5 Murder by Syllabub (8 page)

I
was awake. I didn’t want to be. Every nerve in my body told me I was tired, to go back to sleep, but I needed to use the bathroom. I opened my eyes halfway then snapped them wide open. There was a plaid ceiling over my bed I’d never seen before. I moved my arm, looking for Dan. He’d explain why, only he wasn’t there. I lay still for a moment, trying not to panic, to remember where I was. My eyes moved without moving my head, which seemed a good idea. My head didn’t feel like moving. Plaid curtains. No, green and cream plaid bed hangings. I was in a poster bed, the hangings held back with cream velvet tassels, the canopy draped down over the sides of the fabric top. How had I gotten here and where was Dan?

Of course. I took a deep breath and my hands relaxed their
tight grip on the sheet. I was in Elizabeth’s guest room. One of her guest rooms. Aunt Mary was next door. I let out the air I hadn’t realized I held in, pushed back the matching plaid quilt and slid out from under the cream eyelet trimmed sheets. I needed the bathroom, now.

My slippers were beside the bed, my robe draped over the end of it. Had I left them there? It didn’t seem likely. I didn’t do that at home when I was at my best. I hadn’t been at my best last night.
The overwhelmingly horrible memory of the murder scene came rushing back and erased any recollection of doing small, mundane things like unpacking a robe or setting out slippers. Slipping into both, I headed toward the half-opened door on the wall opposite the bed. I sank down on the white porcelain toilet with relief and looked around.

My small sundries case sat on a glass shelf above a freestanding sink. I’d been more efficient than I thought. It
had been very late when we were finally allowed to go to bed. Noah told us it would be a long night and advised us to switch to coffee after our first glass of wine. Somehow the anxiety of having a murder investigation in full swing and the increasingly pointed questions Lt. McMann addressed to both Elizabeth and Cora Lee made dinner an unrealized goal. He’d finished off the coffee, and Cora Lee had opened another bottle of wine. Another pot had been brewed, which Noah finished off. At least, I thought he had. I rummaged through my sundries case, looking for the Tylenol.

A glass sat on a lovely small chest that held towels and washcloths. I filled it and downed two of the pills. I probably wouldn’t have had that last glass of wine if Lt. McMann hadn’t been so rude. He’d refused to acknowledge my existence or Aunt Mary’s for over an hour, even though she was the one who had seen the light. We hadn’t known the victim but we
’d been there, we’d seen the body and probably had something to contribute. Rude. The man had been rude to all of us, Noah included. Dan was incensed when I told him. I swallowed the pills and thought about that phone call. He’d been prepared to drop everything and head east. It took me a while to convince him neither Aunt Mary nor I was in danger. Besides, from the little I’d seen of McMann, I was certain he wouldn’t want the chief of police from a small town in California horning in on his case. Elizabeth was probably safer without that extra strain. What I did tell him was that I missed him, and I did. I promised to call him often—a promise I intended to keep—and that I would try not to “stick my nose in where it didn’t belong.” His words. I wasn’t so sure about that one.

While I waited for the pills to numb my headache, my eyes wandered. Bathrooms didn’t look like this in the eighteenth century, I was sure. Did they even have bathrooms back then? I didn’t think so. Chamber pots. That’s what they used. I sent up a small “thank you” for modern facilities, especially for the soaking tub with its handheld showerhead and delicately embroidered shower curtain. I looked closer. All kinds of flowers, interspersed with small, brightly colored birds, appeared on a crisp white background. Charming. The bathroom walls were painted a soft yellow. The door, all of the trim around the window, and the high baseboards were white. So were the towels and the fluffy bath rug. The bird prints that hung above the chest were obviously old. So was the wood-framed mirror above the sink. A delightful blending of new and old. How did Elizabeth pull it off? According to Aunt Mary, she hadn’t been interested in decorating, cooking or anything domestic when they were in college. Causes were what held her interest, what aroused her passion. Causes and history. However, someone had put quite a little history into doing both the bathroom and bedroom.

I washed my face. That felt better. Teeth next. My mouth felt, and tasted, like cotton wool. Old cotton wool. Were my eyes bloodshot? Of course not. If they looked a little tired, well, it had been quite a day. All those questions the police asked. Over and over. They hadn’t found the syllabub. No one asked to look in the refrigerator and none of us suggested it. I fluffed my hair out a little. Not too bad. Should I shower? I yawned. Coffee then shower.

I walked back into the bedroom. What time was it? I hadn’t heard movement. No doors opening. No footsteps. I needed coffee. There wasn’t a pot or a hot plate up here, at least not in this room. There was the canopy bed and a small table beside it. A secretary sat on the wall opposite the door, its top down
, displaying little cubbyholes for letters, envelopes and things. An armless Windsor chair sat in front of it. A highboy took up the space between the two windows. It looked old. I walked over for a better look. I’d seen pictures of highboys like this. Were those drawer pulls original? They didn’t look like any I’d seen at Lowe’s. I pulled on one. The drawer slid open easily. What was it you were supposed to look for to see if it was old? No nails. I examined the corners. There weren’t any. Was this piece a true antique? I stood back to take a better look. The bottom had three deep drawers. The top half seemed only to rest on the bottom. It was narrower, with three drawers across the bottom; two small ones on top and another narrow one in-between. The top was flat with a charming trim that reminded me of the crown molding around Elizabeth’s ceiling downstairs. I reached up and let my fingers trace the lines. How beautifully it was made. I’d put my clothes in it right after breakfast.

I pulled back the drapes that covered one of the windows. The sun trying to invade the room now flooded it, leaving no doubt the morning was advancing quickly
. A beautiful morning it was. The pasture I’d only glimpsed last night showed green and crisp. White fences outlined it and followed its slope halfway down to the river. There was a copse of trees just outside the fence line, and below them lay the wide river, peacefully meandering toward the ocean. Who owned the land on the other side? It was covered in trees up to the ridgeline—no house in sight and no fence. A doe appeared through the trees, stopped and stared at the house. Could she see me? Of course she couldn’t. The doe appeared satisfied with whatever she saw because she put her head down and started to nibble.

How lovely it would have been to wake up every day and
gaze out at this view. How peaceful life must have been in the eighteenth century. Peaceful, perhaps, but they didn’t have bathrooms or coffeemakers. The circle driveway was directly below my window. Scraggly flower beds encased in untrimmed low hedges were in the middle of the circle; the white fences on each side were in need of paint. Horses contentedly munched on overlong grass along the fence line. A place like this would require a lot of maintenance. Elizabeth had to employ many people. Not enough by the looks of the fences and flower beds.

I shifted slightly and
saw the little houses. Slave cabins. How tiny they looked. I wondered how many people had lived crammed into one of them. Life wouldn’t have been pleasant down there.

A rough road led off of the circle driveway down the slope to a plateau about halfway to
ward the river, buildings clustered on either side. Barns? I had no firsthand knowledge of barns or chicken coops or anything else that smacked of rural life, now or centuries ago, so there was no point conjecturing.

Someone was down by the barn. Noah? No. A man I didn’t recognize. Thin, almost scrawny, his long light hair was held back in a ponytail; I couldn’t tell from here if he was young or old. What was he doing? Weed whacking. The handheld machine whined and reactivated my headache. However, the grounds needed some attention. A lot of attention. I wondered how long he’d worked here. If he wasn’t new, Elizabeth wasn’t getting her money’s worth. Right now I didn’t care. I needed coffee. Badly. There was a coffeepot downstairs. We
’d used it last night and I was headed its way. I quietly opened my door, stepped out into the wide hallway and paused. Both of the doors directly opposite me were closed. The one next door was slightly ajar. Aunt Mary’s. I pushed it open a little more and looked in.

“Are you awake?” I whispered in case she wasn’t, but I knew better.

“Of course I’m awake. I was going downstairs to make coffee.”

“So was I.”

“Then let’s do it.” I did a double take as she walked out, shutting the door softly behind her. Her bathrobe was heavy, too large for her, and had green and purple reindeer prancing all over it. Her slippers were bright green moccasins. Purple pajama bottoms showed under the hem of her robe. At least she matched.

“What?” She paused and gave me “the look.”

“Nothing. I need coffee, that’s all.”

“So do I.” She headed for the stairs,
and I followed. Should I laugh? I didn’t. Her ensemble was undoubtedly made up of rummage sale items. I’d seen her in worse and at least she was warm.

The staircase had a beautifully carved
, dark-wood banister I hadn’t noticed last night. The treads were bare and almost noiseless under our slippered feet. Noiseless but slippery. Aunt Mary put the handrail to good use as she descended.

No one was in the gathering room but the small dog, waiting impatiently at the French doors. She barked once and got up, intent on going outside.

Aunt Mary walked over. “Does this one only work with a key? Good. A dead bolt.” She turned the bolt, pulled up the rod and pushed open the door. The dog shot out, gone before I could blink. I joined her and together we watched the dog bound down the hill and disappear on the other side of the barn.

“What kind of dog did Elizabeth say she was? She looks like a greyhound, but smaller.”

“She’s beautiful. I like that blue-gray color and the white paws and circle of white around her neck. I think greyhounds are bigger. She’s a little dog. Maybe she’s a Whippet.”

“No. Elizabeth mentioned some country. Italian Greyhound, that’s what she called her.”

“I’ve never heard of them.” Aunt Mary’s face had an anxious expression. “Do you think we should go after her?”

“She’ll come back when she’s was ready. She lives here. Let’s make coffee.”

“What’s that noise?”

The gardener, or whoever he was, had moved closer to the house. The din from his weed whacker felt like a dentist’s drill in my head. I shut the door. “It’s the gardener, I guess. Noisy, isn’t he
?”

Aunt Mary dismissed the gardener and turned back into the room. “I didn’t pay much attention to this room last night. The shock of finding the body, Noah’s questions then that rude Lieutenant McMann practically badgering everybody
. When he finally left, Cora Lee poured us another glass.”

“Or two. I lost count.”

Aunt Mary smiled. “She did keep topping off the glasses. It certainly was more than I’m used to.”

“Especially on an empty stomach. I’m starved but I need coffee first.”

Aunt Mary nodded and headed for the kitchen area. The coffeepot sat on a granite counter just waiting to be filled. Aunt Mary looked like she planned on obliging it. Elizabeth had put the coffee away in the refrigerator before we all went to bed. I walked over and opened the door. There it was. The bowl of syllabub looked up at me from the confines of a delicate etched glass punch bowl. It seemed innocent enough. Was it really laced with poison? If so, it could have wiped out most of the Smithwood household before Monty even got a taste. I doubted the murderer had that in mind. More likely the poison had been meant only for Monty. If the murderer filled both glasses, what could be easier than adding a little something to Monty’s? Why would someone do that? More importantly, who had done it? That thought didn’t do a thing to settle my stomach. A covered casserole sat next to the syllabub, the one we never managed to get into the oven last night. The sight of it made my stomach turn over. I reached for the coffee and closed the door.

Aunt Mary was searching through cupboards, muttering to herself, while she looked for the filters. “Isn’t there any food in this house? I know she’s got filters. I saw them last night.” There were plates, cups and saucers, serving dishes, baking dishes, finally cupboards with food and
, right in front, filters. She took the coffee from me, filled the pot, turned it on and leaned back against the counter.

The coffee started to swirl its aroma around the room and I let my gaze follow it. The kitchen part, where we stood, looked a lot like the kitchens they advertised in the home magazines I thumbed through while waiting in the dentist
’s office. A Wolf stove with a stainless steel hood over it, a French-door refrigerator, ice and water in the door and a stainless steel dishwasher with more control buttons than most airplanes. The sink sat under a small bay window that looked out on a kitchen garden. I walked over for a better view. I’d been thinking of replacing my vintage sink, the same one I’d done dishes in as a girl. This sink was made of some material new to me but I liked it. Two separate sides, one deep enough for the largest stockpot, the other, shallow and efficient, had the open mouth of a garbage disposal. That surprised me. Didn’t Elizabeth compost? A white crockery pot sat on the drain board, beside the sink. Curious, I reached over and flipped open the lid. Phew. She composted. I snapped the lid closed.