Closer than the Bones (4 page)

What a little monster, was my first reaction. If Sukey Lytton had left the poem there deliberately in order to wound Miss McElroy, she had succeeded. What a vicious thing to do, even if one is in utter despair.

Yet, I couldn’t resist thinking, how clever of a murderer to choose something which would have hurt Miss McElroy so badly, keeping her from thinking clearly about Sukey Lytton’s death. But who might have known that the Medea reference would have been directed toward Miss McElroy?

As gently as I could, I probed further. “I can certainly understand why you’d be upset by something like that. And it would keep you from thinking too much about her death and whether it was really suicide or something else. But at some point you must have had second thoughts about it all. Why?”

Miss McElroy pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes before she answered. “The sheriff s department sent a man out to investigate, and he concluded rather quickly that Sukey had killed herself. In the circumstances, of course, there had to be a postmortem. I couldn’t bring myself to ask much about the results, not at first, but I was assured by the sheriff’s man that the findings were not inconsistent with suicide.” She gave a grim little laugh. “It was only later that I thought about how he had phrased it. ‘Not inconsistent.’ To me that sounded just a little too ambiguous. Three weeks ago, I nerved myself up and made arrangements to get a copy of that autopsy report.”

She shuddered, and I couldn’t blame her. Having to pore through the grim details—and pictures, to boot—would be grisly, to say the least.

“What did you find?” I asked, my voice quiet and even. “Obviously, something made you change your mind about the suicide.”

Miss McElroy nodded. “There were two things, actually. Two things I hadn’t known before, which convinced me that Sukey was murdered. The first was that there was some bruising about the back of her head. That could have happened if she had slipped and fallen in the water, because there are some quite large rocks around the edge of the pond.”

“Suggestive, certainly,” I said.

“Yes,” Miss McElroy said. “The report stated that the blows which caused the bruises might have been enough to render her unconscious. But the end result was that she drowned.”

“Odd” was my only comment. I waited to hear the rest.

“The other thing which I hadn’t known before, and which convinced me that Sukey did not kill herself, was the poem. Or rather the paper it was on.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled.

“I had just assumed, as I suppose anyone would, when I was told the poem was found near her that it was in Sukey’s own handwriting. Wouldn’t you?”

I nodded. “Seems logical to me.”

Miss McElroy suddenly seemed to relax. “Then you see my point. The poem wasn’t handwritten. It was on a page torn from a book. Sukey would never have done that. She considered books precious objects, and she would never have damaged one in that way.” She looked away for a moment. “She might damage a person, but not a book.”

“Did anyone test the page for fingerprints?”

“Yes. That was in the report I got from the sheriff’s office. There were no fingerprints at all on that piece of paper except for Morwell’s, from where he picked it up off the ground.”

“Because Sukey didn’t tear it out of the book,” I said, watching her face.

“Exactly. The murderer did that, hoping it would be passed off as a suicide.”

“It worked. At least for a while.”

“But no longer,” Miss McElroy said with grim satisfaction. “Together, we’ll see to that.”

“Why didn’t you tell the sheriff’s investigator your suspicions?”

She waved a hand in the air, dismissing that idea summarily. “Can you imagine what would happen if a good ol’ boy came galumphing around here, asking questions of these people? Absolutely nothing, that’s what! This situation demands more finesse, and from what I’ve been told, you have the kind of skills I need.”

I was both flattered and intrigued. There seemed to me room for doubt that Sukey Lytton had committed suicide, and I was willing to find out what I could. Miss McElroy no longer seemed as distant and supercilious as I had at first found her, which was a small blessing. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good enough,” she said, her voice stronger as she regained her customary aplomb.

Behind us, the door crashed open and a voice assaulted our ears. “Nonsense! Of course she’s ready to receive us.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Russell. And hurry up and help me to a chair. You know I can’t stand for very long, not the way my hip is hurting.”

Miss McElroy leaned forward, whispering. “And here, right on cue, are two prime suspects.”

Miss McElroy stood to receive her visitors, and I followed suit, turning to face the newcomers. I had to admit to a bit of excitement at finally meeting Russell Bertram face to face. No matter how provocative and occasionally misogynist I found some of his work, he was still one of the preeminent men of American letters. I didn’t often have the chance to meet literary celebrities of his magnitude.

It was his wife, however, whom one first noticed. Her face drawn in pain, Alice Bertram limped across the room, her heavy body supported by a walker. Jet black hair threaded thickly with white was coiled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck; and as she looked up at me with a glance of cold assessment, I almost took a step backwards. I couldn’t recall a time when I had seen a face so full of spitefulness.

“Don’t just stand there gawking like an idiot! Can’t you see I need help?”

For a moment I was too stunned to move, then my face flushed in anger. No one speaks to me that way. At least, no one who has ever lived to boast about it afterwards.

I was just opening my mouth to retort when Russell Bertram stepped into the fray. “Now, Alice dear, here’s your favorite chair, right beside you. Let me help you into it... there you go. Just ease yourself down, and you’ll be quite comfortable in a moment.” He had moved beside his wife, towering over her, as he guided her gently but firmly into a well-padded, straight-backed chair an appropriate height for her short stubby body.

“Not so fast, Russell! You know how my hips ache when I have to sit down.” She grimaced, as if in excruciating pain, while she settled herself in the chair.

“No need to ask how you’re doing, Alice” was Miss McElroy’s greeting.

Alice Bertram glared across at her hostess. “As you can see, Mary Tucker, I’m still in just as much pain as ever. I should have stayed home, because driving long distances in a car just makes everything so much worse. We left Nashville at the crack of dawn.” Her voice had taken on an unpleasant whining quality. “But of course, the minute Russell knew you wanted us here, nothing would do him but coming here. Just like a little lap dog obeying his mistress’s commands.”

I heard a muffled intake of breath, and I wasn’t sure whether it came from Miss McElroy or Russell Bertram.

“Now, Alice dear, you really shouldn’t say such things to Mary Tucker. She wouldn’t have asked us here if it weren’t for something important.”

“Exactly,” Miss McElroy said. “I appreciate the sacrifice you’ve made to come here, Alice, and naturally we’ll do our best to make you as comfortable as possible.” She was making a remarkable effort, I thought, to keep her voice even.

I, on the other hand, would gladly have poured something cold and unpleasant over the woman’s head. The days ahead suddenly seemed much, much longer.

“But I’m forgetting my manners,” Miss McElroy continued. “Let me introduce my guest, Miss Ernestine Carpenter. Miss Carpenter, I’d like you to meet Alice and Russell Bertram.”

“It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bertram,” I said, holding out my hand to him while doing my best to ignore his harridan of a wife.

He clasped my hand in his and exerted a gentle pressure. Lightly tinted glasses masked his eyes, but his mouth quirked in what I assumed was a mute apology for his wife’s behavior. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt and plain gray tie which contrasted sharply with the peacock nature of his wife’s attire; the garishly colored pantsuit she wore seemed more suited to a fashion-impaired teenager than it did to a woman of fifty-odd.

Deep lines had etched the man’s face, giving him the appearance of a man nearer the century mark than his true age of sixty-four. He nevertheless maintained the distinguished appearance which had graced the photographs on his book jackets for several decades.

“I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Carpenter,” he said.

Miss McElroy motioned for us to be seated. “I’m sure, after your drive here, you’d like something to drink. What can I offer you?”

“We’ve already taken care of that,” Alice said. “When Morwell greeted us at the front door, I told him what to bring us. You’d think he could have managed by now. I’m simply parched after that drive.” She shook her head in disgust. “I don’t know why you just don’t go ahead and hire some young and capable person to take over.”

Miss McElroy offered a tight-lipped smile. “When Morwell feels that he no longer wants to do such things, then I will of course do as you suggest, Alice. But until that day, I prefer to let him do as he pleases.”

“Which is to take his own damn sweet time while I sit here dying of thirst,” Alice complained.

I was going to have to work hard to keep a rein on my temper, I realized, or else this job would be over, with me in jail, before it ever got started.

Russell sighed as he stood up. “Don’t fret, Alice dear. I’ll just go and see what’s keeping Morwell. Perhaps he needs help with the drinks tray.”

The door opened then, and the butler walked in carrying a silver serving tray, arrayed with an assortment of bottles, glasses, a pitcher, and an ice bucket. He moved forward and set the tray down on the table beside Miss McElroy. With a flourish, he picked up a glass and presented it to Alice Bertram. “I’m sorry it took me so long, Alice, but I had forgotten to have the cook slice up any lemon before you arrived. Here’s your iced tea with lemon.”

“And?” She eyed the glass with deep suspicion.

“And laced with just a smidgen of bourbon, the way you like it,” he responded.

I shuddered.

“Thank you, Morwell,” she said. “At least someone around here makes some effort on my behalf. Though it certainly took you long enough to get it here.”

Phillips caught the outraged expression on my face as he turned back to the drinks tray. One eyebrow rose in a delicate arch, then his face disappeared from view. “Here you are, Russell,” he said, turning back with another glass in his hand. “A bit of whisky and soda.”

“Thank you, Morwell.” As Russell took the glass with quick gratitude, I noticed for the first time the network of fine red lines in his nose. Perhaps a plentiful supply of whisky and soda was all that kept him from pushing his wife under the nearest eighteen-wheeler. I suppressed the urge to ask for one myself. It was way too early in the day.

“Miss Carpenter? What would you like?” Phillips had handed Miss McElroy a glass of iced tea. With a gesture, he indicated the tray.

Spotting a bottle of Diet Coke, I made my choice. With a deft hand he dropped several cubes of ice into a tall glass, added a twist of lemon, then poured in the liquid.

“Thank you,” I said.

He ducked his head slightly in acknowledgment and said, “Now, can I get anyone anything else?” Assured that everyone was content, he turned to the Bertrams. “Well, then,” he said, “I’ll just go and take care of getting your bags out of the car and up to your room. If you’ll excuse me.”

“Well, this is cozy,” Alice said as the door closed with a soft click. “Why are we here?”

Miss McElroy chuckled, deep in her throat. “Alice, dear, do I really need a reason to invite old friends here for a few days?”

Alice knocked back the contents of her tea glass, then thrust it in her husband’s direction without even looking at him. Russell set his own glass down on a coaster on the table near him, before he got up to pour more tea and bourbon into his wife’s glass.

“I know how much you adore Russell’s and my company, Mary Tucker,” Alice purred. “In fact, I’m sure you’d just love it if we lived here. That way, you and Russell could talk all you wanted to about what a brilliant writer he is and what a wonderful patroness of the arts you’ve been, all these years. He could even dedicate another book to you—if he ever finishes another one, that is.”

Her face hardened, making her look even more unpleasant than before, if that were possible. “But that dog won’t hunt. What’s the real reason you wanted us here?” Alice took a long drink from her glass before setting it down with a thunk on the bare table beside her.

I was watching Miss McElroy with great attention, otherwise I would have missed the brief tightening of the muscles in her face.

She forced herself to laugh, a light sound of amusement. “I have to confess, Alice, that I did have an ulterior motive in asking you and my other guests here this week.”

“Other guests?” Alice almost barked the words.

“It’s going to be quite a reunion,” Miss McElroy said. “Brett and Hamilton will be joining us sometime today, and Lurleen’s already here.” She beamed at husband and wife. “Won’t that be delightful?”

“You’re nuts,” Alice said. She struggled to rise from her chair. “I’m not playing this little game. Russell, help me out of this chair. Now! I want to go home.”

Russell sat frozen in his chair, looking helplessly back and forth between his wife and Miss McElroy.

“Now, Alice, don’t be too hasty,” Miss McElroy said. Her voice was so sweet you could have frosted a cake with it. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to miss a minute of the next few days. We’re going to have such a grand time, reminiscing about old times, and I know how you hate not being at the center of things.”

Alice ceased her crab-like struggles to get out of the chair. “And what, pray tell, are you talking about? Reminiscing? About what? The times Russell was nominated for the Pulitzer but never managed to win?” She cast a scornful glance at her husband.

“Always so tactful, Alice dear,” Miss McElroy said. “How do you manage it? You might as well know, I’ve decided at last to write my memoirs, and of course I need my nearest and dearest friends around me to help me remember some of the most significant occasions.”