No Mortal Reason (23 page)

Belle oozed close to Mercy and leaned down so she could look the younger woman in the eye. “You want to know about arson, dearie?  My late husband planned to burn this hotel to the ground for the insurance.” She glanced up at the rest of them and smiled. “I admit it freely. I even admit that Norman set that other fire, the one ten years ago that destroyed the west wing. The entire place should have gone up in flames then. As it was, we barely made enough from the insurance to live on for six months.”

“Why are you telling us this now?” Diana asked her. “Aren’t you afraid we’ll repeat your confession to the authorities.”

She seemed to consider this, then grinned. “No. Shall I tell you why? Because, naturally, I had no part in any of it. I’m an innocent victim myself, deceived by a conniving husband.”

Diana waited for the other shoe to drop.

“But you, Myron Grant—” Belle left Mercy to glide to Myron’s side and tap him lightly on the shoulder. “—you knew all about his plans.”

A formidable glower accompanied his denial, but it didn’t seem to bother the new widow one whit.

“Think, Myron dear, what would happen if I told the coroner—or better yet, the sheriff—that you were in on the arson scheme from the beginning. I’ll do it if I have to. And I can also put the blame on you for Norman’s murder . . . unless you give me what I want.” She trailed her fingertips across his back and moved on to stand next to Diana’s chair.

“What
do
you want?” Diana asked her.

“For the moment, to remain here. Oh, yes . . . and to have Norman’s funeral taken care of.”

“Meaning?” The thunderous look in Myron’s eyes would have made a lesser woman quail.

“Run along down to Castine’s Store like a good fellow and buy a casket, will you, Myron? Pay to see that he’s properly laid out.” She grinned. “Arrange for Pastor Riker to say a few words for the good of his soul.”

“He didn’t have one,” Myron muttered.

“Now, now! Did no one ever tell you not to speak ill of the dead? I believe that’s all I require for the moment. Later, after things settle down, I’m giving some consideration to carrying out Norman’s original plan. The insurance money will provide me with a comfortable nest egg.”

“You mean to burn down my hotel?” Myron’s face turned an unhealthy shade of crimson and he started to rise from his chair. Only Tressa’s hand on his arm stopped him.

Belle Saugus sent an approving look his way as she completed her circuit of the dining room table. “Now you’re catching on. Better to lose the hotel than your life, don’t you think? A word from me and you’ll be arrested for murder. Think about that, Myron Grant. You’ll soon see which course is the lesser of two evils.”

“She does know how to make an exit,” Diana murmured after the other woman had swept out of the room.

“She’s unstable! Insane!” Myron’s color had changed to ashen and his big hands were shaking. “She can’t prove a thing.”

“No, but she can make life difficult for you.” Belle Saugus’s low-key, calculated demand had been more unsettling that any hysterical threat.

“She probably killed him herself,” Mercy muttered. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Neither would I,” Diana agreed, “but how do we prove it?”

“They weren’t the most pleasant couple, but they always seemed to get along,” Mrs. Ellington said.

“Not always. Ben and I heard them quarreling that first night. Their rooms are right below our suite.”

“Well, all couples quarrel sometimes,” Mrs. Ellington said.

“We couldn’t make out all the words, but a few were clearly audible. They mentioned Elly Lyseth. Or rather Mrs. Saugus referred to
that girl
. She also used the words
crimes
and
scoundrel
.”

“There seem to be plenty of crimes to choose from when speaking of Norman Saugus,” Mrs. Ellington said. “And there’s no doubt he was a scoundrel. But I don’t see—”

“We heard him say a few words, too.
Whore
.” She felt her face color, for a number of reasons, but she knew her listeners would assume it was only because that was not a term a lady ordinarily used in mixed company. “Then he said
stage
, which I now suspect means his wife was once an actress. And finally, he said the word
murderer
.”

“Stage could also refer to the Tally-Ho line,” Myron said. “The stage that runs from Liberty to Jeffersonville.”

“And what more natural to refer to Elly and her murder when her bones had just been found a few hours earlier?”

Diana looked from Mrs. Ellington to Myron and back again. “Are you trying to find excuses for her? She’s planning to burn down the hotel.”

“But murder? Of her own husband?” Mrs. Ellington looked aghast at the very idea. “And do you mean to suggest that she had something to do with Elly Lyseth’s death, too?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. At first I thought Belle Saugus might have killed Elly Lyseth because Elly was Saugus’s mistress, but what if it was much simpler than that? What if Elly stumbled onto that first arson scheme—I have no doubt Belle was part of that, no matter what she claims now—and Elly was murdered to keep her quiet.”

“Saugus murdered her?”

“That was my suspicion for a time, but it makes as much sense to think Belle killed her, and for the same reason—to keep her from revealing their plans. Perhaps Saugus didn’t know about Elly’s murder at the time. Perhaps he only put two and two together after Elly’s bones were found. That’s why they quarreled that night. That’s why he spent the next day drinking. And that’s why Belle had to kill him, too.”

Diana’s newest theory even made sense of the fact that the fire had been set several days after Elly disappeared. Belle could have killed Elly and hidden her under the floor, assuming the blaze would cover up her crime. With that wing of the hotel closed for the season, there had been little risk that anyone would discover the body in the interim.

“Can you prove any of this?” Myron asked.

“Not yet.”

His expression bleak, Myron toyed with the food remaining on his plate. Belle’s ultimatum had killed everyone’s appetite. “If I survive the next few weeks,” he muttered, “I vow I’ll be content just being an ordinary innkeeper.” He speared a Brussels sprout. “Though I do still think I can make something out of the mineral spring.”

Chapter Eleven

“In June, July, and August, midday is usually hot,” Sebastian proclaimed, “but the summer nights are cool. There are almost daily showers, but they don’t last long.”

Ben grunted and turned up his collar. Between that and the broad-brimmed hat he wore, only a few of the cold, wet drops found their way to his skin, but he was not accustomed to traveling long distances on horseback. He was heartily sick of the journey that had begun the previous afternoon by buckboard and had included a restless night in a hotel in Grahamsville, where he’d been obliged to share a room with Sebastian, who snored as loudly as a steam engine but with a less regular rhythm.

At least it had not been a wholly unproductive break in the journey. He’d seen a house in Grahamsville, built in a style that would suit Diana well. The entrance was by a neat and artistic porch, which was divided from the front veranda by a gothic arch. There were plenty of long windows, two towers, and a second floor balcony. He wished he’d had the opportunity to see the inside, but the outside alone had been enough to start him thinking about where they would live after they were married.

Before they’d left Denver, Diana had agreed to a June wedding, but they hadn’t made any definite plans for the future. Perhaps Diana assumed they would live with his mother and brother, but Ben had reservations about sharing an abode with his eccentric family. He’d considered moving into the house that served as his office, but he liked this new idea better. He’d build Diana a house just like that one. He knew the perfect location for it, too.

Absorbed in his thoughts, Ben did not at first notice that Sebastian had veered off the main path. They’d been riding since sunrise, their pace excruciatingly slow since they’d left the hamlet of Eureka on a little-used, overgrown trail.

Sebastian stopped to consult a map, but it was not the one Myron Grant had drawn for them. That was currently in Ben’s possession. This one was considerably older, and had been much folded.

“The missing map to the Indian lead mine, I presume?”

“Silver mine,” Sebastian insisted with an unrepentant grin. “It’s near here. I’m sure of it.”

“If it still exists, and is worth anything, don’t you think Howd would have discovered it by now?”

“It won’t hurt to look.”

“We’re short on time. The sooner we find Howd and get him back to Lenape Springs, the sooner Myron will be exonerated.” He hoped.

“Feel free to go on without me. I intend to search for the mine.”

Ben didn’t argue. It was clear to him now that this was the only reason Sebastian had volunteered to be his guide. Ben turned his horse around and soon regained the road that led to Howd’s rustic retreat.

According to Myron’s map, he had only another mile or so to go. Ben squinted through the drizzle, trying to see up ahead. Even below Sundown, where the country had been low and flat, groves of fern had grown out onto the trail. Here the woodland path was only wide enough for a single horseman and wound through the forest in serpentine loops that obscured his view of anything more than a dozen feet ahead.

It became even more rutted and winding as he rode higher, following the course of a creek off to his left. Ben suspected he’d make better time on foot. He was tempted to dismount and go the rest of the way by shanks’ mare. The only thing that stopped him was his knowledge that here in New York State, in contrast to Maine, some of the snakes were poisonous. It would be far too easy to step on one in this rough terrain.

Without warning, the rain stopped and the sun broke through the clouds, revealing a glistening green world alive with small creatures. Ben watched as a red squirrel dashed up a nearby locust, came down again next to a cedar, and finally jumped to its home in a woodpecker’s hole. A porcupine, disturbed by the passage of a human through its domain, chattered shrilly, setting Ben’s teeth on edge. Small as it was, the porcupine was one of the few animals he feared encountering in the woods. The damage it could do to him, and his horse, didn’t bear thinking about. Fortunately, he did not catch sight of the creature, though he did notice a hemlock it had stripped of its bark.

Rounding the next bend, he came suddenly upon a substantial dwelling and recognized it from the description he’d been given as what had once been the first Grant venture into innkeeping. The former hostelry and trading post had a dilapidated appearance, having been built at least a hundred years earlier, but looked structurally sound.

In the old days, Ben supposed, this obscure track had probably passed for a highway. Surrounded by wilderness, the old Indian trails had provided vital links to civilization. Only later, when villages and hamlets sprang up closer to substantial bodies of water, would a place like this have been bypassed.

“Howd Grant?” Ben called. “You in there?”

Ben had not allowed himself to consider that he might have made this trip for nothing, that Howd might have taken off for parts unknown to avoid arrest for murder. Still, he was relieved when Grant came around the corner of the building, blinking in surprise.

“Why, Dr. Northcote.” Howd looked puzzled to see him, as well he might. “I was just examining some tracks. Mink, I suspect. The creature leaves rather distinctive five-toed footprints.” He blinked owlishly. “Is something wrong?”

“You could say that,” Ben answered, dismounting. “Norman Saugus has been murdered.”

Blanching, his expression alarmed, Howd had trouble getting his next question out: “Who k-k-killed him?”

“We don’t know. We’re hoping you can help eliminate one or two possibilities.”

“You’d better come in,” he said, and led the way into the house.

Ben had expected it to be rough and it was, with no running water and only oil lamps for light. He was unsurprised to discover that large windows had been cut in both the back walls and the roof to create an artist’s studio. What did take him aback were the objects decorating the place. In among the sketchpads full of drawings and easels holding half-completed water colors, were dozens of stuffed animals and birds. On one wall a huge, glass-fronted case held a butterfly collection.

“Do you do the taxidermy yourself?” Ben asked, indicating a perfectly preserved hawk, wings outstretched.

“Yes. Beautiful, aren’t they? They help me with the fine points when my preliminary sketches in the wild don’t show enough detail.”

Ben nodded agreeably, but he studied Howd with new eyes as the naturalist heated coffee on a wood stove and served it up in chipped china cups. Perhaps he’d been too hasty to rule out Howd Grant as a suspect. Elmer Castine had said he had a temper, but Ben had taken Grant for a mild-mannered fellow because of the art he produced.

He should have remembered that naturalists were also scientists, a breed that, as a whole, put gaining greater knowledge of their subjects above any suffering those subjects might endure. Ben had first-hand experience of the way supposedly humane physicians, in the name of research, treated patients in insane asylums.

He accepted the coffee and drank half the contents of the cup. He hadn’t realized how chilled he’d become on the ride.

“That one’s a coon that used to live in a hollow beech near here,” Howd said, pointing to a specimen, “and those are snowshoe hares from the willow swamp. There was a pine marten up in the trees I was hoping to trap. That’s a big weasel with a spot of yellow on its brown throat.”

“I’m familiar with the creature,” Ben assured him. “Although Bangor is a city, it is surrounded by farms and forest. My medical practice regularly takes me out into the countryside.” In addition, in years past, he had climbed mountains for recreation. “Ever have a problem with wolverines?” he asked.

“Neither wolverines or fishers ever lived in the Catskills in any numbers.”

“What about bobcats?”