The officer finally left and Detective Stewart shifted his attention back to me. “Sorry about the interruption. Let’s see, where were we?” He contemplated his notebook. “Oh, yes. How did Miss Ramsey act around her father?”
I thought of how Polly and I had stood talking after she had come back inside. When Gerald called her over like an errant dog, there was no mistaking the look of hate on her face. But I felt funny about telling the detective what I’d seen. I was sure that most people who encountered Gerald Ramsey had, at one point or another, made a similar face. It seemed unfair to cast Polly in a guilty light over what I considered an honest and justified emotion. But, I reminded myself, someone in that room tonight had shot Gerald. I knew it wasn’t me and I knew it wasn’t Aunt Winnie. My main goal was to convince the police of that. As for the others—well, I’d just have to tell what I knew and let the police sort out the rest.
Feeling like a parrot reciting my lines, I dutifully told Detective Stewart that I thought Polly resented her father’s dictatorial nature and that while I thought Lauren was firmly under Gerald’s control, she seemed unhappy. I did not, however, repeat Jackie’s unfounded assertion that she suspected Lauren of having an affair with Daniel. I told myself that it was because I didn’t want to spread vicious rumors, but I wouldn’t have wanted to be hooked up to a lie detector when I made that statement. The simple fact was, right or wrong, I liked Daniel.
I had little information about Joan and Henry or Jackie and Linnet. I had even less about the acting troupe, unless augmentation was a crime. As for Peter, I could have told the detective stories that would have set his hair on end and no doubt resulted in Peter’s immediate incarceration, but as they had nothing to do with the night’s events, I restrained myself. However, Detective Stewart did seem oddly interested in the fact that Peter’s parents were in the hotel business.
After an eternity of pregnant pauses, raised eyebrows, and seemingly random scribbling into his ever-present notebook, Detective Stewart stood up. “Well, thank you very much for your cooperation, Ms. Parker. I think I have everything I need for tonight. You can go now. But if you think of anything, please call me.” He pushed a small white card at me. I took it and stared at the name on it. “Your first name is Aloysius?” I blurted out impolitically.
He reddened a bit. “Yes.”
I was about to ask if he’d really been named for Sebastian’s bear in Brideshead Revisited, but the question died on my lips under his withering expression. It was clear that the subject was off-limits.
I stood up awkwardly, my legs stiff, while I struggled to comprehend that the burly, gruff man standing before me could have been named for an effeminate man’s bear companion. As Alice had said when she fell through the rabbit hole, “Things are getting curiouser and curiouser.”
As I turned to leave the room, I caught sight of myself in the heavy gilded mirror by the door. My eyes were bloodshot, my skin was blotchy, and my chignon had long ago come undone, leaving my hair hanging in a bedraggled mess around my face. The last time I had looked this bad at the end of an evening, I’d had a hell of a better time to show for it.
I was at the door when Detective Stewart spoke. “Oh, and one more thing, Ms. Parker.”
I sighed. The man clearly had watched too many episodes of Columbo at an impressionable age. I wearily turned back.
His lips stretched and twisted into an unnatural position, and it took me a minute to realize that he was actually trying to smile. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t leave town for the next couple of days.”
I didn’t bother asking why. I was pretty sure it wasn’t because he wanted to ask me out to dinner.
CHAPTER 8
The average, healthy, well-adjusted adult gets up
at seven-thirty in the morning feeling just plain terrible.
—JEAN KERR
IN MY DREAM, I was standing on the driveway outside the inn. In front of me, a large Mack truck was slowly and purposefully backing down on me. I tried to move out of its path, but I was frozen to the spot. The mechanical beeping of the truck grew louder and louder and I frantically screamed at the driver to stop. Finally, he stuck his head out the window. It was none other than Detective Stewart. Instead of stopping, he merely grinned at me and increased his speed. I awoke just as the truck touched me, then looked dazedly around my room and slammed my hand down on the beeping alarm clock.
My brain was fuzzy with sleep and it took me a minute or two to remember the previous night’s events and the reason I had set my alarm for such an absurdly early hour. But then I recalled Gerald Ramsey’s dead, staring eyes and everything came rushing back. Throwing on jeans and a sweatshirt, I hurried down to the kitchen. I had hoped to get a head start on the breakfast for Aunt Winnie, but she was already busily puttering about the kitchen when I arrived.
“What are you doing up so early?” she asked. “Coffee’s over there if you want any.” She gestured to the counter.
“I wanted to get the breakfast ready for you,” I said, pouring myself a cup of the aromatic brew. Adding a generous splash of cream and two heaping spoonfuls of sugar, I took a restorative sip. Leaning against the counter, I focused on the soothing warmth of the kitchen. One would be hard-pressed to maintain a bleak outlook in this room; the brightly patterned red toile alone could banish the darkest of fears.
Aunt Winnie was stirring something in a large red pot. I glanced curiously around the kitchen. There were quite a few pans out and, now that I noticed it, several competing smells. I could identify at least one.
“Why are you making lasagna for breakfast?” I asked.
Aunt Winnie shot me a bemused look before replying patiently, “Drink your coffee, dear. We’re having cranberry muffins for breakfast. I’m making the lasagna, a stew, and some other odds and ends to take to Lauren and Polly. They’re in for a rough time of it. I doubt they’ll be up for cooking much. I thought I’d take everything over later this morning.”
“That’s nice of you,” I replied, stifling a yawn. Lady Catherine perched on one of the chairs at the table, eyeing me with an expression that could only be described as disdainful. I was about to shove her off the chair when I decided to try a different tack. Maybe it was because of the murder or the New Year, but I suddenly felt an urge to befriend Lady Catherine. I was a nice person. Why shouldn’t she like me? I slowly stretched out my hand to her and clucked my tongue lightly. She did not move. I reached up and gently rubbed behind her left ear. She still did not move. A sense of accomplishment overcame me. All she really needed was some kindness and I had shown her that. I had won her over with my … with a sudden movement she dug her claws deep into my wrist. Letting out a howl of pain, I jumped back, spilling my coffee in the process. Lady Catherine shot me a smug glance of satisfaction and bounded away. As I grabbed a napkin to blot the blood, I remembered again why I hate cats.
I cleaned up my mess and poured myself another cup. After donning an apron—made of red toile, naturally—I helped Aunt Winnie prepare the food. I wondered if she was aware of Detective Stewart’s suspicions. I didn’t want to upset her, but at the same time I didn’t think it fair to keep her in the dark. I surreptitiously studied her, trying to gauge how badly the murder had affected her. Other than a drastic wardrobe change, prompted no doubt by the previous night’s tragedy—she was wearing an ultraconservative black cashmere sweater and gray flannel trousers—she looked pretty much as she always did. Her bright red curls were firmly in place, and her face showed no obvious ill effects from last night’s ordeal. But a closer inspection revealed her to be quite pale underneath her blush, with worried eyes and …