The Butler Didn't Do It (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 2) (9 page)

All our names were listed there with estimated time and place within the Murder Window.

Maddox Storm (Kitchen)

Jenna Adams (Lounge / Terrace)

Mason Sash (Lounge / Terrace)

George Hollow (Lounge / Bed@10:00)

Miss Crawley (Lounge / Bed@10:00)

Ella Parker (Lounge)

John Parker (Lounge)

Charles Sitter (Lounge / Bed@11:00)

Jonas Mayer (Lounge / Bed@10:30)

Julie Brown (Lounge / Bed@10:30)

Joseph McMurphy (Upst Bedroom)

Henry Burns

“Henry, huh?” I stared at that last line. “Burns doesn’t look like a Henry.”

Nate sighed, steered me toward a cardboard sheet taped next to the bathroom door and slapped the marker in my hands. “Can you draw a floorplan of the house? We only need the ground level.”

“A very basic one, I suppose.”

“That’ll do.”

“What’s it for?” I said as I sketched the lines.

“So we can place people visually as those details become clearer,” he said over my shoulder. “I don’t believe everyone remained in the lounge for the full two hours.”

I grinned at him. “Like the board game? Cluedo?”

“Close enough,” Nate said and went back to his whiteboard.

“At least we know for sure the butler didn’t do it.”

Nate didn’t laugh.

“Oh, and by the way,” I mentioned as I shaded a border for the lake and added an X to mark the hanging tree, “Mason was in his bedroom between 9:30 and 10:30.”

“He told you that?”

“Yip.” I stood back to check I’d labelled all the rooms correctly. “Said he was on a Skype chat with his wife.”

Nate added that to his whiteboard. “I’ll have my team confirm with the wife.”

I took the liberty of drawing a stick figure in Mason’s bedroom and tagged it with his initials and the time range. “Has Lydia Fieldman’s next of kin been informed?”

“We’ve contacted her husband,” Nate confirmed. “He’s out of the country, on a dig in Turkey. Sounds like he won’t get here until Monday at the earliest.”

How terrible, being stranded on a different continent when you’re informed your wife is dead. “He’s an archeologist?”

“CEO of a shipping company,” Nate said. “But it sounds like he’s something of a philanthropist, one who takes a personal interest in the projects he funds. You’re done?” He came over to assess my artistic skill, tapped Mason with a finger. “That was helpful, thanks.”

I fluttered my lashes at him. “I told you I could be useful.”

Nate chuckled. “Come on, then, let’s go and find out what the rest of the GRIMMS were up to.”

He waved me toward the door. “If they’re as good as their acronym suggests, maybe they’ve already unraveled a couple of each other’s motives.”

EIGHT

While we’d been upstairs, most of the GRIMMS had scattered far and wide.

“Mr Sash walked into town and Mr Sitter is measuring time laps to the hanging tree,” Burns told us, the nearly-muted words skimming over his lips like a summer breeze.

“Time laps?” Nate queried.

“You do not want to know,” Burns assured him. “I haven’t seen Mr Mayer in a while, but he did make enquires about the walking trail and the Parkers have taken a rowing boat out on the lake.”

My eyes widened. “We have a rowing boat?”

“Several.” Burns settled a strongly suggestive look on me. “And one that’s motorized for our less athletically inclined guests.”

“Are you implying I don’t have the stamina to pull oars?”

“I wouldn’t dare, Ms Storm.” He smoothed his jacket down and drifted away.

“At least I don’t have a compulsive napping disorder,” I grumbled, to myself apparently since Nate appeared to have deserted my side.

He returned to the lounge a minute later with Jack in tow. “No need to hunt them down,” he was telling Jack, “but gather them up as and when they wander through.”

“If they resist?” Jack asked

“We’re not placing them under arrest, Spinner.” Nate had that look of endless patience on his face, the one reserved for troublesome witnesses and, it would seem, rookie-green cops. “Tell them I’m conducting interviews and it would be helpful if they stayed close.”

“Okay.” Jack noticed me and gave a small wave.

“Hey, Jack.” I stepped between him and Nate and tipped forward to whisper, “If you get bored waiting around, Charles Sitter is doing something with time laps by the hanging tree. Could be worth checking out.”

Nate’s hands landed on my hips from behind and set me firmly aside so he could look Jack in the eye. “Or you could remember that I’m the lead detective on this case.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack said at once.

Nate took me by the arm and led me away. “Did you just counter my direct instructions?”

“I’m being useful.”

“You’re interfering.”

I dug my heels in, bringing us to a blinding halt. “Aren’t you the least bit interested in what Charles is up to?”

“He’s estimating the time frames to carry Lydia Fieldman to the tree, taking into account each suspect’s strength and leg span,” Nate drawled. “And no, I’m not interested in his findings because the vic wasn’t carried or dragged, she walked there on her own two feet.”

I stared at him. “That wasn’t on the whiteboard.”

“Not everything goes on the whiteboard, Maddox.”

“Then how on earth am I supposed to help?”

He didn’t say it, but the pointed look he gave me did. My helpful efforts were not exactly his top priority.

“Fine,” I said coolly, “but storing stuff inside your head doesn’t seem very efficient, especially with your poor memory.”

“My poor memory?”

“See?” I threw my hands up, point made. “You told me yourself, that’s why you like to jot everything down in that notepad of yours.”

“Are we done?” Nate sighed. “I’d like to start the interviews.”

We were far from done. “You know for sure Lydia Fieldman walked out there herself?”

“There was a single set of footprints, indicating she’d left the house via the front entrance. Forensics confirmed the match.”

My head spun. “What are you saying? That this was a suicide?”

“We’ve ruled out suicide,” Nate said. “But we do know the killer arrived separately and probably met her there.”

“They found another set of footprints?”

“They found another dozen sets of footprints,” Nate reminded me. “Every single person in the house made their way up along the lake last night.”

“Wait…” I rubbed my brow, trying to pinpoint what was niggling me, then it came. “But one set would have led back, right? I mean, Mason and Jenna were already there, but I saw everyone else arrive afterwards, so the killer had to have gone back to the house and then returned later with the others.”

“I thought of that,” Nate said. “That’s why I had Spinner lead your group back to the house last night. He made sure to keep everyone on a clear path. But the ground along the shore was already too messed with all the footprints and tire tracks. Forensics couldn’t pull anything out for us.”

Frustration punched my gut. “Doesn’t that just eat at you? We could have had the killer.”

“I doubt it.” Nate started moving again, crossing the lounge to the French doors. “These people take their sleuthing seriously; they even have a damned society for it. If our killer is a GRIMMS member, which is what I’m thinking, then he—or she—would have taken everything into consideration. They likely removed their shoes and padded through the shallow water on the return journey.”

“Ella Parker,” I exclaimed. “She jumped into the lake as soon as Jack’s cruiser pulled up. Maybe it was to hide the fact that she was already wet.”

“The Parkers were drunk out of their minds. Spinner couldn’t even get a cohesive statement out of them.”

“A convenient alibi, huh?”

“Other witness statements concurred that the Parkers started drinking heavily at dinner and it just got worse as the night went on.” Nate glanced at me. “But you’re right, we can’t rule them out. It could have been an act before the murder, and then they really got inebriated afterward to seal their alibi.”

We found Miss Crawley and Julie Brown on the terrace, engaged in conversation over a pot of tea. Miss Crawley was quick to volunteer when Nate interrupted with his intentions to hold a second round of interviews. She excused herself to Julie Brown and accompanied us to the library.

I made a dash & grab at the sideboard for an almond croissant before following them inside.

Miss Crawley gave my croissant a disapproving look. “You’ll spoil your appetite for lunch, my dear.”

“Trust me, it’ll take a whole lot more than this to spoil my appetite,” I said and took a healthy bite.

Nate dropped his notepad and pen on the desk and we fell silent to admire the muscle action as he rearranged the armchairs, one in front of the desk and the other slightly to the side.

Once we were all seated, he flipped his notepad open.

I finished off my croissant and licked the sugary icing dust from my fingers.

Miss Crawley started the interview off with, “I suppose you want to ask about Lydia Fieldman.”

She tipped forward, beckoned Nate to do the same.

Nate slid his elbows over the desk.

“Did you know she was only thirty-two years old? Not that I was fooled for a second by her little masquerade, but thirty-two?” Miss Crawley pursed her lips in disbelief. “I’ll say this much, that silver bun did no favors for her complexion.”

“Do you know why she’d do that?” Nate stretched back in his chair again. “In my experience, women strive to look younger, not older.”

“How much experience would that be, Detective Bishop?”

Nate coughed. “That’s hardly relevant, Miss Crawley.”

“Experience is always relevant, my young man.” She speared him with a look over the top of her rimless spectacles. “Too little has its charm. Too much and you’ll end up as a roaming-eyed Casanova.”

I jumped in with, “Detective Bishop has just the right amount of experience,” before the interview deteriorated further.

Nate sent me an ungrateful look. For Miss Crawley, he pulled out that slow-melting smile. “Is there anything else you’d like to share about Lydia Fieldman?”

Miss Crawley’s eyes lit up. “Well, I’m not sure I should say, but I did hear—”

“If you’re not sure, then you probably shouldn’t,” I warned her, drawing from my past mistakes.

And my loose tongue had nothing on Miss Crawley when she got going. She didn’t just repeat rumor, she created it. Look at me. One aborted kiss weeks ago and she’d saddled me with Nate’s twins. She’d have the entire town locked down under Martial Law once Nate was done with her.

I leant in closer. “Detective Bishop doesn’t do off the record. Everything you say can and will be used.”

Nate shoved to his feet. “Maddox, could I have a word with you outside?”

“Right now?” I peered up at him. “We’re in the middle of an interview.”

“Right now,” he growled and rounded the desk.

“Is everything alright, dear?” Miss Crawley said.

“Perfectly fine,” I assured her as I rose from the chair.

It wasn’t, of course.

I wasn’t a total idiot.

But neither was Nate, and he purposely used that smile of his like a lethal weapon. All I’d done was give Miss Crawley fair warning and a moment to carefully reconsider before she spilled deep, dark secrets. She was one of ours, warts and all, and someone had to stick up for the civilians.

Nate opened the door and waved me through ahead of him. One of those gentlemanly gestures that irked me (my backside was not my most attractive feature), but I didn’t think this was the time to pick a fight over who goes first.

He remained in the doorway and called out, “Spinner!”

Jack left his position by the French doors and hurried over.

“Is Jack joining our interview?” I asked.

“No.” Nate didn’t look at me, kept his eyes on Jack. “Spinner, new orders. Guard this door. If Maddox tries to enter, you have permission to restrain her.”

I turned on him. “You can’t do that!”

Jack slipped neatly between me and the door that slammed in my face. “What the hell did you do?”

“I offered some sage advice,” I snapped. “Is that a crime now?”

Jack shrugged. “If Detective Bishop says so.”

“Unbelievable.” I spun away from him to pace.

Okay, so Nate was pissed at me. I could see his point of view and I understood. But I also had a point of view, which he might have understood if he’d bothered to discuss it.

The door popped open again before my rant built up any proper steam.

Jack stood aside to allow Miss Crawley out.

“Spinner, please fetch Julie Brown,” Nate said from behind them with immaculate composure. He left the door open and made his way back to the desk.