A Pint of Murder (18 page)

“Been lookin’ for me?” he grunted.

“Expecting me to be?” Rhys grunted back.

“Yep.”

“Then why didn’t you come and find me yourself?”

Sam just leaned on the manure fork and looked at the Mountie with those crystal-ball eyes.

“Was she on her way to visit you when she was killed, or had she already been to the loft?”

“She’d been.”

“What time did she leave?”

“Midnight, more or less.”

“Did you walk out to the door with her?”

“Hell no, I stayed in bed. Must o’ been asleep before she was out o’ the barn.” There was a twinge of regret in the bereft lover’s tone. Was Neddick sorry his sweetheart had been murdered, or sorry he’d missed the chance to watch it happen?

“You realize,” said Rhys with all the sternness he could manage, “that you’re in serious trouble, Neddick?”

Neddick spat over the manure fork.

“How do you propose to get yourself out of it?”

“Figgered I’d leave that to you, Inspector.”

“Did you, now? Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t take you in this minute?”

“’Cause you’ll look like a jeezledy fool when you have to let me go,” Neddick replied calmly. “Hell’s flames, Inspector, you know damn well if I’d o’ wanted to get rid o’ the poor cow, I could think o’ seventeen better ways than lammin’ her over the head an’ dumpin’ the corpse in my own dooryard.”

He spat again, not quite so forcefully. “But why would I want to? Answer me that. She was handy an’ willin’, an’ she didn’t cost me nothin’ but a dollar’s worth o’ jellybeans or somethin’ now an’ then. An’ she was sort of a likable bitch when you got to know ’er. To tell you the truth,” Neddick confessed in an embarrassed mumble, “I’m goin’ to miss ’er.”

Rhys gazed into the crystal balls for a while, and divined that the man was probably telling the truth, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. “Can you think of anybody who might have had it in for her?”

Neddick jabbed the tines of his pitchfork into the ground a few times, then slowly shook his head. “No, can’t say as I do. Don’t make no sense to me at all. Dot had an awful big mouth, but there wa’n’t no more harm to ’er than a kitten.”

“Might she have found out something that somebody didn’t care to have told?”

Amusement flickered for an instant over the leathern face. “She gen’rally did. Only she’d always blat it out to the first person that come along. I’d o’ known, for sure.”

“But suppose this was something she didn’t know she knew?” Rhys persisted.

“Come again?”

“I mean some apparent trifle she wouldn’t think worth repeating.”

Sam thought this was pretty funny, too. “There wa’n’t one jeezledy thing on the face o’ this green earth Dot wouldn’t think was worth repeatin’. Cripes, if Hank Druffitt lost a button off his union suit at seven o’clock in the mornin’, every last, livin’ soul in Pitcherville would know it by eight.”

“Why? Was Dot playing around with the doctor?”

“Hell, no. She done their laundry. Dot never fooled around with nobody. She knew I wouldn’t stand fer it.”

“Then what would you say to the possibility that your friend was murdered by mistake?”

“I’d say that was one hell of a big mistake.” Neddick scratched a shoe-leather ear. “Maybe that’s not such a dern fool notion as it sounds, Inspector. That gownd she had on, eh? Any time that bitch give anythin’ away, she might o’ known there was no luck in it. Made ’er look the spittin’ image of ’er, an’ I told ’er so point-blank.”

“Do you mean it made Dot look like Mrs. Druffitt, or like Marion Emery?”

Neddick actually looked surprised. “Now you mention it, I guess it could o’ been either. Them three was like as peas in a pod, which ain’t surprising all things considered. I hadn’t thought o’ Marion, but she’d make more sense, wouldn’t she, if you’re talkin’ about a mistake. Hell, she was right there in the house an’ it stood to reason the bitch might o’ give her them clothes instead o’ Dot. I wisht to God she had!”

“Why? Would you like to see Miss Emery out of the way?”

“Hell no. I got nothin’ in partic’lar against ’er. Not yet, anyways. Only one I can think of might like to get rid o’ Marion would be Gilly Bascom, ’cause then she’d get the Mansion all to ’erself. ’Cept Gilly’s got it in for ’er mother a lot worse’n she has for anybody else. An’ if that was ’Lizabeth Druffitt layin’ out there,” Neddick spat again with force and vigor, “I’d be proud to shake the hand that done it. An’ I ain’t goin’ to say no more than that.”

“If you choose not to, I shan’t try to force you,” said Rhys mildly. “I wonder if you’d do yourself and me one favor, though, Neddick. I’d just like to have you walk back over there with me and take a close look at Dot Fewter. I’m curious to know if there has been any change either in the way she was dressed when she left the barn or in the way she was lying when you saw her earlier this morning.”

Sam didn’t say he would but he didn’t say he wouldn’t so Rhys started back and as he expected, the other man fell into step with him. Marion was still on sentry duty beside the afghan-covered object on the grass, but she shrank back into the doorway when they got near her. Either she was afraid of Neddick or else she wanted Rhys to think she was.

Rhys folded back the afghan, careful not to disturb the folds of the dress any more than he had to, and waited. Neddick gazed down at his deceased lady-love, the crystal eyes blank as hers. At last he made utterance.

“She put ’er shoes on.”

“Explain that, please.”

Neddick pointed contemptuously at the dainty pumps. “She didn’t have ’em on when she left. She’d carried ’em over in ’er hand from the Wadmans’ to show me, as if I give a damn, but she was in ’er bare feet ’cause she didn’t want to get ’em dirty. She’d just cleaned ’em, see?”

She certainly had. Rhys had never before observed a pair of shoes so lavishly whitened. Dot had managed to slather polish all over the tops, the heels, and under the insteps, getting a good many daubs on the soles in the process. The left shoe was half off, and he could even see dribbles of white on the lining. Evidently the poor soul had been determined to do full justice to her distinguished hand-me-downs.

“She can’t have walked far in them,” he remarked.

“Prob’ly couldn’t if she was o’ mind to,” Sam grunted. “I don’t see why she bothered to put ’em on at all. They must o’ been awful tight. See the way that right foot’s swole out over the top? She was always bitchin’ about ’er feet hurtin’ from bein’ on ’em so much. Miz Treadway used to say by rights she ought to complain about ’er backside instead ’cause she was on that a damn sight oftener. Ol’ Aggie had a tongue on ’er, I can tell you! Cripes, both of ’em gone an’ me standin’ here like this.”

He shook his head, as if to clear it of unmanly sentiment. “Nope, that’s all I can see, ’cept that somebody’s pushed the hair back from ’er face. I s’pose that was you? I never touched ’er, myself. Didn’t have to. I knew, just lookin’ at ’er.” Neddick bent and with something like tenderness pulled the afghan back over the body. Then he turned back toward the Wadmans’ barn.

Rhys got neatly in his way. “Neddick, what do you know about that patent Jason Bain has been creating such a rumpus about?”

“Not a jeezledy thing.”

“Come, now, I think you can do a little better than that. Would you say he has a legitimate claim to the thing?”

“It’s possible,” Sam admitted. “Jase likes to do things legal if he can.”

“Have you the vaguest idea what he expects to get out of it?”

“No, I ain’t, an’ that’s a funny thing.” The colorless eyes narrowed. “Jase has been talkin’ awful free about the bundle he’s goin’ to make out o’ that patent. Usually when he’s up to some deal you can’t get a yip out of ’im, ’less he’s suin’ somebody. Then he’s got it all spelled out in dollars an’ cents ’cause it’s a matter o’ record anyways. But this is a new one on me. Here comes Olson.”

Rhys could hear nothing, but he had every confidence that Sam was right, and Sam was. Seconds later, Pitcherville’s one excuse for a police car hove into view and stopped at the drive.

The marshal was still working his paunch out from under the steering wheel when the other door swung open and Elizabeth Druffitt erupted. “Where is she?”

“Right here, Mrs. Druffitt.” With deliberate cruelty, Rhys uncovered the body again.

Mrs. Druffitt gave the corpse one almost totally uninterested glance, then grabbed his arm and began shaking it. “I mean my daughter. Where is she? What has he done with her? Answer me!”

“I wish I could, Mrs. Druffitt,” said Rhys. “All I can say is that the police are doing everything they can to track her down.”

“The police? What good are they? You’re a policeman and you let her go off with—with that!” Suddenly Mrs. Druffitt appeared to realize that she had a dead woman at her feet. She gave the body her full attention for a moment, then turned on Rhys with a fresh tirade.

“There, you see! Can’t you understand what he did? That’s my dress she has on. He thought he was murdering me! And you’ve let my daughter—my only child—”

Now she was totally hysterical. Among them, the two men and the cousin managed to get the distraught woman into the Mansion.

“Marion, look after her, will you?” begged Rhys. “Make her a cup of tea or something.”

“Tea!” moaned Mrs. Druffitt. “He can talk about tea!”

“Come on, Elizabeth, you’d better go lie down.” Marion got an arm around her cousin and steered her into the library. Rhys had hardly begun giving Olson a rundown of what he knew thus far when she was back in the kitchen.

“Elizabeth fell asleep practically the minute she hit the couch. Do you think she’s all right?”

Rhys went in and took a look at the unconscious woman. Her breathing was regular, her pulse seemed normal. “Shock does that sometimes,” he told Marion. “I also shouldn’t wonder if your cousin took a sedative last night and is getting a reaction from it now. In any event, sleep is far the best thing for her under the circumstances. Get a blanket and cover her up, then leave her alone for a while.”

He went back to Olson. “Marshal, I’m going to leave you in charge here for a while, if you don’t mind. Have you notified Potts?”

“Yep. He’ll be along as soon as he gets his pants on.”

“Good. I have a camera in my car and I’ll take a few pictures of the body as it lies right now. When he comes, have him take it down to his place but tell him not to do anything more until we can get somebody up here for an autopsy. I’ll arrange that. Two in a row might be a bit much for your Dr. Brown. And keep your eye on this saucepan.”

Rhys showed Olson the paper-wrapped rock, which he had packed into one of Mrs. Treadway’s cooking pots for want of a more convenient receptacle. “As far as I know, this was the murder weapon. I’m going to have it checked for fingerprints, so don’t let anybody touch it unless he wishes to be counted as a suspect.”

Marion came back and asked, “What shall I do now?”

“Be ready to assist the marshal in any way he wishes, and answer the phone if it rings. Write down any messages for me, and please be sure you get them exactly as given. If your cousin should wake up and become hysterical again, you might try some of your uncle’s cherry brandy on her.”

She answered Rhys’s smile with an equally melancholy one of her own. “I think I’ll take a few slugs myself.”

“A pot of strong coffee would do you more good. No doubt the marshal could use some, too. I have to go now.”

Janet should be up by this time, getting breakfast for the men when they came in from the milking, probably wondering what Fred Olson’s car was doing over here at the Mansion and fuming a bit because Dot Fewter hadn’t come downstairs to help her. She’d wonder why he was coming to get the camera from his car and then going back to the Mansion with it. It was obviously his duty to go in and explain what the commotion was all about. If she happened to invite him to stay for breakfast, it would be cruel and insensitive of him not to accept. Duty must indeed be done.

“I
CAN’T GET OVER
it! Only last night she was sitting right here at the table, happy as a—” Janet’s lovely, sensitive mouth began to quiver and she tried to steady herself. “Well, at least she died on a full stomach, poor soul. Couldn’t you eat one more of those doughnuts, Madoc?”

“Thank you, Janet, but I could not. Do you recall exactly when you last saw Dot?”

“Let me think. Bert went to bed right after supper. He was worn out from all the excitement over getting Annabelle back to her folks’. Then Dot and I watched some foolish program on TV that she was crazy about, don’t ask me why. So it must have been just after ten when we went upstairs. She called me into her room to show me an outfit Mrs. Druffitt had given her.”

“Did you recognize the clothing?”

“How could I not? Mrs. Druffitt had it on the day her husband was killed. I suppose that’s why she didn’t want it around any more, though I must say if they’d been mine, I shouldn’t have cared for the notion of letting Dot Fewter go parading in my things down to the Busy Bee or up to the haymow with Sam Neddick.”

“If you’d been in her place, you’d have given them, say, to Marion Emery?”

“Why yes, I suppose I would. Marion’s her own cousin, after all. The only one she admits to, anyway. Besides, Marion will be going back to Boston sooner or later, I expect, so she could wear the clothes down there, where nobody would know where they came from. I’ll bet Marion’s—” Janet caught herself, and shuddered. “No, I expect she’s just as well pleased. Not pleased, I mean, but—”

“I know what you mean,” said Rhys, fighting an impulse to offer comfort in a more emphatic form. “I think you could safely say that she is at least somewhat relieved. Tell me: How did Dot seem to you last evening? Would you say she was at all worried or preoccupied about anything?”

“Heavens no! She was tickled silly. She’d had a good supper and enjoyed her program, and she was so proud of that new outfit—” Janet choked a little.

“Did she say anything about showing it to Sam Neddick?” said Rhys quickly.

“No, though I might have known they had a little something cooked up between them. To tell you the truth, it never entered my mind. That was the one thing Dot never talked about and of course Sam didn’t, either, though everybody’s known for years what was going on.”