I curled up in my chair and leaned back against the headrest. What a nightmare! Babette’s plan to thwart animal cruelty had led to the ultimate abuse—murder. The image of that fire extinguisher and Ethel’s pitiful white foot pointed skyward continued to haunt me. Ethel was never vain, but she had always taken pride in her feet. Size six. Women like me with ungainly clodhoppers envied tiny toes that fit comfortably into sample shoes. Ethel always got the best deals because of that. Then it hit me—she’d had a pedicure! Her toes were painted a fashionable shade of red that was totally unlike her. Blood red. I reached for my cell phone and stopped. Bascomb would hee-haw all the way to Richmond if I shared that tidbit, but any woman would understand. Patterns. Someone like Ethel wouldn’t change her habits unless she had a damn good reason. Was that reason a rendezvous with some man?
“Feeling better?”
I leapt from my chair as Pruett sauntered toward me. Where the hell were my dogs? Some guardians they were. This was Pip’s special room and Pruett knew that. How like him to be strolling around if he owned the place.
“I thought Bascomb sent you packing. Your charm was totally wasted on him.”
Pruett pulled a hassock next to my chair and sat down. “I was worried about you. That cop gave you quite a workout.”
Most women would have reveled in the attention. After all, he was famous, a major hottie whose deep brown eyes brimmed with concern for little old me. Fortunately, I ignored his routine and focused on the glint of amusement he couldn’t quite conceal. This was the patented Pruett technique for coaxing confidences from gullible females. It explained how he got so many scoops.
“You’re wasting your time, Scribe Boy. I don’t know any more about the murder than you do.” I gave him my own version of a steely gaze, which he cheerfully ignored.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I say something wrong?” This time his concern seemed genuine.
“I’m not a source, Pruett, and this crime is a tragedy, not a news story. Remember. I know how you operate.”
“Forgive me. Reporters get accustomed to asking nosey questions. Crossing boundaries. Manners are a liability in my trade.” He showed a set of fetching dimples. “But you’re wrong, you know. Every crime is a potential story.”
Thatcher jumped into my lap, allowing me to bury my face in her thick fur. I stroked her, eliciting the same throaty purrs that had soothed Pip in his last days.
“What’s your angle in this case?” I asked. “Murders are pretty mundane fare for a guy like you.”
He pressed his fingertips into a steeple. “I expected a human-interest piece, you know, something light for the holidays. But this has all the hallmarks of a major scoop. Quite simply, since I’m on the scene, I intend to cover it before some hack from the Washington Post or, God forbid, 48 Hours muscles in.”
At least he was being honest. I think.
“Lieutenant Bascomb seems very competent. I’m sure he’ll solve the case rather quickly.”
Pruett raised his eyebrows. It was an eloquent gesture that spoke volumes and reflected my own misgivings. Bascomb appeared to be industrious and intelligent but he faced political pressures to close the case as soon as possible no matter what. Murders in tony towns like Great Marsh were an embarrassment. Anything that affected property values or prestige was anathema to the Powers That Be. There were plenty of power players in our little hamlet—far too many for my liking.
“I could help you,” Pruett said. His grin was an ingratiating display of almost perfect teeth—probably a practiced move to keep the ladies in thrall.
“Do what?”
“Investigate. Find the killer.” He tapped his foot on the floor as if dancing to some catchy melody. “After all, that’s our specialty, and we’ve done it before. Got rather good at it if I do say so myself. We’re a team. Nick and Nora, Lord Peter and Harriet—you know.”
Between Bascomb and Pruett, I’d had my fill of overbearing males. “Listen, Pruett. You don’t get it, do you? I have a business to run, a livelihood to earn. I want to comfort my friend but that’s it. No snooping or detecting.”
He must have been used to rebuffs. Either that or he had a major hearing problem. Instead of reacting, he merely nodded pleasantly. “Can you honestly tell me you aren’t intrigued? Finding bodies—such a nasty habit but kind of fun.”
I considered a dozen crushing replies that would set him straight. Unfortunately, before I could speak, a text message interrupted me. It was a short and simple appeal from Babette. “Help me, Perri. I’m in trouble.”
I leapt to my feet and grabbed my purse. “Gotta go. See yourself out.”
My dogs thundered through the room heading straight for the front door. So did Pruett.
“I drove you here,” he said. “Remember? My car is at Babette’s.”
The man was a barnacle, so clingy that I could never dislodge him. “Fine. I’ll drop you off, but you can’t stay at Babette’s. She’s upset and a snoopy reporter, even one she adores, won’t help the situation.”
He tilted his head. “Maybe I can help. I’m good at soothing troubled waters. Plus, you probably shouldn’t be driving yet. Did it ever occur to you that Bascomb might tag you for the murder?”
“What? That’s absurd!”
Pruett crossed his arms. “You found the body and you knew the victim. That moves you to the top of Bascomb’s list automatically. Trust me. I know how cops think.”
“No need to worry. My conscience is clear. Besides this is a personal crisis that doesn’t concern me—or you.” I didn’t know for certain, but I suspected that Babette’s plea involved Carleton Croy prima donna supreme. Bascomb was fixated on Ethel’s putative lover and like it or not, Carleton fit the bill.
Poe and Keats leapt into the Suburban without missing a beat. Pruett hesitated then stepped on the running board and climbed aboard.
“Do you suppose she has anything to eat at her house?” he asked. “I’m starving.”
“Ask her yourself. Better yet, there’s a diner right up the road. Knock yourself out.”
Pruett pulled down the sun visor and finger-combed his hair. He had great hair, thick, black and wavy. I care about personal appearance, but a primping male was just too much! For some reason, memories of Pip flooded into my mind. Unlike Pruett, he had zero vanity and scoffed at the thought of excess grooming. I bit my lip, resisting the tears that threatened to fall. Pruett had never seen me cry and he never would. Those girly tactics conveniently called “feminine wiles” were unworthy of me. I simply was not the kind of woman who tried to manipulate men.
“Getting ready for your close-up?” I asked. Sometimes Pruett brought out every snide bone in my body. He also activated latent insecurities about my own looks. Through a supreme effort of will and gritted teeth, I resisted the temptation to check out my reflection in the mirror.
His eyes narrowed as he faced me. “No excuses. I’m in the appearance business. You know that. Have to maintain a presentable façade for my fans. It’s a reality of the media obsessed era.”
I snorted something impolite and focused on driving and worrying. Pruett was quiet for once as he kept his eyes glued to his smartphone. Poor Babette. She was not the hysterical type but losing a good friend and colleague so horrifically would unhinge anyone. Surely even a terrier like Bascomb wouldn’t suspect Babette—or me for that matter—of murder.
“Hmm,” Pruett said. “Word about the murder is out on the wire services. Must be a slow news day. Of course, anything that happens within spitting distance of DC makes headlines.”
I ignored both him and the posted speed limits. Traffic was horrendous, much heavier than normal for early afternoon and that ratcheted up the tension.
I turned onto Babette’s street, prepared to run the gauntlet of cop cars.
Pruett wanted to say something. I could tell by the way he learned forward. Fortunately, a stern-faced trooper with a no-nonsense look approached us.
“Sorry folks. Restricted access. This is a crime scene.”
I slid my driver’s license from my wallet. “Mrs. Croy asked for me. I’m Perri Morgan.”
The trooper consulted his clipboard and nodded. “Right. What about him?”
I was tempted to cast Pruett out, but my better nature asserted itself. “He’s with me. His car is up at the house.”
A gaggle of reporters in a news van pulled in behind us, just as the cop waved us through. “Go on up and park near the house. You folks be careful now.”
I pulled into the garage after dodging several police vans and forensic trucks.
“Your car is at the curb,” I told Pruett. “Enjoy your day.”
He ignored me and hopped out of the truck. “That espresso went right through me. I need to use the bathroom.”
He was quick; I’ll give him that. By the time I freed my dogs Pruett had disappeared, Babette was nowhere in sight, and even the police had scattered. I knocked twice on the front door.
“It’s Perri. I’m here, Babette.”
The first face that I saw was her ex-husband’s. He’s not ugly, at least not physically, but that air of perpetual petulance renders him unattractive. The man found fault with everyone and everything—especially his ex-wife. Perhaps he saved his charm for the students of Hamilton Arms School and their wealthy parents. Carleton Croy headed the Guidance department and anchored the Theater Arts presentations as well. Several of my clients raved about him, using superlatives like “inspirational” and “empathetic” to describe him. I was hard-pressed to reconcile that paragon with the callous bully-boy I knew.
“Perri, thank God you’re here!” Carleton’s pristine appearance had suffered a major setback—his thick reddish hair was askew, and crumbs clung to his mustache. He clutched my arm and quickly ushered me into the library. True to form, Carleton the Anglophile called it his study.
“Babette is resting,” he said sotto voce.
I couldn’t help frowning. “But she just texted me a half hour ago. What’s going on?”
The library door burst open, dislodging Babette, Clara, and the ubiquitous Wing Pruett. Carleton curled his lip, a familiar gesture that indicated disapproval, but Babette flung her arms around me and sobbed.
“Oh Perri! What’s happening to me? The cops rounded up every one of my guests and gave them the third degree.”
I understood her anguish. Finding a corpse was a nasty business especially when the body in question was a dear friend. The memory of poor Ethel’s outstretched foot with its varnished nails sent chills through my body. I tried unsuccessfully to blot it out.
“Thank goodness Wing was here,” Babette said. “He’s agreed to advise me on how to handle the media.”
I shot a venomous look at Pruett, which he totally ignored. Instead of guilt, his handsome face radiated a totally underserved look of virtue. Babette might be grateful, but I was not. I knew his game. Pruett planned to isolate her until he was able to consolidate his big news scoop and hit the airwaves. Ethel and everything about her would soon become fodder for the Washington Post or a sleazy tabloid.
“They hustled Jakes right into a squad car,” Babette said. “Naturally I had to tell them about his behavior. That horrible blog he writes. The man is a vicious beast. Ethel had no use for the man. None at all.”
Jakes! I’d forgotten all about the buttoned-down biologist on our guest list. Come to think of it, he was tall and rangy, just like the mysterious figure who attacked me. Had he murdered Ethel in the mistaken belief that she was Babette?
“You’ve never actually met him, have you?” I was testing my theory that Ethel had been murdered in place of Babette. True, Ethel’s hair was grey, but in a darkened room, that might not have mattered. They were about the same size, and any intruder would logically suppose that the woman in the master bedroom was the lady of the house.
Babette curled her lip. “No, but I’ve seen his nasty little face on television. Reminds me of a weasel. Maybe a wolverine. They’re oversized weasels, aren’t they?” Her voice rose until it reached the upper registers. I knew all the signs: my pal was working herself into a first-class hissy fit.
Instead of calming his ex-wife, Carleton folded his arms in front of him and turned toward the door. As husbands, and especially ex-husbands went, he was worthless until it came to his spouse’s bountiful checkbook. Then Professor Croy was velcroed to Babette’s side.
I resurrected the soothing tones used everywhere to defuse volatile situations. “You might be right, Babette, but until we know what Jakes told the police, we’re just spinning our wheels. For all we know, he may have already confessed.”
Babette managed to eke out a smile.
“I’ll nose around the police station and see what I can find out.” That was Pruett, being helpful again. I glared at him, but Babette beamed a beatific smile his way.
“Ethel told me she had other plans this morning,” I said. “What changed?”
Babette shrugged. “Sheila Sands called and wanted something. Then Ethan Torres emailed all these questions about our project. Ethel offered to stay while I ran the errands.” A tear slid down her cheek as she thought of her friend. “Did she die in my place, Perri? I couldn’t bear that?”
Some men dissolve when confronted by tears. Carleton went into a snit. “For Christ’s sake stop the caterwauling! Grow up, Babette. Ethel’s gone and that’s that. She probably ran into a burglar and things went bad.”
He might be right. Probably was. But that didn’t explain Ethel’s semi-nude body nestling between her employer’s silken sheets. Some servants might enjoy a roll in the hay, but Ethel was fifty and sensible. If she had planned a dalliance it would have been orderly, scrubbed and penciled in at the right time. Ethel was no thrill seeker. Why take chances when her own home was only yards away? Then I recalled that pedicure and Ethel’s big surprise.
“Ethel didn’t seem like the pedicure type,” I said. “Too much of a time waster.”
Babette frowned. “Pedicure? Ethel couldn’t stand that kind of stuff. Why?” She walked over and put her hand on my forehead. “Are you okay, Perri? You sound disoriented.”
I set the scene once again, visualizing Ethel with those pretty painted toes and the lacy chemise.
“Maybe I should drive her home,” Pruett said.
“You promised to scout around the cop shop,” I reminded him. “Besides, I have a client coming by after supper. At least I hope she won’t cancel.”
“Who is it, hon?” Babette knew everyone in Great Marsh and beyond.
“Sheila Sands. She rides in the Middleburg Spring Races and she’s getting her dogs ready for Westminster too. Wants to update all their equipment.” I crossed my fingers, hoping that my wealthy client wasn’t too squeamish after today’s shock. I could use a quick infusion of cash, and Sheila had plenty of it. She was also a pretty sharp cookie who might have some insights on Ethel’s murder. After all, she had been there too.
“Will you be okay?” I asked Babette, giving her a hug. “I’d stay over if it weren’t for my pets.”
She patted my hand and managed a wan smile. “I’ll manage. But keep in touch. The cops keep going around in circles without doing much.”
“For Pete’s sake, Babette. The crime happened only six hours ago.” Carleton was fuming, and it showed. “Don’t interfere. You’ve caused enough trouble with your silly posturing. I forbid you to get involved.”
The room grew unbearably silent after his outburst. Even the dogs sat statue-still and stared. Pruett and I locked eyes and for once we were in sync. What kind of man forbids his ex-wife to do something? It smacked of a scene from Ibsen. Victoriana at its worst.
“Ethel was my friend, Carleton, and she died in my bed. I will not rest until the murderer is found.” Babette called to her dog and swept up the stairs, showing a type of dignity under fire that heartened me. I took the opportunity to beat a hasty retreat with Pruett right on my heels.
“Wow!” he said. “That was awkward.”
“More fodder for your article?” I asked. “The human-interest touch.”
Pruett grabbed my elbow until a growl from Keats made him rethink his behavior. “Look. You’re suspicious of the press. You have reason to be. I get it. But know this—I do have standards. Solving a murder—now that’s up my alley. Marital spats, not so much. Maybe we could work together instead of sparring.” He looked sincere and I almost fell for it until a flashbulb nearly blinded me.
“Right on track, huh Pruett.” A blowsy blonde with a camera stepped toward us. “You sure know how to work the angles. Come on, mate. Share.”
That was my exit line. I broke free, called my dogs and jumped into the Suburban, leaving him and his buddy in the dust.