Murder at the Falls. Arlene Kay
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will today, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted you to know that I willed my few possessions to you and made you executor of my grandfather’s literary estate. Sebastian Melmoth, of course, not Oscar Wilde.”
“I don’t know what to say, Magdalen. Isn’t there someone—some relative or old friend—who would be a better fit?”
Her smile was sad. “None. I need someone I can trust to do the right thing, and I know that’s you. When you get to my age, friendships fade, and most family members have departed.”
I still hadn’t processed the enormity of her bequest. “But Magdalen, a newly validated work by Oscar Wilde would be priceless.”
“Yes. I only ask that you credit my mother and her family in the preface. They deserve that recognition. I have some additional information at the house that you and Mr. Pruett will find useful.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Sometimes, my dear, silence is indeed golden.”
* * * *
That evening we enjoyed what in prior times would have been termed a hen party. Soft jazz filled the room, a companionable fire burned, and we supped on one of my few signature dishes—spinach quiche. Magdalen entertained us with tales of life in rural Ireland, I talked about dog shows, and Babette contributed her share of slightly scandalous asides about her wealthy friends and neighbors in Great Marsh.
“I hope I’m not shockin’ you, Magdalen,” Babette said after one especially lurid tidbit.
Magdalen adjusted her cushion and laughed. “Oh no, dear. Sex is and has always been part of life. My grandfather certainly partook. He paid the price for it, of course.”
I shivered, thinking of the majestic piece, The Ballad of Reading Gaol, and the tag line, “each man kills the thing he loves.” Magdalen might be thinking the same thing, but she seemed untroubled by it. When Pruett texted me an hour later, I broke the news to her.
“Sheriff Page will be here at ten a.m. tomorrow to interview you. Are you okay with that?”
“Certainly. I don’t plan to mention the manuscript, though. Why complicate things?” Thatcher jumped into her lap at that moment in a gesture of solidarity. “I think I will go home with the sheriff tomorrow. I spoke with Irene today,” Magdalen said. “She misses me and frankly, I’ve imposed on your hospitality long enough.”
Alarm bells clanged in my head. “No. You can’t. Please don’t leave yet. It may not be safe.”
Babette joined me in urging Magdalen to stay, but she was implacable. “Remember, ladies, the Bible says there is a time for every purpose under Heaven. At my age, that time may be drawing near, but I don’t fear it.” She gently displaced Thatcher and rose. “Forgive me if I make an early night of it. Big day for all of us tomorrow.”
Babette left shortly thereafter, and for the first time in a long while I was alone with only my thoughts and my pets for company.
* * * *
I slept so soundly that it took shards of sunlight and the gentle urging of my dogs to awaken me. I leaped up, guilt ridden. The Puritan work ethic was alive and well in Persephone Morgan, and lolling about in bed aroused guilt in every pore of my skin.
After attending to my pets, I devoted a goodly amount of time to my hair, makeup, and wardrobe. Call me frivolous, but I’d seen the look that passed between Aleita Page and Wing Pruett. I intended to up my game as best I could before the sultry sheriff made her appearance. No need to give aid and comfort to potential competition.
Magdalen joined me in a modest repast of oatmeal, fruit, and toast, but her attention wandered as her appetite waned.
“Sure you feel up to this interview?” I asked. “I can contact the sheriff and cancel.”
She closed her eyes and smiled. “No, dear. Forgive me for woolgathering. I left some more information on the bed for you and Mr. Pruett. It’s a burden, I know, but your help is nothing short of a blessing. Finding the manuscript is my final crusade, a quest worthy of Don Quixote himself.”
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