The Marsh Madness

Of course, there was soup first and crusty bread and a lovely green salad, but the meatballs were worth the wait.

Kev’s place was set. I asked the signora to take it away, as Kev wouldn’t be joining us. I didn’t want Detectives Castellano and Stoddard to swan back in and accuse us of harboring him. Of course, we almost certainly would harbor him. We didn’t have to, as he’d vanished.

I figured they hadn’t bugged the place, so I felt free to talk. Vera was focusing on her Times crossword and didn’t seem to be bothered in the least.

“Vera, what struck you about our luncheon at Summerlea?”

She glanced up, surprised. “Don’t know what you mean, Miss Bingham.”

“I mean, what impression did you have?”

She shrugged. “Standard old money.”

“And the place?”

“Typical summer mausoleum.”

I snorted. Van Alst House could answer to that description on a slightly lower level. And of course, it wasn’t merely seasonal. “What about the people?”

“Didn’t pay any attention to them.”

“Okay, so did it surprise you to learn that Miss Troy and Thomas the butler were not who they said they were?”

“Weren’t they?”

“Not according to Detective Castellano. She strikes me as the type who gets her facts straight.”

Vera fixed me with a long gaze. “I think you’re right there, Miss Bingham. She strikes me that way too.” She turned her attention back to her puzzle. I no longer existed. The signora took advantage of this to slap a massive slice from one of her plum cakes in front of me.

“Eat!” Apparently she figured I was eating for two, one of whom was Uncle Kev. But being grilled can definitely make a girl hungry.

“So, Vera,” I said, once I’d done justice to the plum cake. “They weren’t who they said they were. Who do you think they were?”

“I have no idea, Miss Bingham. Is that important?”

I kept my cool. “It is if you don’t want one of us to get arrested.”

“Why would one of us get . . . ? Do you mean you, Miss Bingham?”

“Not necessarily. Did they not ask you if you went upstairs?”

“They did. I said no. That was absurd.”

“Did they ask you if Kev or I went upstairs?”

“I said I wasn’t paying attention to you.”

“Oh. But we didn’t go upstairs. You must have known that. The staircase was visible from the parlor.”

“Was it?”

“Yes. You didn’t notice us at all?”

“My mind was on getting the Marsh books.”

I sighed. “Yes, I can see how it would be.”

“Don’t be flippant.”

“I am not being flippant, Vera. This is very serious. The police say that Chadwick was murdered. Didn’t Detective Castellano tell you that?”

She shrugged. “She may have mentioned it. But that’s nothing to do with us, surely.”

“They believe that one of us went to the second floor—possibly using the elevator we didn’t know about—bashed Chadwick Kauffman over the head with a statue and then pushed him down the stairs.”

Vera huffed, “Why on earth would we do that?”

“We had no reason to hit Chadwick over the head, but it’s obvious that pushing him down the stairs after he was dead was a ploy to cover up the crime.”

“To cover up the crime?”

Really, for someone who had read all those mysteries, she seemed deliberately obtuse. “To make it look like an accident.”

Vera rolled her eyes. “There are these procedures called autopsies. Everyone knows that would be obvious to the pathologist.”

“Right. Everyone with a working television set or anyone who’d read a couple of police procedurals, but that’s not the point.”

“What is the point, Miss Bingham?”

“They think we wanted it to look like he slipped and fell.”

“That’s ridiculous. Stupid.”

“Yes. But didn’t they ask you all these questions, Vera?”

“They did not.”

“They don’t think you did it, but they believe Kevin and I did—”

“What an outrage! Mr. Kelly would never do such a thing.”