Murder at the Falls. Arlene Kay
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an unearthly screech from the barn distracted her and announced our visitor’s arrival. Zeke, an irascible pygmy goat, had very few virtues, but he rivaled a particularly piercing air raid siren as a noise alert. I always suspected that his vigilance had more to do with sheer selfishness than any protective instinct, but it served a useful purpose. Zeke was another rescue project who had absolutely no allegiance to me. Fortunately, since adding Raza, an Arabian mare, to my little brood, Zeke’s boorish behavior had improved. Maybe loneliness had caused his antics and exasperating refusal to act civilized. It was a reason, but not an excuse. Luckily for that shaggy pygmy, I overlooked his misdeeds in Pip’s honor. Like it or not, Zeke was mine for the duration.
After a perfunctory rap on the door, Wing Pruett bounded into my home. No doubt about it, he had an aura that intimidated men and captivated any sentient female within a fifty-mile radius. It wasn’t just his physical presence, although that was considerable. Not many men possessed the body beautiful, perfectly molded features, and mounds of thick black hair, especially in our nation’s capital, where power, not sex appeal, was the ultimate aphrodisiac. Some wag had termed Washington, DC, “Hollywood for ugly people,” but a man like Wing Pruett could hold his own any place in any crowd. Why else would the Washingtonian dub him the sexiest man in Washington? As soon as I saw him, I deliberately powered down to neutral. Truth was tricky, my feelings for Wing Pruett complicated. When he said that he loved me, I wanted desperately to believe him, but common sense dictated that such a sultry superstar would probably move on to greener pastures someday. No need obsessing about that. Long ago I’d resolved to live in the moment and enjoy every second of his company. I maintained a cool, slightly bemused façade when our eyes locked. No sense in feeding that aura of entitlement that immersed Pruett.
“Hey, ladies.” Pruett neatly evaded my dogs, planted a kiss on my cheek, and squeezed Babette’s hand. He was a work in progress when it came to animals, but with my help and the able assistance of his daughter Ella, Pruett had made great strides. You’ve got to love a man who acknowledged and conquered his worst fears.
“I come bearing gifts. Got dessert for you,” he said, presenting a neatly wrapped box of treats from Georgetown Cupcakes. Immediately, Babette’s eyes widened. Sweets placed second only to sex in her personal pantheon. In view of her previous escapades it made sense to me. Sugar was much more accessible and less problematic than many of her romantic partners. Cupcakes never cheated on her, demanded alimony payments, or required a prenup. My pal swore that although the ecstasy of a sugar high was short-lived, it was well worth the glucose slump that followed. With Pruett around, I preferred to save the calories and go for the real thing.
Babette immediately leaped up to play hostess. It was an automatic reflex even when she was in someone else’s home. “How about a barn burner, Wing? They’re my specialty, you know.”
Pruett slid next to me on the couch, close enough for our arms to touch. I tried to forestall a full body flush by sipping cider, but it didn’t work. He pretended not to notice, although I was positive he had.
“Sounds great,” he said. “I’ll just help Ms. Perri relax a bit.” His fingers nimbly unfastened the pins in my hair, causing it to cascade down my back. “Much better,” he murmured. “Your crowning glory unleashed.”
Who could argue with a move like that? My hair was the one point of vanity I allowed myself. His touch didn’t transform me from a stodgy professional to a wanton woman, but I relished the contact. Somehow that relatively innocent act elevated my senses more than anything else he could manage in public view. I caught the satisfied glint in Babette’s eyes and looked away. Knowing her, she was already planning our honeymoon itinerary.
Before getting down to business, we spent a few moments in companionable silence sipping our barn burners. I had to admit that the potent liquid warmed the cockles of my heart and several other spaces too personal to mention. Finally, Pruett put down his mug and retrieved his notebook. Even in the age of electronic gadgets, he preferred to go old-school when pursuing a story.
“Okay,” he said. “Give me your take on Magdalen Melmoth. Delusional or merely complex?”
I hesitated, but Babette plunged right into the fray. “My lady, Irene Wilson, vouches for her. They’re best friends and Magdalen confides in her. She didn’t know the specifics of this manuscript business, but she said it was something big.”
Pruett donned his mask of inscrutability as he listened. That was de rigueur for him during interviews. I’d also used that technique during my military days because people often searched for facial clues and tailored their account to suit perceived biases. Wing Pruett’s face was impossible to read. After Babette finished, he made notes and turned my way.
“Tell me everything Magdalen said, verbatim if you can. We’ll discuss impressions afterward.”
There wasn’t much to tell. I repeated Magdalen’s story, particularly her advice to research Oscar Wilde before our next meeting, and the sense I got that she might be in peril.
“She didn’t say that outright. Just spoke of the urgency of time.”
“She’s fairly old, isn’t she?” Pruett asked. “Maybe she was just being practical.”
Babette refilled her mug and edged into the conversation. “Hell, Wing, they’re all in that eternal waiting room. Every one of them.” She snapped her fingers. “Magdalen could pop off just like that and no one would be the wiser.”
I couldn’t dispute her logic, but some inner voice told me there was more to it. Much more. “Let’s assume Magdalen told the truth,” I said. “An unpublished manuscript by Oscar Wilde would be worth millions. Just think of it. People have killed for far less.”
Pruett looked up. “I managed to do some research on this, and it was quite enlightening.”
“Wow,” Babette said. “That was quick. I’m surprised you had the time.”
His lips twitched in a semi-smile. That in itself was a dead giveaway. Pruett typically delegated research chores to one of the many eager interns who swarmed his office. They tended to be young, J-school graduates with stars in their eyes. The overwhelmingly female gaggle also boasted good looks and an unsettling hero worship of one Wing Pruett.
“What did you find?” I said. “The suspense is killing us.”
He bent over his briefcase, playing for time. After retrieving his glasses, Pruett tapped the screen of his iPad and shared the news.
“Okay. Bear in mind that all this is purely speculative. Oscar Wilde died young, as you know. Only forty-six.” He shook his head. “What a waste. Anyway, he did marry at least once and produced several offspring, but there’s a catch.”
Babette clutched Clara’s collar so tightly the poor dog yelped. “Come on,” Babette said. “Spit it out. We’re dying here.”
Pruett and I locked eyes. I knew what he was going to say because I too had done some research. Any reasonably intelligent being with a computer could gather rudimentary information on an historical figure. Wilde’s fame had grown in the past few years as new generations learned to appreciate his genius and old taboos were discarded.
Pruett adjusted his glasses. “First the bad news. No record of Oscar Wilde having any progeny outside of marriage. It’s surprising that he had any at all. As you probably know, he wasn’t inclined that way.”
Babette leaped up. “You mean she lied? All that hooey about being his granddaughter was a lie?”
Pruett held up his hand. “There was something else. Something that requires more investigation. In his last years in France, Wilde used the pseudonym Sebastian Melmoth on occasion.”
My pal’s mouth dropped. The optics weren’t flattering; she bore an uncanny resemblance to a gaffed fish hanging on the docks. “Don’t assume anything from that,” Pruett said. “Again, I repeat, there was no mention of any other offspring.”
Words of caution failed to dampen Babette’s spirits. Now that she had a ray of hope,