I pulled out the bottom left drawer of Sam’s desk, poured out a handful of M&Ms, handed the sack for Wiggins.
‘It’s good that there’s no one here but us.’ Wiggins’s chuckle was robust. ‘Floating candies would surely startle an observer.’ M&Ms rolled from the sack into his unseen hand.
I laughed and took the bag from the air.
Wiggins Appeared, his blue cap with the black brim tilted back on his thick thatch of russet hair. His florid face was pleased. This time it was he who patted the sofa seat, inviting me to join him.
I Appeared too, back in my Detective Loy suit. I like to reassure Wiggins that I am quite a serious person despite flaming red hair and a penchant for Lulu’s. No frivolity here.
‘I’m most pleased, Bailey Ruth. I know you will devise a clever way to point the police in the proper direction. Eight fifteen. Yes, indeed.’ He gestured at the computer. ‘As soon as you use that thing’ – computers were far distant from Wiggins’s 1910 train station – ‘and make your report to Chief Cobb, the Rescue Express will be here.’
‘Eight fifteen.’ I might have sounded a bit strangled.
‘Eight fifteen? Oh, of course. That door closed. Clever of you. Fran is saved.’
‘Wiggins,’ despite their protective shell, the M&Ms felt sweaty in my hand, ‘I must be at the Chandler house at eight fifteen.’ Dwight’s entertainment required each person to be at a precise location. One participant would be lying. I wanted to see each one where they claimed to be last night.
‘Mmmmm.’ A considering tone.
He popped the last M&Ms in his mouth. ‘Very well. Tidy things up, Bailey Ruth and—’ His brow furrowed. ‘Oh. A summons. Tumbulgum. I must go.’ He disappeared. Coal smoke thinned, swirled away.
A single wall sconce glowed in the huge Chandler entry hall, providing very little illumination. No music played. The fountain splashed. All was darkness to my right and left.
I’ll admit I was curious to see Elise Douglas’s selfie. Elise told Detective Loy that she and Dwight were together in their suite at eight fifteen the night before. Dwight asked if she needed an alibi.
Elise settled in a comfortable chair, picked up her cell phone, gave it a wide-eyed stare, tapped. She was a dramatic figure in a red silk robe emblazoned with a golden dragon. Her dark hair was piled atop her head.
Stuart’s suite was empty. I found him downstairs in the dart room with the deer head and the leather sofas. Again he stared at his cell phone. The bottle of Scotch on the table was nearly empty, but it was capped and no glass sat on the end table. He pushed up from the sofa, walked to a wet bar, grabbed a glass. He returned, plopped on to the sofa, placed the glass on the table with the bottom up. His face held resolve and hope and uncertainty. He took a quick breath, grabbed the cell, clicked a selfie, slid the phone in his pocket. A pause then he picked up the bottle, slowly unscrewed the lid, held the bottle near the glass, began to tip. The bottle jerked upright. Scotch splashed on to the table. His nose wrinkled. He put the fifth down, picked up the cap with a shaking hand, jammed the cap on the bottle, slammed the bottle on the table. ‘I will not. I will not. I will not.’
In the Paces’ suite, Jason stood by the hall door. Crystal sat at the small desk. ‘I might as well work on my introduction. Oh Jason, only three weeks and she’ll be at the club. Meeting her is going to be the best thing ever.’ Crystal brushed back a strand of hair. ‘Thank God I’ve had that to work on. It’s fun finding out more about Serena. And her line of clothes is just fabulous. Being cooped up here is driving me crazy. I haven’t played in three weeks.’ She frowned. ‘I hope Genevieve is doing at least two buckets of balls with the kids every day.’
Jason did a squat lunge, returned to the doorway. ‘They’ll probably serve better than you when we get back.’ He saw her frown. ‘Hey, just kidding. Anyway, it’s about time for the photos. I’d better get downstairs.’
In her office on the ground floor, Margaret gazed at the cell phone lying on her desk. Finally, with a shrug, she picked it up, turned the face toward her, tapped.
Jason crouched at the largest pinball machine, gave it an affectionate pat. He pulled out his cell, twisted to snap a photo of himself with the machine at his back. He slid the cell in a pocket, turned and gripped the levers. Flip. Flip. Flip. Lights flashed.
I opened the door to the pool. All was quiet and dark. It was perhaps a few minutes after eight fifteen. I’d missed Dwight’s selfie, but I was quite sure I knew what it would show: Dwight standing on the threshold, looking up the hall at a fast-moving figure.
Fran hummed as she washed a mixing bowl, turned to place it in the dishwasher. An apple pie cooled on the counter. I sniffed. As Mama always told us kids, ‘Be sweet and I’ll cut you a piece.’ I stood beside the counter, admired the golden-brown lattice crust. I took a breath and warbled ‘Apple Pan Dowdy.’
After an initial gasp, Fran laughed. ‘I made the pie for Don, but I’ll give you a piece.’ She gestured toward the white kitchen table.
I Appeared. I smoothed the soft sleeve of a double-breasted plaid jacket, tan stripes within blue squares, a matching blue cotton blouse, a chunky turquoise necklace, smooth-fitted cream slacks, blue flats. I appreciated the admiration in her gaze.
She joined me at the kitchen table. The pie with a dash of whipped cream was scrumptious. I felt comfortable, an interlude with a friend.
‘All is well with Travis and Jennifer.’
Fran shook her head. ‘Travis called this afternoon. Jennifer’s walked out on him.’
‘She’s walking back. I told her Travis found the body and that’s why he ran. I’m afraid she thought Travis lost his temper and killed Sylvia. By the time she gets home, she’ll have dismissed any memory of that and tell him she just wanted to be away from the hill, why it was so scary what happened up there. And he’ll tell her how great his new painting is and never question what she says.’
‘How did you …’ She broke off. ‘I suppose you’re everywhere. If you know everything, who killed Sylvia?’
‘Someone in the Chandler house.’
She was impatient. ‘That doesn’t get us very far.’
I wasn’t exactly miffed, but I felt Detective M. Loy deserved some credit. ‘I know the murderer was on the far side of the terrace at eight fifteen. They all claim to have been in another place. Elise said she and Dwight were in the suite, but she lied. Dwight was downstairs at the pool. He goes down every night at a quarter to eight and swims for half an hour. According to their statements to me, Crystal was at a desk with her laptop, Jason was in the game room, Stuart was pouring Scotch in the dart room, and Margaret was in her office.’
Fran repeated their names. ‘Don told me about them.’
I suspected she had a clear vision of each of them: stylish imperious Elise, powerful hard-faced Dwight, tennis-playing Crystal, perennial jock Jason, sensitive troubled Stuart, intelligent reliable Margaret.
‘One of them lied. One of them saw Travis arrive.’
Fran’s eyes widened. ‘The murderer was on the terrace when Travis came?’
‘The murderer watched Travis enter the library and a moment later rush out. The murderer was frantic to get inside unseen.’ I imagined the panicked wiping of the outer knob, pulling the door open, stepping inside, closing the door, snapping the lock, wiping the inside lock, dashing up the hall. ‘Travis heard the door close. He ran. And I’m the one—’
The cell phone lying on the counter rang.
Fran pushed back her chair. ‘My work phone. Somebody probably has to have a cut-glass vase for some flowers, right now on a cold November night, and Mitchell Antiques always comes through.’ She was smiling as she clicked on the phone, held it to her ear. ‘Mitchell Antiques. How may I help you?’
Fran suddenly went rigid, her breaths coming fast.