Chapter Thirty-Five #2
He peeked in the doorway, then immediately flattened himself against the hallway wall, heart pounding. Someone was in there. Flora, heading away from the bed with a pillow in her hand.
He hadn’t planned for Flora. He hadn’t realized she lived with them.
Had she seen him?
He ducked into the guest room and waited until Flora passed by. She didn’t even turn in his direction. She just went into another room—the neat one—and closed the door.
He waited in pregnant silence. Counted to a hundred. Two hundred.
Flora didn’t come back.
Okay. Maybe it was safe now. He’d only be in there a minute or two anyway, and then he’d leave. Crawl out through the window if he had to.
Shoes in hand, he crept silently back to Iris’s room. She was in bed, fast asleep. And just as he’d suspected, her notebook lay open on her desk.
Huh. She must be working on something new. No time to ponder that, though. He’d ponder at home. For now, he just needed to take it.
He picked it up and stuffed it between his sweater and his undershirt, then tucked them into his belt.
Mission accomplished.
An orange pill bottle was spilled on its side, with a few pills scattered on the desk.
Knocked over, as if someone had taken them in a hurry.
Good. She’d done what he’d told her to do and taken her medicine.
Maybe now she’d get back to normal and he wouldn’t have to resort to risky maneuvers like this one to get what he needed.
This too was all her fault.
Wait. What was that note? He picked it up.
The waters are come into my soul
The calm, cool face of the river
I am come into deep waters
The river asked me for a kiss
The floods overflow me.
The spilled pills . . . the note . . .
He whirled around and studied Iris more closely.
She wasn’t breathing.
He felt her neck for a pulse and found none.
He jerked his hand away.
Iris was dead.
He was in the room with a dead body.
His stomach whirled and spun, and he feared he might throw up. No. You can’t. Rein it in. You’re so close.
Besides, if Iris was dead, then she wouldn’t need the notebook. He wouldn’t need to spend the time copying her work. He could just . . . take it with him to Whitehall.
He shoved the note next to her body, where it would surely be discovered.
Wait. Flora had been in here. Did she already know about Iris?
For all he knew, Flora was alerting Iris’s parents. Calling the police.
Any minute now someone would burst in and find him in her bedroom standing over her dead body. And then he’d go to jail, and jail would be even worse than the jungle.
That was definitely not part of the plan.
He couldn’t go out the window. No way to close it from the outside. Too high up.
But wait a minute. Iris’s room was next to the main staircase. Not the servants’ stairs he’d come up. The main stairs. Those led straight down and out the front door.
Fitting. He was now worth every bit as much as Iris had been. He had her music. Her talent could become his own. Nobody ever had to know. If Iris had given up on life, that was her problem. As long as he played his cards right for the next thirty seconds or so, then the world would be his oyster.
One more peek out into the hall. Nothing. No voices. No stirrings. No indication that anyone was awake or anything was amiss.
He tiptoed out of her room. Down the main stairs.
They didn’t creak.
Not even a little bit.
Then through the front door and out into the fresh March night and that was it.
Easy as pie.
And limitless possibilities lay ahead.
“Flora?” Blair stared, wide-eyed, at Chief Stephens. “Who’s Flora?”
Chief Stephens had the original case notes on a clipboard in front of him. “The Wallingfords’ live-in maid. She’s mentioned in the initial report, but since all signs pointed to suicide, no one interviewed her.”
“But if Flora came from Iris’s room, and Victor saw Iris dead . . . could Flora have killed Iris?”
“That’s a definite possibility,” Chief Stephens replied.
“I was—I am—a good composer,” Vic was saying. “I hitchhiked to Canada right after graduation and found a job at a grocery store. Worked for a couple years and saved like crazy. I went to Illinois on my own merit. I may not have been Whitehall good, but I was good enough. My career has proven that.”
“Your career that’s peppered with stolen work,” Valentine scoffed.
Vic’s attorney stood and closed his briefcase.
“However, as my client has just made clear, he had nothing to do with Iris Wallingford’s death.
She was either a troubled young woman who took her own life or a troubled young woman whose life was taken by the family maid.
In either instance, the only crime you’d have on my client is trespassing and theft, both of which are no longer prosecutable offenses. If there’s nothing else?”
“Just one thing.” Stanton moved between the attorney and the door. “How did one of Iris’s unfinished works end up in the choir library at Peterson High?”
Vic shook his head. “I took it in years ago when I was stumped and up against a deadline, but I got another idea. Didn’t end up using Iris’s.
I must’ve put it in the library and forgotten about it.
” A proud grin spread over his face. “That piece I wrote without her won multiple awards, though. Like I said, I guess I didn’t need her after all. ”
The attorney cleared his throat. “My client is obviously innocent of Iris’s death, and he will stop talking now.” He pinned Vic with a look. “Now if you’ll excuse us.”
He opened the door for Vic, who marched past the detectives, triumph oozing from every pore. “I told you people I didn’t kill Iris.”
“Yeah, well, don’t leave town just the same,” Stanton said as he passed. “We’ll be in touch.”
Blair’s hands were shaking. How thoroughly Vic had duped her. But now he’d taken off the mask and she’d seen what was underneath, and she was utterly repulsed.
Chief Stephens patted her shoulder, then walked into the interview room and addressed his detectives. “Sounds like we need to track down Flora.”