Murder on the Candlelight Tour (6 page)

"Tell me. Get it over with."

"Promise me you won't be upset."

"Nick, I'm already upset. I've been upset for the past twenty-four hours. Now, spit it out."

His hazel eyes narrowed. "Okay. Here's the thing. We did take a look at Flynn's cane like you suggested. I personally took it to the lab this afternoon. We rushed the lab results on the cane and on the poker. That poker is definitely the murder weapon. Mackie's hair and blood are on it. So are the professor's fingerprints. And no one else's."

I met his gaze. "I can't go to the ballet with him because you're going to arrest him. Right?"

"I'm sorry, Ashley," he said again.

I brushed away hot tears and dashed to the telephone. I reached Walt Brice at home--he'd never refuse a call from one of Judge Wilkes's daughters, even on a Sunday--and told him about Binkie's imminent arrest. I warned him that Binkie was making some pretty outlandish claims about Sheldon and that he had to get over to the jail right away.

8

The next morning sunlight streamed through the stained glass window in my bathroom, flashing a rainbow of colors on the white tile. I turned off the shower and reached for a towel. I may have only one bathroom but it is large and roomy, with a huge cast iron tub that sits up off the floor on wonderfully old-fashioned claw feet.

Again, I'd slept miserably, tossing and turning while plotting ways to spare Binkie a murder trial. In the clear light of dawn, all my ideas seemed farfetched.

As I reached for my terrycloth robe, I became aware of a scrabbling noise coming from somewhere below. At times noises on the street sound like they're inside the house. I tried to see down into the street but the stained glass made everything blurry and the wrong color.

Then the sound came again, a distant scratching. Mice? Or was someone in the library? Could the police be back? But no one could get inside, all the doors were bolted.

Good lord, it's the murderer, I thought. The blood in my veins turned to ice. I pulled the robe tighter around me, and dashed across the hall and into my bedroom where I grabbed the weapon of choice, a poker from the hearth. Creeping on bare feet across the upstairs landing, I peered down over the banister.

"Is someone down there? If there is, I'm armed!"

The scrabbling noise stopped, followed by a brief silence until I heard the dull thud of a car door slamming in front of my house. The doorbell rang shrilly and I jumped. Heart thumping, I raced down the front staircase to pad cautiously across the reception hall. Pulling back a lace panel from the sidelight, I peeked out on the veranda. Rachel.

"I'm so glad it's you," I said, pulling the door open.

"Who were ...? What are you doing with that poker, Ashley?"

"Sorry." I lowered the weapon to my side. "I heard something, someone. I came down to investigate."

She dumped her paint supplies on the floor. "You should have called the police."

"And have Nick and his storm troopers stampeding through here again? No, thank you. I'll take care of this myself." I started for the back hall, brandishing the poker like a sword.

She scurried to catch up. "I'm coming with you."

We searched the first floor rooms, opened pantry and cupboard doors, checked closets, flung back the tapestry panels that curtain off a divan in my parlor, my interpretation of a Victorian Turkish Corner.

Rachel looked thoughtful. "Well, there's no one here, and nothing looks out of place."

"It sounded like scratching. Like a very large mouse."

"And you're sure you locked all the doors last night?"

"Absolutely. After what's been going on, I check the locks twice." I led the way through the kitchen and rattled the doorknob. Secure.

Filing through the back hall again, we reached the outside door that led onto the porte cochere. This was the door the tour group had exited through on Saturday and Sunday. It too was securely bolted.

"Okay, three down, one to go," I said.

"You've got too many doors. That'd make me nervous."

We checked the French doors that led from the dining room to the side veranda--all tightly locked with heavy bolts, no broken panes.

"Well, no one got in here. Must have been street noises. You know how sounds carry."

"Did you see anyone lurking around when you drove up?"

Rachel shook her head and her shiny black hair caught the sunlight. "No one. It's still early and fairly quiet for a Monday morning."

"What are you doing here so early? I'm not even dressed."

"I couldn't sleep so I thought I'd get an early start."

"I had a restless night too. I might as well tell you, it'll be all over the news. Nick arrested Binkie last night."

"No!"

I told her about Sheldon's hair and blood being on the poker, and Binkie's fingerprints on the handle.

"Oh, Ashley, this is all wrong. We've got to do something."

"I know. I called defense attorney Walter Brice yesterday. He said he'd go right over to the station. Then I stayed awake for most of the night, trying to think of how to help Binkie."

She followed me up the stairs, saying, "I thought I'd catch up on the painting I'm doing in your guest room."

She went to work on hand-painting magnolias on the walls while I dried my hair, dressed, and made coffee. Carrying a large mug upstairs to her, I described how Nick had thought he was doing me a kindness by warning me of Binkie's impending arrest. "Honestly, Rachel, what did I ever see in him?"

WHQR was playing Handel's "Messiah" on the portable radio she brings with her when she's working. Hopping down off the stepladder, her long straight hair swung as she landed lightly on moccasined feet. The exquisite white magnolias on the mauve walls complemented the comforter on the antique rice bed that had been in my mother's family.

"What did you see in Nick?" she repeated. "Well, he's one sexy guy, for starters. There's a special kind of energy between you two. And he's nice, decent. But anyone who knows Professor Higgins knows he's no killer. I had him for history at the University and lord knows I'm brain dead when it comes to academics. Give me a paint brush and I'm a whiz . . ."

"You're a genius with a paint brush," I interrupted, standing back to admire the white blossoms.

"But the Battle of Waterloo or the Lewis and Clark expedition, forget it. Anyway, Professor Higgins was so nice to me. He's not a stuffed shirt like some of them. He gave me tutoring sessions in his office, made history fun. Thanks to him I passed a required course I would have failed."

"Binkie's a dedicated teacher."

Rachel appraised her handiwork for a moment, climbed back up on the stepladder, and dipped her brush into the paint. "Now he's in trouble and if there's any way I can help, just let me know."

"I wish I knew what to do," I said.

"Well, you know what they always say in the detective novels: follow the money."

"Yes, but what does that mean?" I asked.

"It means that murders are usually about money. So follow the money trail."

"Okay, but what money trail?" I asked.

"Find out who benefits from Sheldon's death?"

"That's probably MaeMae, but you've given me something to think about. Listen, I'd better go water all those thirsty Christmas trees."

We were startled to hear a man shouting from downstairs. "Rachel!"

Our eyes locked. "Who's that? Someone's in my house." I grabbed another poker from the guest room hearth, grateful for my many fireplaces. "The doors were all locked. You saw for yourself."

Rachel scrambled down the ladder. She put out a hand to restrain me. "I think it's Eddie."

"Eddie? Who's Eddie? And how did he get in my house?"

"I don't know but I'm going to find out," she declared.

"Rachel! Where the hell are you?"

"Eddie! I'm up here." We moved out into the hall, me clutching the poker.

There was loud stomping on the stairs, followed by frequent exclamations of the "F" word. I darted to the top of the stairs.

A head appeared, then a torso, then a man reached the top of the stairs.

I opened my mouth to ask how he got in, but his yelling drowned me out. He didn't even see me.

"Rachel, why the hell d'ya take the car when I told you I need it? I had to walk all the way over here to find you."

Rachel exhibited a side of her personality I'd never seen before. She yelled, "The car? Don't you mean my car, Eddie? I had to get to work. I need it. Besides, I wouldn't mind if you borrowed it if you'd put gas in it once in a while."

Despite his threatening demeanor, Eddie was a remarkably handsome man. Almost pretty, except for the sneer. He reminded me of an actor I'd seen on the late show, Tyrone Power, with curly black hair, arched eyebrows, long luxurious lashes. But the resemblance ended there. Eddie had a weak, mean mouth.

Suddenly I placed him. The second person to arrive on the tour on Saturday. Eddie had come in right after Melanie's client Earl Flynn, and before the solid, mature woman. I remember having the impression that he and Flynn were together.

"The keys, Rachel! Hand over the keys. Now! If you know what's good for you."

He raised a hand threateningly. He's going to hit her, I thought, and waved the poker at him. "Stop! Get out of my house now or I'll call the cops."

Eddie took a step back and for the first time saw me. "Who the hell are you?"

"I own this house you just broke into!"

"This is Eddie Parker," Rachel said, her tone surprisingly mild.

Eddie gave me a leer. "Well, hello there."

What did he take me for? A gullible female like Rachel?

"Your front door was standing open," he said in a wheedling tone. "I knocked but no one answered. Guess y’all couldn't hear me up here with your female yammering."

"You're a liar! The door was locked!"

Eddie didn't take offense. Guess he'd been called worse names. "Your house, huh?" He gave me another leer, like he thought no woman could resist him when he turned on the charm. "Some fancy crib. Come on, Rach, honey, get me the keys. I've got something big coming down. You don't want to blow it for me."

Rachel slumped, defeated. She picked her purse up off the floor, withdrew a key ring, slapped it into his open palm. "Don't bring it back with an empty tank."

Eddie went ballistic. He grabbed her by the arm and jerked her forward. "Get off my back, will you, bitch! You'll get your lousy gas. There's gonna be plenty of money for gas, and other stuff too, so watch your step."

Rachel pulled away and rubbed the red finger marks on her arm. "Leave, Eddie. You got what you came for. Just leave!"

"Get out of my house," I yelled.

In the background, the Vienna Chorus sang angelically as if to cajole evil Eddie into better behavior.

He sneered, gave us both the finger, then clumped down the stairs. When I heard the front door slam, I ran down to secure the lock. I went around the first floor again, checking every door.

Rachel was coming down the stairs. "How'd he get in here, Rachel? Did you give him keys to my house?"

She mumbled something and grabbed the handrail for support as tears streamed down her cheeks and her shoulders shook.

"Who is that mad man?" I asked and held out my arms.

She collapsed against me. Tears wet my shirt. "I'm so sorry, Ashley."

I took her gently by the shoulders and looked her full in the face. "What have you got to be sorry about, Rachel? You didn't give him a key to my house, did you?"

"No, no," she sobbed. "I'd never do that. I'm just sorry you had to see him like that. He's not usually that way. He can be so sweet. But, lately, well, Eddie's got a lot of pressure on him."

"Does he live with you?"

"Yes. I love him, Ashley."

I rubbed her back. And I thought I had problems with Nick!

9

"He looks so peaceful."

"Doesn't he though. They did a good job on him. You can't even see the head wounds."

The two women ahead of me took turns leaning into Sheldon Mackie's casket.

"How can they be so disrespectful?" I complained to Melanie who was standing behind me in line.

"What?"

Her gaze flitted around the viewing room and I knew I'd lost her. She was checking out the crowd that had lined up for Sheldon's "visitation." After assuring herself there was no one worthy of her consideration, she resumed her chat with me.

"What are you going to wear to the New Year's Eve gala? I hope you're not going to drag out that sorry black gown you wear to every formal occasion."

"There's nothing wrong with my black gown. It's a designer original I found on sale at Saks when I lived in New York."

Melanie arched her eyebrows. "Sure 'nuff, 'found' is the correct word. That old thing looks like the sort of dress anyone with a modicum of fashion sense would lose."