The Marsh Madness

Why us?

Certainly Vera was still the most hated woman in Harrison Falls and surrounding communities. No news there. But were lingering resentments against the lone survivor of the haughty Van Alsts and the daughter of the man who closed the Van Alst factory and brought the town to its knees enough to do something like this? I imagined Uncle Lucky saying, “Why not run her over?”

Why not indeed?

Was the motivation jealousy? Vera still had the home, the books, the antiques and her staff, a life of comfort and privilege. In this era of Keeping Up with the Kardashians, who kills a frumpy old lady because she has lots of old stuff?

It lacked something.

I turned my mind to the next question.

Why Chadwick?

There was no doubt in my mind that the perpetrators were familiar with Chadwick and Summerlea. They’d needed the code for that impressive security system. I was pretty sure the back and side doors and the windows would all have been alarmed. The housekeeper had noted that system wasn’t set. The police hadn’t mentioned a break-in, so it was likely our friends also had a key. If they had a key and the code, did they also have a motive for murder?

Finally, I wrote: Who were they?

Even with the photo of “Lisa,” what were the chances that Vera, Kev or I would find a way to identify the other people at Summerlea? Still, with all those nosy neighbors, maybe one of them had seen our fake Chadwick and his team. They had taken a chance. But why?

Time passed, and I continued to analyze my paper. I was now up to three sheets of paper, all with arrows, sticky notes, squiggles and crossed-out words.

I rewrote my list and read over the analysis.

But now I knew we had to figure out how the plotters had gotten the key and the codes. I could think of only three possibilities.

Chadwick had given the code or he’d been there to let them in or someone who was close to Chadwick had access to the key and code. I knew one employee who could have done that. The heartbroken Lisa Hatton.





CHAPTER TWELVE





AT ELEVEN, SIGNORA Panetone staggered up the stairs with a large mug of delicious hot chocolate and a couple of biscotti. Why would I resist? We were trying to behave normally, and that means saying yes to the signora. Given the hour, it seemed unlikely that I’d be called out to help Uncle Kev in any way or that Castellano and Stoddard would pound on the door with a warrant for my arrest and that I’d be hauled off to be grilled by “the rubber hose brigade,” another “uncle-ism.” For the record and in case you’re worried, none of my uncles has ever ended up on the wrong side of a rubber hose, but you’d never know it to hear them talk.

The day with all its events had gotten to me, and the biscotti and cocoa seemed necessary. I mean, there wasn’t only the worry about Uncle Kev and the possibility of any or all of us getting arrested, nor was it the violation of our lives and property. Chadwick Kauffman had been murdered in a horrible way and we were—for a reason we didn’t know—deeply involved.

“Vera is not sleeping,” the signora said darkly and with a bit of worry on her puckered face. “No good.”

I nodded. I knew why Vera wasn’t sleeping. The signora, herself, never appeared to close an eye, so there wasn’t much point in urging that she go to bed.

I took my mug of chocolate and wandered downstairs to check on my laundry. I hung my delicate items up to air-dry and then went to the library, wondering if I’d find Vera there or if she was upstairs in her own suite, stewing. But I located her in the study, with a fire in the fireplace. She was wrapped in an ancient tartan dressing gown. It was probably pure wool, something you’d need in the study on a cold night, and from the look of it, that garment may have belonged to her father. I looked closer and, sure enough, there was the monogram LVA. Leonard Van Alst. She glanced up from her much-interrupted New York Times crossword and gave me a bleak look.