A Notion to Murder

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

It didn’t take long for Beatrice to toss her trash away, quickly fill in Posy, and jump into her car. It did take a bit longer on the winding mountain roads to reach the Dawson house. Although perhaps mansion or castle might be better words for the edifice in front of her. She’d driven past the house before on her way to other places so was generally aware where it was (and her GPS navigated her more exactly.) It was the kind of house you craned your head to catch a glimpse of. You had to peer through a thicket of trees and well-groomed shrubbery to spot anything. Today, however, Beatrice had a front row seat as she pulled right in front of the house.

She climbed out of the car and stared up at the huge house. It was beautiful in an austere way. But Beatrice didn’t find the stone edifice at all homey, especially compared to her small cottage full of comfy, overstuffed sofas and cozy quilts, with soft pillows scattered everywhere.

There were already several emergency vehicles there with lights going, although there weren’t any sirens. But then, there apparently wasn’t an emergency if Lester was dead. The stone mansion loomed above them with turrets and even a couple of grinning gargoyles. Beatrice looked around for June Bug, but didn’t immediately see the small woman.

She got out of her car and started cautiously walking over, not wanting to get in the way of the emergency workers. Then she saw Ramsay, the local police chief, turn around and spotted June Bug sitting forlornly on the stone steps in front of him. She was wearing her bakery uniform which was a recent addition to June Bug’s wardrobe. It was a pink apron with a wooden spoon and “June Bug’s Bakery” embroidered on it, over her black top and slacks. Beatrice hadn’t quite gotten used to seeing June Bug wearing it yet. She’d always been incredibly professional, no matter if she was cleaning houses or baking, just because of her pure, unequaled efficiency. But her usual outfits had tended to be forest green pants and a white tee shirt.

Ramsay waved her over and Beatrice hurried to join them. Ramsay looked as if he’d gotten ready in a hurry—he’d probably not made it into the small police station yet when the phone call had come in. He was a short man with a receding hairline and kind eyes. He was also a tremendous reader and prolific writer who was looking forward to a well-deserved retirement.

“Glad you could make it,” said Ramsay. “June Bug has her car here, of course, but I didn’t think she was in fit shape to drive it. I asked her if she could ring a friend.”

Beatrice gave June Bug a warm smile. It was always really nice to feel, not just useful, but to be thought of as a friend to help at a rough time. “Of course I could come.” She paused. “Is it all right for us to go now? Or should we wait?”

Ramsay said, “Maybe you could wait a few minutes? The state police are on their way and they might want a statement.” He gave June Bug a kind look. “Meadow packed me a container of breakfast food and shoved it at me as I was heading out the door. Maybe you’d like one of the country ham biscuits.”

June Bug gave him a rather sad smile as if she’d very much like one of Meadow’s biscuits . . . under ordinary circumstances. Beatrice thought she looked as if she might appreciate something to settle her stomach, instead.

“Thanks, Ramsay,” said Beatrice.

Ramsay walked away to speak with a woman who was wearing all black and looking as though she’d had a shock.

June Bug rallied enough to say, “She’s the housekeeper.”

“I suppose she’s the one who let you in when you came with the cake?”

June Bug nodded, looking at the housekeeper solemnly.

Beatrice guessed that June Bug wouldn’t want to talk through what she’d just witnessed for a while so she set about giving an airy narrative about her visit to the bakery, Posy and Cork’s upcoming anniversary trip, and anything else that came into her mind. She was glad to see June Bug’s color returning as she spoke.

Beatrice was mentally patting herself on the back for her excellent distraction technique when she suddenly noticed a big tear plop on June Bug’s round cheek.

“I’m sorry,” said Beatrice, wincing. June Bug just looked so sad.

“It was his birthday,” said June Bug. “It seems really wrong.”

“I know,” said Beatrice gently. She sat with June Bug for a few quiet moments before saying, “Had you met Lester . . . before?”

She shook her head sadly. “I’d spoken to the maid on the phone. But Imelda said Lester had picked the cake himself. He never even got to see it.”

Beatrice thought it was a little odd that Lester’s wife or children didn’t order his cake for him. But she supposed it was the best way to ensure you got what you wanted.

June Bug pushed another tear off her cheek and Beatrice dove into her handbag to find her pack of travel tissues, thrusting them at June Bug.

June Bug took them gratefully. After a couple of moments, she said in a trembling voice, “It was awful. Imelda and I didn’t know what we were going to see.”

“Was Lester in the living room?” Beatrice hesitated. “Or maybe a library? It looks like the kind of house that might have a library.” She could imagine a large room full of leather-bound tomes remaining largely unread. Beatrice always thought it was sad when books weren’t read and were just used to make a statement. It denied them their intrinsic usefulness.

June Bug considered this. “An office? Study? A room with a desk. A big desk.”

Beatrice could imagine that, too.

“There were lots of books in there, too,” said June Bug in a clear effort to be as accurate as possible.

June Bug was sounding better as she talked, but Beatrice didn’t want to make her relive the experience unless she brought it up herself. Which she immediately did.

“Mr. Dawson had been hit on the head,” she said solemnly, her round face pale.

Beatrice had originally assumed Lester had suffered some sort of natural death. At the age of eighty-five, it didn’t require a stretch of the imagination. She should have been tipped off by the number of policemen who were still arriving at the scene.

“Could it have been an accident?” asked Beatrice slowly. “Maybe he tripped and hit his head on his desk? Or could he have had a heart attack and hit his head as he fell?”

June Bug looked doubtful. “Maybe? But probably not.”

That didn’t sound good.

June Bug’s bug-like eyes opened even wider than usual. “Mellie!” she gasped.

Beatrice looked around in concern. “Is she here?” Mellie was a fellow quilter and Lester’s daughter.

June Bug shook her head. “But she’s going to be so sad. And it’s his birthday.”

Poor June Bug seemed stuck on this particular angle. She pulled out a fresh tissue as more tears made their way down her round cheeks.

A luxury car pulled up and a bald, mustachioed, taciturn man climbed gravely out of it. Beatrice recognized him as Archibald Dawson, Lester’s eldest child. He was very much involved in the running of Wyatt’s church, having served as an elder for years. Beatrice didn’t know him as well as Wyatt did, but knew he had the reputation of being extremely organized, clever, and the type of elder who got the job done well and in a timely fashion.

Ramsay was still occupied with the housekeeper so Archibald strode over to Beatrice and June Bug, still perched on the front steps.

“Beatrice,” said Archibald in his brusque manner. “It’s good to see you here. Do you know Wyatt’s schedule for the next few days?”

From what she knew of Archibald, she wasn’t too startled that he launched immediately into planning the funeral service instead of dispensing with niceties or talking about his deceased father.

Beatrice said, “I only know that Wyatt will certainly move his schedule around to accommodate your father’s service. I’m so sorry about this.”

Archibald nodded, his shoulders taut with tension. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” He gave June Bug a curious look and she gave him a shy, uncertain smile.

Beatrice quickly introduced them, adding, “June Bug was here delivering a birthday cake for your father. Such awful timing.”

Beatrice meant that it was awful that Lester’s death was apparently on the day of his birth. But Archibald took it to mean that June Bug had bad timing by delivering a cake at a surprisingly tragic time. He looked at the little woman with concern. “It certainly was. Are you all right, then?”

June Bug bobbed her head immediately, looking anxiously down at her hands, never one who liked to be the center of attention.

Archibald looked back over to where Ramsay and the housekeeper were still in conversation. “I suppose Imelda escorted you inside and the two of you made the unfortunate discovery?”

Beatrice noticed he still hadn’t referred to his father.

June Bug nodded again. Apparently feeling she needed to further explain she said, “Imelda wanted your dad to approve it.”

Archibald pressed his lips together. “I see.”

Beatrice said, “Ramsay must have called you right away.”

“He did. Ramsay knows that I try to keep tabs on what’s going on here at the house. I was planning on heading over here at this time anyway. I like to keep an eye on the grounds and make sure the house is in order.”

Beatrice couldn’t help but wonder why he thought his father and mother were incapable of doing that. But from what she knew of Archibald’s take-charge attitude at the church, she figured that he was just the kind of person who preferred to make sure things met his own standards.

“I don’t suppose Ramsay said anything about when the death may have occurred?” This was directed to Beatrice.

Again, no direct mention of his father. Beatrice shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

June Bug shook her head, too.

Archibald leveled his gaze on June Bug again. “So he was still in his bedroom, was he?”

June Bug’s eyes grew large and she shook her head again, this time faster. “His office.”

“Hmm. So it certainly sounds as though this might have happened last night. My father wasn’t much of an early riser. It’s not very likely he would have already gotten up this morning and then headed to his office. While I’m here checking in on everything, I often wake him up for the day. Keeping to a routine is important, even for someone his age.”

Beatrice was still wanting to hear a bit more about Lester. She said, “It must have been a terrible shock to you. Is there anything Wyatt and I can do to help, aside from helping with the service?”

Archibald seemed to suddenly realize he hadn’t been exactly behaving like a grieving son. He said somberly, “Thank you, Beatrice, that’s very kind. Nothing immediately comes to mind, but I will certainly contact you if something does.” He paused and then said a bit awkwardly, “I suppose I must appear a bit distanced from the whole thing. I’m afraid I’m not much of a sentimental person. I came by it naturally, since neither Mother nor Father are sentimental. But I did admire my father and will miss him very much. He was a self-made man and there aren’t many of those around.”

Archibald’s lips tightened into a thin line as he looked at something behind Beatrice. She turned to see a woman wandering around the estate.

Beatrice realized she must have a questioning look on her face because Archibald said shortly, “My father’s companion.” He frowned. “It’s a very odd set-up and certainly not one I condoned. Shirley isn’t ordinarily at the house. She’s usually at her own house, which my father paid for. I’d be very interested in knowing what she’s doing here.”

Beatrice wasn’t sure what to say in response to that and was mulling over her options when Archibald said, “Ah. Looks like Ramsay has wrapped up with Imelda. Good to see you Beatrice. And you, too, um . . . ” He wasn’t quite able to dredge up June Bug’s name from his memory, so gave her a bob of his head instead and then strode off to Ramsay.

June Bug looked startled at the coming and going.

“Sort of different here, isn’t it?” asked Beatrice mildly.

She was about to urge June Bug to her waiting car when Shirley, Lester’s “companion,” as Archibald had put it, hurried up to them.