the station today. And then about an hour later, I ran into Chelsea coming out of a department store. She seemed pretty shook up. She even forgot to be sardonic for a moment.”

Sophie couldn’t help but laugh. She wanted to detest Claire for what she might be doing to Amanda and Luther’s marriage but somehow she couldn’t. She knew better. Amanda was hardly the kind of personality who was easily swayed one way or the other. If anybody was doing the swaying, it was probably Amanda herself. But just why had Claire hidden the poison in Luther’s jacket? “I understand they found the poison that killed Sydney in Luther’s jacket pocket.”

Claire looked up.

“It’s crazy to think the murderer would incriminate himself by planting the murder weapon in something of his own. That would take an unusually Machiavellian turn of mind.”

Claire’s hand brushed at her cheek in a tentative, unsure gesture. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Yes, I did think of that.”

“I wonder how the poison got into Luther’s jacket.”

Claire realized she was staring and turned away.

“Let’s not play games anymore. I saw you.”

“What?” Claire’s head snapped up.

“You can cut the pretense. I know you put it there.”

Her body stiffened and she started to get up.

“Sit down,” said Sophie. “I don’t think we’re done just yet.”

“I’m not going to stay here and be toyed with.”

“I’m not toying. I want to know why you put it there. Why haven’t you told the police?”

“The police?” Claire was aghast. “Are you serious? Surely if you know I planted it in that coat, you know why? I panicked. I couldn’t let anyone think the poison was in Amanda’s purse. I didn’t even know it was Luther’s jacket. Not until later.”

“You trust the police to solve the case, but not enough to tell them the truth?”

“But … she’s my friend! I had to protect her.”

“At Luther’s expense?”

“Oh, you don’t understand. You just want to judge. It’s simply too complicated to go into. And anyway, they haven’t arrested him. That bottle they found is only circumstantial. Nobody saw anybody kill anybody. Nothing ties anyone specifically to the scene of the crime. And what was it you just said? No murderer would hide the murder weapon in something of his own. By that reasoning, Luther is off the hook.”

“So was Amanda.”

Claire’s lips tightened.

“By the way, I stopped at the police station this morning. I’ve already spoken with Detective Wardlaw. He knows you put it there.”

Claire’s face froze.

“If there is a Machiavelli at work here, you’re definitely not it. I suggest
you
better do something, and fast. Explain to the police what really happened.”

“I …” Claire appeared to be deciding whether she could bolt from the room without creating a scene. After a moment’s reflection, she leaned back in her chair. “All right. It was a stupid thing to do. I’ll stop at the station first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Good.”

As a last-ditch effort at maintaining her dignity, Claire picked up her coffee cup and then realized her hand was shaking so dreadfully she might drop it. Carefully, she set it back down. “You must hate me. You must think what I did was awful.”

“At this point, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps it was just poor judgment. I’m a friend of Amanda’s, too. I understand wanting to protect her.” And wasn’t that exactly what this whole conversation had been dancing around? Why had the poison been in Amanda’s purse in the first place? Was someone trying to implicate her in the murder?

Claire rose and tried to smile. “Thank you. I appreciate your understanding. Believe me, I would never intentionally hurt Luther. Never.” Holding her body very tightly, she turned and walked quickly out of the dining room.

It was a funny thing. In a strange way, Sophie did believe her.

Jack parked his car in the driveway and walked up the gravel path to the front door of his home in east Duluth. The light rain that had been falling since early aftemoon had finally stopped. In the growing dusk, the rocks and plants appeared flat and glossy, much like a strange, surrealistic painting. The wind would dry them soon enough. As he climbed the wooden steps to the deck, he heard a foghorn sound in the distance. It was a sound from his past. The sound of home. He turned to see an ore boat drifting slowly toward the harbor.

Home. It seemed a funny word to use so casually. Minneapolis had never felt like that to him. Nothing except Duluth had ever satisfied his need for solitude and physical beauty. He hated the thought of leaving it behind.

As he entered the softly lit interior, he tossed his briefcase on the sofa and loosened his tie. Sitting open on the bar was a half-empty bottle of wine. “Nora?” he called, surprised at the anger in his voice. “Get in here.” He poured himself a Scotch.

Nora glided into the doorway, a stemmed glass in one hand, acigarette in the other. “Yes, dear?” The sweetness in her voice was a sarcastic exaggeration.

“I just had a call from my sister.”

“Ah, and what words of delight did the lovely Amanda have to pass along?”

“Knock it off. This is serious. It seems Luther’s been down at the police station most of the day. While he was being questioned, one of the officers let something very interesting slip.”

“Oh? And what would that be?”

Jack tossed back his drink and set the glass down hard on the bar top. “It seems they’ve found several people who swear they saw you and Lars Olson in a tavern up the shore several hours before he was murdered.”

Nora held the cigarette to her lips.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Is it true?”

She sat down and drew her legs up underneath her. “Yes. It’s true.”

Jack sat down opposite her. “I want an explanation.”

“Don’t glower, dear. lt’s unbecoming.”

“What did you have to talk to him about?”

“You want the truth or the lie I’m going to tell the police?”

“Cut the crap.”

Nora flicked some ash into an ashtray. “I was trying to protect you.”

“Protect me?” The anger in his voice suddenly changed to confusion.

Nora nodded. “Did you know your father was directly responsible for dumping several hundred barrels of industrial waste in Lake Superior? It was back in 1979. You were executive vice president that year.”