Howloween Murder Page 2

  “Are you sure?” Cheryl squinted in the half-light.

  “Absolutely.” I figured one of us ought to sound like she knew what she was talking about.

  “Then what is it?”

  “I don’t know.” Now I was squinting too. “Let’s go see.”

  Cheryl placed her hand against my back and gave me a firm nudge. “You first.”

  We both edged closer. I pushed an old steamer trunk to one side so we could pass. It knocked into something beside it and a pile of damask curtains slithered off a nearby shelf, raising another cloud of dust.

  Cheryl coughed. I sneezed. And the apparition fluttered again.

  “It’s coming toward us!” she squealed.

  “No, it’s not.” This time, I was actually sure.

  There was just one large cardboard carton remaining between us and our quarry. I was near enough to see that the ghost wasn’t spectral at all. In fact, it looked as though it was made of fabric.

  The box was too heavy to move. I skirted around behind it. And found our ghost floating in the air, waiting for us.

  “Cheryl, come and look,” I said.

  “No.”

  I glanced back. Cheryl had her eyes squeezed shut.

  “It’s not a ghost. It’s a nightgown.”

  “A nightgown?” One eye opened. “Really?”

  “Or maybe a slip, I can’t tell. Come and see,” I invited again. This time, she did.

  The sheer gown before us was draped over a wire dressmaker’s dummy. Tentatively Cheryl reached out a hand to finger its silky fabric, now rotted and yellow with age. When a gust of wind found its way through the cracked windowpane beside us, the slip lifted and fluttered in the breeze.

  “Darn it,” she said. “Now I just feel silly.”

  I was working hard to keep a straight face. “It was an honest mistake.”

  “Sure. If you’re an idiot.”

  “You’re not an idiot.” I held up my hand, thumb and forefinger positioned slightly apart. “But maybe just a little gullible?”

  “You think?”

  Both of us laughed in relief. Then we made our way back downstairs, careful to turn off all the lights and close the attic door firmly behind us. We parted in the front hall at the foot of the staircase. Cheryl had a class to teach. I’d decided to take Faith for a run around the soccer field to make up for deserting her.

  As I crossed the wide reception area, I glanced in the direction of Mr. Hanover’s office. On our way past earlier, Harriet, the headmaster’s secretary, had been at her customary post, behind her desk outside the office door. Then she’d been on the phone. Now she was free. I sketched her a quick wave.

  Harriet didn’t respond. Unusual for her, she didn’t appear to be busy. Instead, her hands were folded together on top of her immaculately kept desk. Harriet was staring off into space.

  My steps slowed. Something was wrong.

  Harriet was a fixture at Howard Academy, a vital cog in the system that kept the institution running smoothly. She looked like everyone’s favorite granny, but she had the tenacity of a terrier when it came to seeing to Mr. Hanover’s needs.

  Harriet’s days started early and ended late. Her calendar was sacrosanct. She controlled access to the Big Man with equanimity and purposeful aplomb, treating everyone with the same consideration no matter their position in the school hierarchy.

  No one seemed to know how long Harriet had worked at Howard Academy. She’d simply always been there. The students joked that Joshua Howard must have hired her himself.

  What everyone did know was that the headmaster’s assistant was steady and dependable. When all hell was breaking loose, Harriet could be counted on to be a center of stability. But now as I drew near her desk, I saw that her face was pale. And her fingers weren’t just folded, they were clenched.

  “Harriet?” A moment passed before she looked up at me. “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s my neighbor, Ralph,” she said softly. “He’s dead.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I replied. “Were you close?”

  “We were friends. But that’s not the worst part.”

  “Oh?” I stood beside her desk and waited for her to continue.

  “The police think I killed him.”

  Chapter Three

  “There must be some mistake,” I said.

  I expected Harriet to agree. Instead, she just stared at me blankly. That was when I really began to worry.

  I’d met Harriet on my first day at Howard Academy. Now she had to be past sixty, but she moved with a brisk agility that prompted others to take note. With a twenty-year gap between our ages, I wouldn’t have characterized our relationship as close, exactly. But we were colleagues who respected each other’s ability to take on a job and get it done well.

  Over the years, I’d watched Harriet cope with a variety of trying situations. Not to mention handling the sometimes-trying headmaster himself. The woman was clever, competent, and utterly trustworthy.

  The Harriet I knew wouldn’t kill anyone. And if she did, she’d be smart enough to hide the body somewhere that the police would never find it.

  I glanced down at my watch and made a quick decision. I had half an hour before my next tutoring session was scheduled. Faith would have to forgo her walk, but this was more important. I grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it up close to Harriet’s desk.

  “Tell me what happened,” I said quietly.

  Harriet stiffened in her seat. Her gaze slid to Mr. Hanover’s office door. “Not here!”

  “Somewhere else, then.” I stood up, ready to go.

  She started to shake her head. But Harriet’s face was still ashen. And her eyes were wide and troubled. I wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  “I’m sure you’re entitled to a break.” Even as I said that, I realized I wasn’t sure. Harriet was always at her post. Or at least somewhere nearby. More than once, I’d wondered if she slept beneath her desk after the rest of us went home at night. “You must get a few minutes off occasionally, don’t you?”

  She considered briefly, then said in a low voice, “Mr. Hanover is working on the budget projections for next year. I placed the files on his desk earlier this morning. That should keep him busy for at least another hour.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?” Harriet gazed around the hallway uncertainly.

  Normally, when something went wrong, everyone turned to Harriet for guidance. She was always the most imperturbable person around. Now, without thinking about it, I’d expected her to take charge. My mistake. It looked like our next move was up to me.

  “How about the rose salon?” I suggested.

  The cozy room was just on the other side of the hall. Originally one of the mansion’s several drawing rooms, it was now mainly used for private meetings. I knew it would be empty at this time of day. Rather than waiting for Harriet to agree, I simply took her arm and led her where I wanted her to go.

  There was a quiet click as I closed the door behind us. A pair of leather armchairs sat facing each other in the small alcove formed by a multipaned bay window. Harriet took one seat. I sat down across from her.

  Harriet sat up straight, her fingers grasping the chair’s plump arms. I was happy to see that color was beginning to return to her cheeks.

  “Take all the time you need,” I said. “Start at the beginning.”

  Harriet nodded. She was ready. “You know those marshmallow puffs I make this time of year?”

  Of course I knew Harriet’s marshmallow puffs. Everyone at Howard Academy did. The homemade chocolate-and-marshmallow treats were a cherished school tradition. Attendees at the Halloween party couldn’t get enough of them.

  “Yes,” I said. “They’re delicious. Everybody loves them.”

  She started to smile at the compliment, then abruptly frowned instead. “That’s the problem.”

  “What problem?”

  “I don’t just make them for the Halloween p
arty. I also hand them out to trick-or-treaters in my neighborhood. My puffs are very popular.”

  “I’m sure they are.” I sneaked a look at my watch. I’d told Harriet to take her time, but I hadn’t expected our conversation to take such a roundabout route.

  “Friends and neighbors always ask me for my recipe. But I never give it out.” Harriet issued a small sigh. “My mother made the first marshmallow treats in her kitchen when I was just a child. Later, when I was grown, she handed down the recipe to me. Now I can’t bear to part with it. All these years later, it still feels as if those treats are what keeps our connection alive.”

  “Obviously, it’s very special to you,” I said. Other teachers had also tried to convince Harriet to share her recipe. Until now, I’d never realized why it remained such a closely guarded secret.

  “That’s it exactly,” she agreed. “But I live on a nice street in Glenville and I’m friendly with my neighbors. I would hate for them to think poorly of me. So instead of giving out the recipe, I start baking early in October. I make lots of extra batches and hand them out to half the block.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” Idly I wondered if there was any way I could get my name on that list.

  “Most people freeze the treats until Halloween. Then, like me, they give them to kids who come by.” She smiled contentedly. “It makes our street a very popular place to trick-or-treat.”

  That wasn’t surprising. If Harriet gave me a batch of marshmallow puffs, they wouldn’t last until the holiday. I’d devour them all myself.

  “That was my sister on the phone earlier.”

  “Oh?” Harriet’s abrupt change of subject caught me by surprise. I hadn’t known she had a sister.

  “Her name is Bernadette, but I call her Bernie. She’s two years younger than me, but people say we look like twins. I was the studious sister. Bernie was the vivacious one.”

  Harriet had always been a very direct person, but now she was stalling. I figured that meant we’d reached the part of the story she didn’t want to talk about.

  “Did she call to tell you that your neighbor had died?”

  “That’s right. The police were the ones who told Bernie about it. They came by the house to talk to her.”

  Finally we were getting somewhere.

  “We’d heard several days ago that Ralph collapsed in his house,” Harriet continued. “He was an older man, and not in good health. An ambulance came and took him away. When we didn’t hear anything further, we thought he must be on the mend. But then the police showed up this morning.”

  “Why did they want to talk to your sister?”

  “The detective told her that Ralph’s death wasn’t related to his ailments, like we’d thought. Instead it turned out that he’d been poisoned.”

  “Poisoned,” I repeated softly.

  “Cyanide,” Harriet told me. “The police went to Ralph’s house this morning to look for the source.”

  “Did they find it?”

  “They did.” Harriet paused and swallowed heavily, as if she couldn’t believe what she was about to say. “The poison was in the marshmallow treats I’d given him.”

  “You didn’t put it there,” I said quickly.

  “Of course I didn’t. I liked Ralph just fine. I had no reason to want to harm him. But the police don’t know that. All they know is that the cyanide was found in something I’d baked and personally delivered to the victim.”

  “But still . . .”

  Harriet waited for me to continue. As if she thought I might have a good ending for my instinctive protest. Too bad, I didn’t really.

  “That doesn’t make you guilty,” I finished feebly.

  “In the detectives’ eyes, it does. Or at least it makes me their best suspect. Bernie said they’re on their way here to talk to me.”

  That wasn’t good at all. Mr. Hanover was very unhappy when Howard Academy found itself involved in police matters. The headmaster’s first priority was to protect the school at all costs. Among other things, that meant shielding its reputation from scurrilous investigations or media coverage.

  He was apt to become testy when the subject—or even the mere possibility—was raised. Ask me how I know.

  “Wait a minute,” I said as something occurred to me.

  Harriet looked at me hopefully.

  “Didn’t you just tell me that your neighbors freeze their marshmallow treats until Halloween? So where would Ralph have gotten one to eat now?”

  Her eager look faded. “That’s not hard to figure out. I just distribute the puffs, I don’t tell my neighbors what to do with them. He wouldn’t be the first person to thaw some out and dig in early.”

  “Oh.” So much for that bright idea.

  “Oh?” Harriet’s lips pursed. “I sit here and pour out my troubles, and that’s all you have to say?”

  She was right. That response was hardly helpful. I tried again. “What do you need me to do, Harriet? I’ll help in any way I can.”

  “You’re serious about that?”

  “Of course.”

  Harriet rose to her feet. “Then come with me.”

  I followed her across the room. “Where are we going?”

  Her hand rested briefly atop the antique crystal doorknob. “To see Mr. Hanover. The police are on their way. Before they get here, I’d better break the news to him that they’re coming.”

  Dammit, she was right. But I would rather stick pins under my fingernails than deliver this kind of news to the headmaster. Maybe my offer of assistance had been a little hasty.

  Without waiting to see if I was following, Harriet marched across the front hall with a determined stride. Telling her story had obviously restored her equilibrium. Too bad the coming encounter was about to eradicate mine. I hurried to catch up anyway.

  “We know he’s busy,” I said when Harriet stood before the office door, hand poised to knock. “Maybe this isn’t a good time.”

  She turned around and glared. “Don’t be a ninny, Melanie. You know perfectly well it’s now or never. You offered to help. Well right now, I could use a little moral support. Are you with me or not?”

  The question shamed me right down to my toes. I’d found myself in trouble with Mr. Hanover on numerous occasions. No matter the infraction, Harriet had always been a quiet source of support. Of course I would stand beside her now.

  “Let’s go.” I grabbed the knob and pushed the door to the headmaster’s office open. Too late, I remembered that Harriet had intended to knock first. Oops.

  Once a formal parlor, Russell Hanover’s office was a spacious and imposing room, decorated with impeccable taste. A massive mahogany desk was the office’s centerpiece. The headmaster was seated behind it.

  He was a slender man, with a pale complexion and an austere manner. Mr. Hanover spoke several languages flawlessly and conducted himself with dignity in all of them. His Savile Row suits probably cost more than my car. Beyond the fact that his brown hair was thinning on the top, the only indication that the headmaster was well into middle age was the wire-framed reading glasses that were now perched low on his nose.

  He looked up in surprise as Harriet and I came barging into his domain. Well, I was the one who barged. Behind me, Harriet’s footsteps were so soft that they barely made a sound on the Aubusson carpet.

  The headmaster pushed his glasses up into place and immediately stood. Of course he did. There were ladies present.

  “Ms. Travis, I see you need to talk to me. Perhaps you would be so kind as to make an appointment with Harriet?”

  Naturally he would assume that I was the one with a problem. That was the way our encounters usually worked.

  “I’m afraid there isn’t time for that,” I said. “Harriet has something to tell you.”

  Mr. Hanover looked at his secretary curiously. “Now?”

  I nodded as Harriet stepped up beside me.

  “I apologize for the intrusion,” she said.

  “It’s quite all rig
ht.” He closed his computer and shuffled his papers to one side. “I’m sure you wouldn’t have interrupted if what you have to say wasn’t important.”

  “The thing is”—Harriet twisted her hands together unhappily—“the police are on the way.”

  “Here?” Though he must have known the answer, the headmaster clearly hoped he was wrong.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I see. That does sound serious.” Mr. Hanover’s lips thinned. “And their upcoming visit is with regard to what, exactly?”

  “It’s all my fault,” Harriet blurted out.

  The headmaster turned to glare at me. As if he was sure I was the one in the wrong, and that I’d convinced his assistant to cover for me. “Please take a moment to compose yourself, Harriet. I’m sure that can’t be true.”

  I had to concentrate on holding myself steady because what I really wanted to do was shrink back into the woodwork. Russell Hanover’s glare was a fearsome weapon. This wasn’t the first time I’d felt its weight, and the experience didn’t improve with repetition. Even when I hadn’t done anything wrong, the glare never failed to make me feel as though I must be guilty of something.

  “I’m quite composed, sir,” Harriet said. “You should know that the police are coming to question me about the untimely death of my neighbor. I’ve just learned that Ralph died after eating one of my marshmallow puffs.”

  I nearly fell to the floor when Harriet confessed that to me earlier. Mr. Hanover was obviously made of sterner stuff. A small wince and a brief closing of his eyes were the only signs of his displeasure.

  “You’d better sit down,” he said to Harriet. “It appears we have much to discuss.”

  I noted that I hadn’t also been asked to sit. Nevertheless, I had no intention of deserting Harriet now. She’d wanted me at her side, and that was where I meant to remain.

  That is, until the headmaster asked his next question. It was directed toward his assistant. “The marshmallow puffs you made for our Halloween party, have you already delivered them to the school?”

  “I . . . Yes, I have.”

  “And where are they now?”

  Harriet’s eyes widened. She realized what he wanted to know. Then suddenly I did too.