Shadow of a Spout (20 page)

As she peeled off her chef’s coat, stuck to her skin by sweat because of the heat in the kitchen, she realized that she felt better—clearer of mind and more relaxed—just for having spent a couple of hours cooking and baking. She missed the comradery of working in a kitchen with other cooks. She checked her phone, but there was no message back from Jason yet, then she threaded her way through the passages and up the stairs. She cautiously opened the door to the lobby but was met with a howl of pain or horror.

She bounded out of the passage to find Bertie Handler sitting on the floor behind the check-in counter holding his hand out and covering his eyes with the other. From his hand there dripped crimson blood.

“Help me, someone!” he wailed.

*   *   *

I
n the meeting room after a brief discussion about the next year’s convention, when it was overwhelmingly decided to again hold it at the Stone and Scone Inn, the debate raged on concerning the chapter presidency. They had taken a straw poll to see who thought what, but it was fairly evenly split, with a slight majority favoring holding a mail-in ballot to vote a new president and reinstate the two-year term, rather than appointing Pastor Frank to serve out Zunia’s term.

Frank sulked in the corner. Nora was making the rounds of the tables, haranguing individuals to try to get a majority to vote her way. Horace eyed Orlando, who sat alone at a table. “Now, Rosie, girl,” he said reflectively, “why do you think Orlando didn’t notice that his wife wasn’t in bed with him?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Heavy sleeper?”

“When my wife was alive I couldn’t sleep if she wasn’t in bed with me, near enough to touch. Maybe I’ll just mosey on over and ask him. You coming, Malcolm? You can be my wingman, as the young fellas say.”

“Now, Horace, don’t you go stirring up a hornet’s nest!”

“Why, what do you think’s going to happen?”

“You just might say the wrong thing to the wrong person and get yourself killed!”

“Rosie, I’m almost a hundred.” His rheumy eyes sparkled as he went on, “Reminds me of my days in the intelligence service. Worst that can happen is I’ll cheat the Grim Reaper by a year or two. Or maybe more.” He then winked and, leaning on his cane, toddled off with Malcolm so they could grill the grieving widower, who sat mopping his nose and sneezing.

Rose joined Jemima Littlefield and Faye Alice Benson, who were anxious to discuss the murder. Having all read a fair amount of Agatha Christie novels, they fancied themselves experts, Rose thought, though she knew that the dark passage of a murderer’s mind was a much more intricate highway than she had encountered in any Christie novel. The great dame had a set notion of how evil worked. In Rose’s experience there was no such thing as a wholly evil person, but more a broken one who had let evil seep in through the cracks like rising damp, as the Brits called the moisture that leads to rot in foundations. Like that rot, it didn’t always show until you did some digging.

“I’d call it
Murder at the Stone and Scone
,” Jemima said, working on a crocheted baby blanket in Christmas colors, a snowflake the center of each square with a border of red or green. She had a great-grandchild due in November and wanted to be ready.

“We have a cast of characters,” Rose said, deciding to play along. “We have the nervous innkeeper who seems extra jumpy this year, as opposed to the past.”

Jemima paused in her crocheting. “That’s true, isn’t it? Bertie is all over the place, jittery like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Why do you suppose that’s so?”

“He was convinced that Zunia was going to talk us all into holding the convention somewhere else next year. He counts on this as a revenue boost.”

Faye Alice, who had run a bed-and-breakfast in the past after a career in the navy, nodded sagely. “No one event could sink him, but once word got around that we were not coming back, speculation would be rife. It could have been the beginning of the end.”

“But he knows now we’ll be back, so why is he still so jumpy?” Rose said.

“Can you blame him?” Faye Alice said, looking down her nose at them, her gray brows arched. “The police are ever-present and he’s had to postpone and move bookings for tonight. I believe Bertie is close to a nervous breakdown.”

“Go on with the cast of characters, Rose,” Jemima said, her eyes gleaming. “This is like watching a good episode of
Murder, She Wrote
.”

“Okay, we’ve got the wealthy patrician pair, Walter and Nora Sommer, dilettantes. He’s a playboy, she’s a club woman.”

“Oooh!” Jemima cooed, finishing a square and directly starting another, chaining for the center of the next snowflake. “He cheats with the dead woman and she’s a jealous harpy! Nora did it!”

Faye Alice said, “I’ll bet you always think you know who did it in the opening scene of the
Murder, She Wrote
episode, too, right?”

Jemima paused to count out her chain, but then said, “The kids gave me a box set of DVDs for my birthday, so I
do
always know who did it.”

“Then there is the wretched husband,” Laverne said. She cast a look at her father and Horace, chatting with Orlando and Walter, who had joined them. “I sure hope those two don’t get themselves in trouble. Eli would not be happy if his grandfather interfered in the investigation.”

Jemima shivered. “I just can’t look at Orlando when he mops his nose like that; it’s so . . . ick!”

“He can’t help having allergies,” Rose said.

Thelma stomped over to the table and stood glaring at them. “I say you’re all missing the point,” she said. “No one listens to me. You’re all gib-gabbing away, but don’t see what’s right in front of your nose.”

“And that would be?” Rose asked, smiling up at what Sophie called her frenemy.

Thelma leaned over and said, “That Nora woman, Mrs. Sourpuss . . . She and the innkeeper are having a fling. Told you I saw her coming out of his office!”

“Even if that was true—which I doubt—what has that got to do with anything?” Rose asked.

Thelma harrumphed and plunked down in an empty seat. “Don’t know yet, haven’t gotten that far.”

“Anyway, we were going through the suspects,” Faye Alice Benson said, shooting an irritated look at Thelma. “Who else?”

“Well, the husband, of course,” Rose answered. “He’s always a suspect.”

“Poor Orlando,” Jemima said, softly. “I feel sorry for him with that nasty daughter, Zunia getting herself murdered and Dahlia creating all kinds of trouble for him.”

Rose took a deep breath as Laverne watched her and bit her lip. “Orlando had an affair, from what I understand, and then deserted his daughter and wife, getting a quickie divorce and marrying the other woman. Given Zunia’s character, I think we can agree that he was headed in the wrong direction. Don’t you think if Emma is nasty it is her father’s behavior that is at least partially to blame? It can’t be easy on the child, being dragged to this dull convention with the stepmother she loathed, all to put on a display of fake family solidarity.”

“Having to put up with Zunia could not have been a picnic,” Laverne added.

Jemima’s cheeks colored pink and she bent to her crocheting. “I was just giving my opinion.” She finished the loop to start another square, then gathered her crocheting, stuffed it in a cloth bag and rose. “I think I’ll go up and have a nap before dinner.” She flounced off.

“What bit
her
bum?” Thelma griped, watching her leave the room.

Faye Alice stood and straightened her beige slacks. “It’s this heat and all the nastiness. She’s touchy. I think I’m going up, too, for a bit.”

When she exited Rose heard a cry of shock through the open door, and Laverne did, too. They both headed to the lobby, where they saw nothing, at first, until Rose spotted Sophie bent over on the floor. “Sophie!” she cried, stumbling.

Laverne grabbed her arm to keep her from taking a tumble. “Slow down and take it easy! Sophie’s okay; it’s Bertie who’s in trouble.”

They approached and found that Sophie was kneeling by Bertie Handler, who was shrieking like a banshee. Her granddaughter was wrapping his hand in a tissue while she tried to soothe him.

“Mr. Handler, it’s okay. Yes, there is blood, but it’s just a small cut, really! Nothing major.”

“What’s going on?” Laverne said sharply.

“He cut his hand on a letter opener,” Sophie said over the wailing cry of the innkeeper. “I can’t get him to shut up!”

Domenico, the new cleaner, bolted toward them.
“Te puedo ayudar?”

“
Sabes de primeros auxilios?
” Laverne asked.

“Si. Soy una enfermera.”

“What did you say?” Sophie asked, looking up at Laverne.

“He asked if he could help and I asked if he knew first aid. He said, yes, he’s a nurse!” Laverne answered, looking bemused.

Domenico dashed into the office and Rose could see him locating the first-aid box mounted on the wall. He rapidly sorted through it and came back with alcohol, peroxide, ointment and bandages. As Sophie sat cross-legged on the floor by them he donned plastic gloves, then crooned in Spanish and tossed the bloody tissues aside as he examined the wound.

“Will you help?” he asked Sophie, with a thick accent, looking up at her. “Is not so bad, but he nervous.”

“Of course.”

Bertie had calmed somewhat but still looked away. He had some kind of revulsion to blood, Sophie guessed. As Dom worked efficiently, cleaning the wound with alcohol, dabbing with peroxide, then applying ointment, she looked up at her grandmother and Laverne with raised eyebrows. She had wondered about Bertie as the culprit, given his run-in with Zunia about moving the convention and her threat and false lawsuit. But surely a man who couldn’t stand the sight of blood would not kill someone by bashing them over the head.

Dom finished up and Sophie gingerly disposed of the bloody tissues and disposable gloves, then helped the nurse to his feet. “Thank you, Dom,” she said, patting his shoulder.

He ducked his head, then examined Bertie closely. “You okay now?” he asked. He put one hand under the innkeeper’s elbow and helped him up.

Bertie nodded. “I’m all right. I just can’t handle the sight of blood, even my own!” He shuddered. “Uh, Domenico, thank you! You have the job, if you want it; it’ll be wonderful having you here.”

He nodded.

“Sophie, could you help me into my office?” Bertie plaintively whined. “And get rid of that garbage bag with the bloody tissues, please!”

“Sure, Mr. Handler.” She cupped her hand under his elbow.

Thelma, panting heavily, joined them and eyed the innkeeper. “Why don’tcha get your girlfriend to help you out?” she loudly asked.

“Girlfriend?” Sophie asked.

“Yeah, that Nora Sommer. She’s your girlfriend, right? I saw her comin’ out of your office that night, the night that woman got herself murdered.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, you horrible . . . you . . . You’re mistaken,” he finished, his voice breaking. “Sophie, please,
help
me!”

Laverne grabbed Thelma’s arm, and said, “Just let them be, Thelma. You’re making a scene.”

Indeed, the folks from the convention room were buzzing, whispering and watching. Bertie’s face was blanched and he wavered on his feet.

“Sophie, you help Bertie into his office. We’ll get Thelma out of here,” Nana said.

Bertie leaned on her heavily as she helped him into his office and sat him down. She knelt by him, looking up into his watery eyes. “Don’t let Mrs. Earnshaw rattle you,” Sophie said.

He whimpered but then said, his gaze darting around, “She’s right, though.”

“What?”

“She’s right about me and Nora,” he said, his voice a little loud. “We’ve been working together so closely over the years, and this year she was so upset about Walter and Zunia that she came to my room and we had a drink, and . . . we . . .” He trailed off and shrugged.

It defied her imagination to think that fireplug Nora and weepy Bertie could be passionate, but maybe she was just seeing the world through thirty-year-old eyes. Nana always told her that though young folks believed love was only for the young, you never truly got too old for romance.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” Bertie said, a pleading look on his face. “We were together. That’s . . . that’s why I forgot to let Frank out of the room downstairs.”

“But
someone
let him out!”

“I don’t know who. Nora and I were together, that’s all I can tell you.”

“But Walter claims his wife was in her bed and slept all night.”

A sly smile tilted one corner of his mouth, as he said, “He sleeps like a log, Nora told me. And why do you think she slept through all the commotion? By the time she got upstairs and into bed, she was exhausted.”

A shudder of revulsion shivered through Sophie, but she chastised herself, saying just because Bertie wasn’t for her, it didn’t mean he wasn’t for somebody. However, none of this cleared either of them of the murder if Nora returned to her room on the second floor before the body was found by the elevator. “Are you feeling better now?”

He nodded and caught her hand. “Thank you, Sophie. I feel better just for having told someone. I didn’t know what to do, what to say.”

“You haven’t told the police this?”

He shook his head. “Should I? I don’t want to get dear Nora in trouble with her husband. I don’t know if we’ll ever be together again,” he said, and looked pensively down at his hand, joined with Sophie’s.

“I think you should most definitely tell the police,” Sophie said.

He nodded. “I will.”

There were still a few people in the lobby, and Sophie had the uneasy sense that some of them must have overheard Bertie’s admission of an affair with Nora Sommer, but that was not her problem. She went upstairs in a thoughtful frame of mind. Bertie’s confession hadn’t changed much for her because she hadn’t considered him a real suspect anyway. The only thing that made her suspect him was his evasiveness about where he was that night and why he didn’t let Frank out of the locked room, and now that had been explained.

She was beginning to wonder if they would ever figure out who killed Zunia Pettigrew. And did it really matter as long as the police didn’t pin it on Nana? She tried to tell herself no, but yes, it did matter. It mattered because whomever did it had tried to make Nana look guilty, and Sophie was not going to stand for that. Whoever did that should pay. She went upstairs in a determined mood.