Murder at Teatime (25 page)

“Looks like it’s going to scale off,” said Tracey, squinting in the glare. “Good weather for the fireworks tomorrow.”

The pier was aswarm with volunteers helping the crew from the fireworks company set up for the Fourth. Metal stands in the form of a waterfall, a pinwheel, and the American flag had been erected for the set displays, and sand-filled oil drums and steel cylinders were being set into place for the launching of the rockets. The fireworks were expected to draw a crowd of four thousand or more, at least half of which would be tourists. The fireworks could always be depended upon to create a controversy, Tracey complained. Every year, someone raised the issue of whether the tourists ought to be allowed to view the fireworks at the expense of local taxpayers, and every year the Chamber of Commerce defused the controversy by raising the money for the fireworks fund, on the theory that fireworks were good for business.

It was going to be a busy day: the schedule of festivities included a lobster feed put on by the Rotarians; a parade with prizes awarded by the Chamber of Commerce for the best float; and a field day at the ballpark. The annual lobster-boat race would be held in the afternoon. Two dozen lobster boats would be challenging the defending champion, Wes Gilley. The fireworks would be preceded by a band concert and a reading of the Declaration of Independence by the local Catholic priest, whose recitation could always be depended on to bring a collective lump to the throat of his audience. Following the fireworks, there would be a square dance on the town pier, with a demonstration by the Bells and Buoys Square Dance Club. All of which meant extra work for the police, Tracey complained.

At the end of the pier they headed down a ramp to the docks where the boats were moored. They found the Ledge House runabout in a slip near the end of the dock, her bow splintered where she had hit the ledge. Maybe she was being paranoid, Charlotte thought, as she watched Tracey check the fuel line and then unscrew the gas cap. Who would want to kill Daria? Her paintbrushes were still scattered on the floor of the boat. Picking up one of the longer ones, Tracey stuck it handle first into the gas tank. Could someone have added something to the gas? she wondered. Sugar, or water? As she watched him rub the liquid on the paintbrush handle between his fingers, she knew from the frown that crossed his genial face that her hunch had been right.

He stepped back onto the dock a few minutes later carrying a spark plug in one hand, which he held out to show her. “Somebody put chain saw bar oil in the spare tank,” he said. “See how the plug’s all gummed up? The main tank’s okay: she had enough gas to get out there, but once she switched tanks, she was in trouble.” He wrapped the plug in a handkerchief, and put it in his pocket.

They turned to walk back up the ramp.

“Hard to fathom why anyone would want to kill her.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. The only reason I can think of is that she knew something incriminating about the killer.”

Tracey looked at her with a quizzical expression.

“There are a couple of other explanations. One is that this is more of the same mischief, that there was no intention of harming anyone.”

“I’ll buy that. What’s the other?”

“That Daria wasn’t the intended victim. The innocent bystander theory.”

“But if she
was
the intended victim, because, as you say, she knows something, wouldn’t she have told us?” asked Tracey.

“Maybe she doesn’t know that she knows.”

“You mean that she said something or did something that made the murderer think she knew he had poisoned Dr. Thornhill.”

“Exactly.”

It was strange how both she and Tom had the feeling that the murderer wasn’t finished. But maybe it wasn’t so strange: he was being hunted, and the natural response of the prey is to defend itself. If the murderer
had
tried to kill Daria, maybe he was beginning to panic. Thornhill’s murder had been an act of cunning; the risk of detection had been very small. But tampering with the boat’s gasoline tank had the smell of recklessness about it. On the other hand, the killer’s boldness might also be a manifestation of the sense of infallibility that comes of having committed a serious crime and gotten away with it. In either case, his chances of making a misstep were increasing.

Tracey and Charlotte parted company at the foot of the pier. He was headed back to the station to report their latest findings to Detective Gaudette, and she was headed up to the hospital to see if she could find out what had prompted the attempt on Dana’s life.

Charlotte sat in a chair at Daria’s bedside, watching a nurse arrange the flowers that had been presented by her well-wishers; she had already received visits from John, Felix, and the Saunders. As she waited for the nurse to finish she found herself hungrily eyeing the remains of Daria’s lunch, and remembered that she hadn’t eaten since the night before. Putting the thought of food out of her mind, she turned her thoughts back to Daria. She and Tom had been asking Daria about her activities over the last two days. The only facts to come to light that might be connected to the attempt on her life—if that’s what it was—were one, that she had spent Sunday afternoon wandering the island with John and yesterday lunch picnicking on the rocks with him; two, that she had told several people that she planned to paint the island last night by moonlight; and three, that she had spent yesterday getting the herbals ready for presentation to the botanical society.

The first didn’t tell them much—she couldn’t remember seeing anything unusual. The second told them only that anyone who wanted to kill her would probably have known she was going out alone in the boat. But the third just might be a clue: the nagging thought still lingered in Charlotte’s mind that the murder was somehow connected to the books.

Daria cupped her hands around a cup of tea and shivered. “I just can’t seem to get warm,” she said, reaching out to pull up the blanket.

“No wonder,” said Tom, who was sitting on the edge of her bed. “Taking a moonlit dip in fifty-degree water. What do you think this is, Miami Beach?”

She smiled at him. The brown eyes that had seemed so dull and lifeless on the rocks had regained their golden sparkle.

“Daria,” said Charlotte, after the nurse had gone, “I’d like to go over exactly what you did yesterday, step by step.”

“Okay,” she replied. “I was getting some documents together. The chairman of the board of the botanical society had called to say that someone would be flying up from New York this afternoon to pick up some of the books.”

“Which books?”

“The incunabula. The rest of the collection won’t be shipped until they have their shelving ready, but they wanted to take possession of the incunabula immediately. They’re a bit nervous, on account of the theft.”

“So you were assembling documents relating to the incunabula?”

Daria nodded.

“What documents?”

“The bill of sale, the notes for some sort of a catalogue—they looked like they might have been written by MacMillan …”

Charlotte nodded. They were the papers she had returned to Daria, the papers that had tipped her off that Thornhill had stolen the books. She was surprised Daria hadn’t noticed the discrepancy in dates, but she probably hadn’t looked at them that closely.

“… binder’s reports, auction catalogues, cards from the card catalogue, that sort of thing,” continued Daria.

“Where were you doing this?”

“In the library. The documents were spread out on the library table, and the books too.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“Yes,” she said, thinking. “Grace came in twice: once with a phone message from Chief Tracey, and once to ask if I wanted some tea. Actually, three times: she also brought me the tea. I guess she can’t get out of the habit. And Fran—she came in to consult a book about herbs. And John, and Felix.”

“Did you tell anyone what you were doing?”

“No. No one asked. They’re used to seeing me working in there.”

“Did you leave the room at all?”

“I had lunch with John out on the East End—where I saw you. I was gone for maybe an hour and a half. Later on, I went over to pick up
Der Gart
from the gardener’s cottage—John had been working on it. He was out taking pictures somewhere. That’s when I saw you again; it was just about four. Just before tea. I drank my tea out on the terrace. I also read a bit. I was gone for about forty-five minutes, I’d say. Maybe a little more.”

Someone might have seen the documents spread out on the table and put two and two together, just as Charlotte had. Especially if, like Felix, they already suspected that Thornhill had stolen the books. But that still didn’t explain the attempt on Daria’s life.

“What then?” asked Charlotte.

“Then I got the books together and put them in the vault.”

“What about the documents?”

“I put them in the vault too, with the books. And then I locked it. I’m not taking any chances when it comes to these books.”

Charlotte sensed that the solution to the riddle was to be found in the library, if it was to be found at all. It was like playing the role of a famous person: you could read all the biographies in the world, but until you walked the ground they had walked on, sat in the rooms they had lived in, and read the books they had read, you really couldn’t get a sense of who they were.

“Daria, I’d like to look at the books,” she said. “Do you think you could give me the combination? I won’t tell a soul.”

Daria wrote the number on a slip of paper and handed it to Charlotte, who promised to destroy it the minute she was finished.

An hour later, she was back at the library. As she turned the dial on the combination lock, she felt a little as if she was plundering an Egyptian tomb. This was Thornhill’s
sanctum sanctorum
, its contents the treasures for which he had risked his reputation, maybe even his life. They were the earliest examples of a technology that had revolutionized learning, making knowledge accessible for the first time to the common man.

At the click of the final tumbler, she opened the door. The books were stacked in a pile, each in its linen-covered box. They ranged in size from the Gerard, which was as thick and weighty as an old family Bible, to the
Herbarius Latinus
, which was the size of a large paperback. The documents were lying on top of the books in a manila folder. She looked inside. They were all there, just as Daria had said—the bill of sale, the catalogue notes, the binder’s reports, and so on. She carefully removed the books and carried them over to the table, where she took a seat in one of the baroque armchairs. She decided to look at
Der Gart
first. Gently, she slipped it out of its box. It was good-sized, measuring about 8 by 11 inches, but surprisingly light. The wooden boards, or covers, were covered with calfskin stamped in a flower pattern and riddled with the tracks of nearly five centuries’ worth of bookworms. They were held together by leather straps affixed to a clasp of tooled brass. Unlatching the clasp, she opened the cover. Between the cover and the flyleaf was a sheet of paper giving a description of the book and a translation of the dedication on the first page:

“Now fare forth into all lands, thou noble and beautiful Garden, thou delight of the healthy, thou comfort and life of the sick. There is no man living who can fully declare thy use and thy fruit. I thank thee, O Creator of heaven and earth, Who hast given power to the plants and other created things contained in this book, that Thou hast granted me the grace to reveal this treasure, which until now has lain buried and hid from the sight of common men. To Thee be glory and honor. Now and forever. Amen.”

She reread the words, “… this treasure, which until now has lain buried and hid from the sight of common men.” Even after five centuries, they made her shiver. Turning the page, she drew a sharp breath: she could see why Thornhill had been willing to steal for this book. It bore no more resemblance to a modern book than a magnificent hand-worked tapestry does to a cheap synthetic fabric. The thick rag paper was stiff and creamy. Except for a few water stains, it might almost have been new. Against it, the ornate Gothic lettering was black and shiny. The headings and capitals were hand-lettered in red ink, the delicate curlicue embellishments showing care and love and even a sense of whimsy. But the most remarkable part of the book wasn’t the hand-lettering but the woodcuts, which depicted plants and flowers simply outlined in heavy black, like the pictures in a child’s coloring book. They were colored in by hand with painstaking delicacy and accuracy. To some, they might have seemed crude, but to her, they had a delightful innocence and charm. They were the first printed illustrations to be drawn directly from nature, John had said, forming the basis for all subsequent botanical illustration. There were woodcuts of parsley, onion, dandelion, violet, chive, scallion, grape, daffodil, squash, hop, rose, lily of the valley, and strawberry. There were even animals: real animals—the rabbit, the stag, and the wolf—and imaginary animals—a horselike creature with horns and tusks, a dragon with webbed feet and breath of fire, and a strange elephantlike creature with a long nose.

The index at the back (even the earliest printers had seen the value of an index, she noticed) was the most time-worn part of the book. The pages were well-thumbed, and the margins were annotated in a minute Gothic script that resembled that of the text. She could make out the words
melancholie, complexion
, and
für das Herz
. Also something about Tegernsee, a Bavarian lake-town known for its ancient Benedictine monastery, which she had once visited. She remembered its flower-bedecked houses and the white sails dotting the lake. The notations had probably been made by a monk whom the peasants had sought out for treatment of their ailments—their depression, their acne, their heart problems. The book even seemed to have an ecclesiastical smell, she thought, an observation that she wrote off to her imagination before identifying it as a smell from her youth: the musty odor of the hymnals and prayer books that she used to help carry up from the church basement for the extra worshipers who always showed up on Christmas and Easter.