Three Can Keep a Secret, page 20
What had Dory said? Something about Orchard Road continuing and old farm roads disappearing. This was the cul-de-sac near the cemetery. The trees obscured the old burial ground and any footpath to the manor.
“As the raven flies, none of these are very far apart,” I said, looking at Millicent’s house, the barn, the manor, and the cemetery. “But none of them provide quick access to Winding Ridge Road either. Hmph.”
When you came right down to it, none of the places I was studying were far from each other when viewed from above. It just wasn’t easy to get from one to the other quickly or without being seen by human eyes or electronic ones.
Time to try another tactic. I put the maps away and brought my plate into the kitchen. Thinking how nice it would be to relax with a martini, I poured myself a glass of sparkling water and got back to work. I tackled Peg’s list next. From what Sister Mary Josephine had said, Anita had been following a similar line of inquiry. I copied the questions onto my notepad. The dates that Hieronymus was abroad and the fact that he died away from home weren’t things I could follow up on. I had one newspaper article on his trip and a reference in a letter, and that was it. The attractive young widow, her child, and her conveniently dead husband were suggestive, but without last names, dates of birth and death, and many hours of research, I wasn’t going to learn anything.
The other three questions interested me more. What did Harriet mean? There were two statements attributed to Harriet that made me wonder. The first was when she said that Margaret had got hold of the wrong end of the stick. That was related to Margaret’s theory that Hieronymus was the father of Aileen’s child. Harriet’s phrasing implied that Margaret was on to something but hadn’t quite nailed it. Later she had referred to “both children” when discussing Hieronymus’s will. I thought that she meant Aileen’s son and Millicent, two children of whom he was fond. He was also fond of both mothers, from what I’d read in the letters. How fond? His epithet was “A friend to all.” Perhaps he was friendlier with some. Margaret certainly thought so. Elizabeth Ames?
That brought me to the next question. Why not Dr. Ames? Why indeed? Perhaps the good doctor simply realized that his patient needed someone with greater expertise in heart ailments than his own. Alternatively, if he suspected his wife of an affair with his patient, he would be disinclined to treat that patient. Something about that didn’t feel right, though. I’d have to read through the letters and journal pages again.
Where is the missing will? I had no idea. I wasn’t even sure there was one. But—there had always been whispers about something like that when Horatio died. I’d heard it last spring when Joanna Goodhue was murdered. According to Dory, Mary Alice, and even Millicent, those rumors had been around for decades. They’d started with something and, perhaps like a game of telephone, had become something else.
“Maybe it’s with the purloined letter,” I said, putting down my notebook. Poe’s Dupin had found his client’s missing letter. Christie’s Poirot had found his client’s missing will. Both had the advantage of knowing that the item they were looking for actually existed. Not to mention that they weren’t decades removed from the document’s disappearance. If any of the Ravenscrofts had stashed away a will, it had been done before I was born.
It was time to fuel up for what was looking like a long evening of detecting. I pulled out the cherry-red air fryer my sister had sent me for my birthday. It was still in the box when she called to see how I liked it. I was giving her a big story about how I’d been so busy I hadn’t had time to try it, when a message popped up from my nephew. I can hear my mom on the phone. You know you can make s’mores in that, right? He’d included links to YouTube videos. The fryer had since become my favorite appliance. In addition to s’mores, I’d added frozen French fries and onion rings to my repertoire. I could tell my sister with a clear conscience that while I hadn’t attempted any proteins, I often used it for veggies. I counted the eggplant I’d had for dinner as my daily vegetable quota, so I assembled a few s’mores, fired up the fryer, and went back to my notes while it worked its magic.
I eyed the pile of copies I’d made from Walters’s thesis, and decided I couldn’t face anything academic after such a long day. I had tomorrow off—better to look at it when I was fresh. Instead, I started my own list of questions beneath Peg’s.
Why kill Anita?
I left plenty of space under that one.
Why kill J. P. Walters?
One murderer or two?
Was the wine actually meant for Anita?
Those last two were related. If the wine was meant for Anita, maybe as a backup plan if the car accident didn’t work, there was only one killer. But if so, how did the wine get to Walters? The most logical answer was that Anita took it there. She had mentioned having to take care of something unexpected when she left the library that night. And if the wine wasn’t meant for Anita, who would want to kill them both? I added that question to the list because if I couldn’t come up with an answer to that, I’d need to find a second murderer.
Or two people working together. Sloane and her husband? I scribbled down that thought. And then, hearing Jennie Webber’s voice in my head, added the question, Who could physically have done it? I’d have to answer that for each of the victims. I looked at the list of questions and the pile of maps and decided I needed some kind of chart. The very thought exhausted me.
The air fryer beeped. Saved by the bell. All of this would have to wait—I was too tired to think it through. I’d let my subconscious work on it. Meanwhile, I’d have dessert while consulting with one of my favorite detectives. I queued up Christie’s Halloween Party. I’d seen it years ago but decided it would be fun to watch it again tonight. Poirot fueled his little gray cells with more sophisticated fare, but I was happy to settle in on the couch with my s’mores and see what wisdom he would impart. The book was not considered one of the author’s better efforts, but it had been revised for the television series and was more straightforward. A nice change from what I was currently dealing with.
An hour and a half later, the s’mores and the distraction had done the trick. My mind had stopped spinning, and I was yawning. One thing stuck with me, though: Poirot focused on the murder victim, not just the murderer. I had scribbled down what he said.
“The victim. One must always return to the victim. For their personality, their nature, it, it is the key.”
That spoke more to character than to behavior or likeability. No one liked Anita, but she had qualities that people respected. It was often the way she went about things rather than her goals themselves that people objected to. Walters was more of an enigma—no major accomplishments, but no major scandals either. From what I could tell, not liked, but not hated either. A moderately successful career achieved by using who he knew rather than what he knew, and by a willingness to deal with administrative tasks.
Was character key? Maybe. I finished washing my dishes and went back to my list of questions. Across the top I wrote, The character of the victim? Would that explain why someone would kill one or both? I yawned again. Perhaps after a good night’s sleep it would all become clear.
Sleep proved elusive. I tossed and turned, running through everything I’d learned, convinced I’d missed something. If I could only figure out what that was, I might have the answer, or part of it. I still had too many unknowns. I also had a headache. I sat up and checked the time. Not too late. I texted Jennie and asked to meet for breakfast. My phone pinged seconds later.
Sure. 7?
I grimaced. Not if she wanted me to be coherent.
It’s my day off. 8?
I got back an eye-roll emoji, followed a second later by:
Make it 9. I’ll stop by the station first.
I sent her a thumbs-up and got up to take something for my headache. Thinking I should cut down on sugar and admitting that I wouldn’t, I went back to bed.
The dream began the way it usually did. I was opening the door to my apartment in New York, uneasy because I had found it ajar. This time, I didn’t walk in to find my husband on the floor. Instead, I was in the upstairs hallway at the manor. Danny stood at the other end, a letter in his hand. Next to him was my friend Joanna. She opened her mouth, but it was her husband, Vince, that I heard.
“I know it’s here somewhere in all these papers.”
A low, hissing voice responded. “Blackmail.”
I looked around, but there was no one else there. I tried to get to Danny, who was smiling at me and holding out the envelope in his hand. But I couldn’t move, and then Danny and Joanna dissolved into a cloud of large, black birds. Ravens. The birds flew off and I was standing in the old cemetery. Millicent was there too. She was standing with her back to me, in the empty space next to her mother’s grave. I called her name, but she didn’t turn. She started to walk away. A path appeared at the back of the cemetery, leading into the woods. The trees swayed and I could see the manor through them. I called again, and this time Millicent turned.
“It’s long past time some of the things buried in this house saw the light of day,” she said, and then she turned and disappeared on to the path leading to the manor.
I heard the deep, gurgling croak of a raven. I looked up and saw three of them perched on top of Horatio Ravenscroft’s gravestone. Four more landed next to them. Seven. They kept launching themselves up and resettling. They’d open their beaks, and I’d hear children’s voices, far away, reciting a rhyme. Then all the ravens took off toward me. I stumbled and caught myself on Jonathon Ames’s desk, an old-fashioned key between my hand and the Olivetti. I reached for it, but a noise stopped me. Hinges creaking. I looked up and saw Richard Hunzeker standing near the cabinet, his hands in his pockets.
“I’m worried about those fuses,” he said. He turned and opened the door into the greenhouse. I followed and walked into Horatio Ravenscroft’s study. There was a woman leaning on the desk, looking out the window and smoking a pipe. Harriet. She turned to me and smiled, the light from the window catching on her eyeglasses.
“Poor Margaret had the wrong end of the stick. You’ll figure it out, and faster than Peggy did, I’ll wager. You’re a clever girl. I’ve been watching you. They’ll help.” She gestured out the window, where the manor ravens were swooping and circling. When I looked back at her, she faded out of sight, leaving nothing but a curl of pipe smoke hanging in the air. I smelled a hint of cherry.
“Smoke,” I said aloud, sitting up in bed. I sniffed the air—nothing. I stared into the darkness, seeing fragments of the dream. Once again, I heard the croak of a raven. I looked out the window. It was the middle of the night, but I could swear I saw dark shapes flitting past. The birds, the gravestones, the children chanting a rhyme.
The book sale. The kids on the lawn, chanting the counting rhyme.
I grabbed my phone, opened the browser, and started to search. It wasn’t hard to find. There were different versions—it was an old rhyme—but I thought it was the more modern one that mattered.
One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for a secret, never to be told.
The repeating pattern—three and seven. The birds in my dream and on the gravestones. I went into the living room, flipped on the light, and picked up Harriet’s letters. There it was, the detail I’d noticed and then forgotten. It was why Harriet said Margaret had gotten the wrong end of the stick. She hadn’t realized, but Peg had. Of course, she would have seen the gravestones.
Hieronymus had nearly died when he had the mumps as an adolescent. The mumps. While it wasn’t a sure thing, it was likely that a severe case of the mumps would have rendered him sterile. Hieronymus had not fathered any children, legitimate or otherwise.
I read the rhyme again, picturing the gravestones. Three birds—ravens—then seven, in a repeating pattern. Horatio and Elizabeth had left a message.
Three for a girl, and seven for a secret, never to be told.
Millicent.
Chapter Twenty-One
I beat Jennie to the Java Joint the next morning and snagged a table near the back, where we wouldn’t be overheard. I’d brought all my notes and questions, as well as the copies Anita had made of Horatio Ravenscroft’s will and the family trust papers. After my brainstorm about Millicent the night before, I’d looked everything over, gotten it in order, and then slept the sleep of the righteous until my alarm went off. I woke up ready for action and ravenous. Jennie arrived at the same time as my breakfast sandwich and ordered one for herself. She still had dark circles under her eyes, but she seemed more upbeat. Maybe we’d both had a breakthrough.
“What’ve you got?” she said.
“The missing heir to the Ravenscroft family trust, which is a motive for getting rid of Anita; a couple of theories about the Walters murder; and a whole lot of questions. But I think we’re close to a solution.”
“Based on?”
“A feeling,” I said. Also a dream, but she was even less likely to go for that. As it was, she quirked an eyebrow and asked, “What kind of evidence do you have?”
I pushed my folder across the table to her and ran through everything I’d discovered. She followed along, occasionally asking questions. When I finished, I gave her time to look it over and ate my sandwich. She went back through the notes and papers I’d brought. When she sat back and picked up her own sandwich, I could see her wheels turning.
“I know I’ve made a few leaps,” I said, “but I’m sure I’m on to something. Anita was following this same line. I think she was close to proving that there was another Ravenscroft—that Horatio wasn’t the last one.”
“Millicent Ames.”
“Yes,” I said. “Elizabeth and Jonathon Ames were married for a while before she got pregnant. That was after she started working for Harriet. It’s possible she just wanted a child—her relationship with her husband seemed solid. Or perhaps she and Horatio formed a real attachment. The whole family was very fond of her. Hieronymus seemed more likely at first, and I suppose he could be Millicent’s father, but he was never in good health, and then there’s the mumps.”
“I’m following all that, but does it explain Anita? Why would it make a difference to her if Millicent were an illegitimate Ravenscroft? And after all this time, would Millicent kill to keep that secret?”
Never to be told.
“I don’t know.” I sighed and slumped back in my chair. I didn’t like to think it of her—I’d grown to like Millicent in the last few months. But she’d said things that made me wonder. And then there was Peg, and the cup of tea right before she died. My mind flashed to Millicent rooting around in the staff room and producing a red tin, rooibos, though she had nothing like that at home. Anita, with her usual mug of tea at the board meeting, and then Millicent again, asking if there would be a toxicology screen.
“Did you do a tox screen?” I asked Jennie.
“Results pending. That stuff takes time. We need to rely on the state labs, remember, and we’re not high on the priority list. Why?”
“Millicent asked about it. I just hate to think …”
“I know you do. To be honest, so do I. But there’s something you should know. It’s just a theory, but it explains some odd things.”
“What?”
Jennie sighed. “You know that ‘grill and fins’ comment that you thought was familiar?”
I nodded.
“It rang a bell with me too, but I couldn’t think of why until I was in that old barn looking at the car Ben found. The way the sun hit the front when I looked in the door—the grill looked like teeth, like the car was grinning at me. And then I remembered. Teeth and fins. It’s what Agnes kept saying when she made the 911 call the night you thought someone tried to run you over.”
I was stunned. “You think Millicent tried to kill me last spring?”
“I think it’s more likely she was trying to scare you, and it may have been spur of the moment. You were nosing around after Joanna died. If your theory about her parents is right, she probably got nervous about what you’d find. Maybe she thought it was you roaming around the manor at night. Or it was her, and she used her father’s old car to throw people off if anyone saw her. The registration expired years ago, but it looks like she kept it running.”
“Mary Alice said Dr. Ames used to make house calls in it and that Millicent kept it for a while, but said she’d sold it years ago. But wouldn’t Agnes recognize it?”
“It was foggy, remember? And she only got a glimpse as the car went under the streetlight,” Jennie said. “She was still drinking then too. And Agnes is not a car person. She notices anything unusual, but that’s about it. If Cynthia Baker didn’t have that metallic finish on her car, Agnes wouldn’t have noticed. It would have looked like any other SUV.”
“Do you know it was Cynthia’s car?”
“We do. We know when she went through the traffic camera, and the time lines up pretty well with when she was at the Hunzekers’. She still could have run Anita off the road, though.”
“So could Millicent,” I said, and told her what I’d found on the maps. “She could have gotten from the barn onto Main and then out of the village.”
Jennie shook her head. “It’s a good theory, but that old car hasn’t seen action for a while. All the tires were flat, and enough debris had blown in that it was clear it hadn’t been moved recently. But I think we can eliminate Millicent for other reasons. I finally got her to come clean with me last night.”
