A Comedy of Heirs (25 page)

“Aunt Ruth had told me that it was a woman,” I said, ignoring his outburst. “She saw somebody in a dress in the front yard before the shot. Hubert's wife was none other than Harlan Clayton's daughter.”

“The one who killed himself,” the sheriff said.

“Yup, and Nate Keith was killed—”

“On the anniversary of Harlan's suicide.”

“Exactly, so I'm thinking … Hubert's wife did it and he covered up big time. Well, he says his wife didn't do it, and he admitted to leaving out the bit of testimony from Aunt Ruth saying it was a woman.”

“You still don't know that it wasn't Hubert's wife,” the sheriff said. He sounded like he was ready to scold me.

“No, I know … but as I'm leaving he gives me this picture of my grandfather, right? I say nothing. He mentions the fact that he had tons of pictures of John Robert, but he doesn't know where they all went to,” I said. “Disappeared on him one day.”

A smile slowly started in the corner of Sheriff Brooke's mouth and worked its way across his face until he had a full-grown grin. “So, you're thinking Naomi stole these pictures of John Robert.”

“Yes. My only problem with this is why? Why would she steal these pictures? If she did steal the pictures, it makes perfect sense,” I said. “That's why I wanted you to come along.”

“I can't misrepresent myself,” he said. “I can't say I'm working a case if I'm not.”

“You don't have to do that, boy scout. Just look official.”

“Oh, so I'm like a trophy sidekick,” he said.

“No, no, look official and make it seem like you're just checking into a theft reported by Hubert McCarthy.”

“What?” he asked. “I can't…”

I gave him the best pleading look that I could possibly come up with. The one that works on Rudy. Nothing works on my father.

“As long as I don't really say that, I guess it will be all right,” the sheriff said.

“Good. Now, don't let her spinster-superhostess act get the best of you,” I said. Although it did me. “I'm not real comfortable with believing Bradley Ferguson's misfired gun was actually a misfired gun.”

“I'll try not to,” he said. “I was a little surprised by that myself. When I checked into his death, I expected it to be straightforward. I didn't expect the little inconsistency of a gut wound instead of a facial wound.”

“Oh, turn here,” I said and pointed to the outer road.

“Here? Right here?”

“Yeah, it's the yellow house there on the outer road.”

I'll give the sheriff credit that he kept his comments to himself as we stood on Naomi Cordieu's picture-perfect country front porch. The door opened and Naomi looked at the sheriff oddly, then looked at me. Recognition registered on her face and then she looked back at the sheriff as if in worry.

“Hi, Naomi,” I said. “Can we come in for a minute?”

“Well, I wasn't expecting company,” she said.

“Oh, don't be worried, this is my stepfather,” I said. “We were out … Christmas shopping.”

She opened the door and let us in. The sheriff gave me a look that would have melted the polar icecaps. I was not a polar icecap, however, and I quickly looked away and followed Naomi into her house. Actually, I was smiling on the inside that I'd found a way to use the sheriff's upcoming nuptials to my benefit.

“Have a seat,” she said and pointed to the same couch that I'd sat on during my first visit. Naomi was dressed in a royal blue dress with large, loud yellow flowers all over it. “So, you're Torie's stepfather. She never told me that she had such a handsome individual in her family. How fortunate,” she said.

“Oh, I'm just the most fortunate girl in the world,” I said through clenched teeth. The sheriff's chest puffed a little and a smug smile cut the corners of his mouth.

“So, what brings you all here today?” Naomi asked.

The sheriff looked at me, waiting for me to speak. I, however, had no intention of speaking—for once in my life—and just smiled at him.

“Well,” the sheriff began and took a deep breath. I knew he really wanted to strangle me right now. But, hey, it's not like I haven't wanted to strangle him a time or two. “Torie and I were visiting an acquaintance of ours, Hubert McCarthy.”

“Oh, really?” Naomi asked. Outwardly I saw no difference in her. But there was a new edge to her voice.

“Yes, do you know him?” the sheriff asked.

“Well, of course. Not well, but everybody from these parts knows Hubert and his family. Why?”

“This is going to sound kind of strange—”

“Would you like some tea?” she asked abruptly.

The sheriff looked to me for guidance.

“Uh, yes. She has wonderful tea,” I said to the sheriff.

“I'll be right back,” she said and went off to get her tea cart.

“Stepfather!” the sheriff semi-yelled as soon as Naomi was out of hearing range.

“You are … or will be. Just not yet. It's just one minor—”

“Lie.”

“Time discrepancy,” I said.

He growled at me. I smiled. Naomi came back in wheeling her tea cart about five minutes later and seemed not to notice the frown on the sheriff's face. “One lump or two?” she asked the sheriff.

“Uh … two,” he said.

“So go on with your story,” Naomi said as she poured our tea and doled out our sugar lumps.

“Mr. McCarthy mentioned a large quantity of photographs that he once owned of John Robert Keith, and that they were missing. That they'd been missing for a while.”

“Really,” Naomi said.

“And then, Torie here says that you gave her a box of photographs of John Robert and we were just wondering if there was any way they could be Mr. McCarthy's,” he said.

Nicely done, Sheriff.

“Torie, I already told you how I came by my photographs,” she said.

“I know, but I was wondering if there was some way that Bradley Ferguson could have actually got them from Hubert,” I said. I followed the sheriff's lead of not outwardly blaming her but giving her a way out. All she had to do was take it. “I know that you said that Della Ruth sent them to him, but that was before you were married to him. Is there any way that he actually got them from Hubert? Hubert and my grandfather were best friends. It seems likely that Hubert would have pictures of him.”

“Bradley wouldn't have lied to me,” she said. “I don't think.”

We could be here all day, I thought. She could never say what we wanted her to say. And even if she did, I wasn't real sure what to do about it. “Do you have a bathroom that I can use?” I asked Naomi.

“Yes,” she said. “Down the hall to the right.”

I followed her instructions. The hallway intersected twice with cross hallways. I found her bathroom, all decorated in pink and roses. I used it as quickly as possible as I didn't want to miss anything that was going on out there in her living room. I washed my hands, turned off the light and walked out into the hall.

I thought I'd gone down the correct hall, but I hadn't. I figured I would still end up at the other end of the house, just one room over. Sure enough, I found myself in the kitchen, which was next to the living room. Her kitchen was bright blue gingham and sunflowers. This lady liked flowers.

On the kitchen counter was an open bottle of prescription pills. Okay, I knew this was none of my business … but when has that stopped me? At least I felt guilty about it. I walked over and picked up the bottle. Sleeping pills. I read the label. December 5 was the fill date, thirty tablets. December fifth. That was like nine or ten days ago. Then why were there only three pills left in the bottle?

There was a residue on the counter.
Like somebody had ground up the pills quickly.
Oh my God. The tea.

I walked quickly back to the living room and tried to get the sheriff to look at me. But he was intent on the story that Naomi was telling him about one of her many trips around the world. I sat down next to him and noticed that he'd finished his tea. Naomi poured him another cup.

“You haven't touched your tea,” Naomi said to me. That's right, I hadn't. And I wasn't about to now.

“Yeah, I thought you said her tea was so good,” the sheriff said. A thin layer of sweat had broken out on his skin. I had to get him out of there. Depending on the drug it could take as long as an hour to work or ten minutes. I guess it depended on just how many pills she'd ground up and put in the darn teapot!

Or there could be another explanation, I told myself. I took a deep breath and gave her the benefit of the doubt. I decided that I could have jumped to conclusions and she hadn't drugged the tea. Then I noticed the sheriff shaking his head, as if to clear it. I looked at Naomi, who was looking at me. I was not drugged. What would she do with one drugged and not the other?

“You really should have some tea,” she said.

“Why don't you have some?” I asked.

“Torie,” the sheriff said. “I don't feel too good. Maybe we should … do this some—some other time.”

“Sure, Colin,” I agreed. “That sounds good to me.”

I stood up and held my hand out to him, which he leaned forward to take but only managed to look at before falling back on the couch moaning. “Sheriff, let's go.”

He rocked his head back and forth, with his eyes rolling back in his head. He tried to reach up and either touch his head or his eyes, but his hand never quite made it to his head and flopped back down on the couch. My God. Naomi had drugged him just as sure as it was December! I had immediately suspected her of the worst, and now that it was happening, I could barely believe she'd actually done it.

“Naomi,” I said. “Call 911.”

Naomi just looked at me. What did she think? Did she think I couldn't physically overtake her and call the number myself? Her confidence worried me. Did she know judo or something? Did she have a gun somewhere?

I leaned down and whispered in the sheriff's ear. “You've been drugged, Sheriff. Don't fight me.” I have no idea if he comprehended what I said or not. I pretended to be crying on his shoulder. Maybe Naomi would feel really secure and make her move, whatever it was. While I was on his shoulder, I reached down and took his gun from his holster. It was awkward at first, because I had to unsnap it and everything.

As I pulled it out, the sheriff mumbled something and made a vague effort at trying to stop me. I stood up with the gun pointed at Naomi Cordieu, the little old lady from hell.

“All right, Naomi,” I said, holding the gun on her. I held it like they do in
Charlie's Angels,
with my left palm under the butt of the gun, but I had no idea what I was doing. I'd never shot a handgun in my life. Only hunting guns for target practice and skeet shooting. I assumed the safety was on, but I was clueless as to how to turn it off or even where it was. Did I just shoot or did I have to cock something?

Naomi looked startled. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Don't play the innocent bingo lady, Naomi. You drugged the tea. I saw the bottle in the kitchen,” I said.

Her face changed quickly, to surprise and then slight fear. She wasn't sure just what I was going to do. I must admit I didn't either. The gun was heavy in my hand, and grew heavier with each second. “Do you have anything that will make him throw up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you have any ipecac or anything like that?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

I was afraid to leave the sheriff, but at the same time, I had to do something. I walked across the room to where her phone sat on a table, the gun on her the whole time. I picked up the phone and dialed 911. I explained that there was a drug overdose at this address, and then they were on their way.

I walked back over to the sheriff. I slapped him on the face. “Sheriff, you need to throw up,” I said. His breathing was labored and slow. “Sheriff, come on. Stick your finger down your throat or something. You have got to throw up. It's sleeping pills, just throw up.”

A sob escaped me. Crap. I couldn't stand here and cry. “Why, Naomi? Why?” I asked through tears.

I walked into her kitchen backward, with my eyes on her as much as possible, wiping my face occasionally with my left hand. I opened her drawers until I found the silverware drawer. I pulled a spoon out and walked back in, with the gun still held on her. I didn't really think that was necessary. She wasn't going to do anything.

“How did you get Hubert's pictures?” I asked. I set the gun down on the couch next to the sheriff, and inches from my knee. I pulled the sheriff's head back, opened his mouth and stuck the spoon back into his mouth, to tickle his gag reflex. He coughed a little and his head came forward, but he didn't throw up. He was a little more alert, though, so I tried it again. This time he lurched forward, spewing vomit all over Naomi's wonderful mauve rug and her delicate little tea cart.

I picked the gun up and went back to holding it on her. I heard the sirens in the distance and breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn't sure how I was going to explain this to the paramedics, but it didn't matter. They would get here in time to save the sheriff. I hoped.

“How did you get Hubert's pictures?” I asked, louder and more forceful.

“I broke into his house years and years ago to find what he had on the case. All I could find were photographs and personal things. I just took what I could find,” she said. “I was interrupted.”

“So, you killed Nate Keith,” I said. “Why?”

“He wasn't supposed to die,” she said. “I had no intention of killing Nate Keith. It was Della Ruth that I was after.”

All this time, I'd tried to figure out the motives and such for killing Nate Keith and it never occurred to me that he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. That the victim was supposed to be somebody else. He was so mean and good for nothing, I assumed the killer got the intended person.