The Blue Last

“We don’t know yet. I’m a detective, incidentally, and I intend to find out.”

Her look was one of utter astonishment. “You are? Did Benny send you?”

“Benny? No, he didn’t. Is he a friend?”

“My best one. He argues a lot, though. If you’re a detective, you should work out who’s trying to kill me.”

“Kill you? Why do you think that?”

“Because they already tried a bunch of times. Once was in the greenhouse.” She pointed to it. “They tried to shoot me when I was thinking about planting something in a pot. Mr. Murphy takes care of the garden.

Next time when I was asleep in my room somebody tried to choke me and smother me. Next time it was trying to poison me and Mrs. MacLeish nearly quit because she was afraid they blamed her cooking.”

Jury did not shock easily. But this compendium of crime, delivered by such a small person, in such a matter-of- fact tone, shocked him, although he doubted it had all happened. He could appreciate the melodrama in all of this. Take a child with apparently no family and put her down in the midst of one who wasn’t hers and perhaps indifferent (except for the elderly Oliver), and it would not be surprising that she might concoct this story of these attempts on her life. Still… “Tell me more about these incidents, Gemma. I mean, give me more details.”

“I was in the greenhouse, like I said. I was looking at the cuttings Mr. Murphy had in there. I was wondering when he’d plant the snowdrop bulbs. Those over there.” She pointed at the drift of snowdrops he’d noticed before, white petals with a green spot positioned with such regularity in each petal they looked painted. “They’re called Tryms. Like my name, only it’s spelled different. They’re very unusual. I planted one in a pot and looked around for the Day-Gro. I was holding my doll in my other hand, that’s when I heard the glass shatter and felt something whiz by me. I thought maybe somebody threw a rock. That’s that time.

“The second time I was in bed asleep so I can’t tell you more than I did. Something woke me up; I guess it was because I couldn’t breathe. I yanked open a window and stuck my head out. They got a doctor and they called the police again. I saw a film with a murderer in it who used to put pillows over his victims’ faces.” Gemma stopped to move her doll to a sitting position and then went on for a fascinated Jury.

“The third time I was eating spotted Dick that Mrs. MacLeish made with custard sauce. I got really sick and the doctor had to come again and said I was lucky I threw up and got rid of it. I said it was poisoned, but he didn’t think it was. That’s all.” She sat back and picked up the doll again.

Jury was winded, as if he’d been doing all the talking. “That must have been terribly frightening.”

Her silence as she looked at him suggested any fool could see that.

“The police came, did they?”

She nodded energetically.

“And did they find any bullet casings?”

“I guess that’s what you call it. It was outside on the ground. Or maybe stuck in a tree.”

“Are you sure the shooter was aiming at you, though?”

“You mean maybe they were trying to shoot the Trym bulbs?” This was said with more acidity than a nine- year-old could usually muster.

“No. I mean, what about the gardener?”

“He wasn’t there. Anyway, why would anybody want to kill him?”

“Why would anybody want to kill you?”

Thirteen

“I just don’t know, Mickey,” Jury said. “I certainly think it’s possible.”

They were in Mickey’s office and Mickey wanted to get out of it. He was up and pulling on his coat. “Pub?”

“Liberty Bounds?”

“Nah. Too far. Let’s walk, then, find a coffee.”

Jury said, “I know the perfect place. I’ve got kind of a crush on a waitress there.” It would give him more material to irritate Carole-anne with, too.

Mickey smiled. “Okay, we’re out of here.”

The cappuccino-bar-restaurant was barely three blocks from headquarters. There were more customers this morning than there had been at the weekend, but the place was large and still two-thirds empty.

The pretty waitress had taken their order, latte for Jury, house coffee and a fruit Danish for Mickey; she had been sincerely glad to see Jury again, almost as if she’d worried about his getting safely home on Saturday.

Mickey watched her walk away and smiled. “You’ve got good taste, Richie; if I weren’t a happily married man-” He held his hands out, palm upward. Then he said, “When I felt better yesterday afternoon I sent Johnny and a uniform over to pick up Kitty Riordin. Just for some friendly questioning. I didn’t want to go to Tynedale Lodge; I thought the two of us might be too much ‘police presence,’ if you know what I mean.”

“You’ve talked to her before, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. Anyway, she didn’t overdo it as far as Simon Croft was concerned. She found it ‘regrettable.’ She’d known him for a long time, ever since he was a kid, but at the same time felt she didn’t really know him. ‘He was never terribly outgoing. He had his secrets.’ ”

Jury told Mickey what he’d learned yesterday from his talk with family members. “Marie-France Muir and her memories of the Blue Last-she seems to feel it was home. She loved the place. I got the feeling she thought of that pub as a living, breathing organism. But I suppose you can never attach too much importance to a place. It filled you up when you had it, left you empty when it was gone. We’re all orphans when it comes to that.” He thought of Gemma. Left over.

“We’re all orphans anyway. You are, I am, so’s Liza.” Mickey mused. “I was lucky when it came to foster parents. It’s hard to remember they weren’t my own flesh and blood. Liza was lucky, too.” He looked at Jury. “You weren’t.” He sighed. “Had a good time, though, the three of us, didn’t we?”

“We did indeed.” Jury had forgotten that-that all of them were orphans. He wondered if that was one thing they had in common.

Mickey raised his coffee cup, half in salute and half to summon the waitress.

“Did anyone mention Gemma Trimm?”

“I don’t remember anyone named Trimm,” said Mickey, puzzled.

“I guess that’s the point, Mickey. No one said a word about her. She’s old Oliver Tynedale’s ward. She’s nine. I found her walking in the garden.” Jury told Mickey Gemma’s story.

“She was making it up, I hope.”

“Not all of it, anyway. Police found a bullet casing after it had gone through the greenhouse.”

“Thanks,” Mickey said to the waitress who refilled his cup and set down his pastry. She asked Jury if he’d like another latte.

“Just pour me some of that, thanks.”

She did, and smiled at him, and walked away.

“I’d say she’s the one that’s got the crush,” Mickey said, absently. He leaned across the table, over his folded arms. “We can’t clutter this case up with threats that don’t exist, Rich.”

“Every case is cluttered until you sort it. And stuff like this girl has to be sorted. You’re much too meticulous a cop to ignore Gemma’s story.”

Mickey took a bite of the pastry and said, around a mouthful of crumbs, “Okay, okay. I guess I’m just in a hurry. What could the motive be for killing this little girl? Who is she? She’s a ward, which keeps the Social at just beyond breathing distance. What’s her history?”

“I don’t know because I haven’t talked to Oliver Tynedale. I expect he might be the only one who does.”

Mickey frowned over his cup. “You don’t think she’s actually related to Oliver Tynedale, do you?”

“I thought about that. She could be. Her resemblance to Alexandra Tynedale is marked.”

“But not to Maisie. It couldn’t be.”

Jury laughed. “You’re pretty certain of that. But I tend to agree. There’s something about Maisie-”