The Edge of Dreams (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #14)

I turned to the next sheet of paper. “‘July 12. Marie Ellingham. Age seventy. Address 352 East Fifty-second Street. Died of arsenic poisoning. Police not able to determine when and how it was administered.

“‘The note we received said, “Judge not that ye be not judged.”’

“What could that mean? Was she judgmental by nature?” I asked.

“Her husband was a retired judge.”

“And presumably you’ve checked into whether he might have had a motive for poisoning her?”

“We went through the whole household thoroughly. He was visibly upset by her death. Devastated, actually. It seems they were a devoted couple. There was no trace of arsenic to be found in the kitchen, on the utensils, anywhere. The cook and maid had been with them for years. The only thing of interest was that the bedroom window was at the rear of the house, facing a small garden, and it was open.”

“So someone could have climbed in, administered the poison, and departed again.”

“Exactly, except it was quite a climb to the window, and he would have risked being seen from the windows of the houses behind.”

“And no ties to the other three victims, I assume?”

“None.” He leaned closer. “And the interesting thing, Molly, is that this death would have been ruled as natural causes if we hadn’t received the note. Marie Ellingham was prone to gastric troubles, she had a delicate stomach, and her own physician was quite willing to say that the bout of vomiting had been too much for her heart at her age.”

“Fascinating,” I said. I looked at the papers. There was only one more.

“‘August 22. Herman Hoffman. Age forty-five. Lower West Side. Twenty-nine West Street. Owned a small meat-processing business. He was found in his meat safe on Monday morning, dead.

“‘The note said: “Frozen, packed, and ready for delivery.”’”

I shuddered. “How horrible. Poor man. What an awful way to die. And that note—it shows a character completely devoid of human feeling, wouldn’t you say? Pleased with his own cleverness.”

“I’m afraid you’re right. A warped and twisted person who delights in killing. All I can hope is that he meant what he said when he talked about saving the best for last—that he really intends to stop this killing spree.”

“Going back to the meat packer—what do we know about him? He didn’t supply meat to the judge or any of the others, I take it?”

“He had married and moved to the city about a year ago. Until then he ran a butcher’s shop in the Catskills. From what his wife tells us, it was an extremely happy marriage, a second for him after his first wife died. A first for her, somewhat late in life, but they were both looking forward to a bright future.”

“If he was locked in the meat safe all weekend, didn’t she report him missing?” I asked. “Isn’t that suspicious?”

“That’s the thing. He had told her he was going up to Woodstock to visit his mother. She didn’t want to come, not being too fond of his mother. So she thought she knew where he was.”

“And she hadn’t recently taken out a life insurance policy on him?” I asked.

Daniel laughed. “What a gruesome little thing you are. Most women would have reached for the smelling salts at the very start of this conversation, not discussed it as calmly as if it concerned the price of sugar.”

“You know I’m not most women.” I turned back to the mirror to put a final pin in my unruly hair. Then something struck me. I put down the hairpins and leafed through the papers.

“There’s one missing,” I said, waving them triumphantly.

“What do you mean? You’ve read them all.”

I shook my head. “The murders are all about three weeks apart, right up to yesterday’s train crash, if we include that. But there wasn’t one in early August. Why not? Could that have been one murder he couldn’t pull off, or a note that somehow didn’t get delivered to you? Or was he off on vacation at the seashore?”

Daniel took the papers from me and examined them, frowning. “That’s an acute observation, Molly. But if there was one murder he couldn’t commit, how would we ever find out about it?”

“I don’t know, but it seems that’s your best chance of solving this,” I said. “Because at the beginning of August, somebody might have lived to tell the tale.”





Seven

Downstairs a clock chimed with a sweet, melodious ting.

Daniel stood up. “I should be going. The commissioner wants me at today’s briefing and will no doubt be annoyed that I’ve come up with nothing new.”

“Apart from the missing date in August,” I pointed out.