Murder at the Falls. Arlene Kay
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I decided to play innocent. “Yes. Such a lovely woman.”
Tully exchanged glances with Joan Fergueson but merely nodded. “Just so. Like many of our guests, she sometimes retreats into fantasy. Part of the aging process, I assure you. Nothing to get alarmed about.”
“Anything in particular we should watch out for?” Pruett stayed low-key. “I suppose a bit of fantasy is useful for all of us, don’t you think? Otherwise how would we make it through the dreary days.”
Dr. Fergueson nodded. “We’re quite accustomed to that at the Falls. Some years ago, a resident swore she was the daughter of Czar Nicholas. Insisted on calling herself Anastasia, if you can believe it. We humored her, of course.”
“Harmless fantasies for the most part.” Jethro Tully bent down and patted my dogs. “Beautiful. I understand they served in Afghanistan.”
“Perri always says they’re smarter than most humans,” Babette said. “I believe it. Of course, my Clara is no slouch either.”
As we chatted, Pruett’s eyes wandered. He scanned the reception area, missing nothing at all. When several of the residents asked to pet our dogs, he gallantly stepped aside and introduced our canine caravan. Frankly, I believed that the more audacious ladies in question were more interested in mauling Wing Pruett than learning about the therapy dog program. They hooked arms with my guy and soon guided him to one of the sofas, amid a flurry of dimpled smiles and eyelash batting.
“I’ll join you later,” Pruett told me. “These ladies have captured me.”
Babette and I exchanged looks and headed for the elevators, where we joined Kate Thayer and Rolf Hart. Doctors Fergueson and Tully shrugged, excused themselves, and exited the building.
“What’s he up to?” Babette asked in a stage whisper, pointing to Pruett.
I pressed the second-floor button and yawned. “No telling.”
Rolf gave me one of his semi-smiles. “Well, Perri. I had no idea you were friends with a celebrity. I recognized Wing Pruett immediately. Quite the catch.”
I recognized the subtext of his comment: What does a guy like Pruett see in a nobody like Perri Morgan? No surprise. I’d often asked myself that same question.
Kate intervened quickly. “Who wouldn’t recognize him? He’s even better looking in person! Wow. Lucky you, Perri.”
“What’s he doing here?” Rolf asked. “Not much material for an investigative hotshot at the Falls.”
This time Babette was prepared. I knew by the gleam in her eye that she was locked and loaded. “Are you kidding? That man is crazy about Perri. Follows her everywhere she goes. It’s almost embarrassin’.”
Rolf harrumphed and said no more, but Kate winked at me.
We parted in the hallway, when Babette headed toward Irene Wilson’s studio. I moved slowly as I approached Magdalen’s apartment, unable to shake a feeling of impending doom. Keats and Poe stayed close to my side, faithful sentries and protectors.
Magdalen answered the doorbell immediately, looking pert and quite exuberant. Her smile never wavered as she scanned the hallway for any other visitors. “Welcome, Persephone,” she said, “and of course my doggy dears as well. I have tea ready.”
I quickly explained that Pruett would be joining us once he disengaged from his claque of groupies. Magdalen chuckled and whisked me into her parlor. “I’m not surprised. Elaine and her reading group somehow got wind of Mr. Pruett’s visit. They’re terrible flirts, but I can’t really blame them. We don’t often see handsome men here. Actually, men of any type are fairly scarce.”
I envisioned Babette in thirty years still scoping out presentable male visitors regardless of age. No judgments. It made sense. We chatted about inconsequential things, awaiting the arrival of the guest of honor. I was curious about her assessment of Dr. Jethro Tully and his role at the Falls.
Initially, she hesitated. “I want to be fair. He’s very professional. Impersonal but not unfriendly. Apparently knows his stuff too. I looked him up on the Internet. Googled him.”
I sensed a mile-wide caveat. Magdalen’s generation was raised to revere physicians and speak no evil or anything even mildly critical. She bit her lip and finally stammered a reply.
“It’s nothing concrete. He’s always been perfectly civil, but I just don’t trust him. My mother had two terms for a man like Dr. Tully: smarmy and oleaginous.” Magdalen chuckled. “They mean much the same thing, but I love the expressions. Unfortunately, people today tend to use so few of the words in our vast language. He just acts so entitled. So much swagger. I guess that’s it. Insists on special bottled water from Italy and imported espresso. You know the type, Perri. Underneath the charm I sense something else. He patronizes the residents.” Magdalen curled her lip. “We may be old, but most of us still have our wits about us.”
I wanted to probe for specifics, but at that moment, Pruett knocked on her door and was ushered into the room with great ceremony. Magdalen took his hands, looked him up and down, and nodded her approval. “Well, Mr. Pruett. I see that for once the press buildup was totally justified.”
This was nothing new for Wing Pruett, but to my surprise, he flushed. “You’ve been on my mind, Ms. Melmoth, ever since Perri told me about you. I’m fascinated by your story.”
Magdalen motioned us toward the dining table, poured tea, and shared a plate of sandwiches and lemon tarts. “Eat, please. I know that men need sustenance, and a hearty appetite is a compliment to the hostess. As for my heritage, you must think I’m senile, Mr. Pruett. The doctor called it ‘fanciful,’ as if the meaning was all that different.” She stared at both of us, eyes blazing. “He’s wrong. It happens to be true. All of it. I am the granddaughter of Oscar Wilde and I can prove it.”
Chapter 5
No one spoke for a moment. As tension built, the silence was deafening. It took the soothing presence of Keats and Poe to break the logjam and restore order. Poe sidled up to Magdalen and placed his paw on her knee. That freed her to bend down and hug him. As she stroked his shiny coat, Magdalen Melmoth told her story.
“My parents never said much about our heritage. Father died during the Second World War, like so many other fine young men. My mother was hesitant to tell me much about his family. I grew up surrounded by a large, boisterous Irish group, my mother’s family, the Kingsburys. It was a comfortable life, filled with fun, horses, and every type of pet.” She paused, as if recalling those halcyon days. “Why, I did all the things a farm child enjoys—even operated machinery and bailed hay. I was quite a tomboy in those days.”
That gave Pruett the opening he sought. “No one mentioned Oscar Wilde or hinted at your connections?”
She shook her head. “Only on her deathbed did my mother speak of Sebastian Melmoth, my grandfather. That was the name she used. Never the other one. It simply wasn’t done in those days, you see, particularly when something scandalous was involved.”
Pruett leaned forward, his shoulders tense as he surreptitiously took notes. He knew that by letting Magdalen tell her story her way, he would ultimately get the information he needed. Patience was a virtue he often lacked, except in pursuit of his professional goals. “Perhaps your first name was a clue. If I’m not mistaken, a beautiful poem called ‘Magdalen Walks’ was one of Wilde’s big successes.”
Her cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink. “How perceptive of you, Mr. Pruett. Of course, that poem was about Magdalen College, Oxford, but still…”
“What was your father’s name?” I asked, praying that this family saga wouldn’t go on forever.
“Fingal. A common family name in Ireland, I understand, although not here. We immigrated to America when my mother remarried. Mama always caught the eye of the men around her, you see. Declan Farraday was