my desk five minutes before I realized that it was going to be one of those workdays that ended with me wanting to drink my feelings. Every article that landed on my desk had a same-day deadline and most appeared, by my addled brain anyway, to be written in Greek. Using both FactCheck.org and large amounts of coffee, I was able to get a majority of the work done. Unfortunately, it was a little ditty written by one Arthur MacArthur (if that was indeed his real name) that was my undoing: a two-thousand-word opus on the migratory habits of the Baltimore oriole. It took me a good five hundred words in to realize he wasn’t talking about the baseball team. By the time I finished, I had a headache, my neck hurt, and I had taken a real dislike to both Arthur MacArthur and his stupid birds. That’s about the time Kit called, wanting to know when I was returning to her house and if I could babysit Pauly that night. She wasn’t happy with either of my responses. “I don’t see why Ann thinks she needs you there,” Kit groused. “I hope you haven’t been pretending that you can actually find out who killed Michael. I’d hate to think that you’re staying there under false pretenses.”
“False pretenses! I’m helping her organize the items that Uncle Marty specified in his will and offering moral support while the police conduct their investigation.”
“Ha! You’re pretending to be Jane Marple is what you’re doing,” she shot back.
“I am doing no such thing,” I angrily bit out. Jane Marple. Please. Granted, she was a brilliant detective, but she also was a frail old woman who enjoyed bird watching and knitting. If I was going to emulate any of the women sleuths from the Golden Age, it would be Adela Bradley. Mrs. Bradley was breezy, fashionable, and devastatingly clever; she also drank gin and, perhaps more important, had no earthly desire to knit. Or maybe it was the other way around.
Kit ended the call by tersely reminding me that I’d promised to babysit next Tuesday. I forced myself to respond pleasantly and almost pulled a muscle in the process. I hung up, refusing to let myself dwell on the call. After all, I was a very busy and important career woman with much to do. For instance, I had to organize a birthday celebration for Sharon. I knew she’d like the idea because she actually e-mailed me the suggestion. The one hiccup in the plan was that on the likability scale, Sharon runs a close second to Dickey. However, lured by the anticipation of cake, the staff dutifully crowded around the conference table and sang an off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.” Unfortunately, they all left with empty stomachs and grumpy at me because Sharon is on a diet and refused to let me buy a cake. We celebrated with celery sticks and carrots. Yeah. Happy birthday, Sharon.
I was still irritably pulling celery strings from my teeth when Ann called. However, within a matter of seconds my irritation with the celery was replaced by another emotion—uneasy foreboding.
“Joe called,” Ann said without preamble. “The coroner’s report came in. It’s official. Michael was murdered.”
“I’m sorry, Ann,” I said. “I really am.”
She sighed. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. I mean, I didn’t really think it was an accident that he wound up under the pool, but still…”
“It would have been nice to hear that it was all some terrible mistake,” I finished. “I know. I wish it was a mistake, too. Did Joe say anything else?”
“Yes,” Ann said after a moment’s pause. “He wants to talk to us again, at the house tonight. Actually, I think he really just wants to talk with Reggie again, but he’s covering that by asking to meet with us all.”
“Why do you think Joe wants to talk to Reggie in particular?”
“I don’t know. It was nothing he said, it was just that…”
“You just know him,” I finished.
“Yeah, something like that,” she said with a sigh. “Can you…”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I left work as soon as I could, stopped by Kit’s to grab some more clothes, and rushed back to Uncle Marty’s house. The rest of the family had already arrived. I heard a tangle of raised voices—Reggie’s, Frances’s, Scott’s, Laura’s, and Miles’s—coming from the living room. As I peeked in, Ann saw me and made her way toward me, her shoulders slumped. “Thank God you’re finally here,” she muttered. “They’re driving me crazy with questions. Like
“Is Joe here yet?” I asked, shrugging out of my coat.
“No, but I expect him any minute.”
No sooner were the words out of Ann’s mouth than there was a rap on the door. The voices fell silent and Ann turned to me, her eyes wary. “Showtime, I guess,” she said and reached to open the door.
As expected, it was Joe who stood uneasily on the front steps. At his side once again was Sergeant Beal. From the thoughtful way she eyed Ann, I suspected that she knew of Joe and Ann’s past. I didn’t get the impression she viewed this information through unbiased eyes.
“Hello, Joe. Sergeant Beal,” Ann said, opening the door wider. “Won’t you come in? Everyone is in the living room.”
“Thank you,” Joe said. He shot Ann a quick look that seemed to express discomfort at having to be here at all. Ann ducked her head in silent acknowledgment before proceeding into the living room.
The uneasy silence that pervaded the room abruptly ended with Joe’s arrival. Scarlett gave a happy bark and scampered over to him while Frances snapped, “Why exactly have you asked to talk to us again? Nothing has changed since last night.”
“Well, actually one thing has changed,” Joe said as he dodged Scarlett’s advances. “I received the coroner’s report. Michael was definitely murdered. His skull was fractured. It appears he was hit with something hard and heavy.”
A brief silence met these words. After a beat, Frances shrugged and said, “Well, did anyone really think it was anything other than murder? I mean, the man was buried under the pool, for God’s sake!”
“If I recall correctly,” said Sergeant Beal with a studied glance at her notebook, “
“I do apologize for the inconvenience,” Joe said evenly, “but in light of the report, I wanted to make sure that I had everything I needed from you. Then I can move on with the investigation.”
Ann moved out from behind Joe. “Won’t you two have a seat?” she asked, indicating the empty couch. Both Joe and Sergeant Beal sat down. Ann and I found seats as well. All eyes turned questioningly to Joe, but it was Sergeant Beal who began the interview.
“Ms. Ames,” she said, turning to Reggie and glancing down at her notebook, “I wanted to go over again the last time you saw the deceased. You said that you ended the relationship with him because of his excessive drinking. Is that correct?”
Reggie smoothed the lines of her skirt before answering. “Yes, that’s right. I felt that his drinking was starting to change him. I didn’t like it.”
Sergeant Beal nodded sympathetically. “I can imagine. What was his reaction to your ending things?”
Reggie’s eyes narrowed. “He was disappointed, of course. I already told you this.”
“I know,” said Sergeant Beal with an apologetic smile. “Please forgive me, it’s just for the report. I have to get every detail.”
From the way the corner of Reggie’s mouth curled, I don’t think she was buying Sergeant Beal’s whole “good cop” routine.
“So,” Sergeant Beal continued, “you say he was disappointed. Was he anything else?”
Reggie stiffened. “What else would he be?”
Sergeant Beal spread out her hands. “Well, was he perhaps angry? I mean, I would imagine that he’d be pretty angry. By ending your relationship with him, wouldn’t you also be ending his shot to take over the company? I mean, I don’t know about
Reggie’s eyes narrowed until they were mere slits. “What exactly are you getting at?”
Sergeant Beal’s hands fluttered as if she was trying to find the right words to express herself. “Just that if he thought that he was not only losing you but also the chance to control the company, he might react with an emotion stronger than disappointment. He might, in fact, have been angry. Very angry. Since by your own account he was drinking very heavily that night, he might not have been able to control his anger.”
