Chapter 36
Buddy is following the sheriff around the office when I enter. “Please, sir. That is private property,” he exclaims as the sheriff holds up a flat object.
I manage to restrain my surprise at the sight of Mr. Sanders’s guillotine cigar-cutter dangling from the sheriff’s fingers. So it’s back. Did Buddy or Yates replace it in a fit of guilt? Or did the sheriff’s return prompt a change in plan?
Noticing me, Buddy draws himself to his full height. “I’m sorry, miss; it seems we are being ransacked. Perhaps we should call law enforcement,” he says impassively, raising a thin eyebrow at the sheriff, who stands like a short, plain shadow beside him. “But wait—he is already here.”
“Are you looking for a smoke?” I ask the man.
The sheriff sets the cigar-cutter back on the desk. “No, thank you. I promised myself I wouldn’t smoke until I found the killer. Success will be all the sweeter. Now, if you don’t mind, this is a private conversation.” He draws his shapeless nose up to Buddy’s haughty expression.
“Thank you, Buddy. You may leave us,” I say.
Buddy nods at me and smoothly exits.
The sheriff settles into the couch. His manner is less amiable than when I first met him.
With the murder still unsolved, perhaps he is shedding more of his agreeable traits.
“Your butler is quite protective over you. Perhaps it’s understandable, you being so…
new to the job. Seems you had an interesting scrape with the sea wolves yesterday.
That how you come by your injury?” He glances at my wrapped hand.
“No. I was bitten by a wild boar.”
The tangled fibers of his eyebrows knit closer together. “What were you doing?”
“I was just exploring the island. A simple outing.”
“Which part of the island?”
I shift on my seat, making the damask cushions groan. I cannot lie to law officers. They have ways of finding things out. “Rooster Cove.”
“Tavernish’s property. Interesting.” His gaze grips mine. “I’ve heard the villagers’ rumors about the wild boars and the sea wolves. Their possession by a demon. I suppose living on an island breeds a certain… belief system.”
I stiffen, even though he is not wrong. It is easy to dismiss people’s fear of the Orkus as ignorance, but he hasn’t suffered the trauma of seal heads or tusked beasts appearing in his neighborhood, not to mention a murdered patriarch.
“Do you subscribe to these belief systems?”
“Of course not. But aren’t we here to talk about the murderer?”
“Yes, quite so. Help me remember again.” He folds his arms over his stomach. “You found Mr. Sanders’s remains on the beach around six o’clock on August fourteenth, almost two weeks ago.”
“Yes, sir. Why?”
“As Mr. Sanders’s research assistant, you had pretty free rein over your schedule, isn’t that right? I mean, no one was checking in on you. You were only responsible to Mr. Sanders.”
There is a strategy in his questions, like a man who casually fiddles with his chess pieces before putting them down.
“That’s right.” A cold sweat drenches my back. I escaped suspicion once but have somehow ended up in the same fish trap.
“After your conversation with Mr. Sanders, in which he discouraged you from attending the university, what time did you leave his office?”
“Close to one thirty, I believe.”
His head begins its rigorous nodding, setting his badge winking. “And then what did you do?”
“I spoke with Father Pinnyhorne, then dug a trench for the new rosebushes in the churchyard until six. He’ll tell you. He gave me the job for penance.” My words come too fast. Slow down, or he will sense desperation.
“I understand the priest went a-visiting his parishioners around two thirty. Can anyone verify your whereabouts after that?”
“Jeddah was painting the bell tower. B-but why would you need to verify my whereabouts? Am I a suspect?” My shoulders begin to twitch.
“There is some troubling circumstantial evidence,” the sheriff says, all trace of friendliness gone, his hard-to-read eyes suddenly cold. “You had blood on your clothes that day, even though you said you hadn’t touched the deceased’s head.”
My own blood leaves my limbs and rushes to my head. “That was raspberry juice—”
“I’m told you’re handy with a knife. Your cook rarely let anyone else prepare the fish.”
“She knew I respected her teachings—”
“Plus, you carry a concealed weapon. A Double Derringer, I believe?”
“But I didn’t start carrying that until after Mr. Sanders died. Ask Koa!”
“Koa is a biased party. His affection for you is well-known. I also know you’ve been stirring folks up with questions about the Can Man. Even went to Rooster Cove, as you just said. Some folks have called you violent. You pushed your own Rifle into the ocean.”
My jaw lowers. Horlick deserved that, but not everyone will see it that way. My bandage has acquired fresh bloodstains, and I hold my hand closer to my stomach. “But why would I kill Mr. Sanders?” I whisper. “He was my benefactor.”
The man lets out a cynical laugh, and I feel chastened. Of course, Mr. Sanders was everyone’s benefactor, but I am the one who benefited the most from his death. Ten million dollars. Greed is the oldest motive in the book, starting with Adam and Eve’s son Cain, who killed his brother Abel.
“Sheriff, I must show you a letter that I think will explain my behavior.” I can no longer afford to wait for a miracle to show up. He has to know about theory B.
I rise and cross the three paces to Eva’s door and knock. She answers immediately. Of course, she has been listening.
“The letter, please,” I tell her, though she already knows what I want. She hastens out her side door to find Flossie.
Back to snooping, the sheriff peers behind a curtain. “Who is this letter from?”
“Mr. Sanders. You see, his will said, ‘May the nest ever prosper under her watchful guard’—her meaning me. I suspected it was a secret message, and I was right. He had hidden a letter in the tree where I’d found the murrelet’s nest the year before.
” I hurry on. “It was luck I found it—he had stuck the letter in a woodpecker hole—”
“Dakon climbed a fir tree?”
“There is a rope ladder… at any rate, the letter explains a lot about, well, me.”
The door opens, and Flossie timidly steps in with Eva behind her. My maid looks even worse than before, her eyes pinched nearly shut from crying. She is definitely suffering from more than allergies.
The sheriff stops inspecting and comes to attention. “Hello.”
I quickly cross to her. “Flossie—”
“It’s…” She gulps. “Gone.”
The word sinks like an anchor through air. The letter can’t be gone.
“How? When?”
Flossie milks at her braid. “It was there this morning, but when I stopped in my room before seeing to you, it was gone. I’ve been looking all over. I don’t know what happened to it, miss.” Her voice goes high.
“So it’s been… stolen?” My head reels, and it takes every ounce of control not to shriek.
“It appears so.” Flossie’s face tightens, freckles quivering. “Will you dismiss me, miss?”
“I would sooner let a boar bite my other hand. Do you think Dora stole the letter?”
“No, not her,” she says quickly, her face a tight mask. “Dora was in the kitchen making breakfast all morning. Someone else must have seen me. I’m sorry I mucked it up.”
I pat her with my good arm. “It’s not your fault. And maybe it will show up.” Or maybe it will all come falling down. “Continue your search. Eva, help Flossie.”
“Yes, miss.”
After the two leave, I face the sheriff. “I will need to get to the bottom of this,” I say, swaying a little. “But I can tell you what the letter said.” I stumble through the details as best as I can.
Doubt smudges the lawman’s features like soot ground into a chimney. I wouldn’t believe me either. “I hope you will find your letter before my noon departure tomorrow. In the meantime, please don’t leave the island.”