Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017
- Автор: Фузилли Джим, Харрис Шарлин
- Год: 2017
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017». Краткое содержание книги:
“Meg left you a little money, did she? A good manager, your aunt.”
“Yes. She would have had no trouble keeping the play and cast in order.”
“About the cast,” Chief Gordon said, responding to her nudge. “Everybody was born and raised here except young Mrs. Fisher and Barton. But Barton’s been here seven or eight years. One of my girls was in his class when he started teaching at the school. So Sarah Fisher is the only newcomer. And you.” He lifted his gaze from his wrist to her face. “But you’re coming home.”
“Yes,” Jo said. “The only home I have.”
“I’d like to go through that logbook you mentioned and see if anything’s missing. Could you meet me back here in the morning? Say around ten o’clock?”
“I can do that.”
Chief Gordon scraped his chair back and lumbered up. “You have a way home?”
Jo pushed back her own chair and stood. “Yes, thank you. I drove over.”
“Take it slow. We’ve got some tree branches down.”
Dempsey was capable of opening the breadbox with his big paws and helping himself if he was hungry enough. Tonight, he strolled into the kitchen when Jo came in through the back door. He was yawning. Now that he was awake, he was ready for a late supper. But he kept his distance lest she be tempted to pat him on the head or give his lush tail a friendly tug.
Tonight she made no attempt to win him over. She put several slices of the roast chicken she had made for Sunday dinner on his plate. He had splashed most of the water out of his bowl. She refilled it.
Then she poured herself a drink from the bottle of good brandy that Meg had kept in the cupboard and carried it upstairs. She got into her pajamas and climbed into bed with the window up to catch the cool breeze that had come in the wake of the storm.
She sat there sipping and thinking about whether one of the people at the dress rehearsal might really have killed Mildred.
Mildred was not the kind of person to make enemies. But she had been curious. And she’d enjoyed sharing the tidbits of information she collected.
Wasn’t that one of the motives for murder in the mystery novels both she and Mildred liked to read? A victim who knew a secret and might reveal it.
Jo drained her brandy snifter and set the glass on her night table. “The question is whether anyone besides you has a deep, dark secret he or she might want to keep quiet.”
Aunt Meg looked back at her from the framed photograph on the dresser they had painted purple when fourteen-year-old Jo moved in.
“What do you think, Meg? Would I kill someone to keep my secret?” Jo plucked her pillow from behind her and fluffed it. “I haven’t had it long enough to know for sure. But I don’t think I’m the homicidal type.”
Chief Gordon might wonder about that if he knew she had something to hide. But she hadn’t done Mildred in.
The question was, who had.
Jo dropped her pillow back into place and reached for the lamp. “A question for tomorrow when my brain’s working again.”
Jo tried to focus on what Barton was saying.
She had shot up in bed and dashed downstairs to answer the phone. According to the grandfather clock in the hall, it was not quite seven-thirty.
“I’m sorry, Barton. Repeat that.”
“I called the president of the Grange, and he already knew about Mildred. He said Chief Gordon called him last night, and they’re meeting with the mayor and the village council.”
“They would want to discuss—”
“I don’t think they’re going to let us reschedule the play.”
“Barton, that isn’t what you should be focusing on right now. Mildred—”
“I know that. But I’ve worked so hard to... it’s not just my play. A community theater would—”
“That might still happen,” Jo said. She was awake enough now to remember the early risers on Meg’s party line. “Have you eaten? How about meeting for breakfast?”
“Breakfast? I don’t eat—”
“You should. Let’s meet on the green. Then we can decide whether to go to the diner or the inn.”
“I need to—”
“Yes, we do need to discuss what the cast can do to honor Mildred’s memory. How we can acknowledge all her hard work as our prop lady and wardrobe mistress.”
“Yes, I guess we should—”
“See you in an hour at the statue.”
She hung up before Barton could say anything else.
Barton got to the village green before she did. Jo saw him pacing back and forth in front of the statue of Eudora, the nymph whose name Matthew Gregory had given to the village he founded.
“Hi,” Jo said, taking in the puffiness of Barton’s face and the blurry eyes behind his glasses. “You look like you didn’t get a lot of sleep.”
“Did you?”
“I tell myself whatever’s wrong will still be wrong when I wake up. Let’s sit down and talk for a few minutes before we go for coffee.”
They sat down on a bench and Barton hunched forward, elbows on his knees. “Is sending some flowers okay?” he said. “Is that enough?”
Jo nodded. “That should do it.”
“I don’t think Mildred had any relatives. At least, not here in Eudora.”
“She mentioned she might spend Thanksgiving with a cousin and her family in Delaware.”
“So I guess they’ll handle the arrangements when the police release the body. They’ll do an autopsy, right?”
“Yes. I don’t know how long that will take. But whenever the announcement about services is made, that will be the time to send flowers to the funeral home.”
“So is this what we couldn’t talk about on the phone?”
“No,” Jo said. “I thought we should compare notes.”
“You mean who we think did it?” Barton glanced in her direction. “So you don’t think it was me?”
“You wanted your play to be performed. A murder the night before—”
“Unless I had no choice. Maybe I needed Mildred dead and couldn’t risk waiting.”
“Or maybe, killing Mildred accomplished what you wanted. You were afraid your play was going to be a flop and you wanted to make sure it was never performed.”
Barton sat up straight. “That’s crazy. My play’s good.”
“You were really on edge last night during the rehearsal.”
“I was trying to deal with actors who couldn’t remember their lines after weeks of rehearsal.”
And making it more difficult for them to concentrate, Jo thought. Out loud, she said, “They were making a mess of your play.”
“But I wouldn’t kill someone to stop my play from being performed. That’s crazy.”
Jo had to agree with that. It was far-fetched. “No, you probably wouldn’t. But it did occur to me last night that the killer — if it was one of us — might have a secret.”
Barton leaned toward her. She caught a whiff of stale sweat. “You got me,” he said. “I’m a spy left over from the war. Or, maybe I’m a Red.”
“You shouldn’t say that too loud,” Jo said.
“Why? Do you think the witch-hunters are lurking in the bushes? Maybe I’ll lose my job.” He turned away. “A friend of mine committed suicide a few weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Jo said.
“Me too.”
“What are you telling me, Barton?”
“Telling you? I’m telling you that I didn’t kill Mildred. And I’m not going to kill myself.”
“Good. That would be a waste.” Jo stood up. “Come on, let’s go get some breakfast. I’ve got to meet Chief Gordon at ten to go over the log book that Mildred and I were keeping for the props and costumes.”
Barton looked up at her. “Why?”
“He wants to know if anything’s missing. That would support the robbery theory. And I’m sure they’ve checked for fingerprints on the basement door.”