Closer than the Bones (15 page)

“So you think I didn’t do it.” Was that a look of relief in his eyes?

“It may not have anything to do with the case. At least, not directly.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I think.” He got up from the couch and walked over to the desk. He picked up his cigar case, opened it, and selected another cigar. I watched in silence while he clipped off the end and lit it, after pulling a lighter from his pocket.

He turned back to me, smoke billowing around his head. “Would you like something to drink?”

“What are my choices?”

“Water, soft drinks, coffee if you’d like me to make some.”

“How about a Diet Coke?”

He nodded before he stalked off in the direction of the kitchen. He was back in less than a minute with two cans of Diet Coke.

“Thanks,” I said as I accepted mine. I popped the top and took a nice long sip. Eyeing Brett speculatively, I chose my next words with care. “An investigation into a crime like this can be rougher on the innocent than it is on the person who committed the crime.”

“Meaning?”

“The investigators have to ask questions about matters that may have nothing to do, ultimately, with the outcome of the case. They have to know a lot in order to be able to rule out what’s extraneous and zero in on what’s pertinent.”

“Basically you’re telling me I should cooperate with the cops and tell them whatever they want to know. And if I’m innocent, I have nothing to worry about.” He snorted.

“Jack Preston is a good man. Not only is he good at his job, he’s a good man, period. He’s not going to arrest someone just because he’s under pressure to solve the case and he spots someone who looks like a convenient answer.”

Brett sighed, spewing forth smoke. “I hope you’re right.”

“In this case, I believe I am,” I said.

He laughed. “I’ll have to take your word for that.”

He was more relaxed, at least for the moment, which was all to the good. The next bit was going to be tricky.

“The fact that you were in the room next to Packer’s is going to be of interest, naturally. Because of the connecting door.”

Brett nodded. “I didn’t see or hear anything. I was in my room the whole time, reading. I’ve got a book I’m reviewing for the
New York Times
, and I’ve got to get it in soon. Plus I had the radio on, listening to the local station. I didn’t hear anything until that poor girl started screaming.”

“What did you do then?”

“I could tell it was coming from the bathroom, because it was so loud and so close. I tried opening the door, but it was locked from the inside.” He grimaced and looked away, taking a draw from his cigar before he continued. “So I went out into the hall and into the bedroom. When I got there, Betsy was still standing in the edge of the bathroom, shrieking, and I could see what was wrong.” He looked sick at the memory. “I got us both out of there, and that’s when everyone else showed up.”

“Then whoever did it had to go in and out through Packer’s bedroom."

“Provided that I didn’t do it myself.” Brett offered this in a bitter tone.

“Provided that you didn’t do it, naturally.” But I smiled to take the sting out of the words. I really didn’t think he was the killer, but I had to try to keep an open mind. He was in a difficult position because he would certainly have had the best opportunity. The killer had taken some risks, going in and out of Packer’s bedroom. The risks were even greater if the person had gone back, after taking the manuscript away and hiding it, to ring the bell and summon someone to discover the corpse.

“Now, you didn’t see anyone in the hall when you came out of your room?” I asked.

Brett shook his head. “Nobody.”

“If only you had seen something,” I sighed. “But of course, sometimes people see things and don’t understand exactly what they’ve seen. Or else they do know and won’t talk about it, for reasons of their own.”

“I suppose,” Brett said, puzzled, not sure where I was going with these remarks.

“For example,” I said, looking straight at him, “I happened to be looking out the window of my room not long ago, and I saw Katie come and knock on the door here. She stayed for a few minutes, and then she left.”

“Maybe she was just coming to tell me when lunch would be ready,” Brett said, stone-faced all of a sudden.

“Maybe,” I said. “But it certainly took her a few minutes to pass along such a simple message.” I waited.

He tried to stare me down, but he didn’t have the years of practice that I do. Finally his eyes fell, and he muttered something under his breath.

“What was that? I didn’t quite catch it,” I said, trying not to smile.

“I said,” Brett talked through clenched teeth, “that it was too damn embarrassing to talk about.”

“Don’t worry about being embarrassed in front of me. Just tell me what it is.”

He drew deeply on his cigar, then watched the exhaled smoke for a moment before replying. He stared at the far wall, refusing to look at me.

“The silly girl thinks I’ll hop into bed with her, just because she thinks she’s in love with me. She came out here to ask me to meet her here tonight, in the summerhouse, so she can show me just how she feels about me.”

Truly, he did look embarrassed, because he had blushed dark red. But I think the embarrassment came from the fact that he was lying to me.

Chapter Eleven

I was a bit hurt that Brett wouldn’t confide in me. I thought we had established a good rapport, even on such a brief acquaintance, and it bothered me that he wouldn’t tell me the truth. His refusal to meet my eyes now convinced me I was right about his lying. For the moment, I’d pretend I believed him, and later maybe I could get the truth out of him. In the meantime, I’d be speculating, furiously and fruitlessly perhaps, on what it was he didn’t want to tell me.

“You must have let her down gently,” I said, pretending that I saw nothing amiss in what he had told me. “She sure didn’t look upset when she left here.”

Brett shrugged. “There was no point in pissing her off, or I’d have to make my own bed.” He rolled his eyes at me. “Sorry, that sounded incredibly patronizing. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and I wasn’t sure she could handle the complete truth, so I told her she was pretty, but that I was seeing someone back in Memphis. Someone I had no intention of cheating on.”

As lies go, it was pretty good. After all, he was someone who lied for a living, if you subscribe to the theory that all fiction is lies.

“Well, I guess they’ll be calling us for lunch soon,” I said. “I hope so, because I’m more than ready for one of Mrs. Greer’s fabulous meals.”

Brett laughed, relieved at the change of subject. “Whenever I go home from staying here, I have to work out twice as long every day for a month to get rid of the extra pounds I put on.”

“Guess I’ll see you back at the big house,” I said, smiling as I stood. “Don’t bother to see me out. I’m sure you’d like to get back to work.”

Casting a look of loathing at his laptop, he shook his head. “I might as well pack it in for the morning. I can’t seem to get into anything today.” He got to his feet. “I’ll just close everything down, and I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

When I shut the door behind me, he was sitting at the desk, tapping at the keyboard with one finger.

I peered at my watch through the dazzling sunlight. I had to squint to make out the hands. Only a quarter past twelve; it seemed later. Lunch wouldn’t be served for another forty-five minutes. How would I occupy myself until then? Might as well go back to my room and continue going through the materials that Farrah Lockett had compiled for me. I might come across something promising.

I encountered no one as I entered the house and trudged up the back stairs to the second floor. The hallway upstairs was deserted, and I opened the door of my room. I stopped in the doorway, appalled.

My red silk dress, the one I had found impaled on the bed, had been cut into long swathes of fabric, which were strewn around the floor of the room.

I don’t take blood pressure medicine, but in that moment I thought I might need some, to keep me from having a stroke on the spot. The malice behind this second attack—I couldn’t think of a better or more appropriate word—made me even angrier than the first. If whoever did this thought I was going to be put off the chase by these antics, he or she definitely had another think coming! Some of my students used to joke—behind my back, they thought—that I’m one-third bulldog and two-thirds mule, because I’m so tenacious. This old mule still had a lot of kick, not to mention bite, in her yet, as some idiot was going to learn, at great cost.

Grieving slightly for my dress, I gathered up the scraps. I’d give them to a quilting friend of mine, and she’d sew them into one of her creations that regularly won prizes at quilting shows.

I stowed the dismembered dress in my suitcase in the bottom of the wardrobe, then I made myself comfortable at the desk, forcing my thoughts away from the mutilated dress. Opening the drawer where I had put my papers, I pulled them out, along with the blank paper I had placed on top of them for camouflage. Then I sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty pages, struck by a wild idea.

Opening the top drawer, I picked up the rest of the blank paper I had found and laid it to the left beside the other bit. Then I picked up the stack on the right side and placed it atop the other. There was about a ream of paper on my desk.

I examined the top sheet. Along both sides, about halfway down each, there were small rents, as if something had rubbed the paper until it had torn. Like a rubber band, perhaps.

What if this might be the missing “manuscript” which Hamilton Packer had been carrying in his briefcase? There was enough paper here to have made the briefcase bulge, if it were stuck inside. Maybe Packer had been bluffing, but the killer hadn’t known that.

Continuing with this train of thought, I wondered who had hidden the supposed manuscript in the desk in my room. Had Packer done it himself, before he was killed? Or had the killer done it, after having killed Packer and having discovered that there was no manuscript?

Good questions, all of them. If no other manuscript turned up, then I’d guess I was right about at least part of my little theory. Unless each of the guest rooms had similar paper available in the desks, I figured I had located what Jack and his men had been seeking since yesterday.

I put my own papers back in the desk and placed the blank typing paper back in the top drawer, where I had first found it. Time to let Jack know what I was thinking—he could be the one to sort out the truth, if possible. Just suppose, I thought, if Packer’s fingerprints could be found on this paper, or some kind of trace of him, that would clinch things. Jack and his men had fingerprinted all of us last night, so they would be able to identify mine right away. I just hoped they would find Packer’s prints on some of this paper.

As I closed the bedroom door behind me, I thought about asking Morwell Phillips for a key. I should have considered it before now, especially after the first incident involving my dress, but I had let other matters take precedence. I doubted that guests at Idlewild had had much need of locking their doors before this week.

Downstairs I went to the library, looking for Jack or one of his men. The room was empty. I looked at my watch again. Only about fifteen minutes had elapsed since I’d last checked it. Then I remembered the press conference Jack said he had to attend. He wouldn’t be back at Idlewild for another hour or two, most likely. I might as well try to find Phillips and ask about that key.

In the kitchen, Katie shot me a glance full of resentment, and I guessed our little chat earlier still rankled. “Hello, Mrs. Greer,” I said, then nodded at Betsy and Katie both. “Is Mr. Phillips around somewhere? There’s something I’d like to ask him.”

“He’s probably in the sitting room with Miss McElroy,” Mrs. Greer said, peering into the oven. “We’ll be ready to serve y’all lunch soon.”

I sniffed at the banquet of appetizing aromas in the kitchen. “Everything smells wonderful. If I had your gift, Mrs. Greer, I’d be wide as the side of a barn.”

She smiled her thanks. “The Good Lord saw fit to make me a good cook, and I treasure the fact He found me such a good place to work, with folks that appreciate my food.”

“I’m glad to know they appreciate you here,” I said.

“There’s some that’d do good to remember we’ve got good jobs in this house,” she said, looking pointedly in Katie’s direction. When Mrs. Greer turned back to the oven, Katie stuck out her tongue at her. Betsy, who saw it all, just rolled her eyes and continued with her work. I offered Katie a repressive glance of my own, but she remained undaunted.

“I guess I’ll go see if I can talk to Mr. Phillips before we eat this delicious lunch,” I said, then turned and walked away. I didn’t envy Mrs. Greer, having to deal with the rebellious Katie, but I also didn’t have much doubt as to who would get the upper hand in that contest.

Moments later, I knocked on the door of Miss McElroy's sitting room. Her voice bade me enter, and I opened the door and walked in. She was seated in her usual place, and her husband sat in a chair near her.

“Miss Carpenter. I do trust that you’ve had a productive morning?” The tone of her voice indicated that I had better have found out something useful. She had relaxed her guard with me a bit yesterday and earlier this morning, but the martinet seemed to be back in full force now.

“Yes, I do have some things to tell you. But first, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask Mr. Phillips for something.”

He stood. “Certainly, Miss Carpenter. What can I do for you?”

“Could I have a key to my bedroom door?”

If either of them was startled or dismayed by my request, neither manifested it. “I’ll find one for you. That’s not a problem.” He frowned.

“Did you find something else in your room?” Miss McElroy asked.

“The shreds of my best dress.”

The shock on her face was not feigned. “My goodness! What on earth?”

“Obviously someone has figured out that Miss Carpenter isn’t here merely to assist with your memoirs, Mary Tucker.” Phillips’s voice was dry, almost amused.