Shadow of a Spout (22 page)

She wasn’t going to get anything more from him just then. She watched him from the door. He took the second pillow on the bed and cradled it in his arms. “You must miss her,” she said.

“Pain in the keester,” he mumbled. “Maybe now I’ll get some rest.” He started snoring.

She tiptoed from the room, wondering just how sad he was, or if he was dissembling for the benefit of the police, making himself into the bereaved widower when really Zunia’s death was the answer to a prayer. Or the result of active malevolence on his part. Had he really taken meds and booze that night, or was he putting on an act for her benefit, worried that she suspected him? On the whole, though, she thought he really did sleep through his wife leaving his room and getting murdered.

Police work must be difficult
, she realized, with a new appreciation for how much surmise, character study and filtering through conflicting stories must go into an investigation, alongside the mechanical testing of alibis against each other and the collection of evidence. After the murder of a prominent local woman in Thelma’s tearoom in May, Sophie had become fascinated by true crime and watched every true crime show on TV. But as Eli Hodge had said, those were edited for entertainment purposes, and the details had already been figured out and assembled into a logical story line.

She rode the elevator down and strolled through the lobby. The whole thing was still a bit of a jumble in her mind, but she felt that she had eliminated a few people, at least: Emma because of her quick walk back to the coffeehouse, Dahlia Pettigrew because of the parking lot evidence of when she had arrived back at the campus and Bertie because of his revulsion toward blood. Orlando was
likely
out of it because if he had been taking his medication with alcohol, as he appeared to have done, he was probably sound asleep.

Who did that leave? The Sommers, together or individually. Interesting. She had long thought that Walter Sommer would not want Zunia to make a scene. Dead, she couldn’t threaten his lucrative marriage and position in the society anymore. If she believed Bertie that he and Nora were together, then maybe the solution was as simple as the lover, all along. It was getting tangled in her mind, who was where when, and if she could eliminate them or still consider them a suspect.

She glanced at her phone; it was eight, and Jason had said he’d be there shortly after the hour. She heard another rumble of thunder and hoped it wouldn’t begin raining. Would Jason be borrowing Julia’s convertible again? She hoped not. She was still uneasy at how chummy he seemed with his married colleague. Maybe it was silly, but he and Julia were so perfect for each other, while Sophie and Jason were so different in a lot of ways.

She went around to the side of the building to wait, lingering in the dark shadows, idly thinking of Jason and pondering how to get him to acknowledge what she felt they both understood: that the past years had seen them both grow emotionally to the point that they could talk about beginning a new relationship. Not that she could even figure out how to raise the topic.

She noticed movement out of the corner of her eye from the back of the building.
What was that?
She flattened against the wall in the shadows not touched by the parking lot lighting and watched. She spotted a figure creeping out the basement door. The person—a woman, judging by the outline—paused, then slunk across the parking lot to the shelter of the shadowy trees that lined the edge of the property. She scooted along the tree line until she got to the sidewalk, then she scurried onto the sidewalk and down the street.

It was Nora Sommer! Why would she be sneaking out of the inn? Curious, Sophie followed, hanging back until she knew which street Nora was turning down. To keep following or not: What was the right decision? She made up her mind and texted Jason, saying that she still wanted to meet him but she was taking care of something. She’d let him know where she was so he could meet her there, instead of at the inn. Then she set out in the direction Nora was going.

The night was still, and the sound of Nora’s heavy step on the sidewalk drifted back to Sophie; her own sandals were leather-bottomed and fairly silent. She felt at times like someone was following
her
, but it was probably just a weird echo of Nora’s footsteps. She was unfamiliar with Butterhill, so she only had a vague sense that they were leaving what passed for a downtown district in such a small town.

She would not have thought twice about Nora going for an evening stroll except for two things: First, she should have been in the evening meeting. There the final decision would be made about the now-vacant presidency of the New York State chapter of the ITCS. Adding to that, Nora had been moving in a stealthy manner. That was not the behavior of someone going for an innocent evening stroll.

Sophie became more and more nervous as they moved past anything she recognized, and entered a part of town she had never seen. It was residential, a neighborhood that had no streetlights, depending instead on lampposts on each lawn. Trouble was, many folks either didn’t turn them on or had let the bulbs burn out, so there were long stretches that were darker and darker, as twilight became dusk, which rapidly deepened into night.

And still, she could hear footsteps behind her somewhere. Ahead there was a side street. She ducked down it and hunkered behind some bushes, feeling ridiculous but unnerved by the little follow-the-leader game she had become a part of. She quickly texted Jason, asking if he was in Butterhill yet. She was about to rise but heard another set of footsteps—was this who seemed to be following her?

She peeked out. It was, of all the people she did not expect, Bertie Handler. She hid back behind the bushes and the innkeeper passed by, his heavy tread echoing in the night.

Where could those two be going? Was it a lovers’ assignation? Or a coconspirators meeting?

Chapter 22

T
here was only one way to find out. She slipped out of the bushes and went back to the street. She could hear the faint echo of footsteps so she followed and spotted a park in the distance, lit with pathway lanterns. Two figures stood by a swing set.

Sophie looked around. How could she get close enough to hear their conversation without being seen? There was a brick building near the edge of the park, so Sophie slipped along the dewy grass and behind that building, following the shadows until she got closer to the play equipment. From there she scooted across an open swath of grass to another outbuilding. She slipped along the nubbly brick wall, trying to quiet her breathing.

They were not going to be able to hear her, anyway, she concluded, as she got closer. They were talking loudly. She didn’t know what preceded it, but Bertie was protesting.

“I didn’t do it! Why would I kill Zunia?”

“I know she was threatening you with taking the convention away from the Stone and Scone. And I heard from Walter that she had some ridiculous fake lawsuit cooked up.”

There was a pause, then Bertie said, “The lawsuit was because she said I sent you an e-mail telling you about her and Walter.”

Nora’s responding bark of laughter cut through the humid air. “She was just getting my husband to toe the line, or so she thought. She figured I would toss him out on his butt.”

“She
swore
you got an e-mail from my e-mail address.”

“And I did. But I knew right away that
she
sent it; I told Walter that. He was getting fed up with Zunia’s little tricks and stratagems, but she really thought she could get him to leave me.”

Sophie inched closer.

“The lawsuit was a fake,” he said weakly.

“Of course. I’m never going to let Walter go, but Zunia didn’t
know
that. When she heard that I knew about them, she was frantic to do damage control. She was an idiot, too stupid to reason with.”

Bertie replied, “But Zunia couldn’t have sent you that e-mail from my e-mail address.”

Nora was silent for a few seconds, then said, “If she didn’t, then who did?”

Sophie thought for a moment, as did they, judging from the silence. The e-mail to Nora could have had a couple of motives; it could indeed have been intended to force Nora to acknowledge the affair and so release Walter from marriage. Or . . . it could have been calculated to get Zunia in trouble. Given Walter’s reliance on Nora’s money and the unlikelihood that she’d leave him, it was most likely going to result in Walter breaking it off with Zunia, and who would want that?

Pastor Frank, for sure. If they were both telling the truth and neither of them had sent the e-mail, nor had Zunia herself, then it had to be Pastor Frank. But he was the one person who did not have a motive to kill Zunia. Or
did
he?

Bertie suddenly said, “When did you get that e-mail?”

Nora abruptly said, “Why does that matter? Look, Bertie, the other thing I wanted to talk to you about was, why did you tell that stupid girl we were having an affair? I heard all about it, and I was
humiliated
!”

“Who did you hear that from?”

“Good Lord, I heard it about from
everyone
! You apparently shouted it out loud enough for everyone to hear.”

“I didn’t set out to do that!” Bertie whined. “You have to believe me, Nora. It was that wretched old woman, the new one, what is her name?”

“Thelma Mae Earnshaw,” Nora said. “What has she got to do with anything?”

“She told people she saw you coming out of my office and that we were having an affair.”

“And if you’d just kept your mouth shut no one would have believed her! She’s crazy. Everyone knows that after that stunt she pulled, telling everyone Rose Freemont was a dangerous murderer. Ridiculous. No, Bertie, it’s your saying it was true that made folks believe. Why’d you do it?”

“I don’t know, I don’t
know
. It just seemed like an alibi for both of us, to get the police off our tails.”

“You’re a fool, Bertie Handler. How could it be an alibi if I supposedly went back up to my room before Zunia was killed?”

So there really was no affair. Just another dumb lie. Had every single person in the case lied about something? Sophie went back to working on the Pastor Frank angle; she remembered it being mentioned, when they were talking about making Frank the new chapter president, that he had been working on the newsletter for the ITCS, and that he had coordinated the e-mail list for Zunia. Was he the source of the e-mail after all?

She sagged against the nubbly brick wall, wondering how anyone was ever going to sort through all the lies and misleading statements to figure out the truth. Was there one thread she wasn’t getting? One thing that tied it all together?

“But what were you doing in my office, Nora?” Bertie asked, his whiny voice cutting through the misty night as a rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. He whimpered. “I gotta go, but tell me why you were in my office.”

“Never mind, Bertie. Just leave it alone.”

Sophie’s mind teemed with ideas, but one possibility suddenly struck her: Nora was in his office and Bertie wasn’t there at all? She could easily have stolen the key at that moment, gone up to get the teapot from Nana’s room and put the key back with no one being the wiser. Nora had ample reason to want Zunia dead. She would obviously not want word to get around about Zunia and Walter’s affair. Or would it matter to her? According to Nana, she was fine with her husband’s cheating as long as he was reasonably discreet, so she certainly wouldn’t kill to conceal it.

“Tell me. I want to know!”

“Look, Bertie, just go home and forget all about it. Just leave ITCS business to us, and everything will be all right.”

“No, Nora, I’m so
afraid
.” There was a weird emphasis in his nasal tone on the word “afraid.” “
Some
one killed Zunia, and if you all leave they’re going to pin it on me, I just know it!”

“Keep your head and let it go,” Nora warned again. “All I wanted in your office was to figure out if you had actually sent me that e-mail or not. I didn’t want to accuse you outright. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? Zunia was out of control. She was trying to force Walter into divorcing me. She actually said she’d expose their affair and send an e-mail to every member of the ITCS.”

“And you couldn’t allow that, could you?”

Sophie gasped as a new voice entered the conversation. She peeked out, and there was Pastor Frank Barlow, his hands bunched into fists. “Admit it, Nora.
You
did it.
You
killed my Zunia!”

“Are you out of your mind? Where did you get that idea?” Nora shrieked. “I don’t have to stand for this, Frank. Maybe I’m looking at the guilty party right this minute!”

But Frank Barlow was not Zunia’s killer, Sophie was sure of that. Neither was Nora. Her mind had been sorting through the threads, and there was only one logical solution. In a high school critical-thinking class she had been taught the principle that if you have competing theories, you should select the one that required the fewest suppositions. In this case of the murder of Zunia Pettigrew, the answer to many questions came down to one person.

Who had the simplest access to the housekeeping key?

Who had access to Bertie Handler’s e-mail account, and thus to send the e-mail telling Nora about Walter and Zunia’s affair?

Who could move about the inn with impunity and knew it better than anyone else?

Whose whereabouts for the pivotal time were questionable, and/or had no witness, now that it was clear he had lied?

Who had she eliminated based solely on his own behavior, which would have been an easy fake? The scene with Bertie and the blood aversion had been calculated to put an end to any supposition on her part.

Thunder rolled across the sky as a shot rang out, the sounds mingling and competing. Frank shrieked, in fear or pain, and Sophie darted from cover, anxious to prevent another murder. Without a second more to spare, Sophie tackled Bertie Handler, who now was pointing a handgun, taking aim to get another shot off at Frank. They tumbled to the ground together.

“Call nine-one-one,” Sophie screamed as she wrestled with the wiry innkeeper. She threw her cell phone to Frank Barlow, who appeared to be unscathed even as he shrieked and hopped from foot to foot in a frightened dance. A dog barked and thunder crashed, building in crescendo. Someone in the distance shouted.

Sophie had all she could handle, grabbing fistfuls of the inn owner’s short-sleeved shirt, the fabric ripping and sliding from her grasp. “Call nine-one-one
now
! What are you waiting for?” she yelled. “I don’t know how long I can hold him.”

Bertie was writhing beneath her, cursing and threatening, his body odor intensifying into a sour stench. “Get off me, you stupid little witch!” he screamed. The gun went off again, thunder crashed and the rain began.

Sophie put her hands over her ears and screamed in terror, but she hadn’t been hit. Her ears rang, but whether it was the gun’s report or her own fear causing it, she didn’t know. Bertie heaved her to the side and she rolled in the wet grass, rain spattering into her eyes.

“Stop!” Nora screeched as the pastor wailed and began to babble into Sophie’s cell phone. “Why, Bertie? Why’d you do it?”

“Why do you think? Zunia Pettigrew was out to ruin me!” Bertie skidded as he tried to stand.

Sophie rolled onto her back and managed to kick at his wrist, connecting. He yelped in pain or surprise as the gun flew out of his hand and away. He didn’t stop to retrieve it and ran, staggering and wailing, into the bushes as sirens filled the air and police descended on them. There was no way Sophie was going to follow him. It was one thing to tackle him when someone’s life was at stake, but another to be stupid and imagine she was Kinsey Millhone.

As Sophie babbled her story to a uniformed officer, more police arrived and, with guns drawn, they searched the bushes. An officer escorted Sophie, Nora and Frank to separate cruisers, but Sophie was close enough to the edge of the park that she could still see the flashlights as they scanned the groves of shrubs. In five minutes they had located Bertie, squatting in the bushes judging by how filthy and wet he was, with leaves sticking out of his soaking wet hair. Two Butterhill officers led him away in handcuffs to another police car. He shot a malevolent look at her as thunder rolled overhead.

Once he was secured in the cruiser Sophie ducked out and retrieved her cell phone from the wet grass, where Frank had dropped it as the police arrived. She hopped back in the backseat of the car and wiped it off, then thumbed the button along the side; it glowed, and as she swiped the screen, a string of text messages came in just then.

One was from Dana. “
Bertie NOT afraid of blood, Melissa/housekeeper says
,” it read.

If only she’d known that a half hour before.

The next was from Jason:
“Where are you??????”

“
Meet me at the Butterhill police station
,” she texted back to Jason.

Then to Dana, she wrote a short “
Case solved: Bertie guilty. Tell you all soon
.”

Three hours later she emerged from the Butterhill police station with Eli, who wanted to make sure she got back to the inn all right. But Jason was there waiting. She introduced the two men, who shook hands.

Eli regarded them both in the yellowish light of the police department parking lot, the wet pavement gleaming, the air scrubbed clean of the muggy heat by the vigorous thunderstorm that had roared for an hour or more. Detective Hodge turned to Sophie and said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d tell my aunt and granddad that I will see them in the morning, after which I hope they will head back to Gracious Grove.”

“Sure will. Anything else?” She watched him, her head tilted to one side.

He smiled. “And tell Dana I’ll give her a call. I’ll be coming to GiGi next weekend, work permitting. Maybe I can see her then.”

Sophie nodded and let Jason take her in his arms. A close hug felt so good, even though she was still damp and muddy from her experience. “I think she’d like that,” Sophie murmured. “Maybe we can all get together.” A triple date: Wally and Cissy, Dana and Eli, and her and Jason—it sounded wonderful, but just then she wanted home and quiet and sleep in the worst way. However, she had to go back to the inn.

Jason drove her there, but though she could feel his desire to ask questions, as he glanced over at her again and again, she didn’t want to talk about it until they saw everyone. The place was a bustle of police who were tearing apart Bertie Handler’s office as well as his private quarters, looking for evidence. Melissa, the housekeeper, sat on a stool behind the check-in desk, her expression glum, shoulders slumped.

“What are
you
doing here?” Sophie asked, heading to the counter and leaning on it. Jason followed and put his arm around her.

She shrugged. “Dom called me to check in after he was done this evening. I wanted to go over things with him, just to make sure he had gotten to everything on the list. When he told me about the blood and Bertie’s claim that he was blood phobic, I didn’t know what to think. I came over to talk to him, but he was already gone. That’s when I saw Dana and the others in the coffee shop and asked what was going on.”