Page 44 of The Most Wonderful Crime of the Year
“I’m just a simple country copper, Ms. Chase. You’ll have to—”
“The difference between a poison and a medicine is the size of the dose,” Maggie finished, harder now. “I know that because when I was fourteen years old I read it. Inthatone.” She pointed to a copy ofThe Black Thumb Murdershigh on Eleanor’s shelf.
It should have been obvious, butMaggie said it anyway. “Sir Jasper is a giant, and, no, it didn’t killhim, but...” Maggie was so cold—so cold and tired of carrying the weight of everything. All the time. She’d been carrying it since she was eighteen years old, and she wanted to put it down. She would. Just as soon as she made the inspector understand—
“It would have killedEleanor,” said the deep voice beside her.
Maggie jerked a little—surprised—by the voice and the calm resolve and the realization that at some point in the past ten minutes—or maybe the past two days—she had started leaning on Ethan Wyatt. Literally. Metaphorically. He had one arm draped across the back of the couch, not touching her—not exactly. But it made her feel shielded and safe and not alone.
She would need to unpack that later, maybe cry for a few hours or days, but now wasn’t the time or place, not with Eleanor missing and Sir Jasper fighting for his life upstairs and Inspector Dobson sitting across from them, staring daggers.
Gone was the folksy gentleman warming himself by the fire as he said, “Oh, but I can think oftwopeople who would benefit from the demise of both Eleanor Ashley and Sir Jasper Rhodes. And I’m looking right at them.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Maggie said at the exact same moment Ethan uttered—
“Yeah, I can see that.”
She spun, but Ethan just pressed his leg firmer against Maggie’s.
Dobson cradled the tiny teacup in his big hands. “Taking over Eleanor’s ongoing series... what would that be worth?”
“That’s hardly the—” Maggie started just as Ethan said, “Millions.”
Maggie wanted to kick him in the shin, but Dobson didn’t notice. Didn’t care. He was too busy sipping his tea and trying to decide whether or not to have another cookie. It was like this was a social call—a polite occasion. He wasn’t even looking at them when he said, “Eleanor bought this house forty years ago—did you know that? Just a few months after I joined the force.”
He looked around the room—atthe towering shelves and roaring fire, the world’s most beautiful Christmas tree and frosty windows—as if there was no place on Earth he’d rather spend Christmas.
“We don’t get a lot of serious crime out here, thank goodness, but a young woman had gone missing. My father was the chief inspector at the time and he didn’t think I could crack it, you see. But I wanted to show him, so one of the lads and I decided to pay a visit to our new author. Figured the great Eleanor Ashley had seen more crimes than the pair of us combined, even if hers were fictional. So we came out one day to ask Eleanor’s advice.”
He chuckled at the memory. “I can’t imagine how we must have looked, the two of us still wet behind the ears. But Eleanor was a lady and she was kind, and she sat us down and helped us think through the case. We never did solve that one, but every so often she’d have us out for tea, and we’d talk about cases. Hers. Ours.”
Then he put down his cup and leaned closer, and it was like the windows had all shattered, the room got so cold so quickly. “Eleanor Ashley is a friend of mine.”
“So are you going to look for her or arrest us?” Maggie asked.
It took a moment for his face to change—for his lips to curve into something that wasn’t quite a grin—it was a challenge. “Who’s to say I won’t do both?”
And then Maggie snapped. She was too tired and too cold and too worried. There were so many emotions running through her that she thought she might collapse before she reached the finish line.
“I’m telling you, we—”
“Are you finished with us?” Ethan asked.
“Actually—”
“You’re finished with us.” And then Ethan stood and pulled Maggie out of the room.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Maggie wasn’t sure what to feel as Ethan dragged her into the towering hall. “What was that?” she snapped, but Ethan didn’t even slow down.
“Come on. We’re going to go check on Sir Jasper and then—”
“Don’t bother.” At the sound of the voice, they turned to see Kitty sitting at the bottom of the stairs, slumping against the newel post like she’d started to climb but didn’t have the strength so she just sank where she stood. Maggie looked from her tired eyes to her pushed-up sleeves. There was a deep black stain on her sweater.
“He’s dead...” Maggie guessed. But Kitty laughed and shook her head.
“No.” Then Kitty laughed louder. It was the sound relief makes when it collides with exhaustion. “He’s stable. Breathing on his own.”
