I grinned as I collected Morrie and we went out to snoop. On the way, we stopped at the bakery for coffee. As we turned to leave, clutching our cups and cream doughnuts, Dorothy Ingram entered with two other ladies from the church. She gave me a dirty look as she hobbled past, her walking stick clutched tight in her hand. I shot her an evil glare back, resisting the urge to stick my foot out and trip her up.
Morrie kept up a steady stream of chatter on the way. I tried to ask him about last night, about why he’d run away, but I couldn’t get the words out. I still couldn’t believe it had happened.
The Winstones lived in a lovely cottage down a small lane on the opposite side of the town green, overlooking a picturesque meadow. Even though it was the middle of winter, the garden burst with color and texture. Morrie took out a pocket magnifying glass and went around the low stone wall, while I bent to examine the front stoop where she’d been attacked. A tall hedge of wisteria stood along one side. It would certainly give enough cover to an assailant lying in wait.
I bent down to examine the hedge. There were a few broken twigs at the front, but not as many as I’d have expected from the kind of tussle Mrs. Winstone described.Either this would-be killer was careful, or she snuck up the path instead of hiding in the bushes.I pictured Dorothy Ingram with her stick and limp. She wouldn’t be sneaking up on anyone. I peered closer at the hedge. The ground didn’t appear to be trampled.Of course, Dorothy is a small woman so she wouldn’t need as much space as a big man.
I shifted the dead leaves, hunting for more broken branches. Maybe I could find where she’d crouched down in wait. My hand brushed something hard and smooth. I wrapped my fingers around it, dragged it out of the bed, and held it up into the light.
A wooden walking stick.
The killer must have dropped it as they were making their getaway.I studied the shaft, noticing spots of dried blood around the ornately-carved handle.
My mind reeled.Dorothy had her stick with her when we saw her at the bakery. Which means this can’t be hers.
Unless she has a bunch of them. But that seems unlikely. It’s a very distinct stick, and it looks expensive.
“Morrie!” I called out. “I found something.”
He came running over and inspected the stick, trailing his fingers along its shaft and studying the dried blood near the handle. “This was definitely the weapon that attacked Mrs. Winstone.”
“But Dorothy had her stick with her.” I pointed to the handle. “I think this one’s different. Dorothy’s has flowers carved around the handle. This one has these half-moon shapes.”
“This is the phases of the moon, mixed with sacred geometric shapes. It’s an occult design.” Morrie made a face. “You’re right. Our religious fanatic wouldn’t use this.”
I stared at the walking stick in my hands, hardly able to believe what I saw. This stick blew a huge hole in our theory. Dorothy Ingram had every motive and opportunity for killing off the members of the Banned Book Club. But if it wasn’t Dorothy’s stick, then whose was it?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Morrie and I sat down on the curb and finished off our now-cold coffee. Morrie made me recount the evidence we’d collected so far, especially the conversation I overheard between Dorothy and Ginny Button.
“Dorothy seemed afraid of Ginny,” I recalled, trying to remember the exact words I overheard. “She said, ‘I got her out of the way for you. She’s paid for her sins, and now you and I have no more business together.’ Only Ginny wanted her to do something else, so she said that God detests a blackmailer. Then Ginny said she hoped Dorothy wasn’t threatening her, because she’d hate for anyone to discover her secret.”
“Her filthy secret,” Morrie corrected, with an undue amount of relish.
“Yes, of course. Herfilthysecret. And she called Dorothy a murderer. Then Dorothy got angry and stormed off. And the next thing, Ginny’s lying dead at the bottom of the stairs.”
“And it was the night before when you saw Sylvia and Ginny?”
“Yes. Ginny was saying something that scared Sylvia, and as Ginny stalked back to her car, Sylvia yelled, ‘You may think you’re untouchable, but I know what you did. You’re rotten and you won’t get away with it!’”
“So Ginny could have killed Mrs. Scarlett,” Morrie mused. “Or she could have got Dorothy to do it. But what if Sylvia found out about it? She could have pushed Ginny. She was at the funeral. But then if Ginny’s dead, who attacked Mrs. Winstone?”
“Why did you run away last night?” I blurted out.
“Heathcliff needed me downstairs. We were waiting to trap a murderer, if you recall.”
“That’s not the reason. You orchestrated that whole evening for me, including sending Heathcliff upstairs. So why didn’t you stay?”
“It’s simple. You’d just had an intense sexual experience. You needed someone to take care of you, bring your emotions back to a normal, happy place. You needed cuddles and sweet kisses and poetry. That’s not what I do.” Morrie flashed me a grin that wavered at the edges. “Quoth yearns for cuddles, so you were in good hands. This is the beauty of our arrangement, gorgeous. You get all the benefits.”
“And you don’t have to do any emotional work, right?” I demanded. “You get to remain aloof and in control and above it all?”
Morrie bit his lip. “I wouldn’t attempt to armchair psychoanalyze me, Sigmund Wilde. The last person who did went over the edge of a waterfall with me, or so I’m told. Talking about feelings defeats the purpose of having them. I don’t want my mind to become a spectator sport. Keep your eye on the prize – we’re trying to catch a murderer here.”
Nice change of subject there, Morrie. Don’t think this is over. If I have to face up to my own reality, then so do you.
“I still think it’s Dorothy,” I said. “It doesn’t make sense for it to be Sylvia if pushing Ginny was all about getting her to stop whatever she was doing. Maybe Dorothy purchased another walking stick in order to throw off the authorities.”
