Authors: Beth Gutcheon
Dead at Breakfast (29 page)
“Your pictures of fire scenes prove she shows up whether there's been an arson or not. She told you why, and so did her sister and her mother.”
“Oh right, her sister and her mother. Well that proves that,” said Shep sarcastically. “And Henry Rexroth saw her snooping along the corridor . . .”
“
Says
he saw her,” said the AG. “People lie, Shep. Especially when they want to deflect suspicion. Or criticism.”
She leaned forward and put her hands flat on the table, glaring at Shep.
“Do you have one shred of physical evidence that connects that young woman to the fire? Even any evidence that there was arson at all?”
“The evidence at the scene strongly suggestsâ” Shep began, but he was cut off.
“One fingerprint? One shred of DNA?”
“She would have worn gloves.”
“Fine. Have you found the gloves?”
“Ma'am, you don't know much about arson, do you?” said Shep, condescendingly. “The preponderance . . .”
“Speaking of evidence.” Ober raised her voice and talked over him. “There's the matter of that suitcase. Does the term âchain of
custody' mean anything to you, Shep? Are there any rules that apply to you, any at all? The way you handle evidence, we'll be lucky if we can convict even
with
a confession!”
“Who . . .” Shep roared, looking around in fury, and then stopped. He suddenly remembered that that fussy little crime tech guy from Bangor with his Baggies and his tweezers had seemed a touch ticked off with him, what was that guy's name?
There was a furious silence as they faced each other.
Frannie Ober said finally, in an almost normal voice, “You have a full and credible confession from a suspect who saw the victim, paralyzed by snake venom whether she knew it or not, in bed with a lighted cigar in his hand. He set himself on fire, and you know it.” She stood up and started for the door, then stopped and turned back.
Shep Gordon took that moment to insist, “With all due respect, no one has explained the missing wastebaskets! And Cherry Weaver confessed to Officer Leo here!”
Ober was suddenly furious again. “I've seen the notes on that âconfession.' This has gone on in this county long enough. Carson, I want you in my office Monday morning. There will be consequences.” Then she was gone, followed by her detail.
There was a stunned silence for a long minute after the door shut behind them. Finally Carson Bailey said, “I guess we're done here,” and he followed his boss out of the room.
G
abriel Gurrell seemed
finally to be a shattered man. Hope and Maggie went to his office to say good-bye to him and found him staring at the television screen where Sarah in handcuffs, on what seemed like an endless news loop, walked down the courthouse steps in Ainsley. The press mob, back in force, crowded around her and shouted questions, shoving microphones toward her impassive face.
Gabe had his elbows on the desk, one hand folded around the other in a way that seemed to signal both prayer and the possibility of his punching someone. The knuckles of his thumbs were pressed against his lips as if to keep him from shouting or weeping, while on the screen the press verbally pelted Sarah. The word
Artemis
kept cutting through the clamor. Sarah's hands were cuffed in front of her and state troopers on each side of her had meaty hands around her arms. She stared straight before her, head up. At times she seemed to be looking out of the screen into the eyes of whoever was watching, the million-headed Hydra of anonymous audience. For so many years, she had been no part of her famous daughter's life. Now at last she was in the middle of it. But still alone.
Gabe noticed his guests at the door and muted the sound from the set. He stood. Hope and Maggie, somewhat embarrassed, said their good-byes, expressing their sympathy for him and sorrow for
Sarah. He nodded and hummed in appropriate registers, more than actually speaking. They left him quickly.
“In shock,” said Hope as they rolled their bags across the lobby.
“And maybe just a touch ambivalent about us, at the moment,” said Maggie as they went out the side door toward the parking lot. They had agreed that the kindest thing they could do just then was to get out of his sight.
Before they left, they had taken apart the jigsaw puzzle and put it back in its box, so it wouldn't be damaged by sun before someone else thought of it. It could well be some time before the staff of the inn was fully back in working order.
“Toby must have checked out early,” said Maggie as they settled into the car. “I didn't say good-bye, did you?”
“We had a little nightcap together last night, after the dust settled,” said Hope.
“I see, said the blind man.” Maggie looked pointedly at her friend, but Hope, feigning nonchalance, was laboring to get the car turned around without backing into Zeke, who was fussing nearby with a leaf blower. There had been a wind in the night, and a drift of yellow leaves that had been dancing in the branches yesterday was now collecting against the curbs of the parking lot.
“Toby knows I'm not a morning person,” said Hope.
“Does he, indeed?”
“And he had to be off early.” She had the car heading in the right direction now, and the long driveway was before them.
“I take it you were more than friends at one time,” said Maggie, buckling herself in and bracing her foot against the floor as Hope took the first curve.
There was a longish silence and then Hope said, “We had our moment,” with a little smile. “Before either of us was married, of course.”
“Ah,” said Maggie.
Buster and Brianna were seated in the corner booth at Just Barb's, where Maggie and Hope had arranged to meet them for lunch on their way out of town. Buster had been asked to take some time off while the sheriff decided whether to discipline him or to recommend him for detective.
“When will they let Cherry out?” Hope asked Brianna as she slid in across from her, wondering how she felt about children, how many and how soon.
“This afternoon, I hope. There's paperwork.”
“There always is.” Hope started to say that if Cherry needed any help starting over that she would be glad to . . . but Maggie stepped hard on her foot under the table before she got more than a word or two out.
To prevent her friend from making any more noises like a mother-in-law, Maggie asked, “Buster, in the car last night, did Sarah explain about the suitcase? That was the one thing I meant to ask and didn't.”
“Toby asked her,” said Buster. “She had stowed the snake stuff in the back of that cupboard . . .”
“The one Clarence led us to,” said Maggie.
“Yes, just to get it out of sight until she could put it back in Rexroth's room. She didn't want to be found wandering the halls with it.”
“No.”
“She planned to sneak it back when Rexroth was at breakfast the next morning. Or worst case, just to throw it out. Antippas would have screamed about the snake in his room by then, Niner would be called to recapture it. No one would know how the snake had escaped, no harm no foul.”
“Somehow I don't think this story was ever going to come out well for the snake,” said Maggie.
“No,” said Hope. “Or Mr. Niner. An escape artist rattlesnake in residence wouldn't be something you'd want in your Yelp reviews.”
“Risky leaving the stuff in the pantry, wasn't it?” Brianna asked.
“She said it was stuffed way in back behind the scraps bucket. She figured it would be more damning if someone found it in her room,” said Buster. “So many people are in and out of the kitchen, it might have been anyone who put it there. But when the fire broke out, she put on her parka and found gloves in the pockets, and that gave her a better idea. She had a pretty good notion where in the building the fire was. So once everyone else was evacuated, she went to Lisa and Glory's room and stole what she hoped was Lisa's suitcase. She ran down the back stairs with it, and put the snake stuff in it. Then she hid the suitcase in the basement tool room and came outside with blankets for everyone.”
“And I made her give those gloves to me!” said Hope. “So then when she had to move the suitcase . . . never mind, I know. She was dressed by then. All the cooks have their pockets full of latex gloves.”
“Or there were work gloves in the tool room,” said Buster. “I didn't ask that. But when we called the meeting in the dining room, that gave her the chance to get the suitcase from the tool room and put it out in the compost heap. It was still dark. No one would be out that way to see her and no one would be surprised that she disappeared during the meeting; they'd assume she was heating something or serving something. And in fact none of us did notice.”
Sandra arrived with their food, and their talk turned general. Brianna asked if Maggie would miss the excitement of working on this case and she said by no meansâshe had a school evaluation to lead starting on Monday. “They're always fraught with drama.”
Brianna said after a moment, “You're joking, right?”
“Right,” said Maggie. Though a certain amount of drama was inherent in any human community and Maggie was quite looking forward to it.
“What do you think will happen to Sarah?” Hope asked Buster.
“I hope she's not going to hire Celia Little,” said Brianna, and covered her face with her hands.
“Not going to be a problem,” said Buster. “Toby asked her if she knew a good lawyer and she said one of the greatest defense lawyers in the country was a backer of her San Francisco restaurant. Toby called him from the car last night.”
“Are you supposed to do that?”
“
I'm
not. Couldn't stop Toby.”
“And?”
“He'll be here Monday. Interesting case, you know?”
“Can she afford him?”
“He said when she gets out she can be his personal chef for a year.”
When they said good-bye, Hope gave Brianna a hug, and Buster allowed both his mother and Maggie to do something like embracing him.
Sandra said, “You girls come back, now you know where to find us,” and both Hope and Maggie promised they would. The Just Barb's regulars all watched out the windows as the women climbed into Hope's car, which was parked in front of Buster's cruiser. Hope started inching out into the quiet street, then stopped halfway. They could see Maggie gesturing, then Hope strapping on her seat belt. Then they pulled all the way out, took aim at the road out of town, and Hope stepped on the gas.
Sandra gave Buster a pat on the shoulder and headed back toward the kitchen, as Brianna said to him, “That wasn't so bad, was it?”
Buster said “Easy for you to say.”
As Hope approached the Bangor Airport, Maggie got a text. She read it with apparent interest, then answered, tapping quickly with her thumbs.
“What's up?” Hope asked.
“Margaux Kleinkramer.”
“Née Eileen Bachman.”
“Right.”
“What does she want?”
“Dunno. She wants to talk to us. Wonder what that's about.”
The car whizzed past the sign for the rental car returns, forcing them to do another circuit around the parking lots, but they didn't mind. They had plenty of time.
J
essica, Walter, and Emily Weber are my avian consultants and I am deeply grateful to them. Evan Moraitis and Domna Stanton provided invaluable guidance on Greek matters, and Lucie Semler and Pam Loree read early drafts for me and gave feedback that helped enormously. Lauren Belfer once again gave me the benefit of her craftsmanship and wisdom; I treasure her judgment as well as her friendship and hope I never have to do without either. Major Richard Bishop of the Ellsworth sheriff's office, Brenda Campbell in the Major Crimes Office in Bangor, and Katy Young at Troop J of the Maine state police patiently and cheerfully answered my many questions, and I apologize to them all if I have made mistakes in spite of them. Molly Munn is a gold mine of arcane information and the telling detail, as well as a joy in our lives. To my editor Jennifer Brehl and the team at William Morrow, my admiration and huge thanks as always. And to my wonderful agent and friend, Emma Sweeney, thank you thank you thank you.
BETH GUTCHEON
is the critically acclaimed author of nine previous novels:
The New Girls, Still Missing, Domestic Pleasures, Saying Grace, Five Fortunes, More Than You Know, Leeway Cottage, Good-bye and Amen
, and
Gossip
. She is the writer of numerous film scripts, including
Without a Trace
and the Academy Award nominee
The Children of Theatre Street
. Gutcheon lives in New York City.
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