Читать книгу Murder at the Falls - Arlene Kay - Страница 12

Chapter 4

I spent the balance of the week working hard, filling orders for customers and toying with some new designs. My mother-daughter belts were big sellers at the various dog and horse shows and were even stocked in a number of high-end boutiques. Booming sales were a balm to my soul, but I couldn’t dispel my anxiety over Magdalen Melmoth. I simply couldn’t. Research only heightened my concern. The Internet teemed with sites dedicated to Oscar Wilde, but none of them hinted at any Melmoth offspring or rumors of undiscovered manuscripts. I chuckled every time I recalled one of Wilde’s bon mots: Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken. Had my new friend decided to claim her heritage, or was she merely living a dream?

Pruett joined me that next Wednesday on our trek to the Falls. He insisted on driving his Porsche Macan, even though it was a tight fit with two large dogs stuffed into the back seat. I didn’t even try to resist. Better to fire up his luxury SUV for that journey than my Suburban. That old soldier had crossed the 200,000-mile mark some time ago, and I dreaded the expense and bother of ever replacing it. Pruett, on the other hand, tired of his vehicles after a year or two and automatically discarded them. It was probably a cautionary tale for other aspects of his personal life as well. I knew for a fact that he never remained in a relationship longer than two years, so my option would soon be up for renewal.

“You look nifty, Persephone.” He twirled me around, admiring my choice of garb. I am certainly no fashion plate, but on occasion I can up my game. A cashmere twinset, new jeans, and freshly polished boots were my idea of haute couture. Not exactly Vogue, but apparently, he approved. Pruett had a keen sense of fashion. He wore a handsome tweed blazer, a white turtleneck, and khaki cords that raised all manner of licentious thoughts in my mind. With sublime effort I restrained myself from losing control and jumping his bones.

“I did a bit more digging,” he said. “Spoke to a professor at GW who specializes in Wilde. Wrote a book about him too.”

“What did she say?”

He neatly evaded the trap and tweaked my chin in the bargain. “Just so happens this professor is male, Ms. Smarty-Pants. Bruce Douglas, professor of English literature at George Washington University. We were roommates at Johns Hopkins a hundred years ago.”

Pruett enjoyed flaunting his age and superior wisdom. In actuality, he was only thirty-six, four years my senior, and as for wisdom—I could match him every time with life experience.

“So, what did your old roomie have to say?” I asked.

“I had to be cagey,” Pruett said. “Couldn’t let him get on the scent or we’d have a howling mob of academics storming the old age home.”

I nodded, awaiting the bombshell I knew was coming.

“Okay, the Goose said…

“Goose?”

“Goosey Brucey—his nickname. Anyway, he said that, if verified, an undiscovered manuscript by Oscar Wilde would fetch seven figures at least, especially if it was a novel.”

That made sense. Wilde was a prolific writer of poems, essays, and plays, but he had produced only one novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray. Any addition to that legacy would ignite the literary world. I tried to tamp down the excitement building within me. After all, the musings of an elderly lady might be no more than wishful thinking. My task was to join Poe and Keats in supporting Magdalen. Therapy Dog guidelines specified that spreading comfort and joy was our primary objective. I resolved to do just that.

“Earth to Perri. Wake up!” Pruett gently nudged me as we neared the gates of the Falls. “Dreaming about me, were you?”

I lowered my sunglasses and stared at him. “Not likely. Why dream when you’re sitting right next to me?”

Pruett shook his head and chuckled. “Always one up on me, aren’t you? You keep me on my toes.” He pulled into a visitors’ spot and scanned the area. I could tell that, like me, he was pleasantly surprised. On the surface, the Falls was everything an upscale housing complex should be.

“Not bad,” he said. “I expected something from “The Fall of the House of Usher,” or Bleak House.”

“Feeling literary, are you? I adore Poe, gloomy as he was, but Charles Dickens bores me silly. Very overrated in my opinion. Right down there with Melville and Thomas Hardy.”

Pruett stared at me for a moment before responding. “You are really something, Ms. Perri. So very practical and self-sufficient, but amazingly well versed in the classics. Wow!”

How typical of him to assume that only an Ivy League graduate could be erudite. Pruett was an alumnus of Columbia’s graduate program while I scraped and saved to make it through state universities. That didn’t make me a second-class citizen or automatically make him a scholar. I was saved from embarrassment by the timely arrival of Babette and Clara.

“Hey, you two,” my pal sang out. “No hanky-panky in front of the old folks.”

Pruett sprang out of his Porsche and opened the back hatch for my dogs. “Wouldn’t think of it, ma’am. Best behavior.”

I assumed we needed some special permission to bring in a guest, but when that guest was famous the rules apparently didn’t apply. Nurse Carole Ross was absent, but we were immediately greeted by Dr. Fergueson and a distinguished-looking man wearing a stethoscope whose name plate read “Jethro Tully, MD.”

“What a treat,” the administrator said, extending her hand. “You are Wing Pruett, are you not?”

“Guilty,” Pruett said.

Dr. Tully moved closer and stood toe to toe with Pruett. They were similar in size, age, and build, although the good doctor wore his light brown hair in an almost military cut. His features were regular with the exception of slightly protuberant green eyes. The overall affect was not unpleasant.

“Not doing an exposé, I hope,” he said. His manner was jocular but guarded.

Pruett did his innocent act. “Absolutely not. My fiancée invited me to watch therapy dogs in action and I couldn’t resist.”

I heard Babette gasp and felt myself flush. Fiancée indeed! Why delude myself—it meant nothing. Pruett used any tactic necessary when he was on the scent of a story. He’d thrown me under the bus before, so this was nothing new.

Meanwhile, Babette sidled up to Dr. Tully and gave him the big-eyed look. “Are you here all the time, Doctor?” She had a particular fascination for medical men, although in a pinch any presentable male was fair game.

Tully smiled down at her. “My specialty is gerontology, so I’m sort of the go-to doctor here.”

“Ooh. Lucky patients.” Babette had once been a cheerleader and still incorporated some of those moves into her everyday life. Thankfully, she no longer used pom-poms, although it wouldn’t have surprised me if they reappeared. Age was no barrier to Babette’s romantic adventures. She looked far younger than her years and maintained a strict regimen of facials, diet, and exercise to stay that way.

Jethro Tully lowered his voice when several of the residents appeared. Each of the ladies waved at him, some behaving more coquettishly than others. He favored them with a rakish grin in return. “I understand you’ll be visiting Magdalen Melmoth today,” he said.

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.”