Weekends Can Be Murder, page 14
“And do you happen to remember hearing anything just before you lost your footing?” Larry asked. “Any voices or unusual noises, for example?”
“Your Honour, counsel is leading the witness,” Wylde declared to the room.
“Okay, never mind,” Selena cut in. “Now, the person who was with you—would you recognize his voice if you heard it again?”
Wylde paused. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Well, if you do—”
“We’ll be sure to inform you,” Georgina assured her. “Was there anything else?”
“Yes,” said Selena. “What really nails a frame in place is a plausible motive. So we have to ask: would either of you have any reason to want Arthur Pyke—or anyone else on the island—dead?”
She’d wakened the bear. Wylde drew himself up, a gathering storm in his eyes, and snarled, “Are you accusing us of—?”
“No! Of course we don’t!” Georgina interrupted, clamping a hand onto his forearm. He tried to shrug her off. She gave him a stern look and reinforced her grip with the other hand.
“I’m sorry!” Selena hastened to say. “That came out wrong. What I meant was, is there anything hiding in either of your pasts that a killer could use to incriminate Gareth in someone else’s death?” When they hesitated, she added, “We’re not asking for details. Just answer yes or no.”
The Wyldes exchanged questioning looks.
Finally, Georgina replied, “Yes, possibly. But they would have to have—”
“Isn’t there a script you’re supposed to be following, Holmes?” Wylde challenged, drowning out her next few words.
“Actually, believe it or not, we are following it.” He produced the slip of paper and handed it to Wylde. The author perused it, uttered a grudging syllable of satisfaction, then handed the mystery lead back.
“So, Ms. Rodgers,” Larry asked, summoning his most officious voice, “how would you describe your late husband’s character? Is there anyone from his past who might want him dead? Or framed for murder? For any reason at all?”
In response, Georgina produced a folded piece of paper of her own. She opened it with a flourish and read: “My late husband was a pompous, arrogant, egotistical boor. A mediocre writing talent at best, who couldn’t stand the thought that my books might outsell his. Now that he’s gone, I can finally get the fame and recognition that I deserve.”
Improbably, Wylde was grinning at this. “Don’t forget the adultery,” he reminded her. “It casts suspicion on someone other than yourself. In a mystery, the more suspects the better.”
Selena winced inwardly. As if Georgina Rodgers needed a lesson on how to write a murder mystery! Now it was Georgina’s turn to shoot him a venomous look as she added, “And he’s a damned womanizer with a fondness for brainless bimbos with hulking boyfriends.”
“Did you write your own script?” Selena inquired sweetly.
“I had to,” Georgina replied. “I’d given the one Court wrote for me to Warfield before I came upstairs. If you want to know what I was supposed to tell you, you’ll have to ask him. His room is right across the hall.”
“Thanks, we’ll do that,” Selena said. “Now, what about the second question? Who do you suspect might have it in for your husband?”
Already knowing how Wylde himself would respond to that, Larry watched as the author tilted his head and crossed his arms over his chest.
“On this island?” she said thoughtfully. “I can think of a couple who would enjoy seeing him suffer, but no one who would be capable of murder.”
“Anyone who knew him a week ago, before the Crime Club convention?” Larry persisted.
“Yes.” Georgina drew herself up as though gathering courage to speak. “Antony Court, Will Kemper… and Arthur Pyke.”
Wylde’s brows drew together, and for a moment he looked about to object. Then he subsided, slowly shaking his head.
Larry made a mental note and filed it away.
“Arthur knew Gareth?” Selena demanded. “How?”
“It was years ago. He was a fan of Gareth’s books. Arthur came to a signing, struck up a conversation with him, and the two of them just hit it off. They stayed in touch and occasionally visited back and forth. Then one day, everything stopped. They even unfriended each other on social media.”
Eyebrows elevated, Selena asked, “What caused the breakup?”
“That’s irrelevant,” Wylde declared, wading into the conversation. “What’s significant is that out of the blue, after years of silence, we got this invitation to the reopening of Rafferty House.”
“To be the celebrity corpse?” Larry said. “Or to be an investor?”
Wylde nodded grimly. “I wanted to turn it down, but Georgie and our agent double-teamed me and talked me out of it.”
“I thought Arthur was trying to mend fences,” said Georgina with tears in her voice. “And now he’s dead and we’ll never know what he had in mind.”
“Unbelievable!” said Selena later as she and Larry headed downstairs. “Back at the resort, you called his opening scene ‘awkward’ and he nearly punched you out. She calls him an arrogant boor and a mediocre talent and he treats it like a joke.”
“What I find interesting is that Court and Wylde knew each other in the past,” Larry remarked.
“Well, it doesn’t surprise me. Court evidently knew Georgina, and she married Gareth. But we need to find out what caused the rift between Gareth Wylde and Arthur Pyke,” Selena decided. “If it gave Arthur an ulterior motive for inviting the Wyldes to Rafferty House this weekend, it could also have given Gareth a motive for wanting him dead, and vice versa.”
“I think you’re overthinking this, Selena. We know Arthur was gay. Maybe he misread a signal and came on to Gareth, prompting him to end their friendship. And maybe Georgina was right about Arthur simply wanting to reach out again. As they say in the medical profession, when you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.”
“You really believe it’s that simple?”
“In real life, yes. And who’s our next lucky contestant, Ms. Watt?”
At the foot of the stairs, Selena turned and pointed toward the dining room, where Lois Drake sat propped up on her elbows. “Her.”
Lois was resting her cheek on the palm of one hand. Her other hand was idly rotating a dark blue mug in place on the table top. Either she was supremely bored or there had been something stronger than coffee in that mug.
“Gareth Wylde is a very cold-hearted man,” Selena grumbled as she and Larry set out across the foyer. “He meant every rotten word he said to me back at Windsong.”
“No argument there,” Larry said mildly. “As his wife pointed out earlier, he’s a bear. The upside is that he doesn’t mince words. With someone like Gareth Wylde, you always know exactly where you stand. His candour would be refreshing, if the man himself weren’t so…”
“…despicable?”
Yeah, there was that.
When they reached the entrance to the dining room, Larry pulled Selena up short and laid a warning finger on his lips. Then he selected a pleasant expression to wear and said, “Ms. Drake, do you mind if we join you?” Not waiting for her reply, he pulled out two chairs and took one for himself. “We just have a couple of follow-up questions for you regarding the unfortunate death of Gareth Wylde.”
As Selena slid onto the second chair, Lois looked up blearily from her empty mug. “Yep. And it could’n’a happened to a more deserving fella.”
Larry and Selena exchanged a dubious look.
“How long have you known him?” Selena asked.
“Years. That’s how long he’s been stringing me along, with one broken promise after another. And then, just to ice the pudding on my cake, she thinks we’ve been having an affair. Well, I never! I’m a good girl, I am!” The last sentence was said with a poorly-executed Cockney accent. Larry recognized the line as Eliza Doolittle’s from the musical My Fair Lady.
Meanwhile, Selena’s eyes were rolling.
“What exactly did he promise you, Ms. Drake?” Larry asked.
“A supporting role in the movie version of one of his novels. They’ve done five so far. Each time, he swore that this would be the one—the perfect vehicle for me. It would unlock my talent and launch me into a dream career!” She flung her arms wide, then dropped them into her lap with an exaggerated sigh. “And each damn time he gave me some lame excuse for casting someone else in the part instead. Well, he won’t be doing that again, will he,” she concluded darkly, “now as someone’s done ’im in.” More Eliza Doolittle.
“Why would Georgina think that you and her husband were having an affair?” said Selena.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because she’s a jealous bitch?” Lois replied, wagging a forefinger at her for emphasis. “All’s we were doing was rehearsing, getting me ready for the auditions. It was a lotta work. Sometimes it took us all night to get the lines just right. He tried to explain it to her, but she wouldn’t believe him.” Leaning in, Lois intimated in breathy tones, “She knows martial arts, you know. And she has a terrible temper. She threatened to rip all my hair out! That’s why I had to get a bodyguard.”
Uh-huh. Larry risked a sidelong glance at Selena. Her eyes were searching the ceiling, and her lips could have doubled as a vice. It appeared the rest of this interview would be up to him.
“I’m curious, Ms. Drake. Did Arthur Pyke invite you to this weekend?”
“Um… no. Charlie arranged it. Why do you ask?”
“Charles Warfield? Your bodyguard?” Selena demanded, now back in the game.
“This event was by invitation only,” Larry pointed out. “Are you saying that Warfield called in a favour from Arthur Pyke?”
Lois was visibly nervous now, and looking less inebriated by the second. Her response came out in a rush. “Maybe he did. I wouldn’t know about that. Are we going off-script again?”
Selena batted away her question, asking instead, “Is Charlie really your fiancé?”
Tears were welling in the other woman’s eyes. “What’s wrong with you people? First Georgina, now this. There’s a script. Why won’t you just let me follow the damned script?”
Larry placed both his hands palm down on the table in front of her. “Because there is a real-life murderer on this island. One person has died, and two more may be in danger, and there are things we need to know if we’re to keep everyone safe until the police arrive. So forget the script and just answer our questions. Please?”
Visibly composing herself, Lois straightened in her chair. “Okay. Charlie isn’t my fiancé. His employer is. Greg Vollmer. He’s part owner of Heron Springs Dinner Theatre.”
“And that’s why you’re here? Because Vollmer asked Antony Court to include you in the simulation?” said Selena, evidently thinking aloud. “And Warfield as well. To do what?”
Unexpectedly, Lois smiled. “Ask him yourself. He’s standing in the doorway.”
Frowning, Larry swivelled in his chair and saw Warfield leaning against the doorjamb, his arms folded over his chest, his legs crossed at the ankles. This was definitely not where he was supposed to be.
“Ah. A stealth bodyguard,” Larry said, only half-joking. “Ninja-trained?”
Warfield just chuckled and shook his head.
“Look, I know I’m not the greatest actress in the world,” Lois told them, “but this weekend sounded like it was going to be fun, so when I overheard Greg and Charlie talking about it, I… let Greg know how much I would love to be part of it as well. That’s all.”
A light seemed to go on behind Selena’s eyes. To Warfield, she said, “You were coming out here whether Lois was or not, weren’t you? I repeat: to do what?”
Warfield unfurled himself and came to stand at the head of the table. “It’s not really any of your business, but I’ll answer your question if Mr. Holmes will answer mine first,” he said. “Deal?”
Larry didn’t hesitate for a second. “Deal.”
Waving away his gestured invitation to sit down beside Lois, Warfield said, “I’ve been watching everyone while they run around. They’ve been gathering information, putting together clues. They’re amateur sleuths, playing a game. You’re not, Mr. Holmes. Despite your name, you’re not and never have been a member of the Crime Club. Ullman was supposed to be here. He could have handed off his invitation to another Crime Club member, but he didn’t. He chose you. I call that very curious. Baker referred to you as a first responder, and I believe that, because you seem genuinely invested in keeping everyone safe. What I don’t believe is that your arriving here a short few hours before a murder is committed could be a coincidence, especially if Baker is here at the same time. So why are you here? Did you suspect, or maybe even know, what was going to happen?”
Blindsided, Larry paused to fill his lungs and choose his words. “I had no idea what was going to happen. That’s the truth. You’re right about me not being part of the Crime Club. I was never a fan of murder mysteries, and I certainly wasn’t planning on attending something like this. But then I met Selena at the resort. She’s the reason I agreed to join the party at Rafferty House.”
“That’s your story?”
“It’s not a story. It’s the truth. I’m an off-duty firefighter, Warfield. Period. I don’t know what’s going on between you and Baker, but I came here without an agenda. What I did bring is a set of skills that I’m hoping not to have to use this weekend. Now, I’ve answered your question. How about you answer ours?”
“All right. Mr. Vollmer wanted me to conduct a property appraisal. The murder mystery weekend provided a way for me to do it… confidentially.”
“You mean secretly,” Larry corrected him. “Without Arthur Pyke’s knowledge.”
Warfield tilted his head, possibly in confirmation. “I’m a specialist researcher, Holmes. Period. End of discussion. But I’ll tell you this much: if lives are in danger on this island, it’s not from me, and certainly not from her.” Extending a hand to Lois, he added, “Come on, Honeybunch. Let’s go to our rooms and get some rest before the police arrive. And I really am here as her bodyguard,” he added, addressing Larry, “so if you want to talk to her again, you’ll be talking to me first.”
Lois sprang to her feet with a relieved expression on her face and accompanied her “fiancé” out of the room.
Thirteen
“Wow,” said Selena, sagging back against her chair. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“That one of our suspects would accuse me of having nefarious motives, you mean?” Larry said.
“When you’re stirring up a hornet’s nest, you can expect to be stung,” she assured him. “No, what I’m talking about is the connections that seem to be popping up, like a web linking together everyone on the island.”
“Except for me. Alec should have been here this weekend. He belongs to your organization. I don’t.”
“Larry Holmes, shame on you! Letting Warfield get under your skin like that? Really? You may not be a paid up member of the club, but you’ve earned a place on our team by being a first-rate sleuth. Don’t let anyone tell you differently,” she scolded him.
“Okay,” he said, still unconvinced. “Where do you want to go next?”
“Perhaps we ought to check in on Mr. Vaile. We said we would. You know… to see how he’s doing with his head trauma and ask him some pointed questions while we’re at it?”
“No need, luv,” carolled Liz’s voice behind them. “Hugh and I just spoke with him, and he’s doing just fine.”
“His quarters smell like a distillery,” Hugh added, stopping at the coffee urn to fill two cups on his way to the table, “but he was surprisingly articulate.”
“Did you find out how he knew Georgina? And why he left his quarters earlier?” Selena prompted them.
Liz plopped herself down on the chair Lois had just vacated. “He told us he heard voices arguing in the hallway and went to investigate the commotion. Apparently, Farley was objecting to being confined to his room for the duration of the game, and Baker was laying down the law to him.”
“It certainly sounds plausible,” Larry remarked. “Was this before or after Selena and I spoke with Farley?”
“Afterward, we believe. When Norman and Blaise arrive, they can tell us the exact time Vaile returned to his room. In real life, meanwhile, you were right about Antony Court and Georgina having a history together,” Liz confided in a conspiratorial voice. “It predates both her marriage to Gareth Wylde and her writing career, and none of them are at liberty to talk about it. Court’s words.”
“Of course,” Hugh added, “that could mean anything from witness protection to the Official Secrets Act. We couldn’t get him to drop so much as a hint. Here you go, my dear,” he said, placing a cup of coffee in front of his wife before taking a seat beside her.
“Thank you, pet. However, we did have a most enlightening chat with Mr. Baker,” Liz continued. “He’s quite knowledgeable about Rafferty House, as it turns out. He told us about the curse.”
“The curse?” Selena echoed, leaning forward on her elbows. “What curse?”
Hugh explained: “According to family legend, and the daily journals of the first Phineas Pyke, when Pyke began construction of the original Rafferty House in 1861, he decided to economize on labour costs by hiring former slaves who’d escaped to Upper Canada on the Underground Railroad. The working conditions were no better than what they’d left behind them—in some respects worse, in fact—and the pay was a pittance, even by the standards of the day.”
“None of these labourers were trained or qualified in the trades,” Liz said, picking up the narrative, “so naturally there were accidents, some of them quite serious. After the fourth fatality, the entire work crew quit, but not before conducting a funeral service on the building site. Their religion was called Voudon, and they weren’t just burying their dead on Rafferty Island. They were apparently exacting justice for them.” She paused for a sip, then waited a few seconds more, giving her last words time to sink in.
