Page 43 of The Most Wonderful Crime of the Year
“Bloody lucky I got here...” The man took an awkward step inside and slammed the door. There was discomfort on his face and snow in his steely gray beard, but he was smiling, even as he said, “Hope you folks weren’t planning on leaving any time soon—blasted bridge collapsed just as I cleared it. Then my car went in the ditch and I had to walk the last mile. Stepped in a hole... Landed on my arse...” He hobbled forward. “So, I’m sorry I’m late, Eleanor, my dear, but you couldn’t have written it any better yourself!”
He searched the group for the face that wasn’t there. “Well, what have I missed?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Inspector William Dobson of the local police had taken off his greatcoat and the snow and ice had melted in his beard, leaving him slightly damp and highly disheveled as he sat in front of the library’s roaring fire. His pants legs were wet and covered in muck, and he’d propped his bad leg on an ottoman and pulled off one boot to reveal an ankle that was purple and blue and approximately twice its rightful size.
He was, in short, a man who was having a very bad day, and there was no doubt it had just gotten worse as he sat there, staring at Maggie and Ethan.
“Why do you think someone was shooting at you?”
That was it. No introductions or chitchat or easing in. It was like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over Maggie, and she glanced at Ethan, like the last twenty-four hours might have been a dream.
“Ms. Chase?” Inspector Dobson prompted.
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “Do you meanwhy was someone shootingor why was someone shootingatme?” The man stayed quiet and Maggie rambled on. “Because I don’t know about the first part but the second is pretty obvious? I think?”
She hated the uptick at the end of that sentence, the uncertainty in her voice. Maggie was an adult. Maggie was a professional. But, more than anything, Maggie was scared. And she needed someone to tell her it was real and not in her head and—
“It’s incredibly obvious.” Ethan’s deep voice cut through the silence.
Dobson didn’t like that one bit; Maggie could tell by the way he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his belly. He looked like the kind of man who wouldhave retired five years ago if he wasn’t afraid someone would make him get a hobby. “Humor me.”
“It’s just... I was wearing Eleanor’s hat and coat,” Maggie told him. “Snow was falling. Visibility wasn’t great. From a distance, I would have looked like Eleanor.” She glanced at Ethan, almost wishing he would talk about Remington rifles and being the guy who takes the bullet again, but Ethan never took his eyes off Dobson. “Someone shot at me because they’re trying to kill Eleanor.”
Dobson shifted his bad leg and tried to hide his discomfort.Stubborn, Maggie thought. He’d probably never stopped and asked for directions in his life. “At this point, Eleanor’s just missing. What makes you think someone’s trying to kill her?”
“Because Sir Jasper didn’t poison himself?” Maggie felt like that much should have been obvious, but Inspector Dobson simply turned to the tray on the side table and began examining a container of tea like he was at a fancy restaurant—like a man’s heart hadn’t nearly stopped this afternoon with a tray almost exactly like that spread around him.
“What makes you think Sir Jasper was poisoned?” Dobson sounded almost distracted.
“Oh, just a...” Maggie watched Dobson add leaves to the pot of hot water and wait for it to steep. “Are you sure you want to drink that?”
“You say Eleanor was conducting some kind of...” Dobson flipped through an old-fashioned notebook. “Test.”
Maggie had to look down at her hands. “I was wrong.”
“What makes you say that?” Dobson turned his attention to the cookies but Maggie felt like the water in that pot—full of steam but not quite boiling.
“A test wouldn’t leave Sir Jasper unconscious upstairs. A test wouldn’t fire shots at me in the garden.” That time her words didn’t sound like a question. They were facts. Not opinions or theories or crazy, wild-eyed schemes. “Eleanor is missing, Inspector. And every minute we sit here is a minute we’re notlookingfor Eleanor. Or for whoever is trying tokillEleanor.”
Dobson picked up the pot and poured.“Not whoever tried to kill Sir Jasper?”
“It’s the same person,” Maggie said with exaggerated patience. “No one has a motive to hurt Eleanorandkill Sir Jasper. That tea tray was in her office—”
“Why do you think the poison was on the tea tray?”
Maggie wanted to throw her hands up and scream.
“Maybe it wasn’t,” she agreed. “Maybe Sir Jasper just happened to be close enough to knock it over when he collapsed... Maybe he was poisoned some other place or time. Or maybe he wasn’t poisoned at all? We won’t know until we can get out of here and run a whole lot of tests. But, until then, I think we should work under the assumption that, maybe—just maybe—a deadly poison was delivered to the woman who iscurrently missingand whosomeone has already tried to kill.”
But Dobson was smiling at her over the top of his cup. He almost laughed when he said, “Funny.”
“Is it?” Maggie’s foot was starting to bounce, atap-tap-tapon the hardwood floor. Her jeans were still wet from the snow, and the damp denim felt like a straitjacket on her calves. She wanted to change. To run. To vibrate right out of her own skin. And she might have done exactly that if a big, muscular leg hadn’t started pressing against hers; she felt herself go still.
“You say it was a deadly poison, but Sir Jasper isn’t dead at all.” Dobson flashed a toothy grin, the human personification ofgotcha. “What do you say to that, young lady?”
“I say the Latin name of foxglove is digitalis, did you know that, Inspector? It’sdigitalis. Have you heard of that? It’s heart medicine. Sweet clover is a blood thinner. Henbane has been used to treat Parkinson’s.”
