Murder at the Falls. Arlene Kay
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was growing restless. I knew his moods and could read him perfectly. To his credit, he gritted his teeth, turned up the charm machine, and stayed the course. “What did your mother tell you? Did she offer any proof or documents?”
Magdalen’s gentle smile reproved him. “Of course not. Mother said that my grandfather was a noted literary genius whose reputation had been tarnished in England.” Magdalen’s cheeks colored again. “Naturally she never specified what caused his downfall. In her day it simply wasn’t done. ‘The love that dare not speak its name’—that was the closest she came. Of course, later as I read more about him, I understood.”
Pruett furrowed his brow. “What about your father? Any diaries or letters about his parents?”
Once again Magdalen chuckled. “None that I know of. Just oral tradition. My father was a brilliant man. He took two firsts at Oxford. I recall Mother said that he followed in his father’s footsteps. Sebastian Fingal Melmoth was his full name.”
I tried not to sigh. Memories were therapeutic, but essentially unhelpful. They got us no closer to Oscar Wilde and the manuscript.
Pruett’s manner was gentle but firm. He held Magdalen’s hand and looked directly into her eyes. “Tell us about the manuscript. It’s important, Magdalen.”
There was something refreshingly girlish in her manner, a throwback from another more modest age. A photo on her mantel showed teenaged Magdalen clad in jodhpurs and formal riding regalia holding a palomino’s bridle. Wow! She was quite a stunner in her youth. Made me wonder why Magdalen had remained single.
“I’ve never actually seen it,” Magdalen admitted, “not the entire manuscript at least. But I’ve read fragments. and Mother said it was the best thing my grandpa ever wrote.”
Pruett gritted his teeth. His frustration was understandable because he was a gung ho, carpe diem kind of gonzo journalist. I decided that strategic intervention was in order to save the day.
“Oscar Wilde only wrote one novel. Is this a novel, Magdalen? If so that’s big news.”
Once again, she hesitated. The silence was broken by a rap on the door and the entrance of Babette and Clara. After preliminary small talk, Babette cut to the chase. “What did I miss? Tell me everything about that manuscript, Magdalen. I barely slept last night just thinkin’ of it.”
Magdalen fluttered and flushed, but after taking a mighty sip of tea, she continued her story. “To answer your question, Persephone, the work is a novel. The title sounds somewhat odd, but then, by all accounts, my grandfather was known as an eccentric.”
Talk about your understatements of the year. If indeed Magdalen’s grandpa was the celebrity in question, he was called many things of which “eccentric” might have been the kindest. Oscar Wilde’s brilliance stretched to so many areas that some considered him a dilettante. I called him a genius. I checked my watch. Our session was scheduled to end soon, followed by a general seminar for all residents involved in the Therapy Dog program. I bit my lip in frustration, but once again Babette rode to the rescue.
“What’s the title, Magdalen? You must know that much at least. You’re killing us here.” Babette framed her question with a sweet smile that tempered her pointed words.
Magdalen tilted her head toward the ceiling. “Oh yes, dear. Forgive an old lady for woolgathering. You mentioned Dorian Gray, Perri. Well, Sebastian Melmoth used a character in that novel for his final work. He called it Sybil Vane.”
Babette leaned forward. “I don’t get it. Why is that such a big deal?”
Pruett smiled. “As I recall, Sybil was the young actress who almost saved Dorian Gray. Right, Ms. Magdalen?”
She clapped her hands in delight. “How perceptive you are. That’s absolutely true. After the dogs perform, I’ll explain how to find it. I’m counting on you—all of you—to preserve my grandfather’s legacy.” Magdalen reached into her pocket and pulled out an antique gold pocket watch. “I see that our time here is up. Persephone, if you will do the honors.” She reached into the drawer of her escritoire and withdrew a manila envelope. “Keep this safe until we get back here.”
* * * *
The house was packed for our presentation, although the stars of the show were canine, not human. Keats, Poe, and Clara, joined by Gomer and Portia, gave a formal demonstration that included several dance routines and a formal explanation of the Therapy Dog program. Several familiar faces surfaced in the crowd, including Doctors Fergueson and Tully. Nurse Carole Ross stood guard at the back of the room wearing the grim visage of a prison matron. I wasn’t intimidated, but I confess she puzzled me. Her manner was at variance with the genial, relaxed attitude of the rest of the staff and residents. It was hardly conducive to a homey atmosphere. The audience was overwhelmingly female, a reflection of the longevity of women over men. Perhaps that explained why Wing Pruett garnered the attention of virtually everyone in the audience. He was ensconced on a sofa between two ladies of a certain age who shamelessly doted on him. Magdalen and her pal Irene Wilson snagged a front row seat. They slyly waved at us as we finished our performance and clapped for our dogs. We were expected to mingle with the residents afterward and allow them to greet our pets. Although the results were gratifying, the program took far longer than I’d anticipated. Of course, my mind was preoccupied by thoughts of that manila envelope and dreams of a literary bombshell. I couldn’t really gauge how much time had elapsed and suspected Pruett felt the same way.
Kate Thayer shooed Gomer away from some low-hanging treats and sighed. “I have to duck out early today. That old jalopy of mine broke down again and every time the mechanic gives me a progress report I almost faint.”
“For crying out loud, Kate, get a reliable vehicle. It’s not safe.” Rolf sniffed as he adjusted Portia’s collar. “Ride back with me and I’ll loan you one of mine.”
It was a kind gesture and yet…I couldn’t help thinking it was but another self-aggrandizing move by Rolf. The man’s enormous ego was constantly on display. Don’t get me wrong. I admired initiative, but most of the truly successful people I knew didn’t tout their accomplishments. No one ever suggested that educators, particularly retired ones, could afford expensive cars. Most chose the same route Kate had—nurse the old one as long as possible. I understood that all too well. Fortunately, despite a few dings and dents, my aged Suburban was battered but unbowed. Even the thought of buying a replacement made me blanch.
A faint blush rose on Kate’s cheeks. His allusion to her finances had obviously embarrassed her. “Thanks, Rolf, but I’ll manage. That old Jeep seems like part of the family by now. Kind of an elderly uncle who is still lovable despite his quirks.”
Rolf snorted. “Don’t let pride be your downfall, Kate. As it is, you pay a boatload of property taxes in DC. Must be hard to manage on a teacher’s pension. My portfolio takes a hit every time the assessor waves his pen.” He consulted his watch, an outsize gold Rolex, and grasped Portia’s lead. “I’ve got to meet an important client this afternoon,” he said. “Finally have a chance to wrap up that land deal in Shenandoah County if the old codgers who own it don’t get sentimental. Let’s leave as soon as we can.”
By the time the social hour concluded Magdalen had vanished. Irene Wilson told us not to worry. Magdalen was fatigued and had slipped away to take a nap. She asked that we call her later on that evening. Pruett was miffed, I was disappointed, and Babette was livid.
“We came all the way out here to see her,” she fumed. “Naptime just doesn’t cut it. I don’t care how old she is either.”
Irene made excuses for her friend and dithered about it to the point of tears. “Mags has been under such stress lately,” she said, “and then there were all those peculiar goings-on. They really spooked her.”
Pruett immediately sensed a story. “Peculiar?” he asked with his most winsome smile. “Come on. Give us a hint.”
Irene looked around and lowered her voice. “First there was a mix-up with