A Wee Dose of Death (14 page)

Puzzles

S
ometimes I simply don't understand myself. I'd been so grumpy with Dirk Thursday night, when all he'd been trying to do, for the most part, was to protect me. Once I unwrapped the shawl, I'd tried to apologize, but it hadn't come out well, and he'd been—not exactly affronted, but, well, a bit defensive. Or so it seemed to me. So I'd flounced off to bed in a huff. It was no wonder sleep eluded me until well after midnight. I woke about five hours later to find spiderwebs practically encasing my bed. “Dirk!”

“Aye?”

“Why are there spiderwebs all over the place? What are you doing in my room? I don't want you coming in here. Well? What have you got to say for yourself?”

He looked affronted. “Since ye request an answer, I have several comments to make in response . . .”

All those
r
's of his practically had me laughing. But not quite.

“. . . to your questions and comments. Are ye willing to hear me out, or will you be r-r-r-r-rolling me up again in yon wee shawl?”

“Quit the sarcasm. Why were you in here?” I brushed away one web. There didn't seem to be a spider in it.

“I came when ye began wailing.”

“I did not wail.”

“Yes, ye did. 'Twas a nighthorse. . . .”

“Nightmare.”

“Aye, and ye were caterwauling like a stuck pig.”

“I was not, and I didn't have a nightmare.”

“'Tis good ye canna remember it.”

Since I couldn't convince him—stubborn ghost that he was—I went on to my next complaint. “I don't want you coming in my room.”

“I wouldna if ye hadna poterunged so, and”—he held up his hand to stifle my comment—“if ye dinna want me here, ye maun close the wee door.”

“I forgot.” I sincerely hoped “thotairoongeying” wasn't something totally undignified.

“And a good thing it was that ye did. I have sat wi' ye for hours to be sure the mare would not return.”

Apparently it hadn't. With as much grace as I could contrive, I said, “Thank you. Now go away so I can get dressed.”

*   *   *

Well before dawn
on Friday morning, Emily gave up on sleep and hauled herself out of bed. She pulled her bathrobe closer around her and brewed a pot of coffee. While it perked, she studied the wooden puzzle box. It was all a puzzle. How to open the box. Why Mark was gone. Nothing made sense. Without Mark, nothing would ever make sense again.

Dreading what she might find, she sidled into his home
office, wishing her friend Sandra, her neighbor from Burlington, could be here to help. Maybe she should call? Sandra didn't even know Mark was dead yet.

She rummaged around in the wide top drawer of his desk, studied the contents of the drawer next to it, ate one of the Tootsie Rolls she found there, and opened the bottom drawer. Files, more files than she'd expected to see. Why wasn't all this in his desk in Burlington?

She flipped through the tidy labels. There was a time early on in their marriage when she would have helped him set these up, typing the labels on their old secondhand Remington typewriter, the one that had served him so well all through grad school. The Remington had been gone for a long time. These labels were handwritten in Mark's careful script.

About a third of the way into the drawer, she saw a folder labeled
E.F.W
. Her initials. Each dot looked more like a comma than a period. That was Mark, all right. She pulled the file folder out and opened it across her lap.

The first page was a folded piece of blue stationery, with handwriting in green ink.

If you've found this folder, heart of my heart, then I'm most likely on the other side of whatever bridge forces people apart. They would have had to take me kicking and screaming, though, because my joy in life was being with you.

I know—I can almost hear you saying it—if that was your joy, why did you take off to the Amazon every year for weeks at a time?

If the very first sentence of this note is correct, then I probably feel now that those were wasted weeks (although I hope my students wouldn't think that!).

Keep looking through this folder. You'll find a life insurance policy, my final gift to you.

If you need anything—

The next few words were crossed out heavily, but she could see it was something about his friend Denby. Above it, he'd written,

Sandra and Ron will be able to help you.

All my love,

Your Mark

Emily held the letter to her heart for a long time. She didn't care about the insurance. She wanted her husband back. He'd even signed it
Mark
, the way she addressed him, when she knew he preferred Marcus. Maybe he was trying to make her feel more at ease.

Eventually, she wandered back into the kitchen, wondering whether she should notify the police about the insurance policy. No. That was her business, not theirs. Emily wandered into the den, flipped on the TV, and tried to forget about all this; but she couldn't forget that the seat beside her was empty.

She couldn't forget about the note she held clutched to her heart.

*   *   *

Fairing made it
to work extra early on Friday morning, followed moments later by Harper. Murphy was already there, hard at work at 0600.

Fairing threw her parka across the back of her chair. “What did you do, Murph? Sleep at your desk?”

“Glad I didn't. Amazing what you can find on a computer when there aren't any jokers around to distract you.”

“I take that personally,” Fairing said. “What did you find?”

“Only a little bitty five-million-dollar insurance policy on Marcus Wantstring.”

Fairing stiffened. “Five? Talk about a motive.”

Harper shrugged out of his parka. “For anybody else it might be a motive, but I'm betting Mrs. Wantstring is innocent.”

Fairing pointed a finger. “Didn't you always warn us not to make assumptions?”

“This is not an assumption,” Harper said. “It's a fact.”

It wasn't two minutes past seven when the phone rang. Murphy answered it, listened, made one or two comments, and then tried not to slam the phone down. In fact, he didn't slam it. He just set it down with definite intent.

Fairing looked up from her computer. “You want to explain that,” she said, “or are you going to leave us guessing?”

“Mac wants me to bring the reports—everything we have so far—so he can read them. Now.”

Fairing tapped her fingers lightly on the keyboard. Not enough to type anything, just enough to show her irritation. “Mac never reads anything.”

She hadn't called him “the chief.” She never did. She didn't like the man, but she tried not to be too obvious about it. After all, she hadn't been here long enough to accrue much seniority.

“Maybe he's running out of things to do in the hospital,” Harper said. “He's strung up like a rabbit in a snare.”

Fairing muttered something, just loud enough so they'd almost hear it. “Serves him right.”

Murphy cleared his throat. “I'm printing this report I just finished to take to Mac.”

“What is it?”

“All the highlights,” Murphy said. “Everything we've learned so far.”

“Yeah,” Fairing said. “Precious little.”

Harper pointed a finger at her. “You ought to go visit him.”

“Who, me?” Fairing let out a snort. “Visit Mac? You have to be kidding.”

“No, I'm not.” He stood and headed toward the printer. “It might do you good to see him helpless like that.”

She mulled it over, and a slow grin spread across her face. “If I deliver the report, you can handle the fender-bender lady when she calls.”

*   *   *

I decided on
a short tub bath. I woke up when the water began to turn the temperature of a leftover cup of coffee. Good thing I hadn't slipped under and drowned.

By the time I decided on what to wear—my green silk long johns, tartan skirt, and navy sweater, with a kerchief, of course—I had to hurry if I wanted breakfast at the Logg Cabin before I had to open the store.

“You stay here, Dirk. I'm not going to roll you up, but it would be better if you stay here today. I'll run by the Logg Cabin for breakfast, do the store, and I'll be back by six at the latest.”

“I would like to see Mistress Karaline.”

Hadn't we had another conversation just like this a few days ago? “No. I need to talk with Karaline about the murder, and I can't have you distracting us by asking questions.”

He spun around. “Murder? What murder?” His
r
's rolled around like balls in a bowling alley.

“The . . . Oh, you weren't around yesterday, and I forgot to mention it last night.”

I gave him a quick summary, but I kept getting sidetracked answering questions about microbiology and why Mistress Karaline needed to study wee bugs in order to cook wee meals for wee people and how wee Mistress Emily was faring.

Well, maybe I exaggerate, but I didn't like all those questions. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of “wee”s. I made a dismissive gesture. “I don't know how she's doing. I guess she's okay.”

“Ye mean to tell me ye didna sit wi' her last night?”

“You know darn well I didna—didn't—sit with her. I was here at home all night long. Anyway, I don't know her that well.”

“All the more reason to help her. I misdoubt she has many friends in this wee town.”

“With the way she talks nonstop, she probably doesn't have
any
.” He skewered me with one of those looks I was beginning to dread. “Quit looking so superior,” I said. “I wouldn't know what to say to her.”

“Ye needna say anything. Ye need only to sit wi' her.”

“And who made you the expert?”

He lowered his voice and his eyebrows at the same time. “My dear mother. She sat night after night with anyone who needed her, any time there was a death.”

Insufferable. How dare he throw his mother in my face? I couldn't possibly compete with a dead—probably in his mind a sainted—woman. “I'm going to breakfast.”

“This time I intend to go wi' ye, and ye canna stop me.”

“You insufferable, arrogant . . .” This time I rolled the shawl deliberately, while he was watching me, and he gradually disappeared from his feet up to his head.

I didn't have the slightest pang of guilt.

Well, maybe
one
. And that
one
was a big one. Shorty
meowed at me as if to reinforce the thought that I was being hopelessly immature. It was like I was five years old or something.

But did I unroll the shawl?

No. No, I didn't.

Sometimes I don't like myself.

Catch a Thief

M
ac looked at the meager printout Fairing had just delivered. They hadn't done much if this was all they had to show for it. The first page was headed,
Day 1, Thursday
, and the date. Like he didn't remember that day. Yesterday. The day they'd finally found him. Why'd it taken them so long to come looking for him? How had they known he was there? He'd been too far gone to ask about it at the time.

He read the first sentence about a phone call from Peggy Winn.

Then he read the rest of that paragraph. She'd turned around and left him! Damn that woman. Knew he was there and didn't ski across the clearing to help him! Mac ratcheted his anger up five notches. Six. He took it out on Fairing.

*   *   *

Fairing walked in,
made sure nobody was on the phone, raised her voice, and said, “I'm going to string you up as high as Mac's leg.”

Harper grinned. “Can I deduce that you thoroughly enjoyed delivering that report?”

“Quit Sherlocking it. You just deduced yourself out of any more favors. Next time Mac Campbell wants a report, you can take it yourself.”

She shed her heavy parka, draped it over her chair, and started typing. Her fingers stilled for a moment. “He
did
look like a snared rabbit.” Smiling, she went back to her work.

A few minutes later she heard Harper expel a volley of pent-up breath. She looked up, cocked her head inquiringly, and, when he shook his head, went back to what she was working on.
An entire conversation without any words
, she thought.
Wish I knew what the heck we just said.

*   *   *

When I reached
the Logg Cabin, Karaline crossed the room to greet me, but I could tell her mind was on the comfort of her customers.

“Can you take a minute to talk, maybe have a cup of coffee with me?”

Karaline looked around her well-run establishment one more time. “Uh . . . sure. We had a rush from seven to eight, but it's slowed down a little. Have a seat back there in the corner at the two-topper.”

I knew that was restaurant-speak for a little table just big enough for two people.

“You want breakfast, too?”

“Yep. Short stack of pancakes, bacon ex—”

“I know, extra crispy. Let me put in the order and I'll join you in a minute.”

It took a little more than the promised minute, but she had two full coffee mugs in one hand and a coffee carafe and
cream pitcher in the other when she sat across from me. How did she do that without spilling everything?

“Where's Dirk?”

“He stayed home today.” That was technically true. I just didn't mention that he hadn't intended to stay there. On a normal day, she probably would have taken me to task over my comment. She knew, after all, that Dirk liked to be in the thick of whatever was happening, but today she just sipped her coffee. I studied her. Her normally aquiline, model-sharp features looked gaunt. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“Not hardly.” She slapped her hand over her mouth and let out a jaw-cracking yawn. “It seemed like all night long I'd doze for a while and then wake up remembering something funny Dr. W had done or said.” She folded her arms across the white bib apron that covered her fire engine–red sweater. The Logg Cabin logo, stitched in black, peeked above one of her wrists. I thought for a moment that she might be shutting me out—body language, you know, says that crossed arms mean a closed attitude—but then she raised her shoulders almost to her ears and tilted her head back in a noisy stretch. I could hear her joints creaking from across the table.

Uncrossing her arms, she said, “He never acted like he had to entertain us to get us to learn, but he was just so . . . so funny and open with us. His humor was . . .” She seemed to grope for the right word. “It was organic, so much a part of him that we laughed and learned all at the same time.”

She paused for a moment while Dolly placed my pancakes and bacon in front of me. “Thanks, Dolly,” I said. “This looks great.”

Karaline ran a quick eye over my food, nodded to herself, and took up the story. “Dr. W firmly believed that too many college educations result in ivory-tower people who aren't
prepared for the real world when they get out into it. Microbiology is all about microbes.” She looked at me, probably expecting me to say something like,
Yeah. So?
But I held my peace. “You can study all the books in the world, but coming up against the real thing can be a definite eye-opener. Do you ever wonder why the restrooms in the Logg Cabin absolutely sparkle?”

“Can't say I've ever thought about it. I've seen some pretty awful public bathrooms—enough to make me appreciate yours.”

“Yeah. Well, there's a reason for that. The first class I ever took from Dr. W, he assigned us homework.”

“Yeah?”

“We had to collect water samples from drinking fountains, sinks, and toilets. Not just the supposedly clean water coming out of the faucet or fountain, but the droplets that were splattered on the sides, counters, and nearby walls.”

“Yuck!”

“Right. Then we prepared slides and looked at what swarmed inside each drop. In fact, one guy threw up when he found out what had taken up residence near the toilets at his dorm. I never let him live it down.”

She gazed across her restaurant, and I could almost hear her calculating how many people were there, how many needed attention—not many from the look of it—and whether her staff was functioning at a high level of professionalism.

“Dr. W wouldn't tolerate dishonesty in any form. One year, some of the undergrads complained that somebody was taking quarters out of the washing machine in their dorm—for some reason, they were mostly biology students on that one floor. They pooled the money from the machines and used it to buy laundry soap and stuff like that. This went on for weeks, until Dr. W snuck into the dorm about four o'clock
one morning. Wearing gloves, he spread silver nitrate on seven or eight quarters, put them in the machine, and went home.”

“Silver what? What did that do?”

“Silver nitrate. A few days later, they were complaining again. Dr. W made everyone stand up and hold out their hands. There was one student whose fingers had turned black. He was expelled from the biology program. Dr. Wantstring wouldn't let him sign up for any more bio classes.”

“Silver nitrate does that?”

“Yep. Even the slightest exposure will stain the skin black, no matter how little of it gets on you.”

Dolly interrupted. “Can you come back to the kitchen?”

Karaline frowned.

“Nothing bad, I hope.”

Karaline rolled her eyes at me. “One never knows.”