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The girls were both excited and nervous about their spy mission to Jennifer Patterson’s house. They ate dinner and then dressed in dark clothing, ready to make their exit at 10:30 pm when the resort was settling down for the night. Before they left their room, Erin grabbed a small flashlight for their foray. The old resort stairs creaked alarmingly, and they winced as they made their way down to the front hall and main door.
“Go left,” whispered Monica, “under the trees on the lawn. Nobody can see us there.”
Minutes later they were on the road listening to the waves pounding on the resort dock and hearing the occasional owl hooting.
“Which way?” asked Erin.
“We should stay off the main roads. This map of the island shows tons of laneways and walking paths between houses. Here, look.”
Monica pulled a well-folded map out of her pocket, and Erin shone the light on it. The sudden roar of a motorbike coming down the road sent their hearts racing. Erin grabbed Monica and the two of them slid down into the ditch. Filthy cold rainwater ran into Monica’s shoes and she grimaced in disgust. What a way to start their spy mission.
When the bike sped into the night passing them by, they scrambled back onto the road, Monica emptied her shoe, wiped the mud off her walking stick, and they moved forward towards a white picket fence on their right.
Erin read from the map that had interesting historical information written on it. “This laneway was once the main road into town about a hundred years ago, and now it is just for bikes and pedestrians. If we follow it to this old stone stable,” she pointed to a tiny mark that Monica, towering over her friend, squinted at in the faint light, “I think we might be able to find the road to the Patterson’s place.” She handed the map back to Monica.
Despite being stealthy and careful, the girls seemed to be making a lot of noise setting off canine alarms with every step. Monica stepped on a branch and it snapped with a loud crack. Erin walked into a tree and screamed in surprise. A dog inside a house sensed something unusual near his territory and began to bark frantically.
“We would both fail spy school,” laughed Erin uneasily as the moon slid out from behind a cloud making them visible to anybody who was looking at the laneway. Both girls ducked down near the stone wall and held their breath. After what seemed hours the moon went back behind a cloud and Erin helped Monica to her feet.
“Can I see the map please?” whispered Erin.
Monica handed her the map again and they traced a possible path to Jennifer’s house and garden. “We’ll go past this barn, through the paddock and into the hay field. Jennifer’s house is on the other side of that.”
They moved forward along the path and opened an old gate that screeched in protest. “Yikes,” moaned Monica, “I bet that woke up half the neighbors.”
Sure enough, lights began to go on in the nearby houses and the two girls looked around for a hiding place. “Go through that door and into the barn,” urged Erin, dragging Monica with her just as a powerful flashlight beam passed over where they had just been crouched. They held their breath as foliage crunched under somebody’s feet.
“Who is there?” growled an aggressive voice. “I heard ya. I’ll get the dogs out.”
Monica grabbed Erin’s arm and winced. They held their collective breath, both sure that their pounding hearts could be heard for miles. It seemed like ages before the retreating footsteps made crackling sounds in the underbrush.
“Max, what was it?” sounded an elderly female voice, “I can’t sleep if there are intruders. Do something will ya!”
“Doris, go back to bed. Nothing but raccoons or something.”
The girls waited ten minutes before they dared to move. They peered out of the old barn doorway, noticed that someone was turning the lights off in the house and they began to walk towards the paddock fence. Horses may have grazed there in decades gone by, but now there was nothing left but old rusty barrels, decrepit lawn mowers and assorted boxes of junk. They crawled under the fence at the far end and made their way towards the field that ran alongside Jennifer Patterson’s home.
“Ok, let’s try to get into the garden shed,” whispered Erin, “and see what we can find in there.”
Suddenly Erin grabbed Monica’s arm and pointed. “There is a man in the field over there,” she gasped, “and he is moving back and forth. He must have seen or heard us.”
They watched as a fat man in billowing clothes moved from right to left as if surveying his domain. “Do you think that is Jennifer Patterson’s husband?”
Monica shook her head. There was something very odd about the man. “Wouldn’t most people who are checking their property walk about? Why is that guy standing in one spot?” asked Erin who squinted and looked closer.
“Erin, you nut. That’s a darn scarecrow moving in the wind,” laughed Monica.
Erin giggled beside her. “I need glasses,” she whispered.
“And a new brain,” chided Monica. “Let’s keep moving.”
Jennifer Patterson’s greenhouse was about 100 feet from her house and the girls looked for a door. They found two, one at the front and one at the back of the building and they chose to enter by the back. The padlock was closed but not locked and they winced as they pushed open the squealing door. Monica shone the flashlight around the room. It was full of planting pots, bags of soil, fertilizers, tools, flowers, vegetables and other gardening odds and ends.
“Stop right there!” yelled a male voice as the ceiling lights came on in a blinding blaze. A tall man stood by the front door in a green tartan dressing gown holding a pitchfork. His grey hair stood on end and his feet were covered in old carpet slippers. A small Jack Russell terrier circled his legs barking shrilly. ‘Now, I want to know what exactly you two girls are doing here?
Monica slowly grabbed Erin’s arm and stammered, “We are investigating a mysterious death at the resort. I am assuming that if you are Mr. Patterson then Jennifer might have told you.”
“Yes, I am Gerald Patterson, but if you are investigating a death at the resort, what in tarnation are you doing here? Nobody died on this property.”
“No, but Mrs. Jean Law died a few days ago at the resort and we were...” began Monica just as the man interrupted, “Old Mrs. Law probably died from a stroke or something like that. Nothing to do with us!”
The three of them watched as the Jack Russell walked about the room sniffing at the corners of the cupboards that ran long each side. At one cupboard door he began to scratch and whine.
“Damn mice. Chester, come here,” ordered the man, but Chester was frantic, and his little paws were attacking the door.
“Ok, I’ll open it up and you can find that big scary mouse in there,” grumbled Mr. Patterson.
As the door opened Chester was off like a shot disappearing into the long cupboard yapping furiously, followed by the crash and clatter of articles falling off shelves.
“What the dickens?” Mr. Patterson exclaimed as he opened the cupboard doors. Slowly and then faster, tins of food rolled off the shelves inside the cupboard, then made their way out into the room. Tinned tomatoes, green peas, baked beans and spaghetti sauce eventually stopped moving and Chester emerged triumphant holding a very dead mouse in his mouth. Mr. Patterson was so stunned that he simply opened the greenhouse door and ushered Chester outside without a word.
“What is all this stuff?” he asked nobody in particular staring at the tins of food, “I’ve never seen this before in my life. What are these doing here? I don’t even like tomatoes. I know Jennifer would never have bought this stuff. She keeps all the food in the house.”
“No Mr. Patterson, she might not have bought these cans, but she might have stolen them,” said Monica with a thought that had come to her in a flash as she recalled Pamela’s comment about the food inventory.
As if on cue, Jennifer Patterson threw open the door and stared at the tins, her face getting whiter and whiter. She looked up, saw Monica and Erin and demanded, “What are you two doing here? I hope you have a darn good reason for being here at 11:30 at night?”
“Jennifer can you explain all this tinned food? Why would it be here in the greenhouse? Why on earth would you buy things that I won’t eat?”
Jennifer was speechless.
“Did you steal this?” demanded her husband. “What would compel anybody to steal food?”
“I think I can answer that,” said Monica. “Try anger, jealousy and eventually a desire to discredit somebody.”
“Who is that, Jennifer?”
Jennifer fidgeted twisted her hands and couldn’t look anybody in the eye. “That darn Bertha,” she eventually said with venom in her voice. “I was better qualified, and I should have been hired as head chef. I had cooked for my husband, five kids, and at the school cafeteria. I could make all the things Bertha made at the resort with my eyes closed. Even fancy desserts like a Sacher torte. Instead, what do I get? I get offered a job as head of housekeeping. Head of housekeeping! What an insult. So instead of baking and creating gourmet foods, I end up cleaning toilets, wiping up after spoiled children, and getting measly tips left on bed side tables.”
“Oh, this again! I thought we’d finished with all that years ago. I thought you had let it go,” groaned her husband, “but obviously Pamela felt you were better at cleaning than cooking.”
“It is an insult,” Jennifer screamed at her husband, “a darn insult and here you are agreeing with her decision.”
While Jennifer’s husband rolled his eyes, Monica looked at Erin and winked. This was obviously an ongoing verbal drama in the Patterson household.
Something else caught Monica’s eye. She nudged Erin and nodded towards several baskets of potatoes on the long center table.
“Jennifer,” said Erin, “We have reason to believe that you never did get to the Community Center last Thursday. Harry at the marina says for the first time in years he left his post early because of the storm. Bad luck for you because if you were waving at Harry like you said you were, you were seeing a ghost in the window.”
“But I did see him,” blurted Jennifer, “I am sure I saw a man in the window of the marina gatehouse.”
Monica just shook her head. “Then you have incredible eyesight. There were no lights on in the guard house, so you couldn’t have seen anybody there. Then we have the sad matter of Mrs. Jean Law. What you didn’t know, Jennifer, is that Mrs. Law was made of pretty tough stuff; she wasn’t going to let the storm of the century get in the way of her lighthouse quilt creation. She was at the community center that night.”
“How do you know that?”
“Just before she died, she told Erin that you were not there. You never showed up, and because you assumed that she wouldn’t either because of the storm, you used her as an alibi.”
“Where exactly were you Jennifer, or shall I tell you where I think you were?”
Monica looked at Jennifer’s husband who had found an old chair in the corner and had slumped into it looking as if he had been knocked over by a basket of potatoes. He was staring at his wife with a look that said, ‘I can’t believe this’.
Jennifer moved forward and sat on the corner of the center table. “Ok, I did steal the tins of food that night. I wanted to discredit Bertha and make her look incompetent. I’ll return them.”
“Jennifer, somebody was seen leaving the resort basement through a door that hadn’t been opened in years. Everybody thought the key had disappeared. Was it you?”
“Idiots. People should know by now that the head of housekeeping has a key for every closet, cupboard, door, and cubbyhole. The key to that basement door is one of the large, old fashioned kind. I found it months ago when I was spring cleaning. It was out of sight and nobody had used it for years. A little oil on it and on the lock and I was good to go.”
“Good to go?” asked Erin.
“Oh yes, I began to put my plan in place. Taking tins of food a few times a month was so easy, and who was going to question me? I had the run of the place.”
“Jennifer, I suggest that first thing in the morning you take all the cans of food back to the resort, have a chat with Pamela and hope she doesn’t fire you. You are a prime suspect in the death of Bertha because none of your alibis check out.”
Jennifer’s face fell, and her husband looked at her with disgust, got up from his chair and walked back out the door. Jennifer followed him calling, “Gerald, Gerald you have to listen to me!”
Monica and Erin left the greenhouse and made their way back up the dark laneway. A dog barked in the distance and an owl hooted in a nearby tree. Erin reached into her coat pocket, found a half-eaten candy bar, brushed the fluff from it and opened the wrapper.
"Well, well that was interesting," she said to Monica as they turned left onto the road, "I would love to be a fly on the wall when Jennifer and Pamela have their little chat. By the way did you notice what was on the table in there?”
“No, what? Some tins of SPAM?”
“Nope! Solanum tuberosum L.”
“Great, and what is that when it’s at home? Rat poison or fertilizer?”
“Not even close. Those potatoes on the table we saw had green skins. The kind of potatoes you are not meant to eat because they are poisonous, and there they were just perfect for selling or giving away to unsuspecting people you don’t like.”
***
“Overseas research day today I think,” suggested Erin the following morning as she dipped thinly sliced pieces of toast into her perfectly boiled three-minute brown egg. “I am going to look into deaths that occurred in Stow-on-the Wold, England in the 1980s.”
“Why there?” asked Monica, pouring maple syrup over her fluffy, golden pancakes.”
“Well, I am going to assume that based on Bertha’s marriage certificate stating that she and her husband were married in Stow-on-the-Wold, she might also have been employed in that area as a cook.”
After breakfast Erin logged on to the internet and discovered that the village of Stow-on-the Wold was a delightful market town famous for the spring and fall Gypsy Horse Fair, cricket museum, Kiftsgate Court and Sezincote Gardens. She found the name of the local Stow-on-the Wold newspaper and googled ‘deaths and obituaries, Stow-on-the-Wold 1980-1989.’ Luckily the newspaper had taken the time to record their past issues and she spent hours reading about car accidents, drownings, natural and unnatural deaths. There were a few mysterious and unsolved deaths listed but one dating July 1985 caught her eye and when she saw the photo, she knew she was in luck.
Tragedy Strikes Prominent Stow-on-the Wold Family.
Claire Merriweather, two-year-old daughter of prominent London lawyer, John Merriweather, and his well-known model wife Clarisse, died at the family estate yesterday under tragic circumstances. The child was found drowned in the garden pond; her nanny having stepped inside the house for a brief moment. An older brother and his friend claimed they had not seen or heard a thing.
The article continued on with details and funeral arrangements. Erin looked closely at the grainy newspaper photo, similar to the others she had seen, but it included a third child.
“That’s an odd coincidence that we have an Adrian here at the resort and an Adrian with a different last name possibly connected to this death,” said Erin to Monica that night as the girls enjoyed their meal of Sole Amandine followed by slices of rich hazelnut torte, “Do you think they might be the same person?”
“What did Sherlock Holmes write,” asked Monica, “‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”
Fifteen minutes later the girls took out their pads of paper and compared notes in the small library near Pamela’s office.
“Bertha’s death was between 7:20 and 7:55 pm and I think we can safely strike Ida Matheson off our list of suspects. She has no motive, was very helpful and observant, and being elderly and plump, would be incapable of wrestling a younger woman like Bertha down,” said Monica.
“Ditto the Trimble girls. We know they saw a light go on in the basement window, but they and their parents had no motive and nothing to do with the murder unless they were distraught over imperfect chicken fingers or warm martinis,” laughed Erin.
“Jennifer Patterson certainly didn’t like Bertha; there was an awful lot of jealousy there, but was she unhinged enough to kill her?”
“Personally, I can’t see how she would have been physically capable to get Bertha in any position to strangle her. Both women are about the same age and size, so it would have been an equal fight. However, getting rid of poor old Mrs. Law is certainly something that Jennifer might have masterminded. She knew that her alibi about being at the Community Center would unravel if Mrs. Law were questioned closely, so she had to get rid of her,” suggested Erin.
“And, it’s going to be almost impossible to prove if she really did give Mrs. Law some green potatoes or if Mrs. Law just picked the wrong ones off the table in their Patterson’s greenhouse. If Mr. Patterson is a botanist then he’d know all about poisonous potatoes, and I am sure Jennifer would too.”
“Next, we have Leo, the boatman. He claims he and Abella, his fake French gal pal were watching a movie the night of the murder. We know he lied about that, thanks to the dusty DVD player. His motive, I think, lies in that photo of him accepting an envelope. I think she was blackmailing him, but why? Let’s call him in for another little chat.”
“Ok, now what about Sean?” asked Monica referred to her notes. “Bertha is blackmailing him too. If she spills the beans then his future looks grim: no fiancée, no wedding, no chance to inherit and take over a successful business. Was he afraid that one day the truth might come out?”
Erin frowned and held up her finger, interrupting her partner. “We still have to ask Sally to corroborate his story for the night of Bertha’s murder, but I have a feeling that she’ll agree that he was with her all night. She would gain nothing by lying.”
Both girls turned their heads to the door when they heard a knock, neither of them surprised when Pamela looked in. “Hi ladies, how is it going?”
“We are just going over our notes,” said Erin, “and thinking of theories and tossing around ideas.”
“Any luck or new leads?”
Monica offered the manager a seat. “We are eliminating some people and adding information on others. By the way, did Jennifer Patterson speak to you today?”
Pamela refused the seat, indicating she was in a hurry. But her eyes popped when she answered Monica’s question. “Yes, did she ever. I was bowled over when she told me what she had trying to make Bertha look incompetent. And all because I gave the head chef job to Bertha. I explained to her that she really got the better deal. Bertha had to get up early and go to bed late day after day, whereas Jennifer had a nine to five kind of job, so she was able to spend time with her husband and friends in the evenings. The choice was no reflection on Jennifer’s cooking.”
Monica asked, “What was her reaction?”
“She didn’t say much, but I think she realized that she has spent years being angry and bitter over nothing. Such a waste.”
“Are you going to keep her on?”
“I am not sure what to do. If she hadn’t been so stupid, she would have been the obvious replacement choice now that Bertha is dead, but now I am rethinking things. Anyway, I’ve done a rough translation of Bertha’s diary for you.”
Erin clapped her hands. “Terrific. Was there any entry or entries from around July 1985?”
“Sure was, listen to this” said Pamela, flipping through the well-worn pages. She cleared her throat and began reading.
“‘It is so unfair. Little Claire drowns, and Hershey gets blamed. Adrian looks at me slyly and listens around corners to any adults speaking in the house. He’s a sneaky child. Mrs. Merriweather is beside herself with grief and Mr. Merriweather is agitated and very abrupt. I will hand in my notice this week and leave. This is a hateful place.”
“Mmmm,” said Monica, “sounds like a houseful of people falling apart. Bertha doesn’t seem to like that Adrian kid much from her diary comments.”
“I wonder who Hershey was and why Bertha thought it was unfair that Hershey got blamed?” asked Erin.”
***
The next day Erin decided to place a request for information on the Stow-in-the-Wold Facebook page. She typed: ‘Looking to make contact with anybody who recalls or who were part of the investigations concerning drowning death of Claire Merriweather July 1985.’ She added her email address, clicked the ‘send’ button and mentally crossed her fingers. It was a long shot but worth a try.
They then put in a call to Leo and he appeared at the library door with hat in hand, looking far less confident than when the girls had met him and Abella at his house.
“Leo, c’mon in and let’s chat,” suggested Monica, trying to put him at ease. As soon as he took a seat, she got right to it. “Now, let’s cut to the chase. You didn’t stay home and watch a movie the other night when Bertha died did you?”
Leo looked down at his well-worn sailing shoes. “How did you know?” he mumbled.
“Dusty DVD player. You and Abella haven’t watched a movie in ages if I am right. And, Abella is no more French that I am a politician. Why does she pretend? She didn’t understand what I said to her in French, did she?”
“She thinks the accent gives her a certain amount of flair here on the island. She knows about three words in French.”
“So, if the two of you were not at home watching The Perfect Storm, then where were you?”
Leo was silent and twisted his hat around in his large rough hands. “I can’t say.”
Erin had a sudden flash of inspiration. “Leo, the night of Bertha’s death you helped Monica and me with our luggage when we arrived, but I don’t think that you went home after that, did you?”
Leo shrugged, and the girls took this as a no.
“Leo, Erin and I found a photo of you being handed an envelope by one of your marina suppliers.”
“Where did you get that, I’ve been loo...”
“Aha, so you knew about this photo. Was Bartha blackmailing you perhaps?”
Leo sat back in his chair, lifted his eyes to the ceiling and let out a long sigh. “Well, she’s dead now, so I guess it will come out. But that doesn’t mean I killed her. I wouldn’t be nuts enough to do that and put my life here on the island in jeopardy.”
“Tell us what happened Leo.”
“Do you recall Abella saying that she had sent her resume to Bertha a few times, but it was always passed over? We think that Bertha was afraid that Pamela might let her go and hire Abella with her updated menu ideas. There had been talk of trying to attract more of the island residents to the dining room with fancier meal ideas to bring in more money. One day Bertha shows me the photo and tells me that she won’t tell Pamela about the handouts from Marvin the marine supplier if I ask Abella to stop sending in her resume to the resort.”
Erin leaned forward, her eyes shining, “Did you agree?”
“Yes, I didn’t want to lose my job. I figured eventually Bertha might quit or retire and then Abella would get her job. I didn’t want Bertha telling Abella or Pamela about me getting money from certain suppliers for buying their boats and goods.”
“So, you wanted to keep her quiet; that’s an excellent motive for murder,” said Monica gravely.
“I didn’t kill Bertha. I wouldn’t be so stupid!”
“Ok, then where were you the night Bertha died? Here or someplace else?”
“Here. We were both here, Abella and I. I was determined to get the photos and I thought that I might be able to sneak into Bertha’s kitchen office and have a look around during the busy dinner time.”
“Did you get into her office and look about?” asked Erin.
“Yes, I managed to get in using an old key that worked. I’d found it in a box of junk in the boat house. Because Bertha’s office was down a hall away from the kitchen, we figured we had a chance when everybody was busy with meals. Abella stood outside the door and watched and listened for anybody approaching. After a few minutes Abella did hear somebody approaching. She turned her face to the wall, so she wouldn’t be recognized.”
“Then what happened?”
“He went down the stairs to the storeroom in the basement.”
Monica and Erin both leaned forwards. “And then what?” they said in unison.
“I looked around for another five or ten minutes and then we took off and went home.”
“What time was this?” asked Erin.
“Around 8:00 pm.”
“You obviously didn’t find the book, did you?”
“No book and no photos.”
***
The storm ebbed and flowed and went from really nasty to depressingly awful. Would it ever end? No boats had been able to land or leave the island for the past few days and with the bad weather, outdoor activities were limited. The Trimble twins were clearly bored, and the parents were at their wits end trying to keep them amused. Even their video games weren’t keeping them occupied any longer. Adrian was also fed up with the provincial low-key resort life and seemed to get more and more impatient and bad tempered by the hour. He let anyone know who would listen that he couldn’t wait to get off the island.
Just before dinner the following day, as Erin was about to close up her notebook, her computer chimed alerting her to an incoming email. The subject line read: ‘1985 Death Murder Inquiry’ and Erin’s pulse quickened as she read it.
‘I saw your request for information on the SITW Facebook page and might be able to help you out. My father was a policeman in this region when Claire drowned in the summer of 1985. The nanny was emotionally distraught after the event and was put through the wringer in the media for leaving the child alone. The family claimed that Hershey, the cook’s dog, knocked the child into the pool. The question that went unanswered was how a two-year-old could have walked the distance to the pond from the play area, and then drowned, all in under two minutes. The cook Bertha said that it couldn’t have been Hershey because he was with her all that day in her house as it was her day off. Nobody seemed interested in listening to her.
Mr. Merriweather had his gardener take the dog to the back meadow and shoot it. Bertha the cook left their employ shortly after that and she disappeared into thin air. Many people thought that it was unfair that Hershey was put to death. My father and others always thought there was more to the story than what was revealed and that certain facts were hushed up. Little Claire’s father was a very influential lawyer. Regards, Melinda Morrow
Erin quickly typed out a reply: Dear Melinda, thanks so much for the email and the information. What happened to the family after the death of Claire? A reply came back right away: The media furor finally died down and then Mr. and Mrs. Merriweather died in a car crash the next summer. The media must have been looking for sensational news because the story of the drowning was back in the papers with all the questions and accusations running wild again. The son Adrian went to live with an aunt and uncle in Canada.
Erin showed Monica the emails from Melinda. “If that child Adrian and the Adrian here are one and the same, I wonder why he has a different last name than his parents?” mused Erin thoughtfully.
“Maybe he took his uncle’s last name after he moved. Perhaps it was a chance to start a new life,” suggested Monica.
“Or an attempt to walk away from bad memories,” answered Erin quietly, “or worse.”
