Dead as a Scone (4 page)

The law is on his side. There’s no way I can undo what he’s done.

Once again, Flick felt the chaotic combination of grief, anger, and powerlessness that had compelled her to take refuge in her office an hour earlier. Thank goodness for a full box of tissues. She didn’t cope well with situational stone walls. But then, none of the Adamses did. A doggedness to succeed threaded Flick’s family tree like steel rods through reinforced concrete.

John and Pauline Adams, her parents, owned and stubbornly operated the White Rose of York, an eighteenth-century English inn in York, Pennsylvania, complete with an authentic pub. The White Rose had remained true to its founders’ dream despite a fire, three recessions, and two takeover attempts by large hotel chains.

Her uncle, now a homicide detective in the York Police Department, had managed to foil an armed robbery after he’d been badly wounded. The bullet fragment still lodged in his back fifteen years later testified to his tenacity.

Flick’s older brother was an entrepreneur who launched a successful publishing empire on a shoestring budget. Her cousins included a female astronaut and a color-blind artist.

In short: Count on an Adams
not
to take no for an answer. It was the personality trait she was most proud of—a quality that helped her earn her PhD at the tender age of twenty-four.

The ambulance’s diesel engine rumbled to life. Flick could not be positive from so far away, but it looked like Sir Simon had a smile on his face as he watched the ambulance negotiate the museum’s private driveway that circled around the rear of the building and served the loading dock and the employees’ car park.

“What’s going through that devious mind of yours?” she said softly.

Flick wished she could ask him a point-blank question:
Why would a competent doctor choose to sweep the facts of Elspeth’s poisoning under the museum’s Bokhara rug?
Surely he must know that the unexplained drop in Elspeth’s body temperature while she sat in a warm room was an absolute giveaway. Her body had lost heat before she died because the barbiturates coursing through her bloodstream triggered hypothermia.

Sir Simon’s vehement rebuff to Flick’s straightforward observation of this fact made no sense at all
…or did it?

Flick moved her head to get a better view of Sir Simon. He was shaking Nigel’s hand—and this time there definitely was a smile on his face. “Maybe he thinks that Dame Elspeth killed herself,” she murmured. “That would explain everything. He lied to protect the family from a scandal in the British tabloids.”

Could Elspeth have intentionally taken an overdose?

“Impossible!” Flick shouted at her reflection.

Suicide was unthinkable. Everyone around Dame Elspeth could see how excited she was to be alive. Her growing interest in the museum, her enthusiasm at trustee meetings, and her newfound happiness spoke volumes about the state of her mind.

For seventy years, Elspeth had lived under the larger-than-life shadow cast by her older half sister, Mary Hawker Evans. Mary had been the undisputed leader of the family—a calculating matriarch who ruled her children and her timid sibling like a tsarina. Elspeth had never married or pursued a career, being content to lead a reclusive life confined mostly to her own house and garden. But fourteen years ago, when Mary died, the real Elspeth emerged like a butterfly from a chrysalis.

When Elspeth became the sole owner of the finest antiquities on display, her interest in the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum blossomed. She explored every corner of the museum, becoming reacquainted with her grandfather’s many treasures—more than three thousand cataloged items in all
—
including an unparalleled collection of tea-related paintings, maps, and photographs; unique models of clipper ships; cases full of ships’ logs and captains’ correspondence; the famed “All the Teas of China” Tunbridge Ware tea caddy collection; thousands of pieces of rare chinaware and porcelain; a king’s ransom of silver tea sets and Russian samovars; a salon full of tea-processing machinery; and detailed records from Desmond Hawker’s two tea-importing businesses.

Elspeth grew to be one of the hardest working trustees. She had led the search committee that recruited Flick Adams as chief curator and then spent many hours helping Flick understand the museum’s considerable holdings. Together they had explored the basement archives, perused the thousands of books in the Desmond Hawker Library, and become fast friends…

Flick quickly blew her nose before she could begin to cry again.

Don’t try to do two things at once! Grieve for Elspeth later, after the rest of them understand what really happened in the boardroom.

It was ridiculous to imagine Elspeth Hawker taking her own life. And almost as absurd to claim she suddenly—and silently—succumbed to heart failure. No, the truth was plain as a Scottish scone. Elspeth had been murdered, even though no one besides Flick accepted the possibility.

Correction!

One other individual at the museum knew the truth. The person who had fed Elspeth a lethal dose of barbiturates during the tea break.

Flick looked again at her reflection and asked, “How many people were in the building when Elspeth was poisoned?”

Not many at all.

The museum had begun to follow its shortened winter schedule on October 15: Open to the public from 11:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m.; closed all day Sunday and Wednesday. Because there were no visitors that Wednesday, the two docents and the three security guards were off as a matter of course. The curators and most of the office staff had left early in the afternoon, when the trustees’ monthly meeting had begun.

Flick began to count noses. Nigel Owen was in the building. Plus the seven other trustees. Plus three members of the museum’s staff who were on hand to support the meeting: Polly Reid, the administrative assistant who worked for both Flick and Nigel Owen; Giselle Logan, the hostess of the Duchess of Bedford Tearoom; and Conan Davies, the chief of security. A total of twelve people, including herself.

I didn’t do it, so we’re down to eleven.

And Polly Reid left before the tea break. Ten.

And Giselle merely wheeled the tea trolley into the room. It was Nigel who distributed the goodies. Nine.

And Vicar de Rudd arrived at the meeting near the end of the tea break—too late to tamper with anything that Elspeth consumed. Eight.

A determined knock made her turn. Her office door swung open before Flick could move toward it—or even say come in.

“There you are! The elusive Dr. Adams!” said Marjorie Halifax. “You have been avoiding us, haven’t you?”

It made no sense to deny the obvious. Flick responded with a guilty nod.

“The trustees took a vote,” Marjorie went on. “We decided unanimously that you shall accompany the four of us who will dine tonight at the Swan Hotel in the Pantiles.”

Flick checked her watch. It was almost six thirty, but she had lost her appetite.

“I can’t face dinner tonight. I’m too upset to eat.”

“No arguments! The matter is out of your hands.” Marjorie punctuated her edict with her imperious trademark gestures: a little laugh followed by a toss of her expensively styled blond hair.

Flick countered with a profound sigh. Marjorie instantly switched to her benevolent politician countenance. “I know you are grieving, Dr. Adams. We all are. That is precisely why we need you along. During the past three months, you got to know Elspeth better than any of us. How can we reminisce this evening without you?”

An abrupt thought stunned Flick: What if Marjorie Halifax poisoned Elspeth? Did a murderer just invite me to dinner?

Flick tried to maintain an even expression, but Marjorie apparently noticed a change.

“You look about to faint. Do you need to sit down?”

“I feel fine.” Flick segued to a different subject. “You said that only four trustees plan to eat at the Swan tonight?”

“Vicar De Rudd has gone round to Lion’s Peak to comfort Elspeth’s niece and nephew. He will undoubtedly dine with them. Archibald Meicklejohn is working with Nigel Owen to prepare a press statement about Elspeth. They may drop by later, although I doubt it—their scrivening is bound to consume most of the evening. Lastly and mercifully, Sir Simon has a previous engagement, so you needn’t fear crossing swords with him again. That leaves Iona Saxby, Dorothy McAndrews, Matthew Eaton, me—and you. Dinner for five makes a cozy but interesting table.” She smiled broadly. “Do say you will join us.”

Flick matched Marjorie’s smile. “I won’t be the best of company, but sure, I’ll tag along. It will be an excellent opportunity to apologize for the brouhaha I started this afternoon.”

“Oh, my dear, no one blames you for caring about Elspeth deeply or reacting the way you did to her unexpected demise. Frankly, Sir Simon should have explained that he was Elspeth’s personal physician. Has been for years. I expect she had a dodgy ticker.”

“Are you sure about that? I mean the physician part.”

“Absolutely. He’s also my physician. And the vicar’s.” She made a face. “I suppose Sir Simon assumed that you knew. All the other trustees do.”

“I’m glad you told me.”

“Good! Now, how long will you need to restore your charming face? I represent a hungry bunch.”

“Five minutes?” It was as much a question as an answer.

“Done! We shall await you on the ground floor.”

Flick used most of the five minutes to think.

Maybe she had been too hasty in conjuring up a stone wall? Maybe there was a way to undo what Sir Simon had done. Marjorie Halifax had been right. Flick had learned a lot about Elspeth Hawker. Possibly enough to figure out why someone would want to murder a harmless, eighty-four-year-old spinster. In her forensics classes, she had shown great skill at deducing valid conclusions from limited facts. Why not apply those skills now?

For example: If Dr. Clowes wanted to kill a patient, he wouldn’t need to do it publicly. Therefore, someone else was probably responsible.

Seven suspects left on the list.

Another example: If Dr. Clowes’s diagnosis was a surprise to Flick, it must have amazed the poisoner. He—or she
—
couldn’t have expected a doctor to ignore the signs of barbiturate poisoning and jump to a faulty conclusion. Therefore, whoever had poisoned Elspeth must have invented a devious way to feed her the drugs.

A third example: Sir Simon adamantly stuck to his guns despite Flick’s noisy protests. Therefore, he has a reason for wanting Elspeth’s death to be considered natural.

Not bad! Not bad at all.

All was silent when Flick left her fourth-floor office—or should she say
third floor?
Flick had figured out English money and had mastered driving on the left rather than the right, but floor numbers in England still caught her off guard. She often had to remind herself that one flight up is the first floor in England, not the second. Her office on the museum’s fourth story was on the third floor.

From the outside, the Royal Tunbridge Wells Tea Museum resembled a large Georgian manor house, but inside it was more like an office building, with a utility core toward the rear that housed the main staircase, the elevator, the fire exits, and the rest rooms. The useful space on each floor wrapped around the core like a large U.

The top floor U was divided into three areas:

The right “stroke” was the curators’ wing, encompassing Flick’s office, the curating staff room (divided into cubicles), the Conservation Laboratory, and a small office for the docents.

The bottom “stroke”—running along the front of the museum—contained the Hawker Memorial Library and the boardroom.

The left “stroke” accommodated the administrative staff offices. The director’s office was a mirror image of the chief curator’s, except that it overlooked the museum’s gardens and the greenhouse.
Life is unfair,
Flick thought the first time she saw the spectacular view that Nigel Owen neither appreciated nor understood. The Hawker Foundation’s money had done the impossible. Hot water flowing through subterranean pipes gently heated the screened, open-air garden, so that tropical tea shrubs could grow outdoors in England. Not exceptionally fine tea, mind you, but then the garden’s purpose was to educate visitors, few of whom had seen a live tea bush.

Flick sprinted down the main staircase, a lovely marble-stepped affair with dark oak banisters and risers. The four trustees were waiting near the Welcome Centre kiosk on the ground floor. Marjorie Halifax flashed another of her high-voltage politician smiles, and Matthew Eaton extended his arms to hug Flick; but neither Iona Saxby nor Dorothy McAndrews acted especially eager to dine with her. Iona, wearing a sprawling blue hat that matched her eyes, gave Flick a decidedly dyspeptic glance and straightaway made for the bronze front doors. Dorothy offered a lukewarm smile from afar, seemingly wanting to keep her distance.

They’re probably annoyed that the only man at our table decided to squire me.