Who Page 10

“My book!” exclaimed Goldie.

  Tamaya turned it over in her hand and then rested it on her lap. “Where did you find it!”

  “In Miss Tisbe’s room, Madame. It was on the nightstand.” The explanation was immediately embraced, and all eyes fell upon the sister.

  “I can explain!” Tisbe cried, dodging silent accusations. “I didn’t know it was yours, Ms. Rosebud. It was given to me.”

  “Given to you?” repeated Peri softy.

  “Yes, really, the night Javotte and I first arrived. I told you, we went into the tavern for a glass of port.”

  “Whiskey!” scolded Goldie.

  “Let her talk!” instructed Peri. “Go on, Dear,” the lawyer said, turning to the sister.

  “We were sitting at a table when a boy, no, a youth, came up and said he had a book that he thought we might like to read. We told him we weren’t interested. But then he said it was valuable and had overheard we were going to be visiting Ms. Rosebud. He asked if we would take it there because it belonged to the lady of the house.”

  “And who was this boy?” Wolfe interrupted. “I don’t suppose you remember his name. Or perhaps I might assist you. Was his name Reggie?”

  “Reggie? I’m not sure. Maybe, yes, oh it could have been, but I can’t remember,” the sister said, holding back tears.

  “Then why didn’t you just return it to Tamaya when you arrived?” Harold interjected. “Was it because you now knew it was valuable. Maybe you wanted to keep it; maybe you wanted to see if you could get more of these books. Maybe YOU and your sister conspired together to steal more, and when she got greedy, you KILLED HER!”

  “Good Lord, stop it! No, no, that’s not what happened!” Tisbe sobbed. “I forgot, I forgot I had the book! I love my sister; I love her!”

  “Good try, Harold,” charged Goldie. “But that theory doesn’t fly; she didn’t have a motive to off Norman or Ray.”

  “True,” the opinionated man said and looked over at the pitiful woman who continued to sniffle. “But you have to admit I did a damn good job of cross-examining.”

  “Damn stupid,” accused the lawyer. “More like an interrogation.”

  But for all that, the challenge was notably unsuccessful, and the sudden shifting of sentiments quickly changed to a more positive mood when Salisbury began to offer drinks. Wolfe, who now stationed himself by the mantle, mentally postulated what he was going to say. He was in no mood for chit chat and chastised himself for his part in what he considered a charade. He had a good mind to leave, yet, the stigma of being an ex-con offered him no other decision but to remain until the police could exonerate him.

  “I will begin,” said Harold. “That is if you all agree.” He stood up and crossed the room, adding some ginger ale to his glass of whiskey. He felt lightheaded and wondered if perhaps he had been too hasty with his invitation to speak first.

  “Madame,” interrupted Salisbury. “I don’t wish to be a killjoy; but I could use a bit of help in the kitchen.”

  “Help?” inquired the hostess.

  “With the onions.”

  “Oh, I forgot,” she acknowledged. “He’s got allergies.”

  “To onions?” mocked Goldie.

  “No, to the turnips.”

  “To the turnips,” echoed Tisbe a bit amused.

  “Yes, we keep the onions in the cellar with the turnips and other root vegetables,” explained Ms. Rosebud.

  “I see, so he needs someone to get the turnips?” inquired the sister.

  “No, the onions,” protested Wolfe with annoyance.

  No one stirred. Distrust now dominated their lackluster dispositions. “Perhaps we all should venture to the cellar if no one is willing to take a risk,” offered the lawyer.

  “Maybe we can do without onions,” Salisbury said. “However, my rice pilaf will not be the same without sautéed onions.”

  “The man is right; we need the onions. I’ll go, but don’t start without me,” groaned Harold.

  “We can’t, you’re starting first,” reminded Tamaya with a slight shiver. “I need my sweater; I’m a bit chilly. Wolfe, would you be a dear and pour me a drink, light on the ice, and no ginger ale. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Well, if we’re all getting up, I need to powder my nose,” quipped Goldie.

  “And if everyone is leaving, I’m going to stretch my legs and return the book to the shelf,” volunteered Tisbe.

  There were now just two in the room, Peri Cason and Wolfe. “Forgive me for being so suspicious,” the lawyer said. “It was not fair of me.”

  “Fair, I don’t even know the meaning of the word anymore,” Wolfe said dryly.

  “No, you’ve had a time of it,” the lawyer admitted.

  They both sipped their drinks in silence; however, Wolfe felt no remorse for the dislike he felt for the woman. She was judgmental and boastful, a trait that he found more than loathsome. He moved away from the mantle and leaned against the wall where he could observe the whole room. Soon they would be reassembled, and she, Dr. Cason, would play the role she preferred, attorney. He gulped his drink and winced. “What the hell is keeping everyone?” he said.

  There was a brisk shuffle of feet as Tisbe entered, looking frazzled. “Did you hear that!” she stuttered. “It sounded like something fell!”

  “I don’t hear anything,” grimaced Wolfe.

  “Me neither, but we’ve been in here waiting for everyone,” reminded Miss Cason.

  “Then, you’re both deaf!” squawked Goldie. “I heard it too!” With her nose freshly powdered and her cheeks rouged, she resembled a kewpie doll. “Shhhh,” she signaled. But there was nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. The old clock tapped a predictable beat, and the faint patter of rain had become routine.

  Upstairs everything was quiet until the tap tap tap of Tamaya’s cane moved down the stairs. She reached the bottom step and sighed. “I thought you went up for your sweater,” Tisbe asked, inspecting the woman who sheepishly returned to her chair.

  “I couldn’t find it,” remarked the woman, a bit out of breath. Mr. Wolfe handed her the whiskey and sat in the chair next to her. “Well, except for Harold, we’re all accounted for.”

  “He’s so damn persnickety, probably going through the onions as if he were choosing a date,” joked Goldie conjuring up an image of the paunchy man examining the bulbs one by one. “He takes his food too damn seriously, kind of like you, Wolfe.”

  “Me, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Please, I can’t think with all this arguing!” whined Tisbe.

  “And what have you got to think about?” goaded Goldie.

  “Oh, you are insufferable!” complained the sister. “I will be so happy to get out of this house!”

  “Make that the two of us!” winked Goldie. “Finally, we can agree on something!”

  “Did Mr. Harold return with the onions?” Picking a thread off his trousers, Salisbury paused by the doorway and then entered. His white apron remarkably well-pressed, and except for a tiny dab of olive oil, he was exceptionally neat.

  Peri Cason slowly rose and, with wide eyes, approached the houseman. “He didn’t come back up?”

  “I didn’t even know that he had gone to the cellar, and furthermore, I can’t begin to saute without my onions,” repeated Salisbury, this time addressing the hostess. “Time is critical, and when the oil is ready, then the onions must go in.”

  Tamaya tapped her fingers impatiently against the armrest. “Then, I suppose you should call down to him and ask him what’s taking so long.”

  “Me, Madame?” However, by the look on her face, the houseman understood she was in one of her moods. “Of course, I will call down.”

  “Don’t bother, Salisbury I’ll go see what the old boy is up to,” Goldie volunteered.

  “If you will follow me, M
s. Hildebrandt, I will take you to the cellar stairwell.” And as he glided away, the old woman trailed behind muttering a shameful bit of expletives.

  ***

  The eye of the lighthouse appears at night like a nocturnal animal. Reggie completed his watch and waited for his father to came up with his snack. “Looks like the weather is going to clear soon,” Reggie exclaimed. Jay set the cornbread and milk on the workbench and sat down on the edge of the cot. He turned to his son and shook his head.

  “Are we looking at the same horizon?”

  Reggie stood up and leaned lightly against the pane. The signal beam was on a new rotation as he turned to his father. “I can’t see it.”

  “Precisely, neither do I.”

  “Oh,” the boy said and sat back down, reaching for his bread. “When will you take the ferry back out?”

  “When I can see the horizon.”

  ***

  “He’s not there!”

  “Not there?” repeated Salisbury.

  “That’s what I said; he’s not in the cellar.” Goldie closed the door behind her and took no time in citing her disgust. “Too damn stuffy in that stairwell! I called down to him, but all I got back was my echo.”

  “Oh, then I wonder where my onions are,” mumbled the houseman.

  “Hell if I know!”

  “Well, my rice pilaf will not be quite as good without them. But I suppose I could substitute onions with a few shallots,” he said.

  “Why don’t you just do that while I go in and let the rest know that Harold is missing!” she gripped.

  “Oh, I doubt he is missing, Madame.”

  “Well then, maybe we just misplaced him!” Goldie suggested, and walking away, turned back into the library. “He’s not there,” Goldie announced.

  “Not in the cellar?” Tisbe fretted.

  “Nope, and he’s too big to lose, which means he either left the premises or never made it downstairs.”

  “Oh that wily son-of-a-gun, I bet he left. I bet he left!” fumed Wolfe.

  “I doubt it,” remarked the hostess. “Unless he had a cab or coach, he would never have walked. Mark my words, he will turn up,” noted the hostess with authority.

  “She’s right, he’s not the type to walk very far,” agreed Peri Cason. “As soon as it’s dinnertime, he’ll come out from his hiding place like a hungry puppy.”

  For the first time in several days, there was laughter. Even Wolfe cracked a smile at the notion of Harold Dover retreating from behind the sofa. For several minutes each guest delighted in offering their rendition of where the pompous man might hold-up: the bathroom, the bedroom, even in the cupboard. Still, no one mentioned that he actually could be in trouble. The perceivable conclusion might have crossed their minds, but they were having too much fun at his expense to ruin their amusement. The noisy room resumed their mockery with cartoonish imitations and lampooning the boorish man; up until Tisbe, shrouded in fear, flitted down the stairs.

  “Oh my heavens, oh dear, my heart cannot take anymore!” she moaned and stumbled down the last few steps. Wolfe was the first to see the spinster trip and helped her to her feet. But before he could ask what had happened, the dread on her face imparted all the words needed to know something was wrong.

  “What is it? What has happened,” cried Ms. Rosebud.

  “It’s Harold,” Tisbe moaned, “he’s had an accident! I tried to help him, but he’s so, so..”

  “So what, woman, damn it, tell us, so what?” demanded Wolfe.

  “I think he’s…”

  “Dead?” questioned Wolfe.

  “Yes, oh, it’s so horrible!” said Tisbe in an agitated whisper.

  But as the word dead fell from the trembling woman’s lips, Peri Cason’s gasp deepened into a groan of disbelief. She ran down the hallway and then stopped at the rear staircase that led to the cellar. The door was open wide enough to see Harold Dover face down in the stairwell surrounded by onions. “He must have tripped coming up! Those damn things are everywhere!” Peri announced as she tossed an onion over the balcony.

  “He was only supposed to get one,” explained Tamaya who had followed behind. “My poor dear, Harold.” She glared at the man and poked him with her cane. “Oh, dear, I believe Harold is gone.”

  There was now a gathering at the open doorway. Goldie, Tisbe, Wolfe, Peri, and Salisbury, who too had heard the commotion, gathered around and leaned over one another to get a good look at the large fellow.

  “I suppose you want me to take him to the wine cellar, Madame.” The butler exhaled an exasperated sigh after he spoke.

  “That would be very good, Salisbury. Perhaps by way of these back stairs,” she said, pointing at the open doorway.

  “If I could just get a few of these onions first,” he said, and excusing himself from the others, proceeded to gather an apronful.

  “For heaven’s sake!” Peri groaned. “How can you think of food at a time like this? We have another dead body, and for all we know, he was murdered!”

  “Oh, don’t be such an old fogey,” snarled Goldie. “Salisbury is only thinking of us! Besides, he doesn’t look murdered to me!”

  “And since when are you an expert on murder?”

  “I never said I was; it just seems obvious that a runaway onion killed him!” Goldie pointed out.

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. Wolfe, as soon as I put these in the kitchen, I could use your assistance taking Mr. Harold to the cooler,” petitioned Salisbury.

  “And then we will eat,” announced the hostess. “In the meantime, ladies, join me in a glass of port. I know that’s what Harold would want us to do.”

  After what seemed to be the better part of an hour, Mr. Wolfe rejoined the guests. “Well, we better find out who’s the killer, or we’ll run out of room in the wine cellar,” laughed Wolfe morbidly. He handed Tamaya two bottles of Chablis. “We had to make space for Harold’s arms, so I figured we could all take one for the team.”

  “I’m still not convinced the killer is anyone here,” Tamaya said confidently. She placed the wine bottles on the dinner table and escorted the four remaining guests to their seats. “I’ve hosted many parties and let it be known; no one has ever left unhappy.”

  “Or dead?” asked Wolfe.

  “Well, no, not dead. Maybe a bit tipsy, but dead, never.” She gestured for everyone to take their seats and then leaned her cane against the table. “I hope everyone is hungry,” and with a forced smile, she sat down.

  Salisbury entered and glided about as if on air. “I believe Mr. Harold left this behind,” he said and handed a small-caliber pistol to the hostess. “It must have fallen from his person when he fell.”

  “Well, that settles it, my dear Harold wasn’t the killer, or else he would have used this on one of us,” claimed Tamaya placing the weapon on her lap.

  “Or perhaps he was the killer and just didn’t have time to use it,” snapped Goldie.

  “Don’t you think you better get rid of the gun?” Peri asked warily.

  “Allow me, Madame, I can put it here,” Salisbury suggested, and with a look of glee, Tamaya handily handed over the pistol. All eyes turned to the buffet where it was placed under the lid of the soup tureen.

  “Well, now that that’s out of the way, we can proceed. A toast! What shall we toast to?” Ms. Rosebud asked and lifted her glass towards the chandelier.

  “To the last man or woman standing,” teased Tisbe.

  “My, my, you have a sense of humor,” goaded Wolfe to the sister. “A new side?”

  “Not really. With Harold in the wine cellar, I can safely say I am vindicated of any wrongdoing. After all, I was the last one who wanted to take the deal. And with him gone, there is no deal. So, you see, I have no motive.”

  “To the last one standing!” chanted the guests, all except Peri, who was preoccu
pied with the sister’s last remark. As soon as the glasses were set back on the table, Salisbury busied himself with refills and opening more Chablis.

  “You have a good point,” Peri acknowledged.

  Ms. Rosebud, who had already finished her second glass of Chablis, was leaning over her plate, picking at the shallots. “You know,” she exclaimed, taking another bite, “Salisbury is quite correct. His rice pilaf is better with onions.”

  Chapter 12

  Peri Cason opened her notebook to a new page and began to scribble. Her wit was about to be tested. The gun was in the soup tureen, Tisbe was too naïve to be a probable suspect, which left Wolfe, Goldie, Tamaya, and Salisbury. The houseman was the wild card. She tapped her pencil against the pad and stared at the portrait hanging next to the dresser. It was a painting of a dog. She screwed her nose up at the canine; she disliked dogs ever since she had been nipped at by her aunt’s Pekingese years ago. A spirit of the unpleasant memory took hold of the woman when a faint knock on the door quickly disbanded her daydream. Cason looked at her watch; it was past eleven. She hesitated and scrambled to find something she could use to defend herself. If need be, she’d throw the desk chair at the intruder. The knock came again, louder this time. “Just a minute.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and cracked open the door. It was Tisbe, dressed in a high collar pink dressing gown and house slippers. Cason pulled open the door wider.

  “I haven’t woken you, have I?” the sister asked.

  “No,” said the lawyer, still clutching the doorknob, “I was just working.”

  “I know it’s late, but I wanted to bring this to you.” The woman handed her a cup of warm milk. “I saw the light under the door and thought maybe you could use this to help you sleep,” she said.

  Peri looked at the tray and smiled. “This takes me back to when I was a little girl. I haven’t had warm milk in ages.”

  “It’s even better now,” Tisbe said, garnishing a smile. “I just thought you might enjoy it more with a drop of whiskey. I helped myself to a cup too.”

  Peri lifted the saucer. “I’ll take mine in my room, thanks.”

  “Me too, in my room,” the woman whispered and giggled like a schoolgirl. “Sweet dreams!”