“Did she say anything else? What makes her think she knows who did it?” Aunt Winnie was now standing, too, her foot tapping out a rhythm similar to my fingers.
“She said it had to do with the lights, but I don’t know what that means.” I paced back and forth between the sink and the table while I tried to make sense of that statement. Lady Catherine appeared. Perching on the chair opposite Aunt Winnie, she nonchalantly tried to steal a piece of toast.
“The lights? What about the lights?” Aunt Winnie asked, her voice sharp. Without looking, she shoved Lady Catherine off the chair.
“She didn’t say. Everyone came into the foyer from the reading room and she left.” I knew it was silly, but hope began to rise in my chest. Maybe this nightmare was about to end. If, by some miracle of heaven, Jackie had solved the mystery, then Aunt Winnie would be safe. But that said, I couldn’t stand this inaction anymore. “I’m going to try to get hold of Detective Stewart,” I said. “Jackie said she’s going to be home for a bit. Then she has to meet Linnet for lunch.”
“I’m going to call Randy.” Aunt Winnie quit the kitchen and headed for her room.
I rushed back to Aunt Winnie’s office, where I resumed my search for Detective Stewart’s number. As I rummaged through the desk, Henry appeared in the doorway. “Elizabeth?” he said. He stepped into the room and, amazingly, shut the door softly behind him. “I’m here for my watch.”
With his presence the tiny, cramped office seemed to shrink even farther. Henry had never struck me as an imposing man. But now, alone with him in Aunt Winnie’s office with the door closed, he seemed large and menacing.
“Of course, Mr. Anderson,” I said crisply. “I have it right here.” My stomach was churning, but at least I thought I sounded in control. I reached into my pant pocket and handed it to him.
“Thank you.” His thick fingers grasped the watch.
“It’s very nice,” I babbled. “But I think Mrs. Anderson is right—you really should get the clasp fixed.”
“Um. Yes. You’re probably right.” He nodded quickly, sending a strand of limp brown hair down onto his forehead.
We stared at each other and then he said, “Well, thank you again for finding it.” He made no move to leave and I became more than ever aware of that closed door. Glancing at the desk, I searched for something I could use to defend myself should the need arise. A letter opener lay on top of a pile of papers and I palmed it. Granted, it wasn’t much, but it was metal. It would have to do. My only other defense in hurting him would be to shout out nasty things about Mrs. Kristell Dubois. I entertained a brief image of him falling, doubled over in pain, as I hollered, “Mrs. Kristell Dubois is a gauche, tarted-up old biddy.” Henry still made no move to leave; he seemed caught in some internal debate.
An idea came to me. “Don’t you want to know where I found it?” I asked, breaking the silence. It was clear that he did not.
Reluctantly, he said, “Where?”
I was taking a gamble, but given that someone had planted the tape in Aunt Winnie’s office, I had to try. “Here,” I said, gesturing toward the desk. “On the floor underneath the desk. I wonder how it ended up there.”
Henry’s dark eyes slid to where I had indicated. With a guarded expression, he said, “I have no idea.” He hadn’t blanched in shock, but I was sure he was upset. Clearing his throat, he seemed about to say more when the door opened. Peter poked his head around the door frame. “Elizabeth?” he said. “What’s going on? Oh, excuse me, Mr. Anderson. I didn’t see you.” Sensing the tense atmosphere, Peter asked, “Is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine,” Henry said. Without another word, he shoved past Peter and out of the office. As soon as he was gone, I sank heavily into the chair.
Peter turned to me. “What the hell was that all about?”
“I gave him back his watch. I told him I found it underneath the desk.”
“Why did you tell him that?”
“I don’t know. I thought that if he planted the tape here, he might look guilty or something.”
Peter cocked an eyebrow at me. “I see. Well, did he?”
“No. But he was upset. For a minute, I thought he was going to tell me something, but then you burst in and he left.” I sighed and gestured toward the desk. “Here, help me find Detective Stewart’s phone number. I’ve got to tell him about Jackie.”
Peter narrowed his eyes in confusion. “What about Jackie?”
“She came here this morning. She said she knows who the killer is—something about the lights. She wants me to call Detective Stewart for her. She hasn’t been able to reach him.”
“She said she knows who killed Gerald?” he said in astonishment. “Who?”
“I don’t know. Everyone came in from the reading room and she left.”
Confusion registered in his brown eyes. “But what did she say—and why did she say it to you?”
“I don’t know.” I rubbed my forehead. “She’s got this silly idea in her head that I’m working undercover with Detective Stewart. She probably thinks I can reach him on some secret bat line.”
“Secret bat line?” Peter repeated.
“It’s just an expression,” I snapped. “Just help me find the damn number.”
We pawed through the mess that was Aunt Winnie’s desk until Peter triumphantly held up a small white card. “Here it is. Detective Aloysius Stewart.” He paused and cocked an eyebrow at me. “His first name is Aloysius?”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, taking the card from him. “I think his mother was a fan of Evelyn Waugh.” I flipped open my cell phone; there was no signal. I pushed the papers on the desk to one side in the hopes that the phone was somewhere underneath them. It was not.
“You seem to know a lot about the man. Are you sure you’re not working undercover with him on this?”
“What?” I said. “Peter, I don’t have time for this right now. Just please help me find the damn phone!”
Only by backtracking from the wall cord were we able to unearth it. With shaking hands, I clumsily punched in the numbers. The line rang and rang, until finally Detective Stewart’s voice mail clicked on. In a voice so raspy it would have been comical at any other time, Detective Stewart gravely pronounced that he was out of the office but would check his messages and return them promptly. I blurted out a plea for him to call me and slammed down the receiver.
Slumping back down in the chair, I cradled my head in my hands. My head hurt.
From somewhere to my left, I heard Peter’s voice. “Elizabeth, are you all right?”
I raised my head. “No, Peter, I’m not. For God’s sake, I’m a stupid fact-checker at a newspaper. I studied English literature in school, not criminal justice!” The stress of the last few days broke over me and I rambled on, “I know that the name of Ulysses’ faithful dog is Argos. I know that in mythology, Truth is the Daughter of Time, and I know that it’s ‘such stuff as dreams are made on,’ not of. But what I don’t know is who killed Gerald Ramsey! I have a brain stuffed with useless bits of knowledge and I’m in the middle of a murder investigation and I don’t know what to do anymore!” Wearily, I dropped my head back in my hands.
After a brief silence, Peter said, “It’s not ‘the stuff that dreams are made of’? Are you sure?”
I opened my eyes and stared at him. “What?”
“I said, are you sure that it’s not ‘the stuff that dreams are made of’? Because that’s what Bogart says at the end of The Maltese Falcon.”
“Yes, I’m sure. And since when is Bogart the last word on Shakespeare?”
“He doesn’t have to be,” he said with a studied look of incomprehension. “He’s Bogart.”
“Get out,” I said.
“Maggie likes Bogart,” Peter began.
“Maggie also likes you, so that’s not exactly a point in her favor for excellent judgment.”