I must have gasped, for the Reverend abruptly halted and turned to face me.
“Ah, Ms. Fleet,” he said with a smile. Then, glancing at the mallet he still clutched, his smile broadened.
“My apologies,” he said, and lowered the rubber hammer. “I have a display unit here that has a problem with one of its hinges. I was attempting to facilitate a repair.”
He stepped aside from what I could see now was an empty casket. The flowers and photo of the deceased were noticeably absent from this room, giving me a clue I should have picked up on right away.
“Of course. That’s what I figured,” I lied blandly, though his soft chuckle told me he knew differently.
I felt myself blush but forged ahead.
“Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Bishop. As I told you in my voice-mail message, I found the champagne flute that Mr. Marsh—Len—had been drinking out of just before he died. There seems to be some sort of residue left in it. I thought you might want to have it tested just in case whatever that substance is has some bearing on Len’s death.”
“Certainly.” He set down the mallet on one of the folding chairs and gestured me to come forward. “I presume you brought the glass in question with you?”
I reached into my purse for the potato chip cannister and handed it to him. The Reverend chuckled again, but nodded his approval as he popped off the top and pulled out the bagged flute. Leaving it inside the plastic, he handed me back the chip can and raised the glassware so that what little light there was in the room reflected through it.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “Can you tell me what was in the drink you served?”
I gave him my recipe, and he shook his head. “None of those liquids should leave a residue of this sort. Definitely worth taking a look at.”
“Harry said that you have your own lab here,” I told him as he returned the glass to the canister and set the unorthodox package beside his mallet. “Can you do the tests yourself or do you have to send this to the state laboratory?”
His expression stiffened a bit at the mention of Harry’s name. Still, his tone was mild enough as he replied: “Since the sample is relatively sizeable, I will reserve a portion here to test and send the rest to the gentlemen and ladies in Atlanta. Of course, they tend to have a backlog of several weeks, so I should have a preliminary determination long before they do.”
“Wonderful! So, how quickly can you find out what’s in the glass?”
The Reverend gave me an indulgent smile.
“Unfortunately, Ms. Fleet, this is not CSI Cymbeline. One cannot pour random chemicals into a random sample and have a full analysis pop up five minutes later on one’s computer. It is a tedious process that requires we have some sort of idea of what we are searching for.”
When I frowned in disappointment he added, “Fortunately, Sheriff Lamb provided a list of medications that Mrs. Marsh said her husband took. In addition to the typical prescriptions for high blood pressure and cholesterol, he apparently was prescribed Oxycodone for an injury he recently suffered. Knowing that gives us a starting place in attempting to identify this substance.”
Then he gave me a considering look. “It’s not often that civilians show such keen curiosity regarding autopsy results … not unless they are members of the decedent’s family. May I ask why you have such a vested interest in the outcome?”
I hesitated. Part of my interest was concern for my B&B’s reputation. But more compelling was my unsettled feeling that there was more to Len’s death than a bad heart. Cliché as it might sound, practically everyone in the troupe held a grudge against the man. And with all the anonymous pranks that some unknown person had been pulling, it didn’t seem too farfetched a theory that maybe the trickster had taken the joke—deliberately or not—too far this last time.
But as I had absolutely no proof of the latter, I stuck with the former.
“I know this sounds terribly selfish,” I told him, “but having someone die at my B&B is pretty bad for business. If I could say that he passed away from natural causes, that would be better.”
“I understand. Believe me, as a small businessman myself I know the rigors of maintaining one’s corporate reputation.”
With a glance at his watch, which, unlike Harry’s, appeared to be a genuine Rolex, he added, “Actually, you are in luck, Ms. Fleet. I don’t have to start work on my next, er, client, for another hour. I should have time to set up a few simple panels on the sample, just to eliminate some of the more obvious possibilities. How about I phone you in a few hours when the tests are complete?”
At my eager agreement, Dr. Bishop escorted me back to the foyer while Mahalia Jackson quietly belted out Amazing Grace.
“Oh, one last thing,” I said as I stepped outside. “Would I be able to get my champagne flute back when you’re finished with it? It’s crystal and part of a set.”
“Most assuredly. And as I said, I will telephone you when my tests are complete.”
I left feeling far lighter than when I’d walked into the funeral parlor. Once back in my Mini, I cranked up the AC full blast as I drove the few miles back to the square. I still wanted to chat with Gemma about the whole dead body and business thing. Besides, as far as I knew, she hadn’t heard that Harry was part of the troupe staying at my place. As his former babysitter and informal life coach and cheerleader, I could guarantee that she’d want to know that Harry was back in town.
“So, girl, when were you going to tell me that Harry was back in town?” Gemma greeted me at the door of Peaches and Java as I walked in a few minutes later. “Jasmine told me she saw him at your place this morning. I can’t believe I had to hear about it secondhand. Is something going on between the two of you that you don’t want me to know about?”
Her tone was mock angry, but I could see she was somewhat serious too. Of all the people in town, she was the one who would defend the actor against all comers, mostly because she knew what he’d been through growing up.
I’d heard fragments of the Harold A. Westcott III, the Early Years saga from both her and Harry and was moderately sympathetic. A lonely childhood with summers spent living with his great-aunt in what was now my tower room … real-estate magnate father who was verbally abusive … same dad who cut his son out of the will because of his chosen career. Sure, he’d had a tough time, but not so much compared to some people I knew. Moreover, I didn’t see how any of this excused his sometimes questionable actions, but Gemma apparently did.
“I swear, there’s nothing going on with me and Harry … now or ever,” I hurried to assure her. “But there’s lots of crazy stuff going on in general. I’m dying of the heat. How about a glass of ice water first, and then I’ll tell you everything?”
With all the festival construction, I’d had to park down the block near Weary Bones, the local antique shop run by my friend Mason Denman. I had waved through the window as I’d walked past, earning a wave back of his trademark handkerchief and a bobble of his distinctive black pompadour. Fortunately, he’d been waiting on a customer. Otherwise, he’d have popped out to the sidewalk in a flash, and what would have been a quick walk from car to diner would have dragged out an extra fifteen minutes while he gossiped. But even the short walk had been long enough for me to break a sweat.
For her part, Gemma didn’t look convinced by my excuses. Shaking her graying locks, she went behind the counter. Her husband, Daniel, spied me and threw me a shaka sign—the Hawaiian twisting wave with middle three fingers folded over the palm, pinkie and thumb stuck out to either side.
I smiled and shaka’ed him back. It was just a little after eleven, and the lunch rush rarely started until eleven thirty, and so Gemma had a few minutes to chat. Returning with two glasses of ice water, she led me to my favorite table for two, a pair of former flat-topped school desks with built-in chairs bolted front-to-front. She took the seat across from me as I drank.
Peaches and Java was a cross between your typical small-town diner and your funky urban hangout. The food and the friendliness of both customers and owners definitely fit the first category, as did the diner counter and pastry case backed by a double-stacked commercial oven and an open grill. The artisan coffee and fun, mismatched fixtures like the school-desk table fit the second. That and the ukuleles in various colors and sizes hanging on the far wall. Not only were the stringed instruments a tribute to Daniel Tanaka’s Hawaiian roots, he occasionally pulled one down and played for his customers. Though I had to admit that my favorite bit of decor had more of a Georgia flair … the anthropomorphic male and female peaches painted on the restroom door indicating it was a unisex facility.
“Ah, better,” I said once I’d drained most of the water. Then, as Gemma stared at me expectantly from over her own glass, I went on, “I meant to tell you that Harry was back, but things got away from me. And it’s not like I knew he was going to show up in town. It turns out he’s the director of this year’s Shakespeare festival’s troupe, the same troupe that just happened to have reservations at my B&B.”
While Gemma tsk’d and shook her head, I gave her a rundown of the actors’ arrival. Next was a quick description of the troupe members and their various foibles.
“I was already wondering how I was going to put up with all of them for almost two weeks,” I told her, “and then Len went and croaked on us yesterday.”
“That was you?” Gemma’s exclamation was loud enough to draw looks from the diner’s only other customers. “I heard from one of my RN friends that someone had dropped dead in the historic district, but I had no idea they were talking about your place.”
“Right. Lucky me.”
I described how Mattie and I had found Len past help, and how Sheriff Lamb and the coroner, aka Dr. Bishop, had both made appearances.
“Everyone is pretty sure it was a heart attack, as he fits the pattern. You know, mid-fifties, high-stress job, high blood pressure and cholesterol, smoker.”
Gemma nodded, and I caught the glance she sent Daniel. He towered over his five-foot-two wife by a mere five inches but outweighed her by a good two hundred pounds. And he pretty well fit the other criteria himself, except for the smoking.
Then Daniel dispelled the morbid mood as he rounded the counter and headed toward us, plate in hand. “Check it out, Nina. I came up with something new for the Shakespeare festival. Peaches and Java is now P&J’s. This is the new logo I designed,” he proclaimed, puffing out his barrel chest to better show off the peach-colored T-shirt he was wearing.
I nodded. “I like it.”
He had taken the old Peaches and Java design, a fat cartoon peach plopped in a cartoon coffee cup, and made it smaller. Now a caricature of the Bard, drawn from the waist up, cradled that peach-filled cup in his arms. The slogan, P&J’s … a Peach by any Other Name was emblazoned below the Shakespeare figure.
“And even better,” Daniel went on, holding out the plate, “I’ve created a special PB&J sandwich for the festival. Peanut butter, thinly sliced cooked peaches coated in peach jam, and a layer of cream cheese all grilled between two slices of cinnamon pound cake.”
The aroma of peaches and cinnamon wafted enticingly in my direction. Daniel handed me a clean fork, so I obediently cut off piece of the freshly grilled sandwich and took a bite.
“Wow,” I managed a moment later through the sticky mouthful. “I’m not a big peanut butter fan, but this is fabulous.”
“It is pretty good,” Gemma agreed, reaching with a second fork for a bite of her own. “We’ve already made arrangements with the SOCS committee to set up a grill station on the square right across from here. We’ll be selling Shakespeare’s Peachy PB&J sandwiches during the festival.”
“I’ll be your first customer,” I promised.
Satisfied, Daniel left the rest of the sandwich for Gemma and me to finish off and returned to his spot behind the counter.
“So, where were we?” I asked as I took another bite.
Gemma finished chewing and swallowed. “The dead guy. You said Dr. Bishop was there to pronounce him. Did he mention having an autopsy done?”
At my affirmative response, she gave a satisfied nod. “Good. Nothing against the Reverend, but he’s a funeral director, not a trained medical professional. Though I suppose hanging out with dead people all the time qualifies him for the job to some extent.”
“Actually, I just came from the Heavenly Path Funeral Home,” I told her. “I found the glass Len was drinking out of before he died, and there seemed to be some sort of residue in it. I brought it to Dr. Bishop so he could have it tested.”
Gemma set down the forkful of PB&J she was about to eat and frowned.
“I thought you said everyone thought the man had a heart attack. But it sounds like maybe an overdose, or a drug interaction.”
“That’s what they’re going to find out. But as I told Dr. Bishop, I know it’s horrible, but I’m really worried about what people will do if they find out someone died in my garden. What if no one ever wants to stay at Fleet House again?”
Gemma snorted and raised her fork.
“Actually, there are plenty of folks who’d love to stay at a B&B where someone died. People who think they’re psychic, paranormal groups. Wait until we get close to Halloween and you’ll find plenty of takers. Heck, regular hotels have folks die in them all the time, and it doesn’t affect business.”
When I gave her a doubtful look, she persisted, “Let it go, Nina. Just plant something nice in the garden in the poor man’s memory and be glad you don’t have to throw out a mattress.”
I winced a little at that final blunt advice. What Gemma said made sense—except that I couldn’t let it go. Not until I knew whether Len’s death was a result of natural causes or something else. And despite Gemma’s blithe assurances that a little thing like a dead body wouldn’t hurt my business, I wasn’t so sure. Especially since everyone else involved seemed a bit too eager to rubber-stamp the man’s death as your garden-variety (no pun intended) heart attack.
But because I knew Gemma would try to talk me out of pursuing the matter, I merely nodded and took another bite of Daniel’s gourmet PB&J. By then diners were beginning to trickle in with the start of the lunch rush. Gemma reached for the now empty plate and stood.
“Back to work,” she declared. “I’d love to drop by the B&B and say hi to Harry, but things are busy for us all with the festival coming. So let him know I asked about him and that I’ll be in the front row on opening night.”
Once outside on the square, my ears were again assaulted by the sounds of hammers and electric saws as construction on the main festival stage moved along at rapid speed. Despite the noise and heat, I paused a moment to watch the workers’ progress. This was no simple platform, but a full-blown stage with roof, backdrop, and wings that was going up. I was surprised as well—though perhaps I shouldn’t have been—to recognize one of the carpenters who was busy cutting a series of planks on a table saw.
The lean, dark-haired man in question was Jack Hill. He was owner with his wife, Jill, of the Taste-Tee-Freeze Creamery on the square next door to Mason’s antique shop. I’d gotten to know the couple because of Harry and the unfortunate incident with the penguin mascot suit earlier in the summer.
Like me, Jack had worked at a different career before buying the creamery. He’d been a professional carpenter and still did occasional woodwork on the side. I’d already spoken to him about the fancy wooden arbor I wanted constructed for future outdoor weddings at the B&B. But apparently he also worked as a volunteer for the Shakespeare festival.
I caught Jack’s eye and waved. He waved back, but it was obvious he was too busy to chat. Which was just as well, because I suddenly had another place I needed to be. And that was the Cymbeline Public Library.
I turned and headed in the opposite direction. My destination was a three-story Queen Anne that was almost an architectural twin sister to my house. Located a block off the main square, it had been converted decades earlier from a private home into Cymbeline’s first true library. Of course, a modern main branch had long since been built not far from the suburbs and shopping mall, but I enjoyed the charming vibe of this red, white, and blue painted lady.
I already had a library card, so once I slipped inside the blessedly cool building it was simply a matter of taking a seat at one of their half-dozen computers. Of course, I could have waited and done my research at home, but I didn’t want to be interrupted—or, worse, accidentally leave any incriminating browser history behind. Besides which, if my search proved fruitful, I might need to access the library’s periodicals archives.
I spent the next hour or so doing web searches for all of the GASP troupe members, starting with the Benedicts. The expected academic references as far as papers and conferences came up, along with a few articles that featured the pair in various GASP productions over the years. The only hit that raised any flag had to do with Bill. He had managed—probably purposefully—to get himself arrested during a handful of campus protests over the past few years. All the better for that professorial cred, I thought with a snicker. But my amusement faded when, scrolling down, I read that one charge against him had been battery. Apparently, he had punched some counter protester at a recent climate-change rally. The charge had been dropped, but it did indicate that good old Professor Bill could be provoked to violence.
Mentally filing that information for future reference, I moved on to Susie. I found the expected references to Atlanta society events and charity functions, along with a few mentions of GASP performances. Nothing about her past working at a sports bar, but then, I didn’t know her maiden name to do a more detailed search.
Chris proved a bigger puzzle. For one thing, my search brought up any numbers of Chris, Christian, and Christopher Boyds. For another, someone his age didn’t typically have much of a Google presence. Knowing that Twitter, Snapchat, and Instagram were the preferred social media for college students, I gave those platforms a try. But either he had his privacy settings locked down or else didn’t use his real name, because I couldn’t find an account that seemed to tie to him.
Radney’s online presence held no real surprises. He had the expected LinkedIn page with numerous endorsements and an impressive list of awards and recognitions listed. He was mentioned in a few electronics magazine articles and in press releases put out by Atlanta International Communications Group, otherwise known as AICG—apparently, the company he and Len both worked for. As I’d not known that company name before, I mentally filed that info too and kept searching. I smiled at a couple of ancient photos from his University of Georgia days. Radney had gone in on a wrestling scholarship and left with a mechanical engineering degree. Back then, the bulging biceps had more resembled stovepipes, and he’d sported a full head of hair. But there were no blotches on his record that I could see.
Marvin was a different story.
I stopped short at the first result, a several-years-old article about Peachtree Communications going into Chapter 11 bankruptcy. That hadn’t been part of Marvin’s story that Harry had told me.
I did a quick check of Wikipedia, finding a generic piece on the company’s history and founders. What caught my eye, however, was the paragraph that read, A year after the partnership between Lasky and Marsh was dissolved, leaving Lasky at the helm, Peachtree Communications lost a lucrative contract with Atlanta International Communications Group. Eighteen months later, the company filed for bankruptcy protection. One year later, Peachtree Communications was acquired by AICG, with all of Peachtree’s personnel, including Lasky, subsequently let go.
So much for Marvin’s supposed millions he’d got when he had sold the company. Chances were he’d ended up with pennies on the dollar. Worse, I had a bad suspicion that the lost contract and subsequent bankruptcy and acquisition had Len Marsh’s neatly manicured fingerprints all over it.
And that could give someone quite the motive for murder.
Feeling suddenly shaky inside, I checked out the references at the bottom of the listing. Several articles from the Atlanta Business Monthly seemed pertinent, and so I scribbled down the numbers of the issues containing them. Hopefully the library would have copies in their magazine archives.
But before I could make it to the information desk, my phone rang. I checked the caller ID to see that it was our friendly neighborhood coroner-slash-funeral director on the line. Shoving my note and pen into my purse, I hurried out the door while answering the call.
“Ah, Ms. Fleet,” came the Reverend Bishop’s dulcet tones on the other end of the line. “I am glad I caught you. You may drop by anytime it is convenient to retrieve your champagne glass.”
“That’s wonderful,” I replied. “Does that mean you’ve finished your analysis?”
“I have. And let us just say that the results were not what we were expecting.”