part0028

Abigail Witherspoon burst into the library, her husband hot on her heels. “Bullets!” she exclaimed.

“Abigail, please! This crisis is my fault, not your—” Gerald stopped short. “Sir!” he addressed Piers. “I must apologize, sir. Abigail is most upset.”

“I never thought to count the bullets!” she wailed.

Gerald bowed. “You shall have our resignations in hand by day’s end.”

Piers turned to me as if I might understand what was happening. I had no clue, but I suggested we sit down, and the four of us formed a circle of velvet-cushioned chairs. I, however, was the only one who sat.

Piers held a chair for his housekeeper. “Abigail?” he encouraged, and she reluctantly took the chair.

She glanced up. “Sit!” she ordered her husband, but Gerald refused until Piers was seated.

I am happy to report everyone somehow managed to clear that seemingly insurmountable hurdle, and once the gang was more or less comfortable, Piers moved on to other issues. “What’s this about resigning?” he asked.

“The bullets, sir.” Abigail waved her feather duster at the little desk. “I’ve dusted them for decades, but I never thought to count them.”

“Because inventories are my responsibility, sir.” That was Gerald. “Ask Madam Hewitt.”

“My staff consists of three felines,” I said. “I have no idea whose duty is whose.”

“Last night’s episode!” Gerald snapped.

“Oh.” I nodded to Piers. “He’s right. Inventories are the butler’s responsibility.”

“Don’t take his side!” Abigail brandished her feather duster at me. “That stupid TV show is just pretend.”

“Abigail.” Piers spoke quietly, but to her credit, the housekeeper lowered her weapon and whimpered only occasionally, as her husband continued on his merry, self-immolating way .

He pointed to the bullet-storage desk. “Eighteen boxes,” he said. “One for each of your late uncle’s revolvers and pistols. However, I never inventoried each bullet, sir.” He offered a sort-of sitting-down bow. “You shall have our letters of resigna—"

“No resignations.” Piers looked back and forth between them. “Understood?”

The Witherspoons nodded mutely, and their employer stated the obvious—no one ever expected either of them to count bullets. “Has someone suggested otherwise?”

“Captain Rye and Lieutenant Kapinski,” Gerald answered.

Oh, please. I sat forward. “Lord knows Wilson Rye can be altogether unreasonable,” I said. “However.”

Gerald shrugged and admitted “neither gentleman” had spoken to him or his wife directly. He coughed. “However.”

“However, you were eavesdropping,” Piers said. “You know the police are wondering about the bullets.”

“That is correct, sir.”

I looked at Piers. “They must be deciding if the bullets came from this house, or elsewhere.”

“That is correct, Madam Hewitt.”

“Dear Jessie is always correct.” Coco Rigby made her entrance, plopped onto the nearest chair, and closed her eyes. “Unlike that tiresome husband of hers.”

She recovered quickly, sat up, and focused on yours truly. “I thought we were chums, Jessie darling. Why did you not save me?”

I tilted my head. “From Wilson?”

“You saw us in the drawing room.

“Coco,” I said slowly. “You know he had to question you. You do understand that?”

“I understand nothing!” She stood up and began pacing the length of the Hemingway bookcase. “Questions about bullets, questions about guns, questions about my outfit, even.” She twirled around and indicated her skirt, heels, and chiffon blouse. “Of course I changed out of my riding habit before they arrived. Who wouldn’t have?”

“He accused me of tampering with evidence! Can you imagine?”

I bit harder, and she appealed to her cousin. “I didn’t mean to do anything wrong, Pee-Pie! I was just so distraught.”

“Of course you were,” Piers said soothingly. “Anyone would have made the same mistakes. Isn’t that right, Jessie?”

I again chose not to respond, and Coco continued delivering the bad news. “The police told me this horrid murder might mean something horrid for Karen, too. I’m so sorry, Pee-Pie!”

Piers glanced at me. “Wilson told me the same thing, Jessie. This could mean Karen’s—”

“Don’t say it!”

“We won’t say it!” Coco assured me. “Because it is simply not true. Your intuition would tell you it was true, if it were true.”

Finally, something I could agree with. “Karen is alive,” I said firmly.

Gerald coughed—I had almost forgotten about Gerald and Abigail. “If I may be so bold,” he said. “Abigail and I agree also, sir. Ms. Sembler is alive.”

“Safe and sound,” his wife added, and Piers was thanking everyone for the moral support, when his cousin changed topics.

“I’ll be toodling along then,” she announced. “May I borrow Mallory, Pee-Pie?”

Piers shrugged. “If it’s okay the police, it’s okay with me. Did you ask permission, Coco?”

“Of course, darling.”

I sat forward. “Don’t tell me Wilson gave you permission to leave?”

“That’s right. Where shall I go?” She tapped her chin and consulted the fresco overhead. “Venice!” she said, but then argued with herself. “No,” she sang. “Venice is entirely too far, and I must stay closer for Pee-Pie’s sake.” She addressed her cousin. “I’ll have Mallory toodle me up to Nantucket for a few hours. Felicity Forsythe has a new yacht that I’ve been dying to take out for a spin.” She turned to me. “You’ll keep Pee-Pie company, Jessie?”

I promised I would try, but no sooner had Coco toodled out, than Wilson and Al toodled—or rather, marched—in. Al pointed to me. “You’re still here? Out!”

Somehow I knew there was no use in arguing. I gave Piers a hug, and when I turned to depart, Gerald was holding the door. “Shall I escort you, Madam Hewitt?”

“Nope.” Wilson took my elbow. “I shall do that.”

“Shall?” I asked after we cleared the doorway.

“This place is already getting to me,” he mumbled and steered us around the first corner.

I asked if he actually knew the way.

“We’ll find it.” He let go of my elbow and reached for my hand. “I wanted to talk to you alone, Jessie.”

“I’ve heard,” I said. “This murder could mean more bad news for Karen.”

He squeezed my hand, and we walked in silence past the billiard room, and eventually he asked if I had observed anything interesting in the library.

“Everyone’s nervous,” I said. “Coco wore a path in the carpet, and the Witherspoons could barely sit down.”

I thought about it and decided that actually did make sense. “Any of the downstairs staff in my TV show would be exceedingly uncomfortable sitting with the lord of the manor.”

“They offered their resignations.”

I explained their supposed logic, and Wilson shook his head. “Should I even ask how Gerald knew the bullets are an issue? ”

“Earth to Wilson Rye. These walls have ears.” We passed the library again, and I pointed out we had just walked in a circle.

He thanked me for noticing, and once we were out of earshot again, told me “the perp” had broken into the gun case. “They took a hammer to the lock.”

“But even someone who knew where the key is kept might have done that,” I said.

“To throw off suspicion,” Wilson agreed. “Too bad no one heard them.”

I scowled. “Or the gunshots. How is that possible?”

The answer was the clocks, of course. They chimed in as if on cue, but the grandfather clock in the drawing room was the loudest by far. Reoriented, we headed toward the drawing room, and hence the entrance foyer.

“It was an antique gun, correct?” I asked.

“The Collier flintlock revolver, to be exact.”

“Flintlock?” I scowled again. “What is that, even? Who in the world would know how to use such a thing? Or shoot it, or whatever?”

Wilson reminded me a lot of people know more about guns than I do. “Take Coco and Piers.”

I thought about it. “Great Uncle Oscar taught them.”

“Yep. But anyone without a great uncle could learn from the internet.”

Believe it or not, we found the foyer. And perhaps more surprising, the Witherspoons. They must have high-tailed it out of the library right behind us, and clearly they had taken a more expedient route. And clearly they didn’t notice us.

“Abigail, please!” Gerald ducked to avoid the feather duster his wife was thrashing about.

“Would you just look at this!?” She pointed to the police tape now blocking the doors to the drawing room. “How are we ever supposed to—”

Wilson cleared his throat, and they jumped—and I do mean jumped—in unison.

“Sir!” they said as they landed.

Gerald performed a shaky bow. “We thought you had departed, Madam Hewitt. ”

“And you.” Abigail addressed Wilson. “Why aren’t you back in the library by now?”

Captain Rye suggested he be the one to ask questions. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she snapped. “I am trying to dust.” She indicated the police tape. “How am I supposed to clean the drawing room?”

“You’re not. No dusting, no cleaning, no entrance.” Wilson nodded to Gerald. “That goes for everyone.”

The butler bowed, but Abigail offered a decided glare.

“No arguing,” Wilson added.

“See what I mean about the servants getting underfoot?” I asked as we walked to my car.

“Where is Russell, by the way? I haven’t seen him or his car.”

Wilson reminded me about the Elliot Moss case. Luckily, he and his right hand man had wrapped that one up just before they got the call about Wayne Stasson, and Lieutenant Densmore was finishing up that paperwork before moving on to Pierpont’s.

“What about Coco?” I asked. “I can’t believe you let her leave, Wilson. She found the body, for Lord’s sake.”

“That doesn’t make her the perp.”

Very true. I knew from personal experience that discovering a murder victim did not categorically make one ‘the perp.’

“And she’s with Mallory Fleet,” Wilson added.

I asked when Ms. Fleet had been deputized, and he smirked.

“The pilot’s our guarantee Coco will return,” he said. “But there’s a reason I wanted her out of here.” He caught me with the baby blues. “There’s a reason you want to leave also.”

“I get underfoot. I get it, okay? ”

“No you don’t, Jessie. A kidnapping at the Rigby Estate can be kept from the media, but not a murder.” Another meaningful look. “Now do you get it?”

I sputtered a four-letter word.

He glanced at Cupid. “Yep,” he said. “She gets it.”

“Wilson!” I grabbed his shoulders and shook. “Don’t tell me you actually invited Jimmy Beak here?”

Yes, he actually did. In fact, he had a press conference scheduled for that evening. I let go and sputtered a few more choice words.

Jimmy Beak, for the blissfully ignorant, is a reporter at our local news station, and is most decidedly not my favorite person. But it’s a long story, and meanwhile Wilson was jabbering on about how Pierpont’s staff would be given thorough instructions on how to handle the media.

I jumped. “They absolutely can’t say anything about Karen! It would put her in more danger.”

“Would you give me some credit?”

Okay, so I calmed down, and he promised me Jimmy Beak wouldn’t hear about Karen. “Not if Al and I can help it.”

“Which is why you let Coco leave,” I said.

He nodded. “If anyone’s apt to blurt out something to Jimmy that shouldn’t be blurted, who would it be?”

“Coco Rigby.” I climbed into my car and tried to close the door, but he held it open.

“Safety first, Jessie.”

“That is my motto.” I again tried to close the door, and he again held on. “What?” I asked impatiently.

“Be careful,” he said and finally closed the door.

“What was that all about?” I asked the steering wheel. But whatever he had meant to imply, Wilson was right. Considering where I was headed next, I needed to be careful.

I did not, however, need to hurry. When I spotted Caesar Newland at the gate, I stopped and climbed out of my car. Caesar had traded in his hedge clippers for a burlap sack and was weeding around the left gate post. Of course he pretended not to see me, dropped one last weed into his sack, and started walking toward his cart.

“You missed a dandelion,” I called out.

“No I didn’t,” he called back.

I hopped over the non-existent dandelion, caught up, and plopped myself into the driver’s seat.

He dropped his sack into the back. “I’m trying to work, here.”

“I see that, but don’t you want to know what’s going on up there?” I pointed in the direction of the mansion, and he told me he already did know.

“I heard about Wayne.”

“How about from everyone.” He stepped forward and tried to shoo me from my seat, but I none-too-subtly pulled the key from the ignition.

“Don’t you want to know why I stopped?” I asked.

“I know!” I said. “It’s my garden. You promised you’d help me, Caesar.”

“Trimming your azalea bush, right?”

“That’s right.” I suggested there was no time like the present and hopped off the cart with an inviting wave toward my Porsche. But the gardener did not move. I dropped my arms. “Perhaps you need a bit more notice?”

He rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you married to that policeman?” he asked. “Don’t you think it would look bad if I up and left without permission?”

“Captain Rye will be fine with this,” I lied. “I can call him, if you’d like.”

“No. I would not like.”

“But my poor azalea bush,” I whined. “I’m afraid I’ve left it too long after blooming.”

Bless his heart, Caesar gave it some thought. “How about tomorrow?” he asked. “After I get permission.”