Nothing commands and holds your attention like murder. Throughout the endless Saturday afternoon, unable to stay focused on a small, routine task for very long and with everything feeling like a distraction, Charlotte tidied up her already tidy bungalow, cleaned the bathroom, and did a load of laundry.
Finally, in response to Rupert’s gentle, pleading look and realizing it was the best thing she could do for him and for herself, she gave in to his request for a walk. After checking to make sure Aaron was still asleep, she clipped Rupert’s leash to his harness, and the two set off.
As they strolled down the long drive to the main road that led in one direction toward town and rolled away in the other past forests and woodland until it reached the next town, she mulled over the morning’s events and what must have led up to them. Let’s see, she thought. What do we know for sure? At some time last night, a man was killed either during the performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream or during the after party. Aaron checked the props table just as the play started, and everything was present and correct. He discovered the donkey’s head was missing during the intermission. The donkey’s head was found on the victim’s body. So does it follow that the man was killed sometime between when the play started and the intermission? Not necessarily. The man could have been killed anytime, and the donkey’s head put on him later. And we can’t even say for sure that the killer took the donkey’s head. Someone could have taken it just for fun, dropped it somewhere, and the killer came along later, picked it up, and for some reason, put it on the victim’s head before dumping him in the rosebushes. That’s getting complicated, she thought.
What was that theory she’d recently seen being discussed on television? Something sharp. Razor. Occam’s razor, that’s it. Something about the simplest reasoning is usually correct. So the simplest way this could have happened would be that the man was killed sometime between the beginning of the play and the end of the intermission; the killer, for an unknown reason, took the donkey’s head during that time; and at some point the body, with the donkey’s head on it, was placed in the garden.
She sighed, trying to recall everything that happened last night and where everybody was, especially during the times when the backstage area might have been unattended. But as far as she knew, someone from the theater company had been there the whole time. There was always someone coming or going—crew members, actors waiting to go onstage, actors coming offstage. She couldn’t recall seeing anyone in the area who shouldn’t have been there. But with all the backstage bustle, it would have been impossible to take note of everything.
They reached the road, and Rupert hesitated, looked in both directions, and then opted for the direction that led away from town. She followed his lead, and on they walked, keeping as close as they could to the ditch, well off the paved surface of the road. Rupert stopped every few minutes to examine something interesting, then, with a quick confirming glance in her direction, he continued on his way.
The nearest property to the hotel, on the same side of the road, was the Middleton house. A broken concrete path with small weeds filling in the cracks led from the road to the front door. The path was flanked by two stone lions, and as he always did when they passed them, Rupert gave the first one a couple of short, sharp barks.
But instead of walking on past the other lion, Rupert turned up the path toward the front door, where a man and a woman were waiting. They stood a few feet apart, looking about in that loose, restless way of people who are waiting for someone or something. The man appeared to check his watch and then said something to the woman, who shook her head.
As she and Rupert got closer, Charlotte recognized the woman as Lynda Flegg, the real estate agent whose photograph was on the For Sale sign at the edge of the property. Charlotte had seen her signs dotted around town for years but had never met her. She wore a coral-colored, two-piece suit with a large brooch in the shape of a pink rose pinned on her left shoulder and bore only a passing resemblance to the woman in the photo on the sign. That woman was well groomed, with an even, polished smile revealing white teeth. The Lynda Flegg standing in front of Charlotte wore her blonde hair parted in the center, revealing gray roots. It was of uneven length and was crying out for a trim and a professional color and condition. The wrinkles around her eyes deepened as she gave Charlotte a professional smile.
“Hello,” she said, holding out her hand. “I don’t think we’ve officially met, but I’ve seen you walking your dog around town many times. I’m Lynda Flegg.” She handed Charlotte a business card. Charlotte glanced at it before tucking it in the pocket of her jeans.
Charlotte introduced herself and Rupert with a return smile. “Yes, I’ve seen you around town quite a bit, too,” she said, gesturing at the For Sale sign. Lynda laughed good-naturedly and then waved a vague hand in the direction of her companion: a tall, slim black man with a white streak running through his dark hair. Charlotte recognized him immediately as the man in the photograph on the front page of this morning’s Hudson Valley Echo.
He wore an old-fashioned wool suit and seemed overdressed, both for the warmth of the day and for a Saturday afternoon in a small town.
“This is Joseph Lamb,” Lynda said. “He’s Mrs. Middleton’s lawyer. We’re supposed to be meeting a realtor here today, but he’s late.”
Lamb spoke for the first time. “Twenty-five minutes late. I refuse to wait any longer. My time is valuable. What is it about these real estate people that they can’t show up on time for an appointment? God knows they wear expensive enough watches, most of them.” With a curt nod in the general direction of both women, he tucked his leather document case under his arm and strode off.
“Well,” said Lynda, “I guess since Joe’s gone, there’s no point in me hanging around.” She glanced at the door of the Middleton house. “Even if this guy did show up now, I couldn’t show him the property, as I don’t have a key. That’s what Joe was doing here.”
“I thought real estate agents had keys to properties they’re showing,” said Charlotte.
“Usually there’s a lockbox with a key in it,” agreed Lynda. “But old Mrs. Middleton wouldn’t allow that. She’s in a nursing home and insists that her lawyer takes care of everything. Doesn’t trust anybody.”
“I wonder . . .” said Charlotte. “I might be interested in the condos going up next door. Do you know anything about them?”
Lynda groaned. “We’re having trouble getting any information on them, and it’s not helping my cause, I can tell you. I’ve had a couple of people asking about them, and I’d like to be able to give them some answers.”
“Oh, that’s very strange, surely.” Sensing they were about to get under way, Rupert stood up, and as Lynda and Charlotte walked down the path, he fell into step between them.
“I wonder if this real estate guy you were supposed to meet here . . .” Charlotte began.
“He’s not a local real estate agent,” said Lynda as they walked across a patch of grass in definite need of an appointment with a mower. “He’s from the city. I’ve never met him. It used to be we in Walkers Ridge just sold our properties to each other, but now the area is becoming hot and we’re seeing a lot more people from the city. Young people, with money. They have a shoebox apartment in Manhattan above a flashing sign and want something bigger and better for the weekend.” She shrugged. “So apparently he wanted to view the property to see if would suit a couple of his city clients. Of course the place hasn’t been touched since at least the late 1970s and is probably a teardown. Everybody wants open concept nowadays, and God forbid there’s only one sink in the bathroom.” They reached the gravel driveway that ran along the side of the house. “My car’s parked around the back,” Lynda said. “Do you need a ride anywhere?”
“No, thanks just the same,” said Charlotte. “We’re just out for a walk. We live at the hotel.”
“Oh, Jacobs Grand? Wonderful, really, how it just keeps going.”
“It is,” Charlotte agreed. “We do our best.”
“We?”
“I’m with the theater company.”
“Oh, how interesting. I’ve been to several productions there over the years. Last night was your annual outdoor show, wasn’t it? Like Shakespeare in the Park, only, well, not in the park. We used to take our best clients to that. The tickets are expensive, but of course, it’s a fundraiser, so all for a good cause.”
Charlotte glanced up at the peeling white paint on the second-story shutters as they crunched their way along the gravel. “Bedrooms upstairs, I guess,” she said. “How many are there, by the way?”
“Seven. But only two bathrooms. That’s what I mean when I say it would need a complete renovation. No one these days would have a seven-bedroom house with just two bathrooms. But the other agent told me his clients might be willing to do that. He said they were a gay couple from Brooklyn looking to open a bed-and-breakfast in the area.” She let out a weary sigh as she reached into her purse for her car keys. “What a shame he never showed up. This place has been on the market for so long, and we don’t get many showings. Eventually, of course, all properties do sell, but not necessarily at the price the sellers were hoping for. People are always so emotionally attached to their houses; they think they’re worth much more than they are. ‘But we raised our children here and have so many happy memories.’ Well, guess what? The new owners aren’t buying your memories, and they don’t care.” She opened the car door. “Sorry, I’m sure I sound very jaded, but it’s a bit of a pet peeve with me. Trying to help sellers see the reality of their situation.”
Lynda tossed her document case onto the front seat. “I doubt I’ll be working with Hugh Hedley again. Not unless hell freezes over, that is. It’s so unprofessional not to notify the other agent if you’re delayed or can’t make it.” She waited for Charlotte and Rupert to step back before putting the car in reverse, and then, with a friendly little wave, she was gone.
Hugh Hedley? Charlotte thought.
She pulled Lynda’s business card out of her pocket, examined it, and after flicking it back and forth, pulled out her cell phone.
“Come on, then, Rupert,” she said a few moments later. “We haven’t gone very far, so let’s walk on for a bit before we head home. Ray’ll be there soon, and we’ve got something important to tell him. At least it might be. We’ll see.”
They passed the fenced-in vacant lot with the sign announcing the condominium development. Now a large, white foam-board banner with “Coming Soon!” spelled out in giant, red letters had been fastened to the chain-link fence just above the sign.
She paused for a moment, then took out her phone and photographed the sign so she could record the name of the developer. It wouldn’t hurt to call and get some more information. She’d managed to save a bit of money over the years, and if she and Ray pooled their resources . . . She forced herself to stop thinking along that line. Mustn’t get ahead of herself. She scanned the property, or what she could see of it through the fence. The weeds were well established now, with splotches of purple and yellow flowers here and there. She couldn’t see as far as the river, but she knew it was there.
Rupert signaled it was time to move on. They continued in the same direction until they came to the gas station, which was as far as this walk took them, and then turned around and headed home.