Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017

The Singapore Sling Affair by Frankie Y. Bailey

Frankie Y. Bailey is a professor in the School of Criminal Justice at the University of Albany. She is the author, coauthor, or coeditor of many nonfiction books, including a three-volume encyclopedia of notorious crimes, criminals, and trials. She is also the author of two series of novels, one starring crime historian Lizzie Stuart, the other a near-future police force.

Eudora, New York

August 1948

Jo Radcliffe set the platter of sandwiches on the table in the Grange Hall dining room and called to the cast to come and eat.

Mildred Bloom, prop lady, wardrobe mistress, and provider of nourishment, bustled in with a pitcher of iced tea. “By the way, dear, I solved that mystery I was telling you about.”

“Which one?” Jo said. “The latest Christie or something afoot in the village?”

“My neighbor. Remember I told you about how he’s been up to something in his backyard since his wife went out of town?” Mildred’s wrinkled face lit up with a sunny smile. “It turns out he’s building her a gazebo as a surprise for when she gets back from visiting their new grandbaby.”

Sarah Fisher slipped into the chair Will Lawson was holding for her. “How lovely. My mum always wanted one.”

“A grandbaby?” Charlotte Drake said, slanting a glance from Sarah to Will.

Sarah’s cheeks colored. “A gazebo. But we lived in London.”

“Well, dear,” Mildred said. “Now, you can ask your handsome husband to build you one in your own backyard. I’m sure your mum would be pleased.”

“Yes, dear,” Charlotte said. “Just flutter your lashes and ask sweetly.”

Will, the young pharmacist who was Sarah’s bridegroom in the play, scowled at Charlotte.

Vivian Oliver cut off what he was about to say with a light touch on his arm as she took the chair on his other side.

“I’m so hungry,” she said. “Thank you for making our supper, Mildred.”

“You’re very welcome, Vivian. Howard, would you like iced tea?”

Howard Cavanaugh held out his glass. “Please. On a hot, sticky evening, I am in need of your brew, Mildred.”

Later, Jo remembered that exchange as the actors came in, followed by Barton Stevens, the director. They had eaten Mildred’s ham-salad sandwiches, potato salad, and lemon bars. Then Mildred had called the actors into the parlor one at a time to check the fit of their 1920s costumes in “good light.” After that she had gone down to her workroom in the basement with Howard’s dinner jacket in her hand to tighten a button that was loose.

In the windowless auditorium, they couldn’t see the lightning, but the boom of thunder overhead shook the building. Sarah shrieked and dropped her cocktail glass. Water splashed onto the white tablecloth. The glass shattered on the hardwood floor.

Barton bolted past Jo and out onto the stage.

Sarah scooted back her rattan chair and tried to gather up the pieces of broken glass. Before Jo could call out a warning, she had cut her hand.

Jo sighed and put down the script she was using to prompt the actors. She went to fetch the first-aid kit she had stashed backstage six weeks ago when the construction crew started work.

Lucky she and Mildred had decided to use water in the cocktail glasses for the dress rehearsal. If Sarah’s glass had been filled with their cranberry juice and lemonade substitute for Singapore Slings, they would have been scrambling to launder or replace a white tablecloth before tomorrow night’s performance.

But nothing else was going right. The hottest day of summer had exploded into a nasty storm, and the cast and Barton were on edge and sniping at each other.

Jo understood Barton’s jitters. He had a lot riding on the play. He hoped tomorrow evening’s performance using amateur actors would convince the mayor and the village council to support his crusade to start a community theater. But even if they enjoyed the play, they might bypass Barton, the high-school drama teacher, and approach the Wakefield College drama department about getting a community theater up and running.

Barton had been given permission to use the Grange Hall on the condition that he premiere his play in August rather than closer to the annual Founder’s Day celebration in September when the Hall would have an agricultural exhibit.

Out on the stage, he was pacing and lecturing his five actors about coordinating their lines and the “business” with their props — to use the props as an extension of their bodies, as another way to express the emotions they were feeling.

Jo had the unkind thought that even for a comedy of manners the characters’ emotions were a bit silly. But Brooks Atkinson was not going to show up from the New York Times to write a review. All Barton’s play had to do was wow the folks in Eudora, who would love that he had written a play set in Raffles Hotel, where Thomas Gregory, globe-trotting great-grandson of the village founder, had stayed when he visited Singapore. The audience would be delighted by the stage set — potted palms and the colorful paper frangipani Barton’s drama-club students had made, rattan chairs and tables, and the bar that the construction crew had managed to build without serious injury.

A splendid evening would be had by all — if Barton would shut up before his actors quit on him.

He turned his attention to Will.

Jo, helpful stage manager, slid behind the director and reached Sarah, who had pressed her cocktail napkin to her bleeding finger.

“Here,” she said. “Let me fix your hand. We’ll sweep up the glass later.”

Sarah held out her hand. The blush on her cheeks suited her flawless complexion and clear blue eyes. Even in the midst of Barton’s lecture, Will’s longing gaze was on his leading lady. Problem was, Sarah had arrived in the village as an English war bride. Her husband, Jim Fisher, a former Army officer, had returned to the practice of law. He was in Buffalo taking part in a trial, but he’d told Sarah he would be home tomorrow for the play.

The jury was still out on whether Sarah’s husband would believe Will was acting when he saw him casting adoring glances at his wife. But if they could get through tomorrow evening, that would be the last time Sarah and Will would be thrown together. After that, if Sarah was content with her marriage, it might be all right.

Jo finished bandaging Sarah’s thumb. “Should be fine,” she said.

“Fine?” Barton said. “That’s the hand that she is supposed to hold up to show the other characters her brand new wedding ring.”

“She should be able to take off the bandage by tomorrow evening, Barton. As long as she’s careful, the cut should stay closed.”

“Jo’s the nurse, Barton. She should know.” Howard raised his glass. “To you, my sweet.”

Jo gave Howard a smile and wondered if he had added gin from his flask to his water. He was in better spirits than anyone else in the place.

Howard, a reporter for the Eudora Herald, was playing Somerset Maugham, one of the famous authors who had enjoyed spending time at the luxurious Raffles. The year in the play was 1921, and Maugham, on his first visit to the hotel, had claimed a table in the bar. The table gave him a ringside seat when the cooing American honeymooners (ignore the bride’s British accent) began to quarrel. The husband stormed out. The glamorous divorcée at the next table offered the bride a hanky and cynical advice about the care and handling of the male animal. But the bride from Iowa was too sensible to accept marital advice from a woman who had been divorced twice. She declared her intention to go after her groom. She was halfway across the floor when he returned. They departed to make up in private. The divorcée’s downtrodden social secretary declared her intention to find a life for herself and made her exit. The divorcée glanced over at Somerset Maugham, scribbling at his table. But he was oblivious to her coy look. Curtain falls.

Jo noted that both Vivian, playing the divorcée, and Charlotte, her social secretary, had been silent at their table during the commotion.

During auditions, Vivian had caused a stir of her own when she walked in. Realizing Jo didn’t know who she was, Mildred had whispered that Vivian’s husband, Ambrose, had been the president of the Savings and Loan. Died suddenly last winter. Keeled over with a heart attack one evening after supper. No children and a big, empty house. Vivian must be looking for something to do with herself.

Vivian had brought more flair than anyone had expected to the role of the flamboyant divorcée.

Charlotte, on the other hand, must be choking every time she had to look meek and say, “Yes, ma’am.” She was probably pulling off her role by imagining a Eudora Herald review highlighting her brilliant performance.

Odd about Charlotte, Jo thought again. In spite of her waspish disposition, she had been the most popular girl in their high-school class. When Jo came back to Eudora, she had expected to find her married and the mother of little Charlottes.

But the war had screwed up everyone’s plans.

So here they both were, old maids at thirty-one. Not that Jo minded. She had decisions to make that were easier made without a man to consider.

But Charlotte was probably not happy to find herself still living with her doting parents.

Barton said, “All right. Let’s run through that last scene again. And this time—”

Whatever he was about to add was drowned out by the sizzling crackle of thunder and lightning.

“I think that struck somewhere close by,” Vivian said.

Sarah said, “I hate storms. The noise.”

“You’re safe,” Will said, taking her hands in his. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Charlotte was watching the two. She looked like a cat about to lick cream from her whiskers.

Had Charlotte, Jo wondered, once had her sights on Jim Fisher? Was she seeing an opportunity to make trouble?

Charlotte smiled at Barton. “Were you about to say you’d like us to run through that scene again and that we should all try to get it right this time?”

Howard said, “Since we can’t leave until the storm’s over anyway.”

Barton said, “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Howard.”

“You may be the director, Barton, but we aren’t being paid. Just be grateful that we came out on a night like this and more or less know our lines.”

Barton looked as if he wanted to say something else, but thought better of it. “Sarah, please let’s pick up from—”

The lights went out. Sarah made a sound between a gasp and a moan.

Jo froze in place. They had enough scenery piled up in the wings to make navigating in the dark treacherous.

“Here, I’ve got a lighter,” Howard said. “Jo, do you have a candle handy?”

“I brought a couple upstairs to try in the holders. They’re backstage.”

“Then let me come and light your way.”

Howard came across the stage with his lighter held out in front of him.

They found the candles that she had left on a table and lit both.

“Do you think the lights are out all over the village?” Jo said.

“I’ll go have a look.”

Jo watched him go down the back steps and through the door leading to the rest of the building. She should go check on Mildred down in the basement storage room they had commandeered for props and costumes. But she didn’t want to leave the others in the dark.

She went back out on stage and set her candle down on the middle table.

“The crew should never have left,” Barton said.

“They had families to get home to,” Jo said. “We worked everything out during last Monday’s run-through. We’ll go through it again tomorrow afternoon, with script in hand.”

“Just make sure they know what they’re doing tomorrow evening.”

Jo threw him a snappy salute. “Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”

Charlotte said, “Really, Jo. I’m sure Barton wishes you would take his concerns seriously. You are the stage manager.”

Regretting her salute — Barton had no sense of humor — which might explain the problems with his play — Jo said, “Yes, I am, and I’m sorry, Barton. Everything on the crew’s side will be fine. There’s nothing to worry about.”

She hoped.

Five minutes later, Howard appeared from behind the heavy velvet stage curtains. “Looks like the lights are out all over the village. Or, at least, as far as I could see from upstairs. We may as well settle in for the duration.”

Jo said, “I’m going to go bring Mildred up here with the rest of us. I’ll bring back more candles too.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Howard gave a sinister laugh. “Be careful, my sweet. Who knows what lurks in the dark.”

“Stop it, Howard,” Charlotte said. “You’re frightening our little English visitor.”

“Thank you, Charlotte,” Sarah said. “But I can speak for myself, and I’m not a visitor.”

“That depends on whether you decide to stay.”

“I intend to stay. I like it here.”

Jo kept moving, not waiting to hear Charlotte’s response to that.

Of course, Will was not helping matters by acting like a besotted idiot.

Shaking her head, Jo focused her attention on getting down the basement stairs without tripping or dropping her candle. She had forgotten how much melodrama went on in a quiet village.

Jo cupped a hand around her flickering candle. Why hadn’t she thought to bring in some flashlights?

Thunder rumbled again. The storm seemed to be coming back for a second round. It could be hours before the electricity was back on.

Not that this was the first time she’d stumbled around in the dark. At least they didn’t have a couple of dozen wounded soldiers lined up on litters.

Jo pushed open the door to the storage room. “Mildred? Don’t tell me you had candles but no matches.”

“Mildred? Are you back there?”

Avoiding the extra rattan chairs and a pink flamingo, Jo made it to the other side of the room. When she got to the bamboo screen they were going to take upstairs tomorrow evening, she stopped to listen. Mildred’s table fan was off because of the electricity, but there was no other sound in the room.

Lightning flickered in the mirror that the actors used when they were trying on their costumes for Mildred’s fittings. For an instant, Jo saw her own reflection, dark eyes in pale face.

Maybe Mildred had left when she saw how bad the storm was going to be. Hadn’t wanted to interrupt the rehearsal to say she was going.

Jo stepped around the screen. She looked down, uncertain what she was seeing.

Not a bundle of clothing. Mildred sprawled on her back, her plump little feet in their black-laced shoes pointing toes up.

The ice pick that Mildred had found but they’d decided not to place in the hands of the high-school senior who was playing the bartender, and that Mildred had brought back down to the prop room, was now sticking out of Mildred’s chest.

Jo dropped to her knees, putting the candle down beside her. She pushed back the collar of Mildred’s blouse, searching for a pulse. But she had seen death peering up from half-closed eyelids often enough to recognize it.

She stumbled to her feet and held her candle high, glancing around the room.

Howard’s white dinner jacket on a hanger on the clothing rack. A crumpled rag beside Mildred’s sewing machine on the work table. Was that blood on the rag?

An ice pick. Most of the bleeding would have been internal. But the killer might have had a smear of blood on his hands.

Jo swallowed hard, taking deep breaths to slow the pounding of her heart.

When she was back outside in the hallway, she felt in her dress pocket for the set of keys she’d been given. She locked the prop-room door.

The others were first disbelieving, then ready to rush downstairs. Or, at least, the men were. Jo said no and kept saying it. She had the key and she was not going to give it to them.

Barton mumbled a curse. Howard reminded her that he was a reporter. Jo told him that was all the more reason not to let him go poking around. Will said he was a pharmacist, and might be able to help. When Charlotte said, “You have a pill for a dead woman?” he stammered an apology and sat back down in his chair opposite Sarah. Sarah was simply sitting there, hands clasped tight in her lap. Vivian was quiet too, looking from one of them to the other.

The thing was, Jo thought, Howard had gone to see if the lights were off in the village. But there had been a couple of times that evening when any of them could have slipped down to the basement. Before rehearsal started, Barton was in the parlor marking up his script. Will was hanging around in the hall waiting while Sarah was making a call home to her housekeeper. Howard was flipping through an old almanac he’d found. Charlotte and Vivian had been chatting in the living room. People had been visiting the restrooms on the first floor and upstairs.

That was probably what Vivian was thinking about as she looked from one of them to the other. Anyone could have slipped down to the basement during that ten or fifteen minutes. Or later when, in the midst of botched lines and fraying tempers, Barton had decided to rewrite one of the scenes. Howard had thrown up his hands, called Barton an idiot, and gone for a smoke. The others had scattered about. At least another ten minutes.

Ample time, Jo thought.

Barton was saying, “Maybe she opened the basement door for some reason. Stepped outside and someone followed her back in.”

“Sure,” Howard said. “Someone was just hanging around out there in the storm.”

“But it must have been something like that,” Vivian said. “If none of us killed her, then it must have been an intruder.”

“And if she screamed,” Sarah said, “the storm was so loud we wouldn’t have heard.”

Barton pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “This is a disaster. An unmitigated disaster.”

Howard said, “I guess the play’s off tomorrow night. Good thing Founder’s Day is three weeks away.”

“How can you think about that now?” Vivian said.

“Rather than ponder the fact that I’m suspect number one, because I left the auditorium when the lights went out?”

“No one will think that,” Sarah said.

“It may help that I didn’t have a motive,” Howard said. “In answer to your question, Vivian, as your late husband would have pointed out, the annual Founder’s Day festivities are good for the local economy. Tourists come for the fireworks over the lake. The merchants on Main Street get money in their cash registers.”

Charlotte said, “And this year, the village council can remember Mildred during the celebration. Volunteer of the year.”

“They should remember her,” Vivian said. “She started volunteering in high school.”

Jo said, “I didn’t realize you and Mildred knew each other so well.”

“Mildred and my oldest brother were classmates. More than that, I think. Or maybe they would have been. But he died in the first war.”

“And Mildred had been nursing a broken heart all these years?” Charlotte said. “How touching.”

Sarah said, “If you had ever lost someone you really cared about—”

Charlotte shoved back her chair. “What I’ve had is enough of this. How long does it take to get over here from the police station?”

“Maybe they’re waiting for the storm to blow over,” Will said.

To Jo’s relief, the doorbell jangled. “Here they are now,” she said. “I’ll go let them in. I locked the front door on my way back from the basement.”

Charlotte said, “That was helpful. For all you knew, the killer could have been hiding somewhere in the Hall.”

“Or been right here in our little group,” Howard said. “Of course, he or she would have been outnumbered.”

The police had brought their own lanterns and high-powered flashlights. But it was hot without the fans and eerie to sit in the shadowed auditorium waiting.

The others had gone by the time Jo was called in.

Police Chief Eli Gordon was a bulky man. He took up space. Jo noticed that about him as he motioned for her to sit down in the chair that had been placed on the other side of the card table. Mildred had brought the table upstairs to the auditorium to hold the coffee percolator and donuts during one of their Saturday-morning rehearsals.

Now, the table was serving another purpose. The chief of police was using it to interview suspects. Or witnesses. Jo wasn’t sure which he considered her. He had left her for last even though she had found Mildred’s body. Maybe that was intended as a kindness, giving her enough time to recover her shaken composure.

Or maybe he’d wanted to hear what the others had to say in case she might try to lie.

Chief Gordon had apologized for his delayed arrival with two of his four officers. He’d needed to call the coroner and contact the agencies they might need to call on for assistance. Jo had thought of the Saturday-morning radio show she’d listened to about how the FBI crime lab helped police departments solve crimes.

But in this case it would probably be the state-police lab. And Mildred’s body would be given an autopsy.

Chief Gordon shifted in his chair. Jo hoped it wasn’t the slightly rickety one they’d put to one side.

“Meg Radcliffe’s grandniece,” he said. “I remember seeing you the day you came to live with your aunt. You looked mighty sad and wretched, but I knew she’d pull you through it.”

“Aunt Meg was wonderful,” Jo said.

“As I recall, your aunt got herself a cat a couple years ago. Got him from a litter the Reverend Warren’s wife had. A Maine Coon.”

“His name is Dempsey,” Jo said. “I inherited him.”

“The two of you getting along okay?”

“He’s tolerating me,” Jo said. “He misses Aunt Meg.”

“Animals are like that. Especially dogs, but cats too.”

“Yes, they are,” Jo said. “Do you want me to tell you about finding Mildred?”

“Why don’t you do that? Then I’ll ask you anything that occurs to me.”

Jo told him about going down to the basement.

Chief Gordon nodded. “That must have been a real shock.”

“Yes,” Jo said.

“Did you know Mildred was fond of animals?”

“When I mentioned Dempsey one day, she told me that she had two bulldogs and a cat.”

“She was known to take all three of them, cat included, out for a walk. Be a good thing if they can keep her animals together.”

“Yes, it would. I’m really tired, Chief Gordon. If you don’t have any more questions for me...”

“Just one, Jo. Do you mind if I call you ‘Jo’? Josephine is kind of formal and a mouthful.”

“Jo is fine. Everyone calls me Jo.”

“Jo, can you think of any reason someone — particularly one of the people here tonight — might have had for killing Mildred?”

“No, I can’t. Mildred was wonderful.”

“That’s what all six of the people before you said. That Mildred was so nice. A really lovely woman. Except someone killed her. You see my problem.”

“Yes. But that would suggest it was someone who came in from outside. It was hot when the power went off. She might have opened the basement door and—”

“Someone came in. Maybe to steal something. That’s already been suggested. But no one could tell me what was so valuable down in the basement.”

“Whoever came in might have thought there might be something.”

“I understand from Barton that Mildred was in charge of getting people to loan or donate the things you needed for the play.”

“Yes, we didn’t have much of a budget. And Mildred knew almost everyone in Eudora and the surrounding countryside and what they might have in their attics and basements. When we couldn’t find the furniture we needed, she persuaded the owner of the furniture store to loan us the rattan chairs and tables in exchange for a ‘thank you’ in the program. She told him someone would want to buy furniture that had been used in a play.”

“Mildred had a real way with people for such a mild-mannered woman,” Chief Gordon said. “Did she keep a list so that you could return what had to go back to people?”

“We recorded everything in a logbook.”

“Where would that book be now?”

“I saw it on Mildred’s worktable when we first arrived. You think the props we borrowed could have something to do with—”

“I’m just asking the questions that come to mind. We don’t get a lot of murders here in Eudora. The last one was right after the boys started coming home from the war. Soldier found out his wife hadn’t been waiting for him. He shot and killed her and then tried to kill himself.”

Jo said. “I read about that when I was in Washington.”

“Couple of years ago now. But it still worries me.” Chief Gordon rubbed at his wrist. “Brushed against some poison ivy. Got to remember to stop by the drugstore for calamine lotion tomorrow.”

“Sorry I don’t have any in my first-aid kit for the crew.”

“Aside from being the nurse for this production, you were the stage manager, and your job was to keep everything running smooth?”

“As much as possible.”

“Like herding cats, was it?”

“That would describe it.”

“How’d you get the job of stage manager? Barton ask you?”

“Not directly. Annie Young, the public-health nurse — she used to be the school nurse—”

“I know Annie. Hear she’s getting married soon.”

“Yes, she is,” Jo said. “Annie knows Barton from having worked at the school. They ran into each other, and he told her about needing a stage manager. She told him she had a friend with some time on her hands.”

“Nothing to do since you got back?”

“Nothing that requires all my time. Aunt Meg left all her affairs in order. I just have to decide what I’m going to do next.”

“I hear they need nurses over at the hospital.”

“Yes,” Jo said. “Most hospitals are short on nursing staff.”

“Not interested in that, huh?”

“I don’t know. I want to take some time to think about it.”

“Meg left you a little money, did she? A good manager, your aunt.”

“Yes. She would have had no trouble keeping the play and cast in order.”

“About the cast,” Chief Gordon said, responding to her nudge. “Everybody was born and raised here except young Mrs. Fisher and Barton. But Barton’s been here seven or eight years. One of my girls was in his class when he started teaching at the school. So Sarah Fisher is the only newcomer. And you.” He lifted his gaze from his wrist to her face. “But you’re coming home.”

“Yes,” Jo said. “The only home I have.”

“I’d like to go through that logbook you mentioned and see if anything’s missing. Could you meet me back here in the morning? Say around ten o’clock?”

“I can do that.”

Chief Gordon scraped his chair back and lumbered up. “You have a way home?”

Jo pushed back her own chair and stood. “Yes, thank you. I drove over.”

“Take it slow. We’ve got some tree branches down.”

Dempsey was capable of opening the breadbox with his big paws and helping himself if he was hungry enough. Tonight, he strolled into the kitchen when Jo came in through the back door. He was yawning. Now that he was awake, he was ready for a late supper. But he kept his distance lest she be tempted to pat him on the head or give his lush tail a friendly tug.

Tonight she made no attempt to win him over. She put several slices of the roast chicken she had made for Sunday dinner on his plate. He had splashed most of the water out of his bowl. She refilled it.

Then she poured herself a drink from the bottle of good brandy that Meg had kept in the cupboard and carried it upstairs. She got into her pajamas and climbed into bed with the window up to catch the cool breeze that had come in the wake of the storm.

She sat there sipping and thinking about whether one of the people at the dress rehearsal might really have killed Mildred.

Mildred was not the kind of person to make enemies. But she had been curious. And she’d enjoyed sharing the tidbits of information she collected.

Wasn’t that one of the motives for murder in the mystery novels both she and Mildred liked to read? A victim who knew a secret and might reveal it.

Jo drained her brandy snifter and set the glass on her night table. “The question is whether anyone besides you has a deep, dark secret he or she might want to keep quiet.”

Aunt Meg looked back at her from the framed photograph on the dresser they had painted purple when fourteen-year-old Jo moved in.

“What do you think, Meg? Would I kill someone to keep my secret?” Jo plucked her pillow from behind her and fluffed it. “I haven’t had it long enough to know for sure. But I don’t think I’m the homicidal type.”

Chief Gordon might wonder about that if he knew she had something to hide. But she hadn’t done Mildred in.

The question was, who had.

Jo dropped her pillow back into place and reached for the lamp. “A question for tomorrow when my brain’s working again.”

Jo tried to focus on what Barton was saying.

She had shot up in bed and dashed downstairs to answer the phone. According to the grandfather clock in the hall, it was not quite seven-thirty.

“I’m sorry, Barton. Repeat that.”

“I called the president of the Grange, and he already knew about Mildred. He said Chief Gordon called him last night, and they’re meeting with the mayor and the village council.”

“They would want to discuss—”

“I don’t think they’re going to let us reschedule the play.”

“Barton, that isn’t what you should be focusing on right now. Mildred—”

“I know that. But I’ve worked so hard to... it’s not just my play. A community theater would—”

“That might still happen,” Jo said. She was awake enough now to remember the early risers on Meg’s party line. “Have you eaten? How about meeting for breakfast?”

“Breakfast? I don’t eat—”

“You should. Let’s meet on the green. Then we can decide whether to go to the diner or the inn.”

“I need to—”

“Yes, we do need to discuss what the cast can do to honor Mildred’s memory. How we can acknowledge all her hard work as our prop lady and wardrobe mistress.”

“Yes, I guess we should—”

“See you in an hour at the statue.”

She hung up before Barton could say anything else.

Barton got to the village green before she did. Jo saw him pacing back and forth in front of the statue of Eudora, the nymph whose name Matthew Gregory had given to the village he founded.

“Hi,” Jo said, taking in the puffiness of Barton’s face and the blurry eyes behind his glasses. “You look like you didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

“Did you?”

“I tell myself whatever’s wrong will still be wrong when I wake up. Let’s sit down and talk for a few minutes before we go for coffee.”

They sat down on a bench and Barton hunched forward, elbows on his knees. “Is sending some flowers okay?” he said. “Is that enough?”

Jo nodded. “That should do it.”

“I don’t think Mildred had any relatives. At least, not here in Eudora.”

“She mentioned she might spend Thanksgiving with a cousin and her family in Delaware.”

“So I guess they’ll handle the arrangements when the police release the body. They’ll do an autopsy, right?”

“Yes. I don’t know how long that will take. But whenever the announcement about services is made, that will be the time to send flowers to the funeral home.”

“So is this what we couldn’t talk about on the phone?”

“No,” Jo said. “I thought we should compare notes.”

“You mean who we think did it?” Barton glanced in her direction. “So you don’t think it was me?”

“You wanted your play to be performed. A murder the night before—”

“Unless I had no choice. Maybe I needed Mildred dead and couldn’t risk waiting.”

“Or maybe, killing Mildred accomplished what you wanted. You were afraid your play was going to be a flop and you wanted to make sure it was never performed.”

Barton sat up straight. “That’s crazy. My play’s good.”

“You were really on edge last night during the rehearsal.”

“I was trying to deal with actors who couldn’t remember their lines after weeks of rehearsal.”

And making it more difficult for them to concentrate, Jo thought. Out loud, she said, “They were making a mess of your play.”

“But I wouldn’t kill someone to stop my play from being performed. That’s crazy.”

Jo had to agree with that. It was far-fetched. “No, you probably wouldn’t. But it did occur to me last night that the killer — if it was one of us — might have a secret.”

Barton leaned toward her. She caught a whiff of stale sweat. “You got me,” he said. “I’m a spy left over from the war. Or, maybe I’m a Red.”

“You shouldn’t say that too loud,” Jo said.

“Why? Do you think the witch-hunters are lurking in the bushes? Maybe I’ll lose my job.” He turned away. “A friend of mine committed suicide a few weeks ago.”

“I’m sorry about your friend,” Jo said.

“Me too.”

“What are you telling me, Barton?”

“Telling you? I’m telling you that I didn’t kill Mildred. And I’m not going to kill myself.”

“Good. That would be a waste.” Jo stood up. “Come on, let’s go get some breakfast. I’ve got to meet Chief Gordon at ten to go over the log book that Mildred and I were keeping for the props and costumes.”

Barton looked up at her. “Why?”

“He wants to know if anything’s missing. That would support the robbery theory. And I’m sure they’ve checked for fingerprints on the basement door.”

“So all we need is a thug with a record.”

“Yes, that’s all we need.”

“What’s this entry?” Chief Gordon said from the worktable where he was going through the log book. “Looks like ‘pipe’?”

“Nothing anyone would steal,” Jo said. “Somerset Maugham is a pipe smoker. Vivian loaned us one of her late husband’s pipes.”

“Okay. You find anything yet?”

“No. Most of what we intended to use on stage was already upstairs. Nothing down here was of any real value.”

“Any jewelry?”

“The actors were supplying their own. And last night they were wearing their costumes for dress rehearsal. Except Mildred had Howard’s dinner jacket.” Jo pointed toward the only item on Mildred’s clothing rack. “Mildred brought it downstairs to fix a loose button.”

“Is that the jacket here on the list.”

“Yes, Vivian loaned us that too.” Jo walked over to the clothing rack. “Since Mildred was working on the jacket — did they check it? Go through the pockets?”

“Nothing in the pockets. And out of range of any blood spatters — not much in the way of blood anyway. Except for the rag that was here on the table. They took that for testing.”

Jo peered at the jacket. “She fixed the button before she was killed.”

“That wouldn’t have taken her long.”

“No, but if someone had been lurking here in the basement—”

“True enough,” Chief Gordon said. “If she had surprised someone down here, he wouldn’t have given her time to do her mending.”

Jo reached for the two books on top of a box containing Chinese lanterns. “These books are from the library. Mildred wanted to make sure she remembered what people were wearing in nineteen twenty-one.”

Chief Gordon said, “Who does this belong to?”

He had opened the drawer of the worktable and was holding up a paperback copy of Maugham’s Of Human Bondage.

“Mildred picked it up somewhere, but we couldn’t figure out how we would use it in the play.”

“Why did she have it in the drawer?”

“She was reading it. She probably just dropped it there to get it out of the way.”

Chief Gordon glanced around. “All right. We’ve been through everything in this room. Everything’s accounted for that Mildred logged in. And you haven’t seen anything out of place.”

“What about the outside door? Did you find fingerprints?”

“The lab boys found them. But we don’t know yet who they belong to.”

“Some of them are going to belong to the construction crew. They brought some things in and out through the basement door.”

“That’s the problem. Too many people using that door and maybe some of them last night.”

“But you haven’t ruled out an intruder?”

“I’m keeping an open mind.”

Jo glanced toward the window Chief Gordon had opened. The room still felt stuffy.

“Chief, would I be sticking my nose into police business if I talked to the people who were here last night?”

“Already doing that, aren’t you? I hear you and Barton had breakfast at the inn this morning.”

“From the glances we were getting, I’m sure you didn’t need a tail on us to hear about that.”

“Nope. I heard about it from a couple of people. Most everyone knows about Mildred by now. The story’s going to be in this evening’s paper.”

“Is Howard writing it?”

“He might be too close to this particular story to write about it. You can ask him about that when you speak to him.”

“So you wouldn’t mind?”

“I can’t keep you from talking to people. But keep in mind how Mildred looked with that ice pick in her chest.”

“I’m not likely to forget that.”

“And if you find out anything, I want to know about it.”

Jo nodded. “I want this case solved as much as you do.”

His gaze held hers. “Getting looks from people make you uncomfortable?”

“I don’t particularly like the feeling. But I also want to know who did that to Mildred.”

When Jo called the Eudora Herald, his editor told her Howard had gone to Albany to do an interview.

Obviously, Chief Gordon hadn’t warned him not to leave town.

“Will he be back this evening?” she asked.

“Should be,” the editor said. “Hey, this is Miss Radcliffe, isn’t it? Jo Radcliffe. Thought I recognized your voice. We met at the Fourth of July picnic.”

“Yes, I remember. Would you leave a message for Howard, please? Tell him that I called.”

“Sure. While I have you on the line, I’m writing the story about Mildred Bloom. I know you found her body—”

“Yes, I did.”

“Do you have any thoughts about who—”

“None. I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

Jo hung up the phone. She had intended to ask Howard to meet her at the library down the street from the newspaper office. Seeing Mildred’s library books had reminded her she needed to return her own.

She glanced at the books on the hall table. Maybe she’d better wait. No point in giving people a reason to think about the two murder mysteries on the pile.

When they were teenagers, Jo had been struck by the contrast between her own mother — who had dashed through life too absorbed in whatever she was doing to remember to put on fresh lipstick — and Charlotte’s mother, who’d looked like an ad in Ladies’ Home Journal.

“Josephine, how nice to see you.”

“Hello, Mrs. Drake. I hope you don’t mind my dropping by. I wanted to speak to Charlotte.”

“I’m afraid you’ve missed her. She’s been getting so many calls from people about poor Mildred. I told her to just get out of here and go to the matinee.”

Meaning Charlotte had decided to go out, and her mother had agreed that was exactly what she should do.

“Thank you,” Jo said. “I think I’ll see if I can catch her there.”

“I’m sure she won’t mind. The two of you can watch the movie together.” Mrs. Drake waved her hands. “Hurry along, now. You don’t want to miss the best parts.”

Jo glanced at the screen. She had already seen Key Largo twice.

She spotted Charlotte tucked in a back-row seat of the half-empty theater. She had a bag of popcorn.

“Hi,” Jo whispered as she sat down beside her. “Your mother said you were here.”

“Go away,” Charlotte whispered back.

She stood up, spilling her popcorn and stepping on Jo’s toes as she climbed over her to get out.

Jo watched Edward G. Robinson mock Humphrey Bogart, and considered staying right where she was instead of chasing after Charlotte.

When she got outside, Charlotte was halfway down the street and walking fast. Jo sprinted after her.

Charlotte whirled around. “What do you want, Jo?”

“We need to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk to you or anyone else about Mildred and how she died. I don’t know how she died. You kept the storage room locked so that none of us even saw her dead. I’ve been telling people to ask you if they want to know.”

“Gee, thanks, Charlotte. But we still need to talk.”

“I’m going home.”

“I’ll walk with you. Let’s cut down Maple Street.”

Charlotte shook off Jo’s hand on her arm. But she turned toward the side street, away from the passing cars and pedestrians on Main Street.

She marched on, ahead of Jo, who was five eight to her five four. Charlotte angry or frightened, Jo thought, might be capable of wielding an ice pick against a woman her own size.

Jo caught up with her. “About Mildred... you know the people who were there better than I do.”

“Since you haven’t lived here for years, that’s hardly surprising.”

“I’m sure you didn’t miss me.”

“Hardly gave you a thought,” Charlotte said.

“That’s okay. What do you think about Will’s crush on Sarah?”

“I think she’s lapping it up. And he’s too stupid to see how she’s making a fool of him.”

“You don’t think the attraction is mutual?”

“I think sweet little Sarah used her self-righteous husband to get to the States and she’s using Will to—” Charlotte shoved her hands into her skirt pockets. “Who knows what she wants with Will. Maybe she wants another puppy dog.”

Charlotte was looking straight ahead, but Jo saw the tears glistening in her eyes, heard them beneath her anger.

“Before the war,” Jo said, “was Jim Fisher — was there someone else he—”

“If you want to know about Jim Fisher, ask him yourself. I’m sure he’ll have a lot to say about me.”

Charlotte marched on. Jo let her go.

It might be well and good for sleuths in novels to pry, but in real life it took a lot of gall.

But she should talk to Jim Fisher and find out what he had to say.

Jo glanced at her watch. Almost two-thirty. If he was in his office this afternoon, he’d be back from lunch by now.

His secretary gave no sign that she had recognized Jo’s name. Unless she always decided not to use her intercom and got up instead and went into her boss’s office to confer with him.

Jo waited. And a couple of minutes later, the door opened and the secretary reappeared.

Jim Fisher stepped out into the reception room.

Jo had never met him, but she had seen his photograph in the newspaper when he attended a bar-association conference and gave a speech. People said he might be a judge within the next few years.

“Come in, Miss Radcliffe,” he said. “Please have a seat.”

“I’m sorry to drop by without an appointment,” Jo said.

“Not at all. You caught me on the one afternoon this week when I have a few minutes.” He sat back down behind his mahogany desk. “Is this a legal matter? Do you need representation?”

“Not yet. But I am concerned. I know you must be concerned about Sarah too.”

“I take it you’re referring to Mildred Bloom’s death.”

“Yes. Her murder.” Jo leaned forward in her armchair. “Poor Mildred’s dead, and we’re all — everyone who was at the dress rehearsal — we’re all suspects.” Jo paused. “One of us could even be the killer’s next victim. I’m really so frightened. I don’t know who to turn to and I thought you—”

Jim Fisher burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, Miss Radcliffe. Forgive me. But your damsel in distress—”

Jo sat back in her chair. “Well, you needn’t laugh. I can’t help it if I don’t look dainty and helpless.”

“It’s not that,” Jim Fisher assured her. “I’m sure you could inspire any man’s chivalry. But your acting—”

“That’s why I was the stage manager for the play. How is Sarah? Has she recovered from last night?”

“She’s at home resting. She’ll be all right.”

“Good,” Jo said. “I spoke to Charlotte this afternoon. She said that I should speak to you.”

“About what?”

“I’m not sure. I gathered it was about her relationship with you.”

“Charlotte and I aren’t on the best of terms.”

“Because you married Sarah and brought her home when Charlotte hoped the two of you might—”

“The two of us? Charlotte and me? Where on earth did you get that idea? Charlotte couldn’t have told you—”

“No, she — but when Charlotte mentioned you and Sarah, she seemed upset.”

Or had it been Will that Charlotte was upset about? He was at least four or five years younger than they were, but—

Jim Fisher said, “My best friend was in love with Charlotte.”

“Oh... and you didn’t approve?”

“I thought she wasn’t that interested in him. But then along came the war, and she sent him off with the promise to write. And she did. He began to hope. He had a few days’ leave and he came home and asked her to marry him. The next time I saw him, he was calling her some names I can’t repeat to a lady.” Jim Fisher’s mouth tightened before he went on. “She had not only said no, but made him feel like a fool for even imagining she might consider marrying him. He went back to the front. By the next week he was dead. Killed while charging into enemy fire to rescue one of his men who was wounded.”

Jo shook her head. “You can’t blame Charlotte for that. He did something brave—”

“He did something reckless and pointless. The soldier he tried to rescue was already dying. They both died.”

“You make it sound as if he was reckless because Charlotte—”

“That’s what I’m saying. That’s what I said to her.”

“Do you think you’re being fair?”

“I don’t give a damn. Pardon my language.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Is there something else, Miss Radcliffe?”

Well, there is Will’s big-time crush on your wife, Jo thought.

“It must be difficult for Sarah, coming to a new country, leaving her family—”

“Her family’s dead. They were killed during the Blitz. I’m all the family she has now. Anything else?”

“No, I should be going. Thank you for your time, Mr. Fisher.”

Jim Fisher stood up and walked her to the door.

“You’re welcome, Miss Radcliffe. If you do find yourself in need of an attorney, I’m here.”

“Thank you, but I hope I won’t need your services.”

Jo decided to have a grilled-cheese sandwich at the drugstore. Then she could walk back and say “hello” to Will behind the pharmacy counter.

Eating took longer than she had expected because she was sitting on a stool at the lunch counter and people noticed her as they came in. Several felt called upon to stop and exclaim about how horrible it was that someone had killed poor Mildred right there in the Grange Hall basement. Had she heard anything else yet? They’d heard she was helping Chief Gordon with the investigation.

Just going through the prop logbook to see if anything was missing, Jo said.

She choked down the last of her sandwich as two of the people who had stopped to talk were talking to each other about Mildred’s funeral and when her cousin from Delaware might arrive.

When Will saw her coming, he came out from behind his counter. “I need a smoke,” he said. “Let’s go outside and get some air.”

She followed him out the back door of the drugstore. They walked to the end of the alley.

“Cigaret?” Will said, offering his pack.

Jo shook her head. “I quit when I fell asleep and set my blanket on fire.”

“Did I hear you say something about Chief Gordon going over Mildred’s logbook?”

“Yes. But nothing was missing.”

He took a long drag on his cigaret. “I still think someone came in. I can’t believe it could have been one of us.”

“Neither can I. I’ve talked to Barton and Charlotte and Jim Fisher—”

“Fisher? You went to the house?”

“No, I went to his office.”

Will threw down his cigaret and grounded it out. “So he was there in his office when Sarah needed him.”

“He said she was holding up okay.”

“He would say that.”

Jo said, “You and Sarah... you seem to care about her.”

“That’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? I’m in love with her.”

“How does she feel?”

“She thinks she owes Fisher something. Loyalty. Gratitude.”

“I see.”

Will’s blue gaze swept over her. “No, you don’t. You think I should leave a married woman alone.”

“It’s between the two — the three — of you. Speaking of husbands, Mildred mentioned Vivian’s husband died suddenly.”

Will shook another cigaret from his pack and lit it. “Yeah,” he said. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing,” Jo said. “I just don’t want to say the wrong thing when I talk to Vivian.”

“She’s not that fragile. From what I can see she’s making good use of his money.” Will grimaced. “Sorry, I’m in a generally foul mood.”

“I gathered that. But you—” Jo stopped and started again. “Someone is going to get hurt. That always happens in triangles. But I hope if it’s you, you’ll be able to get over it.”

“Thanks.”

“I didn’t say that very well. I’m going to stop spouting wisdom and go talk to Vivian.”

“Forget it. She stopped in about an hour ago to get a prescription refilled. She said she was going to Utica.”

“To Utica?”

“For art supplies. She woke up this morning and decided to take up painting again.”

“Oh... well, maybe she needs to take her mind off what’s going on.”

“She’s not the only one. I hate that Sarah’s caught up in this after what she went through during the war.” He flicked his cigarette to the ground. “I need to get back to work. You go first. No point in giving the gossips something else to talk about.”

“See you later,” Jo said.

She managed to get back through the drugstore with no more than a “good afternoon” to one of her great-aunt’s friends.

When Jo reached her that evening, Vivian said she’d had a long day. She would love to see Jo, but perhaps some other time.

Jo said, “Would tomorrow be better?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m a little wobbly right now. I need to get myself back on an even keel. My husband — you may have heard that he died suddenly. And now Mildred’s death—”

“Yes, I understand. And I’m so sorry for your loss. But I was really hoping we could talk.”

“Why don’t we plan on meeting for tea at the inn next week? On Wednesday?”

“Wednesday? Vivian, couldn’t we possibly—”

“Shall we say around three? I’ll see you then.”

Vivian’s receiver went down with a click.

Jo looked at Dempsey, who was crouched on the kitchen counter, staring at her. “That went well,” she said.

Instead of returning her call, Howard turned up at the door.

He held up a paper bag. “I brought Hostess cupcakes. Got any coffee?”

“Or we could both have tea with Vivian next Wednesday.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Come in. I’ll warm up the coffee.”

Howard followed her down the hall to the kitchen. “So you’ve talked to Vivian today?”

Jo plugged in the percolator. “I tried. She put me off until next week. Your editor said you’d gone to Albany.”

“A story I’m working on. Unrelated to our present situation.” He took the box of cupcakes out of the bag and sat down at the table. “I hear you’ve been helping Chief Gordon with the investigation.”

“I heard that too. All I did was go through the logbook for the props with him.”

“Anything there?”

Jo shook her head. “So, what do you think? Intruder or one of us?”

“I’ve eliminated myself as a suspect. It’s possible you have a motive that I don’t know about, but Chief Gordon seems to be giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

“And since he apparently didn’t tell you not to leave town...” Jo set cups and saucers on the table. “Seriously, do you think it was an intruder?”

“Unless the guy was a mental case, why grab an ice pick and turn a burglary attempt into murder? Why set yourself up for the electric chair if you’re caught?”

“Maybe he panicked.”

“Or maybe someone — other than the two of us — paid Mildred a visit in the basement.”

“Okay. But why? What would have made Mildred a threat to someone? We know Will’s besotted with Sarah. But he’s not making a secret of that.”

“And unless Sarah’s a better actress than she seems, so far he’s lusting in vain.” Howard broke his cupcake in half. “So unless Charlotte or Vivian — both unattached — has been up to scandalous doings, that leaves Barton.”

Jo brought the percolator over to the table. “You don’t seem to like Barton.”

“I had enough of petty dictators when I was in khakis.”

“I think Barton’s scared right now. But not because he killed Mildred. And Charlotte may be feeling guilty about something. But it’s not a secret and not even her fault.”

“So your money’s on Vivian?”

“I didn’t say that. I don’t know that much about her. And Sarah could be a better actress than we give her credit for. Or, I could be wrong about Barton or Charlotte.”

“Or even me.”

“Or even you,” Jo said. “Cream and sugar?”

“Black is fine, thanks.”

Jo sat down at the table. “Although Vivian isn’t the kind of woman I’d expect to audition for an amateur play. Mildred said she was probably looking for a way to keep busy.”

“Could be. What else did Mildred say about her?”

“Only that her husband died last winter.” Jo reached for a cupcake. “How long were they married?”

“I don’t have the date circled on my calendar. But I think they got together a year or two before the war. She was his secretary.”

“Really?” Jo said.

“Lots of men marry their secretaries. Particularly if the secretary is young and attractive.”

Jo took a bite of her cupcake and swallowed. “So there was an age difference?”

“He was in his late sixties when he died.”

“Vivian can’t be more than her early forties.” Jo looked over at Dempsey, who had strolled into the kitchen. “But that doesn’t make her a gold digger.”

“If she was when she married him, she settled into her role of lady of the manor.”

“And she and Mildred seemed to like each other.”

“And that,” Howard said, “brings us back to where we started. Who and why?”

Jo was sitting in Chief Gordon’s office, waiting for his response to her offer to host a small gathering in Mildred’s honor.

Mildred’s cousin and her husband had arrived and were staying at Mildred’s house. When her body was released, they planned to bury her in the church cemetery beside her parents.

“Aunt Meg would have planned a get-together,” Jo said, making what she hoped was a good argument for the appropriateness of her suggestion.

Chief Gordon gazed at her across his desk. “Your aunt might have. But I don’t think that’s why you’re offering. What do you think is going to happen during this gathering?”

Jo unclasped her hands and leaned toward him. “Maybe nothing. But since you don’t have anything yet—”

“We have plenty,” he said. “Lots of fingerprints, most of them smudged. A rag smeared with the victim’s blood. A basement door that was usually left unlocked. A storm that had people inside their houses instead of out for a stroll where they might have seen any lurking strangers. We have six people — seven, if we include you — who were in the building when the murder occurred and all claim they didn’t hear a thing.”

“And you said there was nothing suspicious when you went through Mildred’s house. If you don’t have anything that points to a specific suspect, then maybe bringing everyone together might help.”

“Like in one of Mildred’s murder mysteries?”

“Yes,” Jo said. “But that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t work. Especially if we include Jim Fisher, Sarah’s husband. Neither Will nor Charlotte like him. That might stir things up.”

She waited while he thought about it some more.

“They may not all want to come to your get-together.”

“No, but I think everyone will. It would look odd not to.”

“Who else were you planning to invite?”

“Mildred’s cousin and her husband. The mayor and the members of the village council. And I was thinking about Mildred’s minister and his wife. I’ll need to have a fruit punch as well as Singapore Slings—”

“You think someone’s going to get drunk and blurt out a confession?”

“No, but someone might say or do something. It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

Chief Gordon leaned back in his desk chair. “You might ask Howard to play bartender. He used to be one when he was working his way through journalism school.”

That explained his silver flask, Jo thought. “Good idea,” she said. “I think Monday evening. One week since Mildred’s death.”

“You’ve got a lot to do to pull this off in two days.”

“I’ll ask the woman Aunt Meg used to hire for parties if she can help with the food. And if you’ll help with the guest list... I don’t know the mayor and the members of the village council—”

“I’ll get them there.”

“There’s one other thing. I wondered how well you knew Vivian’s husband.”

Chief Gordon gazed at her. “We used to go buck hunting together.”

“Were you surprised when he had a heart attack?”

“I was, but his doctor wasn’t. He said it wasn’t that unusual for a man in his sixties who liked good food and good whiskey.”

By seven o’clock that Monday evening, everyone who had been invited to the gathering had arrived. Nora, the woman who’d helped with the cooking, was helping out with the serving.

Jo waited for Mildred’s minister to see the bottles of gin on Howard’s makeshift bar, then she raised her hand and asked for everyone’s attention.

“I’d like to explain why Howard is acting as our bartender tonight. You see, rather than have the cast of the play become tipsy on stage as they sipped their cocktails, Mildred and I had planned to fill the glasses with our own concoction of cranberry juice and lemonade.” Jo gestured toward the large pitcher on Howard’s table. “It’s really quite good, and you must try it. But Barton’s play is set in Singapore at the Raffles Hotel. And I thought Mildred would be pleased if I also offered you a chance to make a farewell toast to her with a legendary drink invented there, the Singapore Sling.”

“Oh, I must try one,” the mayor’s wife said. She smiled at her husband. “But don’t you let me get tipsy, Stanley.”

The mayor said, “I think if we’re going to sample this cocktail, we should all be sure we’re also sampling all that delicious-looking food weighing down the dining-room table.”

“Please, eat as much as you’d like,” Jo said. “Nora did the cooking, so I can tell you that, yes, the food is delicious.”

With that the gathering took on the semifestive atmosphere that Jo had observed at wakes. Hard to ignore the fact that Mildred had been murdered and the suspects and the chief of police were all in the room. But everyone there seemed to be doing their best to pretend otherwise.

Except for those awkward little moments. As she was chatting with Mildred’s cousin about all the odds and ends they’d found as they were packing up Mildred’s things, Jo heard the mayor’s wife observe how it would soon be fireplace weather.

“And it was in the nineties this time last week. That awful storm...” She glanced from Charlotte and her mother to one of the village councilmen. “Of course that’s probably why whoever... why someone ended up in the Grange Hall basement.” She turned to glance at Howard. “Isn’t that true, Howard? Since the war, so many soldiers who are messed up in the head are drifting about like hoboes. I keep reading that.”

Howard raised his cocktail glass to her. “As a soldier who served in that war I can verify that my head is occasionally messed up, Mrs. Stillwell.”

The mayor’s wife flushed. “You know I didn’t mean soldiers like you, Howard. I meant the ones who are having a difficult time fitting in again.” She turned back to Charlotte and her mother and the councilman. “What I was trying to say was that whoever... it must have been a drifter who is long gone. That’s what my husband says.”

Charlotte said, “May I have another of your delightful Singapore Slings, Howard?”

Her mother gave her an uneasy glance but said nothing.

Jo turned when Barton said her name. “Could I speak to you for a moment?” he said.

Jo excused herself to Mildred’s cousin and her husband.

“What’s wrong?”

He tugged at his tie. “Should I say something about Mildred?”

“That would be nice. I was hoping someone would propose that toast I mentioned.”

“Okay. I guess I should go do it now, then.”

Jo watched from the doorway as Barton cleared his throat and asked for everyone’s attention.

Will, who had been keeping his distance from Sarah and Jim Fisher, took that opportunity to stare at them. Apparently feeling his gaze, Sarah turned and looked over her shoulder at him.

Jim Fisher turned to see what his wife was looking at. What might have been a flicker of annoyance crossed his face.

He whispered something in Sarah’s ear. She glanced up at him, blushed, and smiled. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. They turned and raised their glasses as Barton made his toast to Mildred with several lines from Emily Dickinson.

Will drained his glass and slammed it down on a side table.

Vivian moved toward him. Will glared at her and turned on his heel.

Jo gave Barton a discreet “thumbs up” on his toast and made a beeline after Vivian, who had followed Will into the hall.

Vivian was standing there looking after Will, who had just slammed the front door on his way out.

“Was he okay?” Jo asked.

Vivian shrugged. “He seemed to be having a hard time tonight.”

“He really has it bad, doesn’t he? Do you think he thought he had a chance with Sarah?”

Vivian was clutching her own empty glass in her hand. “There’s nothing rational about love.”

Jo nodded. “Not in my experience. And Will is so young, isn’t he?”

“Not as young as he looks,” Vivian said. “But thirty-three on a man does tend to look so much better than on a woman.”

“He’s thirty-three?” Jo said. “I thought he was closer to Sarah’s age.”

“I’m sure she did too, until she found out otherwise. A pharmacist is hardly a knight in shining armor. Why risk everything for a fling?”

“Yes,” Jo said. She lowered her voice. “But it’s a good thing it wasn’t Sarah’s husband who turned up dead.”

Vivian laughed. “Will? He doesn’t strike me as the type.”

“Maybe not,” Jo said. “But as you said, he’s a pharmacist, and in love with another man’s beautiful young wife—”

“He’s not in love with that little—” Vivian pressed her hand to her forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m getting the most awful headache. Please, forgive me, but I need to leave.”

“Of course,” Jo said. “It’s a good thing you got your prescription refilled.”

“What?”

“Will mentioned you stopped by the drugstore the day after Mildred died. On your way to Utica.”

“I didn’t have a headache at the time. But with everything that was happening—”

“Of course. It’s always a good idea to be prepared.”

“Thank you so much for bringing us together to honor Mildred. I’ll say good night to everyone on my way out.”

Jo watched Vivian make her farewells. Charlotte didn’t bother to acknowledge Vivian’s departure. She had cornered Jim Fisher and from the expression on his face she was getting a few things off her chest. Sarah was glancing in their direction as she talked to the minister and his wife. She looked concerned.

Jo sat up in bed, listening. Dempsey was already upstairs. She had seen him go into Meg’s room and hop onto her bed.

The stairs creaked again. Someone moving carefully now.

Jo reached under the other pillow.

She had the hammer in her hand and was standing behind her bedroom door when it opened. She swung and heard a grunt and a curse.

She scrambled toward the lamp on her night table.

Caught in the pool of light, the hooded figure paused.

Seeing the ice pick in his gloved hand, Jo clutched her hammer tighter.

“Will?” she said. “It is you, isn’t it?”

He was silent for a long moment. Then he laughed.

“So Vivian was right. She was afraid you were on to us.”

“Vivian’s husband — the two of you killed him, didn’t you? Digitalis leaf?”

“Good guess. Tablets crumbled into his stew.”

Jo tried to slow her breathing. “And a few hours later the symptoms—”

“But there was no one to witness his distress but his loving wife. No way to prove it was anything but a heart attack.”

“Why Mildred? What did she know?”

“She came up the stairs from the basement with Howard’s jacket. She caught Vivian and me arguing.”

“About Sarah?”

“Vivian agreed with my clever plan to use sweet little Sarah as cover. Then when Sarah rejected me for her husband, my heart would be broken. Vivian and I would drift together, consoling each other. Even the difference in our ages—”

“But Vivian was afraid you were really falling for Sarah?”

“And started turning green-eyed. Unfortunately, Mildred popped up as Vivian was telling me that she was not going to let me throw her over.”

Jo said, “That would have gotten Mildred thinking.”

“I told her Vivian and I were rehearsing a scene from the play. She said, ‘Oh, my goodness, for a moment I thought...’ And then she excused herself and went back downstairs.”

“But you knew that when Mildred saw the entire play, she’d realize there was no scene like that.”

“She’d already told us that she wanted to watch the play sitting out in the audience.”

“So you panicked and decided to kill her.”

“No, I didn’t panic. I thought I might be able to fix it. I went after her and offered to take Howard’s jacket to him. But she started chattering while she was shoving Of Human Bondage into a drawer.” Will shook his head. “I could tell she was already imagining my naughty affair with Vivian.”

“And she might have begun to wonder about Vivian’s husband.”

“Like you have. So now you’re going to be the killer’s second victim.”

“Why don’t you take off that silly hood? I know who you are?”

“But I don’t want you to scratch my face. And if anyone sees me running away from your house—”

“Your disguise.”

He was walking toward her.

Jo yelled and charged, swinging her hammer. She felt the ice pick prick her shoulder, but she slammed against him. He stumbled off balance.

She was at the top of the stairs when he brought her down from behind. Her hammer spun out of her grasp.

The yowl sounded like a mountain lion. Will screamed, rearing up as he tried to fling Dempsey from his back.

In the moonlight, Jo scrambled up and grabbed the ivory bookend from the hall table. She brought it down on Will’s head.

He groaned and tumbled over.

She kicked the ice pick out of his reach. But he was out cold.

“We got him,” Jo told the cat, who was licking his fur. “We got him.”

The police officer Chief Gordon had stationed outside said he hadn’t seen Will come in through the back. He’d been trying to stay out of sight and then he’d heard something in the bushes.

Chief Gordon gave him an exasperated look and told him to get Will out of there.

Jo said she didn’t need to go to the hospital. Dempsey seemed to be okay too.

But it was almost dawn by the time the police left.

The telephone rang an hour or so later. Jo thought it might be Howard, who hadn’t been in on the plan but might have heard about Will’s arrest. She let the telephone ring.

She fed Dempsey his breakfast and made sure he was eating. Then she went upstairs and took a bath and dressed.

She sat down on the bed she had made. Meg was still smiling at her from her photograph.

“You’d appreciate the irony, Meg. I was almost killed by a pharmacist wearing a hood. He looked like he was auditioning for the Ku Klux Klan. Maybe I should have whispered my own secret in his ear. Told the bastard that if we were south of the Mason-Dixon line he wouldn’t have to worry about my testimony because my mother’s mother was colored.”

Jo tried to laugh, but it was a pretty poor effort.

She gave herself a shake. She was alive and well. And Dempsey had come out swinging when someone tried to hurt her.

“Sometime in the next year, he might even let me pet him,” she told Meg.

© 2017 by Frankie Y. Bailey