A Wee Dose of Death (24 page)

“No idea. Can you imagine a woman afraid we'd think less of her if she hadn't washed her china?”

A blur of images crossed Harper's mind, the hundreds of crime scenes he'd visited, mostly when he was on the force in Poughkeepsie. He'd seen so much devastation. And Emily Wantstring was embarrassed about dirty dishes? “I'll talk to her and get back to you. Did the neighbor know if anything was taken?”

“Laptop, she was sure about, but didn't know of anything else.”

Why hadn't Emily Wantstring called the Hamelin Police to report that there'd been a break-in at her house in the city? Did she really think it had no bearing on the murder of her husband? Why hadn't she mentioned it while she was here at the station for hours on Thursday?

He knew she wasn't the one with the gray parka, but was there a possibility she'd hired gray parka to murder her husband and steal his laptop? Then she might not want anyone
to know about the break-in, although he couldn't for the life of him imagine why she'd think that way. The Vermont estate tax didn't apply unless the estate was valued at 2.75 million dollars, and from what he'd seen, the Wantstrings didn't look like they had that kind of money. Of course, she'd have five million soon enough, but not if she'd murdered her husband for it.

Had he been wrong about her, or could it really have been something as stupid as embarrassment over dirty dishes? Good thing the neighbor was a little more civic-minded.

He wrapped up the conversation with Smith and checked the address in the file. He picked up his parka. Something like this was better done in person.

The phone rang as he reached the door, but Moira routed it to Murphy, so he kept going.

*   *   *

Emily peeked out
the window beside her front door. It was that nice policeman. She couldn't remember his name.
Pianist
or something like that. She knew it was something having to do with music. Somebody who played an instrument. Her throat tightened, and she had to make a conscious effort to breathe.

“Come in, Officer. Did you find the scarf?” She didn't want to admit she couldn't remember his name. The other one, the one who had talked to her last week at the station, had a very Irish name. Sergeant Patrick. Was that right? And Miss Fairing. She remembered that one.

“Scarf? No. I . . . I'm Captain Harper.”

Harper, not Pianist.
She showed him into the living room and motioned to the blue couch. She sat on the yellow one. “What can I help you with?”

He unzipped his parka but didn't take it off. “I understand someone broke into your house in Burlington.”

“How did you . . . That is, I mean . . . yes. My neighbor said she thought someone had taken my husband's laptop.”

“Was there anything else missing that you're aware of?”

“No, there wasn't. I drove up on Monday as soon as Sandra called me. All the china and silver was where it was supposed to be.”

“I'm sure you know . . .” He seemed to take a very deep breath.

She admired the smooth flow of air into his lungs. Baritone? No, she decided. He'd be a bass. She loved the way those low notes vibrated. For a moment she wished he would sing her a happy birthday song. Still, it didn't seem right to think about her birthday now that Mark . . . Marcus was gone.

“. . . that there's a chance this break-in could be connected to your husband's murder.”

“I don't see . . . There's no reason for anyone to kill Mark . . . Marcus. He worked with bacteria, microscopic bugs, silly things like that.” Emily couldn't imagine that anyone on earth would find that even interesting except another microbiologist, and there were precious few of those here in Hamelin.

“Is there a chance someone might have felt threatened by something he was working on?”

“Threatened by bug studies? You have to be joking.”

“No. I'm afraid there's no joke. Somebody wanted him dead.”

“But there's nothing we can do now, is there?”

“There's quite a bit we can do.” She could tell he was trying to make his voice as soothing as possible. “The investigation is proceeding, but the break-in at your other house might have given us some clues if you'd let us know right away.”

“Are you here to arrest me again?”

Emily thought he looked a little embarrassed, as well he should.

“Mrs. Wantstring?”

“Yes?”

“Is there anything else you haven't told us?”

She looked down at the small wooden puzzle box on the coffee table. “Well . . .”

Password Protected

B
ack at the station, Harper shuffled through a stack of reports. Very few people in Hamelin had known Dr. Wantstring, but those who'd known him had liked him. More people knew his wife, but most of those didn't particularly like her; he could understand why. If somebody from here was the murderer and the motive was personal, why hadn't they killed Emily? And what could the Burlington break-in have to do with this?

He scanned down a few lines on the report. Murphy had checked phone records again to see whether Wantstring's cell had been used in the past two weeks. Nothing since the Saturday when his wife had last seen him. He made a note in the margin and turned to consider the wooden puzzle box sitting in the center of his desk. He'd never had any luck opening those things, and this one had proved just as insoluble.

He picked it up and tried it again, twisting, pushing, rotating. Nothing.

Harper was only vaguely aware of Murphy hanging up the phone, and he sucked in his breath when Murphy materialized beside him. Had he been so engrossed in this box that he'd tuned everything out?

“Fender Lady just called, but that's not what you need to know. Mrs. Wantstring called while you were gone.”

“I was just there talking with her.”

“You were? She called only a minute or two after you left.”

“What did she want?”

“She said she couldn't find her husband's three-ring binder, green. Asked me to look for it.”

“Did she say what was in it?”

“She didn't know, but she thought it was important because he always kept it with him.”

Harper couldn't recall anything like that on the personal effects list. “Did we have it?”

“No. There weren't any books or writing materials in the cabin. Except for a couple of ballpoint pens he had in his shirt pocket.”

“I noticed that.”

“They were green. You think he color-coded his pens and binders?”

Harper ignored that one.

“And she says she's missing a scarf, too. Brown.”

“I heard about the scarf. We don't have it. But why did she wait all this time to mention the binder?”

“Maybe she really is the murderer. But we haven't found a motive yet. Other than the five million dollars.” Murphy laid on the Irish brogue. “And wouldn't I hate to ask Fairing to arrest the poor woman one more time. We can't arrest her without due cause, can we?”

“Why not? We already did once.” Harper twirled his blue
pen around on the desk. “Why would he have pens in that cabin if he didn't have anything to write on?”

“I wondered that, too, so I thought—”

“You thought right. Our murderer took any books or papers he found, and maybe that green binder, too, and then broke into the Burlington house to steal a laptop. So, the question is—”

“What was in the binder?” Murphy finished Harper's sentence with what looked to Harper like satisfaction.

“Okay. So what can you deduce from that?”
Good grief
, Harper thought,
I do sound like Sherlock Holmes talking to Dr. Watson.

“I'd say murder with malice aforethought.” Harper raised his eyebrow and Murphy hastened to explain. “That means murder in the first degree, like she planned it ahead of time.”

“I know what ‘malice aforethought' means, Murphy, but we don't usually hear that term within these hallowed walls. What are you doing, studying to be a lawyer?”

Murphy reddened. “I'm taking some courses online during my off time.”

“You want to be an attorney?”

Murphy looked around. Moira was on the phone. Sergeant Fairing looked like she was texting somebody. Murphy straightened his back. “I plan to be chief someday.”

Mac'll have to die first
, Harper thought.

*   *   *

I could hear
Harper's phone switching over to voice-mail mode. “Grrr! Why isn't he available when I need him?” Dirk made a placating sound, but it didn't calm me down. I disconnected. “I'm going to drive over to the police station. He'll have to show up eventually.”

“Why do ye not leave him a wee message?”

Dirk had been fascinated by voice mails ever since I'd first introduced him to the concept. Crazy thing was, he was right. I called back, getting my message composed in my mind as the phone rang once, twice.

“Harper here.”

“Why did you answer your phone?”

“Because . . . it rang? Is this some sort of trick question?”

The undercurrent in his voice made me think maybe he was laughing at me. “I was expecting voice mail.”

“I know. I saw that you called.”

“I have something I have to show you. It's what Karaline and I were looking for at the cabin.”

“I thought you said the gray parka guy took it.”

“There was another USB. She was reaching up to pull it off the top of the doorframe when she was shot.” I paused. “I don't know if it has any bearing whatsoever on his death, but I thought you ought to know.”

“Where are you?”

“In the hospital parking lot.”

“Headed in or out?”

“Out. Karaline knew the password to open two of the locked files. We can't get the other one unlocked, so I'm headed to your office.”

“Drive safely, but get here as fast as you can.”

I started the car, turned to look at Dirk in the passenger seat. “We're going to the police station. Please, please, don't make a single comment while we're there.”

I'd halfway expected a smart rejoinder, but Dirk's face was entirely serious. “We maun stop this nathaira. I willna slow ye.”

“What's a nathayra?”

“A snake.” The
S
came out like a hiss.

*   *   *

Harper scoffed when
I told him Wantstring had kept the same password for twenty years, but eventually he asked, “What was in the files?”

“We could only open two of the locked files. One was a romance novel. The other was the cover art.”

He cocked his head to one side.

“The constable looks like the wee black dog when he does that.”

“You look like Scamp,” I told Harper.

“I appreciate the compliment.”

“No, really. He cocks his head like that when he's thinking.”

“You can tell when a dog is thinking?”

I pushed my chair back a few inches. “You've never had a dog, have you?”

“I sure did.” Harper sounded indignant. “I had a GBBD when I was a kid.”

“Gee what? I've never heard of that breed.”

“Stands for Great Big Brown Dog. Best kind ever built.”

I scoffed. “Not as smart as a Scottie.”

He must not have had an answer to that one, or maybe he decided it was time to get back to the subject at hand. “What does a romance novel have to do with Wantstring's murder?”

“He wrote it. With another professor. Somebody named Denby Harper. Same last name as yours. They used a pen name. Denbi Marcas.”

Harper got a really funny look on his face. I had no idea what was wrong, but he swallowed, hard, a couple of times. “Romance novel? They wrote a romance novel?”

“This was number twenty-four or twenty-five,” I explained. “Karaline wasn't sure how many, but they're a very successful writing team, apparently. If you like that sort of thing.” What was wrong with him? He looked like he'd swallowed a black fly. “Anyway, there's another locked file on the thumb drive, and we thought maybe it—and maybe the novel, too—had something to do with why he was killed?” I couldn't keep the question mark out of my voice. The whole idea sounded inane.

Harper shuddered. What on earth was wrong with him? “My . . . Denby . . . Denby Harper was my dad.”

“Oh, Harper.” I reached for his arm. “I'm so sorry. I had no idea.”

“And I”—his mouth took on a stern cast—“had no idea my father wrote novels.”

I didn't know what to say. My dad was a woodworker. I knew everything there was to know about him.

“I thought I knew him,” Harper said. It made me wonder whether my own dad had any secrets.

After a few moments, during which I traced the blue veins on the back of Harper's hand, he pulled his hand away from me and asked, “Do you know what's in the other file?”

“No. The usual password didn't work, and Karaline couldn't think of another one.”

“Fairing's good with computers. Maybe she can crack it.” He picked up a small wooden cube and spun it around on his palm.

I reached for it. “I used to love these puzzle boxes when I was a kid.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. Where'd you get it?”

“Emily Wantstring found it hidden in a boot.”

I looked at him, and I could feel my eyes go out of focus.
“My dad's a woodworker,” I said. “He showed me a lot of tricks.” I studied the box carefully, touched a finger to it here and there. Twisted something. Applied pressure. Twisted again. Yes.

Inside was a little piece of paper.

M W < 3 E F

Marcus Wantstring loves Emily Fontini.
He'd finally changed his password. The one to the final file.

*   *   *

I'm going to
marry this woman someday,
Harper thought, but he knew better than to say anything too soon. She was a woman who needed time. Time to get used to him. Time to get to know him. Marriage would have to wait.

But the file had nothing to do with the romance novel. It was a draft of a letter to someone named John Nhat Copley, reprimanding him for—Harper sucked in his breath—for complicity in a scheme to promote identity theft, and informing him that he was henceforth—what an old-fashioned word—barred from classes not only in the microbiology program, but the entire biology curriculum.

Harper leaned back in his chair. Identity theft. Was this the answer? Or the key to how to find the answer, how to crack the ring?

Peggy interrupted his thought process. “I need to let Karaline know what's happened, and I have to pick up that SRM20 tomorrow at Kittredge.” She laid a hand on his arm. Harper felt it all the way to his toes. “Be careful, will you?”

He touched the tip of her nose with his index finger. “You, too.”

I couldn't leave like this. It felt like there was too much still hanging. “Senator Calais,” I said. Something niggled in the back of my mind, but I couldn't call it forward.

Harper's gaze sharpened. “She's the one who got knifed.”

“That's right. She's recovering slowly . . .”
She needs a ghost
, I thought, and smiled at Dirk, who hovered nearby listening.

That
something
that had been bothering me clicked. “You don't suppose . . .”

“What?”

“I was just thinking. Somebody tried to assassinate her shortly after Dr. W was killed.”

“And?” Harper sounded guardedly optimistic, I thought, borrowing Dr. Marston's phrase.

“Maybe Dr. W had already tried to call her about this identity theft thing. If her name registered in the
recently called
section of his cell phone, maybe they were afraid to let her live.”

“Maybe,” Harper said, but he didn't sound convinced.

“I have to drive up to Kittredge in Winooski tomorrow to pick up that mixer for Karaline,” I reminded him. “The manager—Chester Kerr is his name. Did I tell you he wears red suspenders all the time? Anyway, he absolutely promised it would be there.”

“It might be a good idea for you to call him before you leave.”

“I was planning on leaving about six so I don't miss too much ScotShop time.”

“He might not open until ten. Call first; then you won't make the trip for nothing.”

“You're probably right.”

“Get a good night's sleep, Peggy.”

Naturally, Dirk was full of questions.

I was almost asleep when I remembered that Emily had told me she'd called UVM on Wednesday, and one of the grad students had told her Dr. W's car was parked there. My last thought before I drifted off was,
I ought to tell Harper about it.