His question was directed at Dwight, who said, “I never heard about the first death, only that her father had shot himself accidentally. She never described the gun, though.”
Benton raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Surely she must know. Someone in the Historical Society told me the gun’s history when I decided to give the derringer. It doesn’t seem to be a huge secret.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t know,” said Mrs. Ramos. “Of course, I’ve only been on the board since Thanksgiving.”
“Mrs. Ramos and her husband donated our new heating and cooling system,” Mayhew said in a parenthetical murmur. “And she’s been a supportive Friend of the Morrow House for years.”
“But it wasn’t until the children grew up and moved away that I’ve had time to become more involved. I can see that I still have a lot to learn.”
“The guns were unloaded, right?” asked Dwight, trying to get them back on track. “And there are no bullets for them?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Mayhew said.
“That’s what you were talking about when Betty and I came in, wasn’t it?” said Benton. “You’re afraid she’s going to follow the family tradition.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Mrs. Ramos. “I’ve been helping her take inventory this past month and there is nothing—absolutely
Radcliff’s pager buzzed and he excused himself to walk out into the hall.
“When was the last time you talked to Jonna?” Dwight asked Mrs. Ramos.
“Day before yesterday.”
“Thursday?”
“Today’s Saturday?” The treasurer for the board of trustees counted back on her fingers. “Yes, Thursday morning.”
“What time?”
“Around nine-thirty. We had both planned to come in and work on the inventory while it was quiet.” She cast a brief apologetic glance at Mayhew, who stiffened slightly at the implication that he was a distraction of any sort.
“But I had to go out of town for an emergency and I came by to say I’d be in on Friday—yesterday—to help get ready for Sunday . . . tomorrow.”
“Oh my God!” Mayhew moaned. “Tomorrow! The SHGS!”
“What happens tomorrow?” asked Dwight.
“The Shaysville Historical and Genealogical Society is supposed to meet. It’s our gala reception for the installation of officers. Jonna was going to become the new president. We even have a guest speaker coming from the Smithsonian.”
“We’ll have to call him and cancel it,” Benton said firmly. “We cannot go on now.”
Mayhew looked shocked at the suggestion. “We can’t do that without consulting with the other officers. We have to—”
He broke off as Paul Radcliff returned. He moved with purpose and spoke decisively. “I’m afraid we’re going to 10 have to put this room off-limits for the time being, Mr.
Mayhew. Do you have a key for it?”
“I’m not sure, Chief.”
“There’s one in the key cupboard,” said Mrs. Ramos.
“Shall I fetch it?”
“Here,” said Mayhew, fumbling with his keyring.
“You’ll need the cupboard key.”
“That’s okay,” said the woman, already moving through the doorway. “I’ll use the one in the vase.”
Mayhew looked at her in consternation and Dwight threw an amused glance at his friend. She had only joined the board at Thanksgiving? So much for the director thinking no one knew about that spare key.
But Radcliff did not return his grin. He gave one of the uniformed officers orders to lock the room and bring him both keys and told Futrell to pack up his bag and follow his car.
“What’s up?” asked Dwight as they stepped out into a wind that seemed to be blowing straight out of the Arc-tic.
“Jonna’s car’s been found,” he answered tersely, moving rapidly toward his patrol car.
“Is she okay? What about Cal?”
“Sorry, pal. No sign of him. Just her.”
He got into the car and Dwight followed.
“Well, what does she say? What’s she done with him?”
“I’m sorry, Dwight,” Radcliff said again. “She’s dead.”
C H A P T E R
