Chapter Twenty-Six

We screeched to a halt in front of the beach house. Uncle Amos’s car was in the driveway, the trunk open. He stood in the midst of a cluster of suitcases and travel bags, mentally scratching his head as he wondered how he was going to fit them all in.

“I have no physical evidence,” I said to Steph. “Nothing the police can take to court. I need you to keep your eyes and ears open for anything that can be used.”

“I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.”

“Good. That way you have an open mind.”

“So open,” she said, “everything I know is in danger of falling out.”

We got out of the car as a cruiser containing Sam Watson and Detective Yarmouth pulled up behind us.

“I don’t like being given orders by civilians.” It would appear Yarmouth had been called away from his coffee break. Crumbs and a sprinkling of colored sugar dotted his shirt front. A gust of wind lifted the strands of long hair off his head. “First we’re being told to come to some bar, and then we’re yanked around and ordered to come here. If you’re wasting my time, Ms. Richardson, I’ll have you arrested.”

“Assisting the police by providing information pertinent to a crime is never a crime, Detective,” Steph said.

He took in her expensive coat, her shoes, and most of all her tone of voice and demeanor. “And you are?”

“Stephanie Stanton, attorney and partner in O’Malley Stanton.”

“What are y’all doing here?” Uncle Amos said. “We’re about to leave for the airport.”

“I’m afraid your guests are going to miss their plane,” I said. “Are they all here?”

“Inside with Ellen.”

“Let’s not keep them waiting. Detectives, will you join us, please.” I marched up the path, willing the others to follow. I tried to make my steps strong and determined, to look as though I was fully confident of my facts.

I was anything but.

I knew what had happened to Mirabelle. I knew why. Proving it was another matter entirely, but once the Louisiana Mafia, as Josie called them, had gone home, I’d not get another chance.

The group was standing in the front hall. Gloria, Mary Anna, and Florence had their coats on and purses in hand. Gloria leaned on her cane. Aunt Ellen and Josie were with them.

“You’re in time to say goodbye,” Aunt Ellen said as I came in. She blinked when she saw the crowd behind me. “Goodness, what are all these people doing here?”

“How’s everything going at the bakery?” I asked Josie.

“We’ll be ready to open tomorrow. Hello, Detective. Uh … Detectives. Is there a problem?”

“Not with the bakery,” I said. “Shall we go into the living room? Gloria, at least, should sit down.”

“It’s nice to see you, dear,” Gloria said, “but we don’t have time for a visit. We’re late as it is. Florence misplaced my pocketbook and I can’t fly without identification. Once, the word of a lady would have been …”

“I did not misplace anything,” Florence said. “I told you I’d look after it for you, but you insisted on keeping it. And then you lost it.”

“If you must blame me for your carelessness, dear, go ahead.” Gloria patted her hair; her rings flashed in the light from the hallway lamp. Not many people dress up to fly these days. Florence wore jeans and Mary Anna was in a loose blouse and skirt. Gloria sported a baby-blue Chanel suit with pearls.

“Enough, please,” Mary Anna said. “You know full well you had it last, Mama.”

“I know nothing …

“Living room,” I said. “Now. New evidence has been uncovered in the death of Mirabelle, and the police are here because of it. If you have to miss your plane, so be it. There are others.”

“But then I’ll have to pay for another ticket,” Gloria said.

“At least you can afford it,” Florence said. “Some of us can’t.”

Mary Anna groaned. “I just want to go home.”

Aunt Ellen rolled her eyes. She seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.

“Let’s hear what Lucy has to say,” Uncle Amos said.

“Might as well,” Yarmouth said, “as long as I’m here. Before I arrest the lot of you.”

I led the way into the living room and everyone followed. Gloria sat in Amos’s leather chair, and Mary Anna and Florence took the love seat. Aunt Ellen sunk onto the couch with a deep sigh, and Steph joined her. I tried to give Ellen an encouraging smile. Unfortunately for my aunt and uncle, if my plan worked out, at least two of their guests would be staying a few more days.

Uncle Amos, Sam Watson, Detective Yarmouth, and Josie leaned against the walls. Yarmouth planted his feet far apart and crossed his arms over his chest with a scowl that would frighten small children. I told myself he didn’t frighten me. I don’t think I convinced me.

I took a deep breath.

What would Lord Peter Wimsey do?

He’d lay out the facts as he knew them, calmly, professionally. He’d draw logical, inescapable conclusions from those facts, and allow others to do the same. He would then instruct the officers of the law to arrest the culprit, and they would do so.

I glanced at Stephanie, sitting primly on the edge of the couch, her knees together, hands in her lap. She could be my Harriet Vane, ready to leap in and support my Lord Peter when a point needed clarification.

Perhaps I should have told Steph ahead of time what I was thinking so she could do that.

“Get on with it,” Yarmouth said. “We haven’t got all day here.”

“Louise Jane McKaughnan was right,” I said.

“Lucy,” Watson said. “You suffered a traumatic incident last night. If you’re going to tell us the ghost of a Civil War bride or a lighthouse keeper’s son killed Mirabelle Henkel, I’ll excuse you on the grounds that you aren’t thinking straight.”

“Bear with me, please,” I said. “As some of you probably know, Detective Watson is referring to an attack made upon me last night.”

Aunt Ellen and Uncle Amos nodded. They knew about it, probably from Connor. Gloria gasped. Florence said, “What happened?” and Mary Anna said, “This town isn’t safe. I want to go home.”

Josie’s face was a picture of shock. “When did that happen? Where? Who? Have they been arrested?”

“It happened shortly after you left Grace’s place. Someone tried to drown me in the hot tub. As you can see, they were not successful. And no, they have not been arrested, not yet, but the police know who it was.”

“We do?” Yarmouth said.

“You will when I tell you,” I said. “But this is more important.”

“More important than an attempt on your life?” Uncle Amos turned to Watson. “Sam, what do you know about this?”

“No more than you,” Watson said. “As is increasingly becoming the norm when Lucy’s involved.”

“Which is all too often the case,” Aunt Ellen said.

Everyone began talking at once. I seemed to be losing control of the narrative. I didn’t recall that ever happening to Lord Peter Wimsey.

“Let Lucy continue.” Steph used her court voice to cut through the chatter. “Everyone has questions, but you won’t let her talk.”

“Thank you, Harriet,” I said.

“Who?”

“Never mind. Where was I? Oh, yes, last night. At first, I thought the attack on me was related to the murder of Mirabelle. When I confronted my attacker …”

“What do you mean, at first?” Josie asked.

“When did you do that?” Aunt Ellen asked.

“That was not wise,” Uncle Amos said. “Stephanie, were you with her?”

“Don’t look at me,” Steph said. “You try stopping her.”

“You concluded that the events of last night were not related to the killing,” Watson said. “Not directly anyway, thus the abrupt turnaround.”

“That’s right. Toni Ambrose attacked me …”

Josie groaned. Several people said, “Who?”

“You might want to go around to her place soon as we’re finished here.” I spoke to Watson. “She’s about to do a runner. Her attack on me had been a case of getting the wrong person.”

“You mean she was after me?” Josie asked.

“Yes, I do.”

Josie groaned.

“Who is this woman?” Aunt Ellen asked.

I didn’t answer. “Steph and I paid a call on Toni this morning. She never intended to harm me; she didn’t even realize I’d been the one in the hot tub. Last night, she thought I was Josie. When I understood that, I remembered what Louise Jane said about the death of Mirabelle. That the spirits of the lighthouse intended to kill the bride-to-be, but they got the wrong person because they don’t know what gluten-free means.”

“Okay,” Yarmouth said. “I’m outta here. Detective Watson, I suggest you place this woman under medical supervision.”

“Not so fast,” Watson said. “I think she might be onto something. Although it’s taking her forever to say it. Go ahead, Lucy.”

I looked around the room. Everyone was watching me, but one person in particular had gone very pale.

“When they first got here, Florence, Mary Anna, and Mirabelle were staying at the Ocean Side Hotel, where they had separate rooms.”

“That’s right,” Mary Anna said.

“Florence and Mary Anna arrived at the shower together, and you, Gloria, came with Mirabelle.”

“Yes,” Ellen said. “I came early, so someone had to pick up Gloria.”

“That means the three of them—Florence, Mary Anna, and Mirabelle—had rented two cars, not one.”

“Which is correct,” Gloria said. “Total waste of money. I told them that, but young people these days …”

“What of it?” Mary Anna said. “Amos, please put a stop to this. I want to go home. If we leave now and drive quickly, we might still be able to catch our flight.”

“I want to hear what she has to say,” Gloria said. “Carry on, young lady.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Three hotel rooms and two rental cars meant one person had the opportunity to go out on Sunday before the shower without the others knowing. Perhaps she went to Josie’s bakery to have an early lunch. Maybe for a chat. Or it might be that she was simply out for a drive. Regardless of her reason for being there, she saw Josie putting the baked goods she’d prepared for the shower into her car and leaving them there. She decided to have a peek. The plate of gluten-free desserts was in a separate box and clearly marked as such.”

“You’re telling us what we already know,” Yarmouth said. “The outlines of it anyway. Who’s the important thing, and you don’t seem to be getting anywhere with that.”

“Mirabelle had switched to a gluten-free diet only a week before she died. It was therefore logical for us … I mean the police, to conclude the drugs added to the food on the special plate were intended for her. But someone else in this room had recently given up gluten-free in favor of Josie’s baking.”

Gloria lifted her hand to her mouth.

I turned to look directly at Florence. “You and Mirabelle were business partners, but you weren’t at all close. You didn’t like each other.”

“You’re right about that,” Florence said. “I couldn’t stand her. I wanted her out of my business, but she’d managed to dig herself in so deep, I’m in desperate straits without her. No way did I want Mirabelle to die.”

“I agree, you didn’t. You had no reason and no desire to kill her, but you weren’t aware she’d begun eating gluten-free.”

Florence glanced around the room. She let out a broken laugh. “Of course I knew. Can you imagine Mirabelle not talking about something like that?”

“I can’t imagine her not making a big deal of it, but I can imagine you not hearing her. You told me you tuned her out most of the time. I suspect you tuned out a lot of things. On the other hand, you didn’t know Gloria had given up gluten-free, did you?”

“Everyone knew that.”

“No, they didn’t. Not until after Mirabelle’s death. Josie told me her grandmother has an ‘ever-changing diet.’ She follows every fad out there until the next one becomes popular. I thought nothing of it until this morning. Then I remembered that Gloria asked for crackers, not bread, when we had dinner at Jake’s the day after the New Orleans group arrived. Mirabelle thought Gloria had done so on her behalf, but … pardon me, Gloria … I don’t think Gloria’s that … considerate. A few days later, I encouraged Gloria to try one of Josie’s pecan squares.”

“And she did,” Aunt Ellen said. “She had another at the shower because she enjoyed the first one so much.”

“Ellen told Gloria to go ahead and live a little. At the time, I thought she meant not to worry about the calories. I said the same thing to Josie when we had breakfast on Saturday. But putting two and two together …”

“Lucy’s right,” Aunt Ellen said. “When Gloria arrived, she told me she was on a gluten-free diet. Frankly, it made things difficult for me. I had no idea what to prepare for meals. When we were at the bakery a few days before Mirabelle’s death, before Gloria could ask what was gluten-free, Lucy recommended the pecan squares.”

The two spots of red rouge on Gloria’s cheeks stood out like a clown’s makeup against her pale face. Her lips were a tight red slash, and she gripped her cane firmly. “Josephine’s pecan squares are what must be served in the dining room in heaven. I do not follow every fad; I attempt to take care of my health as befits a lady of my age. However, I decided then and there to forget about this gluten-free nonsense and enjoy myself in the few years I have left.” She glanced around the room, waiting for someone to tell her she had plenty of life still in her. No one obliged. They were all looking at me.

“And that,” I said, “was the case of mistaken identity. The killer poisoned the gluten-free desserts expecting Gloria, not Mirabelle, to eat them.”

“They could have gotten anyone who’d been at that party,” Yarmouth said. “Anyone or everyone. That’s a mighty desperate act.”

“Except GHB isn’t normally fatal in the dose consumed,” I said. “You have a bad heart, don’t you, Gloria?”

“Yes, I do. That’s no secret. My family knows about it.”

“So they do. Even I know. The GHB could have killed you. But Mirabelle had a bad heart too.”

“That’s what the autopsy showed,” Watson said. “We don’t think she even knew about it. She didn’t have any record of taking medication for a heart condition.”

“Mirabelle,” Mary Anna said, “was such a drama queen. She complained constantly of having every ailment going around. She never went to the doctor in fear he’d tell her she was imagining things and she should be exercising more and watching her diet.”

“Let me get all this straight,” Uncle Amos said. “Lucy, you’re saying someone in this room intended to kill my mother? But they killed Mirabelle by mistake.”

“I’m saying Florence did precisely that. Didn’t you, Florence?”

“I don’t have to listen to this nonsense.” Florence got to her feet. The look she gave me blazed with such sheer malice, I was glad I was in a room full of people. “If Amos won’t drive me to the airport, I’ll call a cab. The rest of you can do what you like.”

“Hold on there,” Watson said. “Stay where you are. Let’s hear Lucy out.”

“Talk about a drama queen. You’re not seriously listening to her, are you?” Florence glanced toward the door. Uncle Amos moved ever so slightly to block the exit.

For once Gloria was silent. She sat stiffly in her chair, her hand on the brass head of the falcon on her cane, stunned.

“Why?” Josie said what everyone was thinking.

“Gloria’s always insulting Florence,” I said. “Criticizing, nitpicking, making snide comments.”

“Gloria talks to everyone that way.” Aunt Ellen ducked her head. “Sorry, but it’s true.”

“Not entirely,” I said. “From the moment I met them, I noticed an extra dig when Gloria’s talking to or about Florence, an extra degree of pure nastiness.”

Gloria stamped her cane. “What an outrageous thing to say. I never!”

“What of it?” Florence said. “I can’t stand the miserable old bat. No one can.”

Gloria gasped.

“My father says she’s always been a joke, with her southern plantation fantasies, and Jackie O suits, and dreams of past greatness, but we have to be nice. Because she’s family, he says. What he means is because she’s rich and we want to be in on the inheritance.”

Watson took a half step forward. Yarmouth still looked confused.

Florence lifted a hand to her mouth as she realized what she’d said. She tried to cover up, and the words spilled out of her mouth. “If you want to arrest everyone who wants to kill her, you’ll have to take us all in. I should have known better than to come here, with her, but Mirabelle insisted the trip would help our company make some important contacts.”

“My mother’s not rich,” Uncle Amos said.

“Perhaps not as in multimillionaire status,” I said. “But she does have money, doesn’t she? She donated generously to the library restoration fund. She has enough to help Florence get out from under the thumb of Mirabelle and save her company. Florence asked you for money, didn’t she, Gloria? I overheard her doing so just the other day.”

“Constantly and repeatedly,” Gloria said. “Of course, I refused. I believe young people have to make their own way in the world.”

Florence glared at her.

“As I recall,” Gloria said, “I recently told her she could wait until I was in my grave for her share of the inheritance, like the rest of the family.”

“Oh, Mama,” Amos said.

“Gloria wouldn’t give you the money you needed when she was alive,” I said to Florence, “so you decided you’d have to do something to hurry that inheritance along. And get rid of the woman you hated at the same time.”

No one said a word.

“That,” I said to Florence, “is why you were so distraught at the death of Mirabelle. Not because your cousin and business partner, someone you didn’t like in the least, died, but because you got the wrong person.” I held my breath. I had not the slightest piece of evidence to back up any of my statements. I’d studied all the evidence, and I’d come to the only logical conclusion.

For several long moments, no one moved. Then Gloria rose from her chair in a swift sudden action that belied all her claims of aches and pains. She lifted her cane high and brought it crashing into the back of Florence’s right leg. Florence screamed and fell to the floor.

“Mother!” Amos yelled.

Watson and Yarmouth leapt forward, but then they hesitated. They didn’t seem to know what to do when the aggressor was a woman in her eighties.

But Florence did. She grabbed the cane, wrenched it out of Gloria’s hands, and pushed herself to her feet. Gloria fell back into the chair with a cry. Florence shifted the cane and held it like a baseball bat above Gloria’s head. “You miserable old woman. You couldn’t even die when you were supposed to.”

“Careful, Ms. Fanshaw,” Watson said. He and Yarmouth had their hands on their guns. “Don’t do anything reckless. It’s all just talk so far. Don’t make the situation worse.”

I don’t think Florence even heard him. She stared at Gloria. “Not so high-and-mighty now, are you?” Madness, hatred, and rage had twisted the younger woman’s face into something almost unrecognizable.

Gloria cowered in her chair, shriveled and old and frail and frightened. She whimpered, “Amos, do something.”

“Careful now.” Watson’s voice was calm and in control. Everyone else was frozen into position, shock written across their faces. If Florence made another move toward Gloria with the cane, Sam Watson would shoot.

What have I done?

“Florence Fanshaw, you are a guest in my house and you will put that cane down this very instant,” Aunt Ellen said. “It does not belong to you.”

Florence blinked and slowly lowered the cane. Watson leapt forward, grabbed her arms, and swung her around. He pulled cuffs off his belt and snapped them on. Yarmouth shook his head and lifted his hand from the butt of his weapon.

My legs gave way and I dropped into a chair.