Then Hang All the Liars (20 page)

“I did, sir. I called his name several times, each time more loudly.”

“And when he didn't stir?”

“That's when I touched him.” Rumson shuddered involuntarily.

“And you realized he was cold.”

“Yes, sir. Quite cold. Of course, I noticed the—” He was embarrassed to mention it.

“The smell? I'd say he's been here a while. Did you touch anything else?”

“Nothing except the door. I locked it, seemed the right thing to do, and went straight downstairs and told Ms. Adams, who'd come to see him—and Judges Deaver and O'Connor who were talking with her. And then we called you.”

“What did you say your business was with Percy?” the heftier of the two detectives asked Sam.

“I didn't.” She smiled. “But I will—”

However, not just then, for at that moment, Beau Talbot and Lee Boggs, one of his investigators, made their way into the official crush.

“Samantha.” Beau nodded.

“Dr. Talbot. Mr. Boggs.” She nodded back.

“Good to see you, Sam,” said Boggs, a sweet-faced man of whom Sam was quite fond. A terrier at a crime scene, he looked like a Sunday school teacher.

“I believe the rest of us know each other,” Beau continued, then turned his attention inside the room. “I was having lunch, didn't get any particulars with the call from the Fulton County M.E. This must be a hot one if they're passing it to us.”

“Probably the club,” Sam offered.

When a case might be political, and at the Claridge everything was potentially political, strings would be pulled and the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, of which Beau's office was a part, would be given the high sign.

He jerked a thumb at the corpse. “Do we know the identity of the gentleman?”

“Name's Randolph Percy,” said one of the cops.

“Percy?” Beau whistled, then turned and gave Sam a look. “A little drastic, don't you think, Sammy?”

“What?” The beefy detective looked from one to the other. “What do you mean?”

“Sam'll explain it all to you later,” said Beau. “Won't you?”

She narrowed her eyes at Beau in warning. He was so obnoxious when he got to play super doc. But he also could be awfully useful.

“So what do you think?” she asked him.

“You mean from just standing here six feet away? You're asking for my professional opinion?”

“I thought you'd gotten so good at this you could just sniff the scene. Like a bird dog.”

There was a little sound behind her. The cops were enjoying this.

“What do you think, Boggs?” Beau asked.

The senior technician who'd stepped past everyone else had been gently probing the body, carefully inspecting the bed, the floor, touring the private bathroom, doing a routine preliminary scan of a potential crime scene.

“Nothing,” he answered.

“Nothing,” Beau said. “No sign of a struggle, nothing out of order. No forced entry. I'd say the old man died in his sleep. From the aroma, a couple of days ago.”

“Well, you'll find out in the autopsy,” Sam said. Four beats. “Probably.”

“We might. And we'll be sure and give you a call. We want you to be among the first to know the cause of death.”

“Why, thank you.” She smiled.

One of the cops sniggered.

“I'll be through here in a few minutes,” said Boggs, who'd been busy with his camera.

“Good,” said Beau. “Then we'll take the body in.”

“This is perfectly dreadful,” Rumson murmured beside Sam.

“Did you know Randolph Percy well?” She was hauling out her notebook, pen poised, ready to record his story.

“No. Not really.” He looked surprised. “Oh, I didn't mean that. I meant perfectly dreadful for the club. Couldn't we keep this out of the paper?”

Fourteen

“Well, I wish I could say I was sorry.” Emily Edwards pushed her tortoise-shell glasses to the top of her head and pulled her knees up to her chest. She and Sam were sitting on the Edwardses' back steps. “That's a terrible admission, isn't it? To be glad someone's dead?”

“Not in this case. Bastard just saved me from calling in a favor.”

Though, in truth, she'd rather fancied the idea of asking Nicole Burkett to inveigle her friends to lean on Percy.

“Poor Felicity,” Emily continued. “Even though it's for the best, she's not going to take this well. She thought Randolph hung the moon.” Emily stood, then covered the short distance to the front of one of the dog runs. “Hush, girl,” she ordered a spaniel who was barking at a salamander. “Well, maybe I can get Felicity to the doctor and back on her medication now. All that junk of Randolph's ever did was make her a little tiddly, and well, you've seen what happens when she's off her lithium.”

“What do you think was in Randolph's elixir?”

“I
know
what it was. Alcohol. Food coloring. A few herbs. I tried some myself. Perfect nonsense—like other patent medicines. Hadacol. Do you remember that?”

“I do. A housekeeper we had once gave it to me. It tasted terrible, but I loved it.”

“Of course you did. It made you drunk.”

“See? They put it in my bottle. Started me early on the road to perdition.”

“I didn't mean—”

“Nonsense. It was my bad joke. But listen, do you still have any of Percy's stuff around?”

“Why, yes. I'm sure there's still a bottle in Felicity's room.”

“I think we ought to have Beau take a look at it.”

“Of course. But why?”

“Funny feeling—I'm not sure Percy's death was kosher. I think we ought to collect whatever we can on him.”

“But you said he died from natural causes.”

“I said that's what Beau surmised from looking at his corpse from across the room. We haven't heard the autopsy report yet.”

“And you think this elixir had something to do with it? If that were true—” She put her hand to her heart. “Then what about Felicity?”

“Well, she has been stranger and stranger, hasn't she?”

“Yes, but, my dear, you're implying that the draught killed him.”

“Now that's an interesting possibility, isn't it?”

“Samantha! Why do you think anyone would kill Randolph Percy?”

“Why, Emily. Lots of people had perfectly good reasons. As you well know, he was a charming but despicable man who preyed on women like Felicity. In fact, you
yourself
had ample reason to kill him.”

At that, her gaze and Emily's locked. Emily
did
, didn't she? Especially if Felicity had changed her will to include Randolph, which would mean that Emily's share would be smaller. Or nonexistent. Had Felicity done that? And did Emily know it?

Finally, Emily looked away and laughed. But a bright red spot of color burned on each cheek.

“I guess you'll want to know where I was for the past forty-eight hours.”

“Why forty-eight? Is that a magic number?”

“Well, I don't know—I just—now look here, Samantha.” Now Emily was really agitated.

“I'm only teasing you.”

But she wasn't. Not really. She wasn't going to be able to let go of the idea now that it was planted. Especially since something else had been sowed earlier today. When she'd told Emily she was going to visit Percy, Emily had been so hesitant—as if she didn't want her to go. Was she afraid Percy might not be dead yet? Did her plan really require forty-eight hours?

Though why would Emily call Sam and George in if she were planning to kill Randolph? Why would she want someone poking about in her business? Was she that clever, had she planned it out that far ahead, that no one would possibly suspect her if she'd invited the interference? This train of thought seemed highly unlikely.

Of course, there were lots of people with motives. God only knew how many. Patsy Finch, for one, whom she knew by name, the woman in Decatur who thought he'd killed her mother, who'd been done out of part of her inheritance. The woman's whiny voice echoed in her ears.

Hell, Patsy Finch probably didn't have the energy to kill Percy, even if it meant only slipping him a couple of pills.

There were so many people with motives. She'd have to talk with Dan Clayton in Savannah and see who had filed complaints.

She could just hear him now. “You're crazy, Sam. The bastard's gone—and good riddance. Why do you care who did it?”

A good question.

She was crazy anyway to think there was anything suspicious about Percy's death.

Probably Beau's first guess was right.

Probably he died of natural causes.

If so, then she'd have a clean plate again, wouldn't she?

The Tight Squeeze matter dumped in the lap of Nicole Burkett.

Randolph Percy conveniently dead.

Felicity back on her medication would improve, especially in her sister's capable hands.

But what about the doll and the chocolate, the puppy and the Mother's Day card?

Chalk it all off to Percy. She'd never known exactly what he was up to—but definitely no good.

And Felicity's baby? The one she kept nattering about—that Horace seemed to think had really existed?

So what? It was water under the bridge many years ago. And
none
of her business.

Well, what about Laura Landry?

A pretty young girl who was a friend of Miranda Burkett's and a student of Felicity's. Whom she'd seen talking with Beau at her mother's party. Who'd dropped by for voice coaching. She'd seemed a key—tied to both Miranda and Felicity. But a key to what? There was nothing to solve. Nothing to open. Laura was just what she seemed, a pretty girl who got around town a lot, with many friends and interests. No law against that. Coincidence.

“Samantha?”

“I'm sorry, Emily. Woolgathering.”

“I wondered, could I ask you to help me break the news of Randolph's death to Felicity?'

*

“You killed him,” Felicity shrieked at her sister. Blue veins throbbed in her milk-white throat and at her temples. Her face twisted into a witch's mask. “You never wanted me to be happy. You always took away everything and killed it!”

Felicity had been going on this way for ten minutes. No matter what Emily or Sam said or did, she raved. Her hands twisted like snakes. Spittle filled the corners of her mouth. But she didn't leave her chair; she seemed tied to it. Back and forth she rocked, faster and faster. Any minute she might take flight.

“I'd best sedate her,” Emily whispered. “Will you stay here with her a few minutes?”

“Of course.” Sam nodded.
Sedate
her? But of course, Emily was a nurse. She'd done it before. She did it all the time.

Felicity rocked faster and faster.

“She was a little girl,” she said. “A beautiful little girl. I saw her. She says I didn't, but I remember. I counted all her fingers and toes. She was perfect. Then Emily took her away and killed her.”

Whoa.
What was this? How crazy was she?

Felicity focused her big brimming eyes on Sam, then zeroed in on her. Her voice dropped in pitch.

“I know you don't believe me, Samantha. Nobody does. But I'm not crazy. Believe me, Emily killed my child a long time ago.
Please
believe me.”

This was the voice in which Sam had first heard Felicity speak, the voice with the gorgeous modulation, the tumbling brook of a voice that made heads turn, seeking its source.

“I know you don't. Nobody believes me. But I'm not crazy, not all the time.”

Now in her mind's eye, Sam saw Emily standing in the little pantry downstairs, reaching into the small refrigerator and pulling out a vial, then slowly and carefully filling a syringe with a cold, clear, lethal liquid. Sam shivered.

She
did
believe Felicity.

Just then, from below, Emily screamed.

“My God! Oh, my God!”

Sam flew, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Dear God!” Emily shrieked again. “What? Why is this happening?”

She stood in the pantry where, moments before, Sam had imagined her. But she held neither a vial nor a syringe. Both her hands were open and empty. She turned and lifted them in a gesture of supplication.

“Look!” she cried, and then both hands flew out, all ten fingers splayed, pointing at the disaster around her.