Chapter 39

A chill ran through me. “How . . . how can you know that?”

“Because this is not the first time I have received such an inquiry. The real Finley is directly outside my window watching his little terrier bark at ducks on the pond. After my brother’s death, while in the care of a nanny, Finley climbed upon a rather large wardrobe which fell over. He suffered a traumatic brain injury. While he is a delightful fellow, he is unable to care for himself, much less travel to America and marry.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. And I truly was.

“Every now and then a researcher tackles just this kind of injury. They’re making such strides in many fields that we remain ever hopeful that one day it will be Finley’s turn.”

“I very much hope that will happen for him.”

“Thank you, Miss Fox. In the meantime, Finley lives in a world of dogs and ducks and chocolate-marshmallow ice cream. Because we live quietly and largely off the Internet, I’m afraid Finley is a favorite target of swindlers. It’s all too easy to concoct a story about the cruel relatives from whom the impostor is estranged. I wish your friend the best, Miss Fox. I don’t know whom she married, but I can assure you that it is not the Finley Brimble who was the sole survivor of the Brimble family that died in a horrific plane crash.”

I thanked him profusely and hung up the phone. His number showed on my caller ID and I quickly entered it on my phone as a contact. I had no intention of calling him again, but I felt compelled to make a note of it.

Poor Roxie. I would have to tell Cyril. He should be the one to break it to her. But was his heart strong enough for this kind of news?

Every fiber of my being wanted to alert Roxie immediately. But how could I do that? She wouldn’t believe it if the news came from me.

Of course, it explained why he didn’t have the real Finley’s vast wealth. How many other lies had he told her?

If he wasn’t Finley, then who was he? Did Rebecca know his true identity? Was he the person she hired Ellis to find?

I shivered. Had Finley murdered Ellis because he knew the truth?

I jumped up and checked to be sure all the doors were locked. Cold to the bone, I heated water for a cup of hot, bracing tea and sat down at the table with my sketch pad. I had overlooked something so important. I had focused on the expensive clock that had been removed from the house. But the real question was: if Cyril was dead, who would benefit? I had to assume that Roxie, as his only child, would inherit his estate. How long would it be before Finley did away with her and claimed the money for himself?

I drew a rough map. From east to west, Color Me Read was farthest east. Then came Coralue’s home; the professor’s mansion, where I currently sat in the carriage house; Mags’s home; and then Balthus’s previous rental; and, beyond that, the hospital.

Finley had a great alibi for Manny’s murder because he had gone to the hospital to be with Roxie, but I didn’t ask what time he got there. Did he have an alibi for the attack on Cyril?

I texted Cyril. Can you find out from Roxie what time Finley arrived at the hospital the night you were attacked?

It was a long shot at best. But it served two purposes. It would alert Cyril to possible danger from Finley and it just might change everything that I had been thinking.

I gazed at my map and inserted events. They made absolutely no sense. The rug had allegedly been seen at Balthus’s former place, yet Manny’s body had been found at Coralue’s. And what was I to make of the coloring book at Mags’s house?

If Finley had arrived at the hospital late, then that changed everything. But why had he murdered Manny? Had Manny caught him fleeing Cyril’s house?

And why try to kill Balthus? Maybe Eric was right and there was more than one killer.

Balthus had been afraid of someone all along. What I didn’t understand was why he didn’t tell the police who had attacked him. That’s what I would have done. I had to find him and coax him into telling me who had tried to murder him. I still had some of the pumpkin cookies. I could stop at the coffee shop and buy a couple of pumpkin lattes. Okay, it would be my second one of the day, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

I packed up the cookies, locked the door, and headed for the coffee shop.

While I walked, Cyril responded to my text. It took him hours. Apparently he had car trouble.

Unless Finley could turn up a mechanic to verify that, he didn’t have an alibi! Armed with two steaming-hot lattes, I headed for Balthus’s drab little apartment. When I rapped on his door, I heard voices. Rats! He wasn’t likely to confide in me if someone else was present. Even worse, it was Roxie who swung the door open.

I forced a brave smile. “If I had known you would be here, I would have brought three lattes!”

In a dull tone she asked, “What do you want, Florrie?”

I stepped forward, forcing her to move back, out of the doorway so I could enter. “How are you feeling, Balthus?”

“Still a little shaky.”

“I brought you some home-baked pumpkin chocolate-chip cookies and a latte. Everyone has been worried about you. It must have been terribly scary for you.”

Balthus graciously accepted the cookies. “As you can see, Roxie brought me an espresso, one of my favorite indulgences.”

As he spoke, I saw a movement in the tiny high window with bars in it. In fact, it looked like men’s shoes. Was someone standing there listening?

Balthus continued speaking, unaware of the motion in the window behind him. “Espresso used to be the way I started every day.” He gestured around his cramped room. “I’m afraid things have changed for me.”

“Maybe you can get a job working as a chemist,” said Roxie. “You do have a master’s degree.”

Balthus looked exhausted. He had drained his espresso, but certainly didn’t appear alert. “It would beat working in fast food.”

“I can help you spruce up your résumé,” offered Roxie.

Balthus weaved and plopped down on his bed.

“Balthus!” screamed Roxie.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He fell over on his side. “Don’t . . . know . . . what’s . . . wrong . . .”

I pulled out my phone and pressed 911. I looked at Roxie. I thought she liked Balthus. Had she been playing me for a fool? “What did you give him?”

“Me? Nothing. It’s espresso!” She was wide-eyed.

I told the dispatcher where we were. “Are you sure?” I asked Roxie. “Maybe it was too strong for him?” I picked up the cup he drank from and sniffed it. It smelled like coffee but there was an acrid scent, too. “Did you also drink an espresso?”

Roxie gave me a cold look. “You know me better than that. I can’t stand the stuff.”

I studied her. She knelt on the floor and stroked Balthus’s arm, telling him he would be okay. Was it remotely possible that I had misjudged her? But why would she want to kill Balthus? Was her horror an act when she had discovered him earlier? Had she expected him to be dead from the chloroform?

I knew that they had dated. Was he so in love with her that he refused to tell the police? But why would he accept and eat any food or drink from her if that was the case? Had she sweet-talked him into thinking she loved him, too? But why? Why would she want to kill him?

Tears ran down her cheeks.

I looked up at the window. The shoes were gone.