Then I realized a second significance of the open jar. Theresa had put cream on her face last night. Would a person who was contemplating death decide to give her skin one last treatment of a cream that “guaranteed to restore your youthful complexion in a week”? I could only draw one conclusion from it: Theresa had not intended to kill herself last night.
With some trepidation I turned to the bed and lifted the sheet. I was so surprised that I almost dropped it again. Theresa lay there as if asleep, eyelids closed, mouth in peaceful repose. I fully expected her to open those eyelids and give me that sweet smile. This definitely damaged my theory that someone had poisoned her. I had never seen a poisoning victim but I had read of the dreadful gri-maces of agony imprinted on their faces. Swiftly I covered Theresa again and crept into her dressing room. Here there was a wash-stand, a large flowery jug of cold water, a cut-glass water jug for drinking, and a whole shelfful of patent medicines. There were also, scattered on the floor, empty packets on which a prescription had been scrawled, Take one powder to aid in sleeping. Do not take more than prescribed dose,” and a doctor’s scrawled signature. I counted seven of them. Assuredly enough to end a life—which made me think I might have been mistaken after all. Theresa could have woken in the middle of the night in a black fit of despair and decided to end it all. And if someone else had administered those sleeping potions to her, there would be no way of proving it that I could see.
I was about to make my way back to the bedroom door when I saw the handle start to turn. I had no time to dodge into the dressing room or behind the wardrobe as Desmond O'Mara came in. He started when he saw me.
“Miss Gaffney, what are you doing in here?”
“I might ask you the same thing, Mr. O'Mara,” I said, sounding a lot braver than I felt.
“I watched you go along the gallery and then you vanished. I was curious as to why you would want to enter a room which was clearly forbidden to you.” He closed the door behind him. “In fact I have been intrigued by your behavior since you came here. You arrive out of nowhere and start questioning everybody, then there are two deaths within one week. Can that be simple coincidence, I ask myself?”
I had an instant decision to make. I could come up with a perfectly innocent excuse or I could attack in my turn. I chose the latter. “As to that, I am asking myself the same question, Mr. O'Mara, especially when I observed you hurrying toward the cliff path on the afternoon when Miss McAlister plunged to her death. And you did not return to the house until the next morning, thus establishing your alibi, I've no doubt.”
I saw his eyebrows raise. “I must say you are very different from most young women, who only seem to notice who is wearing what and which young man smiled at them. But I have a word of warning for you, if I may, Miss Gaffney. Are you aware of the old saying, ‘Curiosity killed the cat’?”
“I am quite aware of it, Mr. O'Mara.”
“Then I beg you take it to heart, Miss Gaffney, or you may be next in line.”
“Is that a threat, Mr. O'Mara?” I was amazed how composed I sounded.
“Please take it as a friendly warning from someone who is concerned for your welfare.” He glanced around the room, then back at me. “You have landed yourself, I fear, in a—” He broke off abruptly as the bedroom door opened yet again. This time Joseph Rimes was standing there.
“What the deuce do you two think you are doing? Can't you read the notice on the door? Nobody is allowed in this room.”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Rimes,” I said meekly. “I'm afraid I am to blame. I didn't want dear Cousin Theresa to be taken away before I had a chance to say my good-byes to her. Mr. O'Mara noticed me creeping into the room and was naturally suspicious about my motives.”
Joe Rimes sighed impatiently. “She’s already dead, Miss Gaffney. You can't say good-bye to a corpse.”
I smiled at him. “You've obviously never lived in Ireland where most of us carry on the most spirited conversations with the dead.” I moved past him and out of the room, then I looked back at the sheet on the bed. “Don't worry, Cousin, well give you a grand old wake,” I said.
Twenty-nine
I heard Desmond and Joe Rimes discussing Dr. Bimbaum’s departure as they went down the stairs, then I stood alone, holding onto the banister and looking down at the black and white tiles of the front hall while I took some deep breaths and tried to digest what had just happened. I had suspected there was something not quite right about Desmond O'Mara from the beginning. I had wondered what kept him here and was no closer to finding the answer. But now I had good reason to fear that the motive wasn't a good one.
In Like Flynn (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #4)
Rhys Bowen's books
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