The Marsh Madness

AFTER BREAKFAST, I took a thermos of coffee and some pastries to the latest officer stationed in the driveway.

“I need to go to the library to do some research,” I said after handing them over. “If that’s not illegal or anything, you could follow me or call for backup. Can you find out if that will be okay? I’m not crazy about having some kind of ‘takedown,’ so let’s do this by the book.”

It is possible that I’d been watching too many police procedurals.

He stared at the pastries and then at me. I said, “Take your time and have your breakfast. I have a few things to do in the meantime.”

Apparently it was all right. The officer waved me on as I exited Van Alst House to see Lance.

Maybe things were looking up. Or maybe the police were there on the lookout for Kev. I didn’t think that would be the best way to catch him, but, hey, I’m not a professional.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN





LANCE WAS LEANING over the desk, concentrating on a query from one of his omnipresent posse, when I strolled into the reference department. Two more elderly ladies waited impatiently behind the lucky one who had his attention. This was a special crowd for sure, all bewitched by my handsome, flirtatious and very smart friend.

I waited, leaning against a bay of dictionaries, wondering if I would have been better off sending a text. But I was there now, and I loved visiting the library with its combination of historic building and modern technology. Mind you, I’d heard plenty of beefs from Lance about the limits of antiquated and inadequate wiring with contemporary equipment. I was on the side of the old stuff, of course, but then I didn’t have to track down information for a demanding clientele five days a week.

I grinned as I watched him. After all, I was also part of that demanding horde. And leave it to Lance; he had turned up something for me with that “borrowed” photo from the Country Club and Spa. Now, here I was with another little angle on that. Therefore, not a good idea to add to Lance’s stress.

I made myself comfortable at one of the old pine reading tables and thumbed through some issues of The New Yorker and Architectural Digest. I kept an eye out for the line to clear.

The minute the crowd thinned, I crossed the room.

Lance grinned. “No genealogy for you, my proud beauty.”

“‘My proud beauty?’ Have you been watching old movies again, Lance?”

“So much better than you with your crime shows.” He twirled an imaginary mustache and grinned evilly.

“Actors,” I said, meaningfully.

“What about them? Have you been watching Access Hollywood again? You used to have a weakness for actors.”

“Ancient history. Although I was thinking of stage actors,” I hissed, making the most of “stage” and “actors” without mentioning any by name.

“Very dramatic. You’ve missed your calling, Jordan.”

“Right now my calling is to clear Vera’s name and Uncle Kev’s. Mine too. So here’s the thing. I’ve been reading Ngaio Marsh again.”

“Love her! All that over-the-top—”

“So you know many of her works deal with theater or plays in some way. I’ve read seven so far.”

“So how’s that connected?”

“Everything about our lunch at Summerlea was staged to lure us. No one made a false step. Everyone was perfectly placed, perfectly in character, perfectly calculated. The false Chadwick, the lovely ‘Miss Troy,’ the formidable Thomas.”

“Remind me who Thomas is?”

“The butler we saw at Summerlea.”

“Oh right.”

“Maybe he wasn’t so perfect. I’m not all that familiar with butlers, but he seemed a bit off at the time. He wasn’t anything like the ones I’m used to in British fiction and television.”

“Different how?”

“He looked kind of rough and burly. His hair was weird, and he had green stains on his hands. I thought he might be picking up shifts in the garden at Summerlea.”