A Stodgy Slaying, page 5
Did Eleanor Davies, in her fury, snatch up my mallet and pound Graham in the head?
Chapter 10
The sun had gone down as I talked with the older woman. As I stared at my door, I realized that the front porch light was still out. In all the excitement the other night, I had neglected to replace the bulb.
I walked slowly toward the house, deep in thought, and it wasn’t until I was nearly at the steps that I noticed someone in the shadows. I started, one hand leaping to my chest.
“Who’s there?” I demanded as I stepped up onto the first step so I could see better and also to feel a little bit safer closer to my own door. “Who is it?”
The shadow moved.
“It’s me, Kat.” Jaime stepped from the shadows.
“Oh, it’s ‘Kat’ now, is it?” My voice was tight with anger. “What are you doing here, constable? Are you following me?”
“What if I am?” He stood steady, his arms crossed and his legs wide.
Fury threatened to pop out of the top of my head.
“Stop it right now,” I hissed. “That’s rude.”
“It’s my job.” He held up a hand. “Besides, I’m not following you. I am just keeping an eye on you.”
We stared at each other in silence. Finally, I shook my head and hurried up the steps and into the house, fumbling with the lock on the front door. Once inside, I slammed it shut and leaned against it, breathing hard. How could he still not believe in me?
Then I yanked on the door handle to lock it and was caught by surprise when the handle fell off in my hand. Pieces fell to the floor of the entry way.
“What in the world?” I grumbled to myself as I dropped to my hands and knees on the floor to find the pieces. I stood up to turn on the light and then kicked the door in anger.
A light tap came in response. “Kat?”
I reached for the handle, then realized it was still in my hand.
“What are you still doing here, Jaime? I’m inside my own home. I can’t very well murder someone in here.” Apparently, in times of stress, I go right to sarcasm.
Silence greeted me, then Jaime spoke quietly. “Actually, Corbyn is also inside.”
I kicked the door again. “I can’t even open the door to yell at you because the handle is broken.”
“Would you like me to open it from this side?”
I hesitated, then dropped my shoulders in defeat. “Yes. Please.”
The mechanism turned and the door opened. Jaime quickly shined his flashlight in it.
“Hmm,” he said, then held out his hand.
“What?” I hissed.
“Give me the parts.”
I roughly shoved it in his hand along with one of the screws I had found. Then I got back down on the floor to look for the other one. Finding it in the corner, I silently handed it to him.
He put the handle back into the door, frowning at it before looking up at me. “Do you have a screwdriver?”
Without a word, I strode down the hall to the kitchen, where Aunt Selma had kept a few tools handy. I returned with the screwdriver and handed it to him.
Within a few minutes, he had the handle put back into place. He pulled on it a few times and nodded.
“There, then. That seems sturdy.”
“Why would it just fall apart like that?” I asked.
Jaime shrugged. “Sometimes these old houses wear out.”
He handed the screwdriver back to me, then opened the door and stepped onto the porch.
“Jaime,” I started.
He hesitated, then looked back at me.
“Thank you.”
He nodded sadly, then pulled the door closed behind him.
I leaned against it again, then clicked the dead bolt.
“Everything all right, Kat?”
Corbyn’s voice surprised me from the top of the stairs.
I held up my hands as I pushed away from the door. “I’ve been accused of murder, Jaime’s barely speaking to me, and now the house is falling apart.”
Corbyn started slowly down the stairs, holding on to the railing. “I noticed the water and the fans in the basement.”
“Is it dry yet?”
“Not quite.”
“Well, now the door handle fell off. Jaime was able to put it back on.”
He reached the bottom of the stairs near me. “It’s an old house, you know.”
“So I’ve been told.” I smiled at him. “Have you eaten?”
He nodded. “I got a bite at the pub.”
“Speaking of the pub,” I started. “Did you happen to see my cousin Franklin there last night? He said he saw you.”
Corbyn’s lined faced creased even further as he considered my question, then he slowly nodded.
“I do believe he was, yes. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
After sparring with Eleanor Davies and Jaime, I didn’t feel like talking much any more. With a wave, I set off down the hall toward the kitchen. Behind me, I heard Corbyn pulling down the shade on the front door window. His steps moved slowly into the sitting room, where he pulled those shades down as well.
“Thank you, Corbyn!” I called from the kitchen.
“Of course, dear. Good night, Kat.”
“Good night, Corbyn.”
His footsteps sounded heavy on the stairs, then creaked along the second floor toward his room in the back. I knew he wasn’t going up to sleep right away, but he probably wouldn’t be downstairs again this evening. He liked to watch TV in his room and sometimes read before going to sleep.
I leaned against the counter, my eyes on the ceiling as if I could see his progress through the house, grateful once again that he had moved back into the house after Aunt Selma’s death. Even a floor away, he was a comfort.
I bustled around the kitchen to heat up leftovers earlier in the week, then plopped down at the kitchen table. I propped the list of suspects on a book in front of me to study as I ate.
Eleanor Davies’ name remained at the top of my list, although I had to consider how likely was it that she could have killed Graham. She might be an unpleasant woman – indeed, she was – but I didn’t know if she had the strength to kill Graham with the mallet. When I had used the mallet to pound in the new flag, I had used both hands to lift it up high enough that it had any effect.
I put my hands together and lifted them over my head, then dropped them. Hard to say if she could have done it. She was taller than I was, so perhaps she wouldn’t have had to lift the mallet as far. Plus, Eleanor was in good enough shape to go up and down the stairs at her inn, probably multiple times a day.
I just needed to find out where she was when Graham was killed, after she left me at the grocer’s. For now, Eleanor Davies was my Number One suspect, and, frankly, I liked my list better than Jaime’s.
Chapter 11
I started early the next morning, mopping up the last bit of water from the basement. The plumber came to retrieve his fans and his payment. He left his card in case anything else turned up.
“This is an old house, after all,” he said.
“So I’ve heard,” I said, adding through gritted teeth, “about a million times now.”
Once he had left, I kept myself busy until the shops opened, then hurried out the door. It took nearly a half hour, during which I regretted not buying a car yet, to reach the Beatrix Potter Museum on the outskirts of town.
As I entered the front door, an elderly woman turned toward me with a wide smile, which fell from her face when she saw who it was.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, her lips turned downward. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble here?”
I bit my tongue. After all, I wasn’t the one who had broken into my aunt’s house to steal things. “I was hoping to speak to Geoffrey McPherson. Is he around?”
Her expression grew wary. “What do you want with him?”
“Please, Margie, I just need to speak to him.” I really hadn’t counted on arguing with an old woman this morning. I’d had enough of that last night with Eleanor Davies.
Just then the door opened behind me. Margie tried to wave someone away, but I spun around to see a man, who looked to be in his late twenties wearing jeans and a paint-splattered work shirt stepping inside.
He looked puzzled at Margie and turned to look at me. “Is there something wrong?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Margie was quicker.
“This is Kat McCoy, Selma’s niece.” She looked at him with a knowing expression.
“Ahh,” he turned to me. “I’m Geoff McPherson. Can I help you with something, Miss McCoy?
“Kat, please.” I looked around. “Is there someplace we can talk?”
He gestured toward the same door his grandfather had taken me through nearly two months earlier. I followed behind him toward a bench, where he sat and looked at me expectantly.
“I’d heard you were here helping out your grandfather,” I said, trying to make conversation. “That’s really nice of you.”
He shrugged. “I’m an artist and he runs a museum. It’s beneficial to both of us.”
“What kind of art do you do?”
“Painting, mostly oils. But I know you didn’t come here to talk about that. This isn’t more about Granddad’s involvement in the ‘incident’, is it?” He used air quotes around the word “incident.” “I thought that was all resolved.”
“There’s been a new … development,” I told him. “I don’t know if you’re familiar with Edgar Elliot Graham? He was something of an expert in Beatrix Potter, I believe. He came to town the other day, but someone killed him.”
Geoff McPherson crossed his arms as he settled back on the bench, raising one eyebrow toward me. “I heard he had died. I also heard you were the favorite suspect.”
I closed my eyes and dropped my head. Stupid small town.
“Yes, but I didn’t kill him,” I said, lifting my head.
“You think Granddad did?” Geoff looked at me, his eyes wide. “He’s been in very ill health the last few weeks. That’s why I’m here, to help him out.”
I rushed to reassure him without suggesting it was actually him that I thought had done the deed.
“No, no, I don’t think your grandfather killed anyone. I’m just trying to figure out who talked to Graham when he was here and follow his footsteps.”
“Why? Aren’t the police taking care of that?”
“Not very well.” I stood up and pushed my hands through my hair in frustration. “As you mentioned, I’m their top suspect, and I know I didn’t kill him. So did Graham come here? What did he say?”
Geoff appraised me and uncrossed his arms. “He did come here, looking for Granddad. He wanted to find out where the illustrations were and whether they were as valuable as you claimed them to be.”
“I’m not the one who said they were valuable. It was your grandfather,” I protested. “He was the one who told Aunt Selma the illustrations were potentially worth thousands of pounds.”
He shrugged and waved a hand. “Whatever. He left without seeing Granddad.”
I bit my bottom lip. Apparently, this lead who going nowhere. I stood up to leave and he followed suit. We stepped back through the door into the reception area.
“Is everything all right, Geoff?” Margie asked from behind the counter.
He waved her off. “It’s all fine, Margie. She was just asking about that journalist who came to see Grandad.”
Her face puckered like a lemon. “Oh, that disagreeable man,” she said. “He was always unpleasant when he came here. This last time, he was so nasty about the museum and quite unkind to you about the project on your phone.”
My eyebrows lifted all by themselves as my head swiveled around to gaze at the young man. “He was mean to you? You didn’t mention that.”
He ducked his head toward his phone. “It was nothing.”
“It was not nothing,” Margie said, her voice louder to make sure I heard. “He said you didn’t know what you were doing and nothing good would come of it.”
Geoff stared at Margie as if he could burn holes into her with his eyes. As I turned from her to him, he dropped his hand. I was fairly certain he had given her the “stop talking now” sign. These people really needed to learn to communicate better.
I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “You didn’t mention that you got into what sounds like an argument with Mr. Graham just hours before he died.”
“On your porch,” he sneered.
“Oh, is that how you want to play it?” I snapped right back, turning to leave. “I’m sure Constable Allen will be quite interested to hear the news.”
As I reached for the door handle, he stepped toward me.
“Wait!” he blurted.
I turned back, leaving my hand on the door handle, my eyebrows upraised.
He took a deep breath, like he was trying to control himself. “I’m working on an app for the museum, to make it more user-friendly for young people and, well, people my age who aren’t that young. I just want to bring the museum into the twenty-first century.”
He held up his phone. “I showed it to Graham, since he said he was an expert, and he laughed at it.”
He went to put the phone back in his pocket.
“Show me.” I held out my hand.
Wariness filled his eyes. “It’s not finished yet.”
“Show me what you have.”
Suddenly, he seemed a little shy as he swiped open his phone and pulled up the app. “When you press this QR code, you can see Beatrix Potter drawing at a table. When I set it up in museum, people will press a button inside and a hologram will appear. I have old film footage of her.”
I gasped in delight. “That’s amazing.”
He smiled shyly. “I have plans for more things, like holograms of bunnies and goats hopping through the rooms.”
“I think you’re really onto something,” I told him.
“I’m still learning. I have loads more to do on it. If I had more money, I could pay someone to set it up as an app on phones, but that takes serious cash.” Geoff tucked the phone back into his pocket. “I’m really an artist. I just mess with the tech stuff.”
I studied his face. “Why did Graham laugh at it?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “He said no one cared about Beatrix Potter anymore and it would take more than my silly holograms to bring people into a ‘dying museum.’ That’s what he called it, and he said he would have some things to say about it in his newspaper when he got back to London.”
My face wrinkled up in confusion. Why was Graham so interested in Aunt Selma’s illustrations if “no one cared about Beatrix Potter”?
My hand went back to the door handle. “One more question, Geoff. Where were you about six o’clock on Tuesday evening?”
He gestured around the room. “I was here. I’m also the custodian now since the last man quit.”
“Did anyone see you?”
He gestured toward Margie, who nodded. “I was closing up and he started right in with the mopping,” she said.
I nodded, then pulled open the door and started out, my mind a jumble. This time, I was glad for the walk back to the inn. It gave me time to process what Geoff McPherson had told me.
He had motive and means. Of course, everyone in town had means because I was foolish enough to leave the mallet out on the steps.
I stopped to look back at the museum. A side door opened, and Geoff stepped out, a trash can in one hand. He emptied it into the large green bin outside, pausing when he saw me watching, then turned back into the building.
He seemed like a decent young man who was helping his grandfather. I sure hoped he wasn’t a killer.
Chapter 12
“He came across nice enough,” I told Clarissa over a cup of tea.
I stopped by the Tea Shoppe on my way back to the inn to warm up. A consistent mist hung over The Lakes and I often felt cold and damp when I was outside for any length of time. I’d have to stop in at the Outdoors Shop for outer gear that was more suited for the climate.
In the meantime, though, there was hot tea and warm cinnamon scones while I told Clarissa about my conversation with Geoffrey McPherson.
“You always think the suspects are nice,” Clarissa responded.
“Sad but true,” I said, lifting my teacup in a small toast to her perception. “How does a sleuth pick up on killer vibes?”
Clarissa laughed. “You’re asking me? As long as they drink my tea and pay their bills, I don’t look for killers.”
She tilted her head in thought. “Didn’t you say he had an alibi, though?”
I blew out a breath. “Margie, who apparently dotes on him. I’m not sure how reliable she is. Plus, she might not have known,” I speculated. “He could have easily slipped out the side door while he was supposed to be cleaning, gone in search of Graham, found him on my porch and killed him.”
“That’s a lot of chance for a killer.”
I shrugged as I held up the scone. “It’s not a big town, and if he knew Graham was staying with you, he would have ended up on the right street and seen him on my doorstep.”
With that, I bit into the scone. Clarissa watched me. “Do you think it’s something we should tell Jaime about?”
I swallowed the bite and played with the small plate. “I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to want to hear what I have to say.”
The bell tinkled above the front door. Clarissa’s eyes flitted to the front and she smiled. “What if he doesn’t hear about it from us?”
I followed her gaze to see Alex Lewis stepping into the shop. Clarissa jumped up and guided him quickly over to our table. She practically forced him into the middle chair. He sat down hard, his gaze bouncing between the two of us. Then he focused his gaze on Clarissa.
“I just came for hot drinks. Mum seems to like that new lavender thing you’re serving the tourists.” He waved his hands like he was holding fluffy clouds to describe the tea.
Clarissa patted his arm. “I’ll get it for her. What would you like?”
