Murder at the Falls. Arlene Kay
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about Oscar Wilde? His life, not just his magnificent prose.”
“Just the basics.” I hesitated to mention the sensational legal action that had placed the great man in Reading Gaol. After all, Magdalen was a lady from another generation when such matters were not discussed.
She nibbled a smoked salmon sandwich and watched me closely. “Does genealogy interest you at all, Perri?”
I shook my head.
“You’re still young. When you get to be my age, it’s comforting to know your heritage.” Magdalen chuckled. “After all, I might be meeting some of them fairly soon.” She leaned over and stroked Poe’s silky coat. “Funny, isn’t it? Pedigree dogs like these fine specimens come to us with extensive family trees. Most humans don’t.”
Against my will, I began to question Magdalen’s mental state. The conversation was bizarre as well as confusing, and I wasn’t certain what she wanted from me.
“Where do I fit in?” I asked, “not to mention Wing Pruett.” Pruett, an acclaimed investigative journalist and my romantic partner, inspired fantasies in many women. Magdalen was way beyond his usual demographic, but anything was possible. I had proof positive that Pruett’s physical assets far exceeded anything DC scribes even hinted at. That memory made me smile.
Magdalen suddenly clenched her hands and rose to her feet. “Listen closely, Perri. I want you both to undertake a mission, one of historical significance. A quest of sorts.”
The Therapy Dog guidelines never mentioned anything like this. I sought to placate Magdalen while I plotted a quick exit strategy. She was confused. Had to be. Buttonholing a complete stranger made no sense at all. Only the thought of Nurse Carole and Dr. Fergueson kept me glued to my seat. To ward off their sneers, I allotted Magdalen more time to spin her fantasy.
“What is it that you think we can do for you?” I asked.
Her sweet smile told me I had already lost the battle. “Bring him here. You see, I have a secret.”
I visualized Pruett’s reaction, and it wasn’t pretty. When it came to business, he was hard-nosed and data-driven. “Don’t be mysterious, Magdalen. Give me more details.” My tone was too harsh, and immediately, guilt welled up in me. After all, I was charged with comforting Magdalen, not confronting her. Suppose she cried or fainted? I would never survive being bounced from the Therapy Dog Program on my maiden voyage for brutalizing a resident.
Fortunately, she was made of sterner stuff. “Research is his specialty, right?” Magdalen was clearly enjoying herself. “Okay, then. Dig into the background of Oscar Wilde before you come back here. That should get your juices flowing.”
I tried to hide my disbelief. “The famous writer?”
“Yes, dear. I believe he was my grandfather and left me a valuable legacy.”
Gaping like the village idiot was unseemly, but I couldn’t help it. “Legacy?”
Magdalen was thoroughly composed, unlike me. “Quite a coup for a hotshot author, don’t you think? Mr. Pruett will get full access to everything I own. I’ll sign any necessary legal documents.”
Keats put his face in Magdalen’s lap, looked up, and watched her with sad, soulful eyes. Poe edged closer to me.
“I don’t know what to say, Ms. Melmoth.”
Once again, her manner floored me. “Don’t worry, dear. Tell Mr. Pruett that I have an original, unpublished manuscript written by my grandfather. That should pique his interest.” Magdalen placidly sipped her tea as she watched me closely.
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t worry. You soon will. My health is fine, but after all, I’m no spring chicken. Someone trustworthy. That’s what I need. Before it’s too late.”
I rose slowly, uncertain of what to do. For some reason I fumbled in my bag for a business card and handed it to Magdalen. “You can contact me in case your schedule changes or something.”
“Thank you, dear. Nicely done. That’s important for a businessperson, especially a woman.” Magdalen placed it in a lovely bronze box with elaborate engraving on it. “Perhaps we could meet here next week,” she said. “That will give you time to do some research. I understand Mr. Pruett is very thorough.” Magdalen smiled, as if she was sharing a secret joke. “Time, you know, makes slaves of us all. No need to prolong things. As the Bard said, ‘Delays have dangerous ends.’”
Chapter 3
“Sounds like she’s nuts,” Babette said. “Maybe ole starchy drawers Fergueson was right about Magdalen after all. Too bad. I really liked her. Magdalen, I mean, not the dragon lady.”
Buoyed by the success of our dogs and their program, we left the Falls in high spirits. A round of musical chairs, tricks, and meet and greets received a warm welcome from the residents. Once again, I was awed by the power of the canine-human connection. Outwardly timid ladies hugged and kissed our dogs with a zeal they never would have shown to strangers. A few reminisced about beloved dogs and cats that had shared their own lives. In the face of that reaction, my prior reluctance to participate felt petty and mean-spirited. I was now a true believer. Even the songs Kate had shared with the group gave me a warm, family feeling that, as an orphan, I had missed out on.
Babette and I sat in my living room, sipping cider and awaiting the arrival of Wing Pruett. I’d phoned and sketched out the basics for him, and to my surprise, he was intrigued enough to change his plans and pop on over. That inspired Babette to order pizzas from her favorite gourmet spot and brew barn burners, a lethal mixture of cider, brandy, and whiskey that tasted harmless and kicked like an entire mule team.
“How are things going between you two?” Babette asked. When it came to romances, particularly mine, no area was out of bounds for my pal. Privacy was an overrated barrier in Croyland. She ignored my frown and plunged in immediately. “Any hint of wedding bells? I’ll need to make arrangements, you know. Give me plenty of notice.”
I chose to ignore my ill-mannered but well-intentioned pal. “Things are fine between us. Don’t you dare mention wedding bells when he gets here. He’ll think I put you up to it.” Actually, that topic was verboten in my household. I’m a self-sufficient, single woman, thirty-two years of age, with eyes firmly fixed on my future. Whether that future included a certain investigative hottie and his darling daughter remained an open question, one that I was reluctant to broach. Three years ago, when my fiancé, Dr. Pip Hahn, succumbed to cancer, I banished all thoughts of romance. The pain of that loss still haunted me, and the wound was remarkably raw. No sense in mentioning it to Babette, the ultimate pragmatist. Her response—which she frequently voiced—was simple: get over it. Pip’s gone, so live your life. What she couldn’t or wouldn’t understand was my refusal to obliterate him from my heart. His memory sustained me and kept Wing Pruett’s less-desirable habits at bay. It was a complicated and occasionally painful dilemma.
“Phooey,” Babette said. “That man adores you. He’s obsessed with you. Trust me on that. I can tell. All he needs is a little push.” Her smug smile raised all sorts of danger signs.
“Back off,” I said as forcefully as I could. “Focus on your own love life for a change. Last time I looked you were still single.” It was a low blow, but an effective one. Since her divorce from the perfidious Carleton Croy, Babette had lived the single life. It was not to her liking. Carleton, Babette’s husband number four, was no prize package, but she frequently bemoaned the loss of marital benefits and his abundant physical assets. Whenever she launched a paean to his manly parts, I used every trick in the book to block it out. Selective memory was a tricky thing. From her three elderly spouses, Babette had derived material comfort and big bucks. She was fond of saying that they died smiling all the way to eternity. Not so with Carleton, a faithless wretch who shared his splendor with most of her friends, berated her, and had no money at all.
“I know you mean well,” I said,