 
Copyright © 2010 Jeanne Irelan

http://www.jeanneirelan.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

MURDER AT TOLL HOUSE

A Judge Baby Godbold Mystery

BY

JEANNE IRELAN

Prologue

Diane stretched as best she could in the cramped space of the airplane seat and glanced at Rafe. He sat with his eyes closed, his heavy, blond lashes lying on his cheeks. Even though his hair was a darkish chestnut, his eyelashes, eyebrows, and chest hair glinted with golden lights. My golden boy, she thought with mingled satisfaction and astonishment at her thinking in such corny terms.

She looked at the passengers in the aisle opposite and saw that no one was paying any attention to her and Rafe, who happened to have the three seats to themselves. Taking his hand, she said softly, "Happy?"

He opened his eyes and smiled at her, that warm smile that had melted her from the very first meeting. "Uhm . . . am I ever, Babe."

"Remember, darling, we have to be careful," she said in a low voice. "Someone going to the writers workshop might even be on this plane." She wanted to slip her arm through his and feel the solid warm flesh, but that wouldn't be prudent. "I noticed from the list they sent me that several participants are also from New York, and I might have been recognized from my picture in the brochure. We have to act as if we just met."

"Don't worry, Doll, we can handle it. I just want to be with you alone. Almost three weeks–that'll be a treat! Don't forget I signed up for a cabin at this Toll House place all to myself. Paid more, but I don't have no roommate except when you're there."

She sighed. "I want us to be together, but I'm nervous. I found out after it was too late that there was an unfortunate change. The other guest writer is Harold Hillman."

"So who's he?"

"He's not important to anyone but himself, but I've had some unpleasantness with him through the years, for one thing. For another, John is his publisher, too. We'll have to be doubly careful."

Rafe squeezed her hand. "That don't make no difference to me. Nobody'll guess about us if we keep a watch out." His voice, normally low and husky, grew even more sensuous to her ears. "I can't get enough of you."

She laughed with nervous excitement. "Once a week hasn't been too bad, has it?. It's been more than enough for John for years."

"Your husband's an old man."

She said nothing. The mention of age was a sensitive subject to her. Rafe was nearly fifteen years younger, and she, in her middle forties, found herself more and more looking anxiously at her face and body for signs of aging. She fluffed out her shoulder-length dark hair and reflected on her appearance. Altogether, not bad. Still firm figure, good skin, some crinkles around the eyes, but not bad.

For a few minutes they were silent. Diane thought again about her liaison with the unlikely Rafe--virtually uneducated, a Southern country boy who managed to come out of the Marines a sergeant. He had done quite well, now a partner in the fitness studio, the place where they had first met over a year ago. Bless his heart, he was trying his best to live "clean," divorced from the alcohol and drugs which had driven him from the service.

He had surprised her by having a candidly sensitive side, even confessing to being a poet himself. He had further told her he had a sad childhood, which may have accounted for the contrasts in his personality. He treated her alternately like a princess and a prostitute--and she loved it. She risked much by this association, but she had taken risks before and things had come out all right. Besides, he might be quite useful to her as a buffer against intrusions on her privacy, if nothing else.

Rafe looked past her out the window. "We're getting ready to land. How long did you figure it'll take to drive to this here Toll House? I didn't pay any attention about the distance."

She fished out from her purse a map supplied by the workshop organizer and said, "It's about an hour or so from the airport in Bowling Green. We can follow each other there. Have you ever been in this part of Kentucky?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Have you ever heard of that college where it's at?"

"Never, but it's a small private college which has some nice facilities for this sort of thing. I guess they hope to have an annual writers workshop. It's going to be a relatively small group of participants and quite pricey because of that."

"You're worth it. Will you be going again if they have another one?"

"If they ask me," she said, tilting her head in mock modesty.

But Rafe was serious. "Why wouldn't they, a great poet like you. And wherever you are, I'll be there, too. You can't shake me, Babe."

"I don't want to," she said, gazing deeply into his eyes. Oh, it would be heaven to just see him every day and know that he was hers alone.

Chapter 1

The house was a boxy frame structure which stretched in several additions to the back and belied its narrow front as to its size. Dr. Moss Cunningham stood for a moment outside on the gravel drive looking up at what was to be his quarters for the next few weeks. He had set down beside him a large suitcase which contained everything he hoped he would need to attend the workshop and amuse himself in this out-of-the-way place--everything from casual clothes and a lightweight sport coat to a deck of cards. The brochure had not promised anything more exciting than TV, badminton, and nature walks--maybe caving for the intrepid. Most of those activities, except the caving, seemed about the right speed for a not very physical sixty-eight-year-old.

Toll House. The front part had obviously been built first and faced what had once been the main route from the Cumberland Gap through Virginia into Kentucky. The brochure said that the former toll road had been supplanted many years before by a new highway and was now merely a county road, paved inadequately and not busy enough to warrant any more expenditure. He sniffed the air; was that hay and horses he smelled? But surely it had been years since this place had been a horse farm.

Hadn't been much of anything for years, he reckoned. The location had missed all around. Too rocky to be bluegrass country so the big horse farms were farther north; the good agricultural land was due west.

Dr. Cunningham strolled to the side of the house and noticed other cars parked in a gravel clearing towards the rear. He wasn't blocking the drive. Move his later. After he got settled in his room. He went up the broad steps to the front veranda, wondering if he should knock on the door or walk in. At least it was air conditioned. The brochure had definitely stated the main house and guest cottages were air conditioned. Need it in July around here. Hotter than when he'd left Nashville late this morning.

"Moss? Is that you?"

Startled, Dr. Cunningham wheeled and saw a large woman trying to extricate herself from a sloping Adirondack chair, one of a row which lined the porch. She was wearing a long khaki skirt and roomy white shirt, so her difficulties were less a matter of constriction and more one of position. She clutched a packet of papers that must have kept her engrossed through Dr. Cunningham's arrival.

"Well, of all the surprises . . ." he breathed. "Baby Godbold! Don't tell me you're here for the writers workshop?" As long as he'd known her, the strange nickname always jolted him a bit with its ludicrous inaccuracy.

"And why shouldn't I be indulging my whims in my retirement any more than my old sawbones?" Judge Penelope Godbold came up to the diminutive man and engulfed him in an embrace. "But this is wonderful! I had shrunk a bit from coming here without a companion, someone to talk to, you know," she rattled on in her deep-toned, fluid voice, "for fear our fellow writers would be a cut above me. I confess I'm insecure about this whole deal." She made a face. "Here we are, exposing ourselves, figuratively speaking." Then she laughed and stepped back slightly to appraise him. "You're looking wonderful! I didn't know you wrote. Are you here for poetry or fiction?"

After a momentary pause, Moss Cunningham said diffidently, "I write very little, but now in my dotage, I am trying to write a series of short stories based on family lore."

Baby's face fell slightly. "I'm in the poetry sessions, but no matter, we'll have plenty of time to bolster each other if need be."

A large black cat with white paws scrambled out from under a nearby chair and stretched. He paced around the couple, eyeing them and took the third ballet position with enormous splayed feet.

Moss reached down and tried to pet him, but the cat backed up to take position five. "Hi, fella. What's your name?"

"It's not Mr. Tidy Paws," laughed Baby. "He's got enough toes for two cats."

"It's called a polydactyl mutation," said Moss. "It happens to people, too, y'know, having more than the requisite ten toes and fingers."

"I've heard of that, but I've never seen a cat with such feet. Even with all those toes, he seems fairly lightfooted."

She held open the door while Moss shoved his suitcase through it and into the front room. There was no entry hall. A murmur of voices beyond the room indicated others had arrived and were getting acquainted with the place or each other. The cat had slipped in ahead of them, nearly tripping Moss, who gave a little exclamation and set his suitcase on the wood floor with a thud. A large oriental rug worn to a thinness lay in front of a desk where a young woman sat typing at a computer.

"You are staying in the house, aren't you?" Judge Godbold asked Moss.

"Yes, I thought that would be better than having to share a cottage with a stranger."

"Me too. This young lady will give you your packet and room number."

The girl stopped typing and faced them. She was a fresh-faced, long-haired blonde, probably thirty pounds overweight, the doctor calculated automatically. No doubt one of the workforce from the college, which was located about a mile away. The brochure spoke proudly of the unusual policies of Nashua College: All students worked, the craft shop, the truck garden, cafeteria, and other venues, to help pay their tuition. When Toll House was left to the college by a local landowner, it was to serve the institution as a meeting center. Moss stepped closer to the

desk.

"I'm Dr. Cunningham. I've come for the workshop. Could you tell me my room, please?" The cat rubbed up against his leg and meowed.

"You again," he said, again reaching for the elusive cat, who now slipped under the desk. "What's this cat's name?" he asked the girl at the desk.

"Mittens. He's sort of a mascot."

"Mittens," said Baby, "of course."

The secretary opened a notebook and ran her finger down a long column, then extracted from a pile beside her a bright red folder like the one in Baby's hand and gave it to him. "Your room is upstairs, number eight. That's to the right after you reach the top of the stairs." She pointed to the door behind her, smiling. "Your key's in the packet."

"Thank you." Moss turned to Baby with a smile.

"Mine's down the hall from you. Number four."

"I'll just put my things away and then join you for...ah...is there a place where we can get some refreshments?" he asked the girl.

"In the kitchen area, down the back hall, up the short flight of stairs and through the dining hall and then to your right."

Baby gave Moss a pat on the arm. "I'll meet you there. It sounds a bit intimidating, but there's a map of the house and grounds in your material, just in case." As if on cue, Mittens bounded out of the room and streaked up the stairs.

"I guess," laughed Moss, "Mittens will show me the way. I'll meet you in a little while, Baby." He mused on the coincidence of finding Baby Godbold at the workshop as he headed up the steep stairs. His thoughts then went to the peculiar family nicknames of the judge and her siblings. The Marshall family of Nashville had a distinguished history, up to and including Baby's generation, but they certainly had strange pet names for each other and used by close friends. The oldest was Son, a retired general; the next in line was Sister, recently of Vanderbilt University; Brother, a successful practicing attorney in D.C.; and bringing up the rear, Baby, now retired from Chancery Court. Her real name was Penelope, but Moss had known her since they were children, and had never called her anything but Baby.

At that moment, she was wandering to the back of the oddly arranged house, killing time until Moss should reappear. She really was delighted to see her old friend and family physician. They had a longtime connection, their parents having been acquainted through various organizations. His wife, Daisy, had been a school fellow of Sister's and kept occupied, she knew, with sorority affairs and gardening. Now recently retired himself, he obviously was looking for amusements to fill his days, just like she was, and it was comforting for her–and maybe him, too–to have a friend and fellow sufferer along for this new experience. She had never balked at adventure, sometimes danger, but she was quaking at the thought of having to read her poetry aloud. After her retirement from the Bench last year, she had promised herself this one indulgence; besides, time had begun to hang a bit heavily on her hands since the conclusion of the last criminal case she had helped solve.

Not that she hadn't had many interests, for she had traveled as much as possible when she could escape her judicial duties, particularly when Dan was alive. But he had been gone three years, so it was time, now that she extended her interests and activities outside her involvement in crime solving. The Nashua Writers Workshop seemed a likely place to start.

She thought about how Toll House got its name, according to the brochure. It had served as an inn first and then as a home, both of which were reflected in the layout of the rooms. The front section–reception room and formal sitting room–were like small parlors, but the dining room was quite large. It had a bare wooden floor that looked as if it had been patinated by a million footfalls. She noted briefly the individual tables, then passed on through to what was called the library. Beyond this, to the right, was the kitchen. But Baby paused at the door to the library, very different from the front rooms, and examined it minutely. Two women were standing by a window talking earnestly, oblivious to Baby's scrutiny of the room. She liked old books, old furniture, old mysteries, and this house had all that. Interesting to speculate who had built this room onto a rather ordinary, even crudely fashioned house. She would investigate the history of this place, which might prove as interesting as the conference itself. The library was a beautiful room finished in a kind of country elegance with walnut coffered paneling, built-in shelves on either side of the fireplace, and another glass-front bookcase along one wall. Long windows, attesting to the prevailing 19th century style, overlooked the back of the property, which she could see had a row of cabin-like structures.

Baby sighed. She could live in a room like this. Some ante-bellum owner had craved the same sort of comfort and beauty that she sought in her own home. The old house in Nashville that she had called home for thirty years was as full of memories as it was the pieces of early Tennessee furniture she and her husband had collected. She wished, more frequently now, that she had been able to have children who might in turn have taken delight in the furnishings.

She sighed again and straightened up to a more resolute posture, heading for the kitchen. Mustn't get maudlin, too common a trait in retirees. On to the next adventure. Well, she amended to herself, maybe not adventure, considering their purpose here, but at least she would be distracted, maybe even amused for the next several weeks. The kitchen was separated into two distinct areas–a kind of common room with food and drink machines, benches, a long table with a motley assortment of chairs, and a smaller table with bentwood chairs by the window. The other room through the double doorway was obviously the work area where a lively commotion of dinner preparation was underway. A blend of tantalizing odors wafted out into the seating area, causing a stab of hunger pain in Baby's stomach.

Moss entered the room as Baby looked over the machines that provided nourishment, such as it was. "Do you prefer a cold drink or coffee, instant, of course." She peered closely at the contents of one of the two drink machines. "I guess there's also cocoa."

"Just a Coke for me. I've gotten a terrible thirst driving non-stop from Nashville."

"Sounds good. I'll have the same. No, no!" she cried as Moss handed her a drink. "I'll get my own. Don't get in the habit of paying for me."

"Nonsense. I can certainly treat one of my oldest friends to a Coke." He looked around the empty room. "We seem to be the only ones in need of refreshment. Let's sit at the table by the window." They each took a seat at the wooden table set with plastic-coated place mats and looked over the grounds of Toll House.

"There are the cabins out back," commented Baby. "They look like pretty recent construction. At least not before the middle of the 20th century, I would think."

Moss agreed. "Probably built by the students when the college obtained this property. This college was started as a work-study school, I read, just after World War Two. Oh, look," he said with interest. "That must be a couple of our fellow participants."

A tall, burly man and a slim, dark–haired woman emerged from the farthest cabin. She'd grasped his arm as they walked along the grassy path toward the house, but then dropped her hand when she saw the two at the window observing them.

"Kind of an unlikely couple," Baby observed. "She's so sophisticated looking, and maybe a tad older than that rather rough looking fellow. She looks like the guest poet pictured in the brochure, Diane Marvel."

"You never know about attraction," Moss said placidly, sipping his drink. "Do we dare eat some snack before dinner?" He looked at his watch. "According to the schedule, we're to be served in about an hour." He looked longingly at the snack machine. "I guess I can hold off on the chips. I do hope they keep to their schedule, though."

"Me, too," laughed Baby. "If the food tastes as good as it smells, we're in for a treat."

Chapter 2

After she and Moss had drunk their Cokes, they went back to their respective rooms to freshen up for dinner. Baby had already hung her clothes in the wardrobe that served as a closet and put the folded articles in a small chest of drawers opposite the single bed. Her toiletries were laid out neatly on top of the chest, which was supplied, oddly enough, with an embroidered linen dresser scarf. She wondered if that was something left from the former owners or if handwork was also part of the college curriculum.

The room was quite small, but furnished comfortably for sleep or even reading with an old upholstered chair next to the night stand and table lamp. She nodded to herself. This wouldn't be a bad place to hole up when she needed her privacy. The thought of constantly being in other people's faces for days on end had worried her a bit before signing up for this three-week stint. The room would serve well as a mini-haven when she needed it. It was at times like this when she was glad she'd invested in a cell phone, having resisted its purchase for many years. She expected the phone in the front room might be the only one on the premises, and the school probably had made some arrangements to discourage long distance use by participants. Maybe it was connected in some way to the main switchboard at the college. Yes, she was glad to have her own phone just in case. She decided a wash before dinner was in order, wondering if it was okay to leave her purse in an unlocked room, though tucked at the back of the wardrobe. She had a key for her room, but it seemed a bit silly for the short journey to the bathroom at the end of the hall. According to the map, another smaller bathroom was around the corner at the opposite end of the hall, where other bedrooms were located. She wondered how many male participants had rooms in the house. More likely, they'd taken cabins. Just at that moment, however, she saw a man who looked to be around forty with a martial air striding toward her. She smiled and called out, "I'll just be a few minutes."

He smiled back pleasantly. "No problem. We'll all have to be patient with the arrangements, won't we."

The bathroom was a later addition, obviously fashioned from a small bedroom and furnished with the usual appliances, though without any luxury. A little sign discreetly sitting on a table adjacent the sink requested users to "Please clean the tub and commode after use. Supplies are under the sink. Thank you." She would remember to do her part, thinking that students were the likely cleaning crew when Toll House was being occupied by guests.

She emerged from the bathroom, the man passing her with a slight nod as he entered the room. At the same time, Baby saw a woman come from a bedroom near her own. It was the same attractive woman she'd seen with the burly man outside as they came from the direction of the cabins. Baby was almost positive it was the Marvel woman. They smiled at one another and each murmured a greeting. As Baby went back to her room to gather her workshop materials, she couldn't help wondering again about the connection between those two.

Baby was enjoying what her nose had accurately predicted to be a delicious meal, seated at one of four round pine tables with five other guests. There were twenty people at the workshop, counting the participants but not the two guest writers. This was an extraordinarily small number to participate in a eighteen-day conference and the hefty price reflected this. Yet compared to rates at a hotel, she knew from her travels, it was economical. Also, the brochure stated that the college had gotten a grant to help defray expenses–probably to help pay for the guest writers, Harold Hillman and Diane Marvel, both of whom had had national recognition for their literary work. The program director was Estelle Odom, employed by the college as a Special Events Coordinator.

Baby turned her attention from her herb roasted chicken breast to the most famous person in the assemblage, who happened to be at her table, novelist Harold Hillman. A dark, slight man in his fifties, he was holding forth with a variety of opinions as he had been since they had taken up knife and fork. Somehow he managed to shovel in his food deftly while holding the floor, at least in his immediate vicinity. He had been the recipient of questions on writing and rapt attention from the two graduate students from New York. The entire assemblage had taken on, it seemed to Baby, the atmosphere of the first day at camp with some self-conscious participants and the toadies hanging around the favorite camp counselor.

Baby was interested in Hillman's comments, but only moderately so. She liked to read fiction, had many favorite authors, but she had not been tempted to write it. Furthermore, she never even cracked one of Hillman's books, his reputation as a "sensational" writer not appealing to her taste. Since her area of artistic endeavor, if she could characterize it so grandly, was poetry, it was to the guest poet, Diane Marvel, seated behind the judge, that she craned her ear. Unlike Harold Hillman, however, the woman was soft-spoken, and her voice didn't carry far enough for Baby to hear her comments. But what she said or didn't say was not the focus of Baby's attention, for she had been correct in deducing that Diane was the woman with the rough-looking fellow seated to her right. Baby didn't know his name yet but she would be interested to hear what his connection was to the svelte New York poet. Of course, they could have simply met while out walking. Mustn't get carried away with speculation, she cautioned herself.

On Baby's right was a social worker from Nashville named Vicki Duggan, the judge found after introducing herself.

"Are you here alone?" she inquired of the quiet woman beside her.

Vicki nodded, putting down her fork politely. "Yes, I didn't think I'd know a soul here, but oddly, someone–" She was interrupted by Hillman's coarse laugh and loud recital of an encounter with John Updike at a party in New York. Baby listened along with the others for a while, but then turned away from Hillman, obviously an insufferable fool, and spoke again to Vicki Duggan. She was a woman of around forty with dishwater hair and nondescript features, but rather pretty for all that. She, too, was to be attending the poetry workshop, mentioning off-handedly that she had published her work in "several" literary journals.

This chastened Baby and she became rather more silent than she ordinarily would have been. She hoped she hadn't made a dreadful mistake, opening herself up to embarrassing readings of her inferior work. Now, now, she said to herself encouragingly, don't start putting yourself down. She hadn't even tried to get published, and her work had been evaluated before she'd been accepted for this workshop. She turned to Moss Cunningham seated next to her and said in a confidential tone, "You shouldn't have any trouble getting an opinion out of Hillman."

The doctor laughed and leaned closer, "I've got mixed feelings about this whole thing. Even though our work was supposedly critiqued before we were accepted, I wonder how bad it had to be to be rejected."

Baby nodded. "I know. I'm not one to give up, but if I see I'm really outclassed, I may turn tail and run for home." Waiting for dessert to be served, her gaze wandered to the french doors opposite. They led to a porch which overlooked the side yard, a sloping, grassy expanse several hundred yards wide which was bounded by a rock fence. Midway between the porch and the fence, a tall, round, stone tower was just visible from Judge Godbold's vantage point. She wondered its purpose aloud.

"Maybe a lookout for the Indians," said Cunningham. "It looks like a bell tower. We're supposed to have a tour to introduce us to this place."

As they spooned up the last of their creme caramel, Estelle Odom, the workshop director, stood up and clinked a spoon on her glass for attention.

"Welcome to the Nashua Writer's Workshop! If I can interrupt our guest novelist for a minute--" she looked pointedly at Hillman, who was still talking, until he noticed the silence and gave Estelle a slight nod, "--I'd like to introduce him and Diane Marvel to those of you who will be participating in their workshops."

Diane Marvel stood up to polite applause and made a few predictable remarks about her excitement at working here in this historic and picturesque spot with such a likely group of writers. Baby listened with interest and decided she liked the poet's low-keyed approach, which seemed reassuring.

Hillman gave what promised to be a speech about the long and rocky road of life he had to travel before arriving at the pinnacle that he now occupied. Baby wondered if she was being a little hard on him. He obviously suffered from deep insecurities, a condition that his notoriety had not been able to alleviate. Finally, Estelle, who had been standing all along, cleared her throat and stopped Hillman mid-sentence.

"I know each of us will be fascinated to hear about your career difficulties and literary achievements during your general lecture. Right now, however, we thought to take all of you on a little tour of the dwelling and the grounds. We don't want anybody to turn up lost, and believe me, that's a possibility with such an unusual house and the surrounding woods."

Chairs scraped and the room quickly emptied, the group following Estelle down the short steps through the front room in a scraggly, caterpillar line to the front porch. Judge Godbold found herself standing next to a dignified, tall man in a khaki suit but couldn't see his name tag without rudely craning her neck. He wore an authentic looking pith helmet, and with his white, bushy mustache and a pipe clenched in strong teeth he looked the part of a British colonel. But when she introduced herself and he gave his name as Delancy Hart, she heard a pure Southern accent.

"I'm retired from my insurance business and always wanted to write stories, so here I am," he laughed. "My wife thinks I'm crazy, but I said, 'Look, Jane, you've got your golf and bridge clubs; I guess I can do my thing, right?' and she had to agree."

But Estelle had begun her lecture, and others were giving Delancy Hart dirty looks as his voice rumbled over Estelle's piping soprano. Baby smiled at him and nodded toward Estelle.

While the woman pointed out features of the property and the terrible time old Samuel Bolen had constructing the house almost two hundred years ago, fighting off Indian attacks and starvation, Judge Godbold wondered if the college had documents about the former owners of Toll House. Then the Director switched to information about Nashua College itself and how the writers workshop came into being. Baby's attention, without being completely diverted from the drone of Estelle's voice, went to studying the members of this motley group, all wearing their regulation name tags. She stood slightly to one side at the front near Estelle, so she had a clear view of nearly everyone. Dr. Cunningham leaned against the porch rail, looking interested in the history lesson. Near him was an elderly woman, frail looking and white-haired, who was taking notes in a small notebook. Baby couldn't read the name on her tag, which was drooping on her baggy cotton sweater--a sweater in this weather!

On the other side of the doctor, leaning against the rail, his arms folded over his broad chest, was the burley, quite attractive man she'd seen with Diane. He looked to be in his early to mid-thirties. His chestnut brown hair was worn brushed back from his forehead, and in the light from the evening sun, the thick golden hairs on his arms gleamed. A very sexy man, thought Baby, admiringly. Her own late husband had been a big man, too, and although not so handsome, Dan had emanated a personal magnetism that was not unlike this man's–what was the name–Rafe, the tag said, Rafe Barlow.

Next to him was a slender man with a beard in his early thirties, perhaps, whose name tag wasn't quite visible to her. The fellow she'd run into upstairs, was according to his tag, Major Joseph DeAngelo. And slightly removed from the small cluster of men who seemed to be needing each other for support in this sea of women were the grad students at the judge's table who had hung on Hillman's words. They were, according to their tags, George Childress--fuzzy long hair, shrunken t-shirt and torn sneakers--and Omar Zacharian, swarthy and good-looking. Hillman, looking bored, stood at the far end of the porch.

Baby continued her observations and saw, opposite her, near Estelle, another pair of eyes roving toward Rafe Barlow or the slim man next to him, whose tag she now could read as "Blair Babcock," or maybe it was the military man, she couldn't be sure. Vicki Duggan, Baby's dinner

companion, then gave a stifled exclamation. She had a slight frown on her face as she stared across the porch. Next to her stood an attractive redheaded woman, paying close attention to Estelle's words.

Baby noticed that Barlow was looking unblinkingly at the striking profile of Diane Marvel, who was oblivious to this attention. She had a cluster of sycophants around her, all glancing at her when one of Estelle's remarks seemed to call for an exclamation or eyebrow-raising. Diane merely smiled, keeping a kind of private dignity about her person. She was dark-haired and white-skinned with amber eyes rimmed in black. Not exactly pretty, she was attractive, almost beautiful, in a smart, brittle way. Her navy linen slacks and white shirt looked just right for a midsummer rural setting. An expensive and spoiled woman was Baby's clear-eyed estimate, but she was a wonderful poet, and Baby anticipated learning much from her.

The women around her wore tags that said, "Dottie Morris," a late-twenties, over-made-up type; "Sarah Husbands," another fashionably dressed young woman with a page boy and lots of gold jewelry; and "Lois Jelenick," nearer Diane's age of mid to late forties but a plainer sort of woman. After Estelle explained about the architecture of the place, which evidenced early 19th century design, crude though it was, the woman named Lois Jelenick asked rather unnecessarily, Baby thought, why the place was called "Toll House."

"The early owners built and then maintained the road in front as a toll road," Estelle replied. "Back then, it was the main passage, other than the rivers in the area, from the Smokies to the interior. I'm afraid it looks as if it could use a little outside money nowadays, doesn't it. Maybe the college should set up another toll booth," Estelle added with a roguish grin. Everyone had turned to look at the road, chuckling politely.

Estelle then beckoned the group to move inside to the reception room where several important and original pieces of furniture were pointed out--a country Hepplewhite secretary with interesting bellflower inlay and settee with ragged upholstery, two framed maps of the area drawn by French cartographers, and three maple Windsor chairs, fashioned in a simple, county manner. Judge Godbold found herself next to the major, whose nose whistled slightly when he breathed. His whole persona struck her as intense and serious. Baby tried not to let the whistle distract her from Estelle's words.

Pointing to a portrait over the fireplace of a beautiful woman in her twenties, dressed in a full-skirted antebellum style, she said, "And this is Angelica, the young wife of Samuel's son, Thomas. She was brutally murdered in this very room."

The atmosphere seemed suddenly charged, with only some shocked gasps breaking the silence. Estelle had a way, thought Baby, with dramatic effect. The man next to Baby had not flinched, however. "Who did the deed?" asked Baby.

"That's still open to debate, according to some historians. This place was a cattle and horse farm at the time, and a young man who was hired to train and care for the horses was tried and sentenced to death for the murder. According to legend, the woman and the trainer were romantically involved. We have some old newspaper accounts, but they don't give much of a clue as to the people themselves."

"Sounds like she might have deserved it," said DeAngelo in an aside to Baby, who raised an eyebrow at his words. She thought he had formed a conclusion without much evidence. And even if Angelica was guilty of having an affair, did he think killing her the appropriate penalty?

"No letters," asked the elderly woman, frowning in concentration, "of any of the principal characters?"

"We have some letters that were written by Angelica to her husband when he was in Washington, D. C. serving as U. S. Senator, and some of his to her. I read them a couple of years ago. Hers seem very formal, newsy, telling of the business of the farm, the weather, that sort of thing. His letters seem rather cranky."

"You actually have the letters here, in this house?" asked Baby eagerly.

"Yes, still tucked away in this file cabinet," she said, gesturing to a grey metal cabinet in the corner. "That's where I found them. I expect they should be treated for de-acidification, in the interests of preservation, but without a curator--" she shrugged, then turned to lead the group out of the room.

"One more thing," asked Baby, "how was the lady killed and when?"

"Strangled, around 1855, as I recall."

Even louder gasps. With one last look at the portrait, Baby began to shuffle with the others out of the room.

Like a herd of sheep being rounded up, Estelle allowed them a peek, two by two, into the formal parlor, closed off for the activities; the room had a valuable collection of 18th and 19th century furniture donated by a wealthy alum, Estelle explained. Then the group edged through the doorway into the hall where the director explained how the house had been built in sections over a period of time. During her recital, Baby noticed from the corner of her eye a couple of participants slip away from the group out the door.

"The two front rooms and those above them are the oldest. This hallway was the original dog trot, open at one time to the elements. The section on what we might call the mezzanine level up the short flight of stairs behind this hall was built next and served as the dining parlor then as it does now."

"Is the kitchen in its original state?" asked a tall, extremely thin woman in her late twenties. "I thought it looked a lot newer than the rest of the house." Judge Godbold recognized her as Carla Easterling, whom she had met before dinner as they both were entering the dining room. They had shaken hands and introduced themselves, Carla explaining she worked for a small publishing house in Louisville as an editorial assistant. She, too, was signed up for the poetry workshop sessions.

"No," answered Estelle. "The kitchen was originally a separate building outside, which was commonly done then because of the danger of fire. As a matter of fact, it was destroyed by fire much later, about 1840, and an office or study behind the dining room was turned into the kitchen. The library with bedrooms above was added also at that time."

A quick look at the library, with Estelle pointing out its merits, completed the house tour. The visitors shuffled back to the dining room and onto the porch and stood looking at the vista, which had a kind of rough beauty, Baby thought, the property rimmed by tall trees–mainly oaks and massive hackberry trees. The heat seemed to be worse after coming from the cooled house. Baby rolled her sleeves above her elbow, lagging behind the others as they plodded off across the yard. If she could get behind that tower, the hot rays of the low western sun couldn't reach her. To heck with the tour, she thought. She'd wait here until they came back to view the tower.

A stump cut off at chair height seemed a perfect resting spot. She could survey the back and side of the house without being observed by the traveling party who were at the southern perimeter looking at specimens of trees near an old stone wall enclosure--a graveyard? She'd check it out later. To the rear of the house, cabins ringed the yard in an uneven line. And even farther out, beyond the mowed area, the trees seemed endless. Thick secondary growth would hamper anyone who didn't know the trails. Baby presumed there were trails, but she couldn't imagine where they might lead. Maybe to the town several miles away or directly to the college, perhaps.

A movement and flash of color caught her eye. Someone seemed to be in the woods, hidden for the most part behind the trees. Another flash of a different color indicated two people. Clandestine meeting? Or maybe just students from the nearby college taking a shortcut. The group had been informed that trails led through the woods for jogging, so it wasn't surprising that someone had taken the opportunity for a shady walk. Baby peered but the people disappeared into the shadow of the trees. Nothing more to be seen. She held a knee for support and looked upward at the tall stone structure next to her.

A board door led into the tower itself, where she presumed she'd find a rope to pull the bell, maybe a stairway. As protection from the Indians, such a structure might have come in very handy indeed. She yawned. The tour group were taking their time; it was now dusk. She looked toward the porch, or veranda, really. It began at the double doors into the dining room, went toward the rear of the building and then around the corner. A man and a woman were at the far end near the back, apparently deep in conversation. She couldn't make out who they were. Possibly the two who had slipped away earlier. On the porch, in front of the glass dining room doors, Mittens sat, waiting for someone to let him in.

Then Baby saw Diane Marvel emerge alongside the cabins as if coming from the woods. She knew the workshop leader had a room upstairs in the house, so she must have been out walking. Had she been the one she'd spotted in the woods earlier? Rather strange. The couple on the porch had moved to the back side and were out of view altogether.

Baby rose from her seat as the group, chattering now rather companionably, approached. Several more must have dropped out of the tour and gone back through the front of the house, for Baby counted only ten people who showed up by the tower. Estelle was explaining to them that it was both a bell tower and an early refuge from marauding Indians. One of the first structures to be built, the bell tower had served, small as it was, as living quarters, and later the bell was used as a practical way to call in the field hands or announce births, weddings, funerals, and so forth.

Moss Cunningham had persisted to the end, and Baby joined him. "I see I'm not the only one who got tired or hot or both," she commented with a nod at the diminished group. Harold Hillman had disappeared, as had the major and the three younger women who had hung around Diane. And the handsome Rafe Barlow hadn't apparently been on the tour either as were not fashionable Carla Easterling and the two grad students. For that matter, she didn't see her table companion at dinner, Vicki Duggan, and the thin man with a beard. The frail elderly woman, Lila Stouck by name, stood by Estelle's elbow still taking notes and relentlessly asking questions. Appearances can be deceiving, thought Baby.

With some evident relief, the group were dismissed for the evening. Those who weren't quite ready to retire were invited to amuse themselves by watching television or playing cards in the library. Baby thought she might like something to quench her thirst before going to her room. Moss agreed to join her for a soft drink from the machine. As they passed through the door into the dining room, Mittens joined them and trotted along.

Delancy Hart, minus his pith helmet, had followed Judge Godbold and Moss inside and suggested bridge if a fourth could be found. Vicki Duggan entered from the porch, but looked set on going to her room, not even glancing at others in the room. Two people coming from the library turned them down, so they decided to play three-handed. They seated themselves at an old wooden card table, cutting cards for dummy as partner, which fell to Baby. Hart was an intense player, throwing Baby into a small case of nerves when they turned up partners in the next round. After completing a rubber, she suggested they quit playing.

"I'd like to take a look at the collection of books." She pointed to the tall, glazed bookcases against the inner wall. "Books can tell a great deal about their owners, and I'm rather interested in the Bolen family."

Baby eased open the door to one of the bookcases; it gave a squeal as if protesting intrusion by a stranger. The books were orderly, seemingly stacked by size rather than by category. She pulled one out and examined it. Congressional record from 1846, no doubt brought back by Samuel's son when he was in Congress. Other books selected at random revealed a typically catholic taste through the years--books on mathematics, Greek mythology, agriculture, history, and even some novels by Goldsmith, Cooper, Thackeray, Scott, and other less well known authors. What had happened to the Bolens that they'd left such a collection to be sold along with the house and grounds? Had the demise of Angelica sealed the fate of the family to extinction? Perhaps so, if Thomas had been the only offspring and had not married again.

She replaced a book and shut the bookcase door. Though the hour was late and she had had a full day, she felt restless, jumpy. She knew full well what was causing her agitation. Even as a young law student she had not been able to turn her back on a criminal mystery. It was one of the ironies of her life that she'd spent her judicial career hearing civil cases. Estelle's relating the tragedy of Angelica and the horse trainer had whetted her sleuthing appetite and driven out all thoughts of books or poetry for that matter. She glanced at her friend across the room.

Moss and Delancy Hart were chatting with animation as if they were old friends. They looked quite comfortable in a pair of scruffy brocade wing chairs that were to one side of the fireplace. Baby heard them discussing horse breeding and moved discreetly away and out through the dining room, then down the steps, into the hall, and from there to the reception room where she met Estelle talking to Sarah Husbands. Baby wandered around the room, looking again at the portrait and at the furniture, some of which, according to Estelle, must have been here at the time of the murder.

Though the crime took place over 150 years ago, Baby's interest in it was as keen as if it had been yesterday. Who were those people? Would any clues to their relationships remain? And most importantly, could she examine any original materials if available to the public? She didn't want to begin her sojourn here by being chastised if she did a little snooping.

She hoped that all the documentation of the early inhabitants of this place still remained on the premises as Estelle suggested. If so, it would be a piece of luck for her. She felt quite sure no important college documents would be housed in the file cabinet, offering historic documents to peruse. She might take the opportunity to find out for herself later. She went back to the library and said goodnight to the men and retired to her room to read. She dressed for bed, and though her English mystery novel was amusing, her eyes kept shutting, so she extinguished her light and immediately sank into oblivion.

The next thing she knew, it was early morning. It was still too dark to see the hands on her watch, but after turning on her bedside lamp, she saw it was only 5:05, too early to tend to her morning ablutions. Still, she couldn't lie abed with her mind beginning to be active. She slipped into her dressing gown, a lightweight plissé and her travel scuffs. She would avail herself of the inferior coffee from the machine downstairs. By the time she finished drinking it, she would be able to run water for her bath before the others arose. Then maybe a walk around the grounds in the cooler morning air since the day's activities wouldn't begin until breakfast was served, beginning at 7:30. Workshops would convene at nine o'clock.

Grabbing her door key and sticking it in her billfold, she stepped quietly to the stairs, or at least she'd hoped it would be quiet. But the old wooden staircase betrayed her with squeaks and groans even as she crept down, clinging to the bannister and feeling her way cautiously. She needn't feel guilty--nothing had been said about being restricted from going to, say, the snack area at any time.

As she sat in front of the same window where she and Moss had sat the day before, she felt a kind of peace steal over her. The day was dawning out back with a soft yellow light on the horizon. She sipped the coffee and reflected on her decision to attend this workshop. It had been spur of the moment, but even though she might be embarrassed about her writing, there would be compensations. The picturesque Toll House, for instance, and the history behind it. That was something she intended to pursue. As a matter of fact, she thought excitedly, why not now before the house came to life? She would check out the file cabinet in the reception room.

The door opened to a semi-darkened interior. Early morning light was spreading its dim glow through one of the windows, casting shadows. The file cabinet was, as she remembered, in the corner opposite the front door. Two steps into the room, she stopped. There seemed to be a sleeping bag on the floor in the middle of the room--or was it a rolled-up rug? She walked over to it slowly and peered at the obstruction. She saw legs, a woman's legs.

Baby looked for the nearest lamp, which was on the desk. She had to fumble a bit to find the switch. She leaned over the body and saw that the woman was Vicki Duggan, the social worker from Nashville. The blank staring eyes, the face suffused with blood indicated that she was dead and, unquestionably, had been strangled.

Chapter 3

Above all, was the silence: She was aware only of a faint ringing in her ears and her own heartbeat. For a few seconds, she had the strange feeling of being in a vacuum, the air sucked from the room. Then she took a deep breath and stepped away from the body. But before she could reach for the phone on the desk, a movement in the far corner gave her a start until she saw Mittens' green eyes emerge with his white paws padding across the room toward her in a disembodied way.

"Hello, fellow," Baby said, bending to pet the cat, who was mewing and circling her legs. "I wonder what you saw this morning." She then turned to the phone and dialed nine-one-one. She now felt no fear, even though she was convinced a killer had been in this room sometime earlier. Whoever had done the deed was long gone. After being questioned by the operator about the victim, the location, and her own identity, she gave her opinion on the victim's status.

"It's clear that she's dead," she stated, "and it looks like foul play. She appears to have been strangled. I can rouse a doctor, who's also staying here, and I'm sure he'll confirm that." The operator assured her she'd send a patrol car and ambulance immediately.

After hanging up, Baby stepped around the body and checked the front door, holding the knob with the corner of her robe. She had to be careful about fingerprints. But the door was locked. The killer, if he'd come from outside, most likely had entered through the french doors off the dining room. The lock would be easy to jimmy open with a credit card. There was, of course, the kitchen door, which she'd not actually seen but believed opened from the back porch. Would all the doors have been locked? She wondered who might be responsible for doing that? Interesting thought. She'd have to check that out. Though she hated to leave the body untended, she needed to go upstairs to awaken Moss and change into something more presentable before the police came, She let Mittens go before her as she quietly and carefully closed the door to the parlor and went upstairs, listening for any sounds of activity in the house. So much seemed to have happened since she drank that terrible coffee that hours might have gone by, but she knew only minutes had passed and all was still quiet.

Moss quickly responded to her knock on his door. "Coming, coming," he called out softly. Hair ruffled, tying his bathrobe, he gave Baby a questioning look when he saw her at the door. Without being invited, she stepped into the room.

"You need to get into some clothes and come downstairs immediately." She explained about the body to her astonished friend, who assured her he'd meet her in the hall in two minutes. She hurriedly dressed in the clothes she wore the day before, running a comb through her short hair but forgoing any lipstick. Moss was waiting beside her door when she emerged. Without any words, they traversed the hall and descended the stairs as quietly as possible.

Moss knelt beside the body and listened with an ear to the woman's chest. He touched her eyelid, flexed an arm, and nodded to Baby. "Dead about two or three hours, I expect. Body still warm. No rigor yet. I think it's plain to see she was manually strangled. There seems to be bruising there on her neck." He stood up, staring at the body. She had been a moderately attractive woman, thought Baby sadly, a person with emotions and health, with friends and probably family, but was now merely flesh beginning to decay.

They both heard the ambulance come up the drive without the siren. Baby again carefully opened the front door so they could step onto the porch. The EMTs were hurrying to the back of the van to retrieve a stretcher when Moss called out, "No need to rush. I'm a doctor and can assure you the victim is already dead."

"Here comes the Sheriff," said Baby, as a patrol car swung into the drive and stopped with a scattering of gravel beside the ambulance. A tall, lanky man got out of the passenger side carrying a clipboard, followed by the driver, a much younger and heavier version dressed in a similar uniform. Baby greeted the older man first, whom she correctly assumed to be the sheriff, identifying herself and Moss.

"Stringfellow," the officer stated in a laconic fashion, shaking hands with them.

His name could not have been more appropriate, Baby thought parenthetically as she described finding the body. He was a few inches over six feet and painfully thin with a caved in chest and bony, hunched shoulders; altogether, he was somewhat in the shape of a question mark. She led him and his deputy into the front room where the early morning light now exposed the figure of Vicki Duggan even more cruelly. She was dressed in a housecoat that zipped up the front, so she had obviously arisen from bed before coming to this room so early in the morning.

"You made the call, didn't you, ma'am?" Sheriff Stringfellow inquired of Baby, shoving his Stetson back on his forehead. "How did you come upon this here body? She seems to be in a room where I wouldn't expect much traffic this time of day." He gave the judge a frowning look.

"Yes, Sheriff," Baby answered calmly, "I admit I'm an early riser and had gotten a cup of coffee from the machine in the snack room before the others started moving around. I didn't want to disturb anyone, you see, so after finishing my coffee, I came here to–" she thought a white lie might be in order rather than admit to her intention of rifling the file cabinet– "to look again at that portrait," she indicated the picture over the mantel. "We'd heard a story about the lady yesterday, and it interested me. But I immediately saw the body. So I briefly examined it to see if she was alive, and then I called nine-one-one."

"What exactly's goin' on at this place?" the sheriff asked, looking around the room. 'I know it's part of the college, but why are you folks here?"

Moss stepped forward and explained about the workshop. Baby interjected with the dead woman's name and that she, like herself and the doctor, were all from Nashville. "But there are people here from all over the country--about twenty participants as well as the two guest writers."

"Doug," the sheriff said to his deputy. "Go to the car and bring in your camera and the crime scene kit. We need to get some pictures and check for any physical evidence before they take away the body." He indicated the ambulance attendants, who had stopped outside on the front porch, and then again addressed Moss and Baby. "Who's in charge around here?"

"The program director," said Baby, "is Estelle Odom, but she lives off site and won't be here until at least eight-thirty, I'd imagine. Our classes were to start at nine. I wouldn't know how to get hold of her, but the kitchen help should be coming in shortly to fix breakfast. They'll start serving at seven-thirty."

"It's six-fifteen now," the Sheriff said, looking at his watch.

"Someone's pulled into the yard," the deputy announced, coming in from the porch. "I think they're parking out back."

"Probably the cook," commented Baby.

"You say you're a doctor?" Sheriff Stringfellow asked Moss. When Moss assented, the sheriff grunted his approval and asked him if he'd "pronounce"and sign the preliminary report. "We'll get our coroner, who's a local doctor, on this today so he can schedule an autopsy, but if you'll do the honors, you'll save him a trip out here." Moss agreed to certify death and went to the desk to fill out the sheet on the Sheriff's clipboard. Meanwhile, the deputy was taking photos from different angles.

"Sheriff," Baby said, "may we get ourselves cleaned up for the day before we're interviewed? I know the others will be coming soon for breakfast, and it would be better, perhaps, if you set up a time after that to talk to everyone here at Toll House. Would that be agreeable to you?"

"I reckon that would be best. I'm gonna cordon off this room for now so there's no more traffic. You say your classes were to begin at nine, so let's have everyone assembled in–ah, where is the best place for a meeting?"

"The dining room, Sheriff," Moss answered, indicating the room up the few stairs behind the parlor where they stood.

"We'll let you all know for sure after I get hold of this Miz Odom. I'll trust you folks to keep down the speculation. No need to frighten folks. They'll find out soon enough."

At that moment, a worried looking middle-aged woman wearing slacks and a man's shirt with a towel tied around her waist, came down the steps from the dining room and would have entered the room except for the sheriff barring the door. The head cook, thought Baby.

"What is this?" she asked angrily. "What's going on?"

"No need to get in an uproar, ma'am," Sheriff Stringfellow soothed. "There's been an accident but we're taking care of it right now. And you are–?"

"Marjorie Henson. I'm the cook. My helpers will be here soon, and I've got a lot to do."

"You just proceed as usual, ma'am. Get breakfast started, but we'll want to talk with the kitchen crew afterwards at approximately nine o'clock. Uh, do you know how to get in touch with the director, Miz Odom?"

"Why, yes, I have her home number. If you'll come to the kitchen, I can get it for you." The sheriff waited pointedly at the door for Moss and Baby to exit ahead of him.

"As I said, we'll plan to meet with everybody," he repeated to them, "at nine."

"Thank you, Sheriff," Baby answered, heading up the stairs, Moss following behind her.

At the top of the stairs, as they stopped to go to their respective rooms, Baby gave a rueful smile. "I don't think he's looking for any help from us. And to think we're banished to our rooms with a murder right under our noses. What will this do to our workshops, do you think?"

"What can we do except proceed as planned?" Moss said. "No one will be able to leave, at least for a while, and by that time, they may have apprehended the culprit. What puzzles me is why in the world would anyone want to hurt that seemingly innocuous woman."

"Yes, I know. I thought–"

Just then a door opened across from where they were speaking in low tones, and Carla Easterling emerged, looking pale without her makeup and dressed in an animal print dressing gown. "Is anything wrong?" she asked. "I've been hearing a lot of noises downstairs and outside. I stayed put because I didn't want to get in the way, but something is definitely going on."

"I'm afraid one of our group was found dead in the front room this morning," Judge Godbold explained. "Vicki Duggan. I haven't a clue as to what actually happened to her, but it must have taken place very early this morning."

"What do you mean 'happened to her'?"

Baby looked at Moss, who said quietly to Carla, "Please keep this to yourself, at least for now, but it appears she was killed. Other than that, we know absolutely nothing. We'll be meeting with the authorities at nine o'clock. Until then, we must go on as if everything is normal. The sheriff is here, and the ambulance is moving the body out as we speak."

Carla covered her mouth with one hand. "Oh, my God, how terrible! I won't say anything, of course, but can I refer anyone who asks to either of you? It appears you've been talking to someone in charge–the sheriff, I guess, so you know what to say. I'm going to get dressed and then slip onto the back porch and have a cigarette. Will we be getting our breakfast?"

They assured her the cook was on duty, and with that, everyone split up to go their separate ways. Baby gathered up her clothes for the day, along with her toiletries and went into the bathroom to get a quick bath. There were stirrings in the other bedrooms, but she'd be in and out quickly. With one bathroom for, she figured, five people at this end of the hall, speedy action and careful maneuvering were in order.

Chapter 4

The group meeting with Sheriff Stringfellow went much as Baby has surmised it would, being both boring and frustrating. She been through this kind of thing before and knew the drill well. The sheriff and Deputy Crutcher, stood together, their hats still on their heads, while the assemblage of very quiet writers sat at the tables. He had opened the proceedings with a brief and uninformative statement about a "sad incident regarding one of your number," going into little detail. Since the word had spread by now, there were no surprised murmurs or perplexed looks from the group.

"Now," the sheriff intoned, "Deputy Crutcher here is gonna pass out some cards for you all to fill out. Just print your name and home address, and better put down your phone number, too."

"Cell phone, home phone, or both?" inquired the major.

"Well, uh, both, I reckon would be best."

The deputy put lined three by five cards on each table, but participants had to scrabble around in pockets and purses for pens or borrow from their neighbors. So much for writers being prepared, Baby thought.

"Sheriff Stringfellow," she called out.

"Yes, Judge."

So someone had informed him of her title between the time she left him and this meeting.

"Would it be helpful to have us note whether we are staying in the Toll House or the cabins?"

"Yeah. That'll be good. Put down that information, if you please, then Doug, here'll pick up the cards."

The woman named Sarah Husbands held up her hand and was acknowledged by the sheriff. "Sir, when can we go home? If this woman was murdered . . . "

There was an immediate undertow of conversation until the sheriff held up his hands to quiet the group. "I can tell you right now, it looks like murder, but we haven't had the autopsy and won't know for sure until then. Even so, I wouldn't say it was random, not a burglary gone wrong where she stumbled onto the thief. No, ma'am, it doesn't seem to be that. Nothin's been disturbed in the house, fer instance. But no one's going anywhere until I say so. You all can lock the doors to your rooms and cabins, and someone needs to make sure the doors of the house are locked at night."

"Can we have a guard posted outside?" asked Carla Easterling. "I'd think that would be the least you could do."

Stringfellow snuffled a little laugh. "This ain't the big city, ma'am. I've only got fifteen deputies to cover the whole county for all shifts. Now, we think we can handle any problems that might arise, but I can't hardly spare a man to sit all night in front of this here house. You might get the college to see about a night watchman." He looked at Estelle Odom, who shook her head dispiritedly.

"Certain tasks in the running this college are handled by students," she explained. "We've never had any safety issues, so there aren't any actual security people, but I believe if we take precautions like the sheriff says, we can be perfectly safe."

"Whatdya mean 'we'?" Delancy Hart said in a belligerent voice. "Don't you live elsewhere? We're the ones who must take the chance of running into a killer."

But Estelle could only shrug and look embarrassed.

Despite the nervous gripes and the unsatisfied wishes, the group began to settle into something like acquiescence, because of or maybe in spite of the sheriff's amazing lack of emotion. Baby wondered if he planned to do any investigating at all. She thought it might have been helpful for the authorities to have a little more information on the card–occupation, age and gender, for example–in case someone might think to interview them. But she was not going to run his investigation for him.

"I have a feeling," she murmured to Moss, "he'll give up on this 'incident' pretty quickly, but if he has any sense at all he might call in someone for help."

"This does seem out of his league," Moss agreed.

After Stringfellow and the deputy left the room, Estelle took over, beseeching everyone to cooperate in getting back to their regular schedule. "It's still just a little past nine-thirty, so we have plenty of time to go to our groups and get started."

"I don't think I can concentrate," cried Lila Stouck, the elderly woman, looking every inch her years.

"But what are we supposed to do?" Moss said in a calm voice. "We don't want to sit around discussing the situation, do we? I think Estelle has the right idea."

There were some supportive voices that chimed in, including Baby's.

"The thing is," Harold Hillman said loudly, "we can look upon this whole terrible thing as grist for our mills. We are all supposed to be writers, aren't we?"

No one replied to his words; Estelle told everyone to take a ten minute break and then regroup. The fiction people were to remain in the dining room while the poets were to go to the library for their workshop. The kitchen helpers, whom the sheriff had seen prior to the general meeting, came in and began to clear the tables of dishes.

Before leaving the dining room, Baby stood in a little queue around Estelle, who deflected the concerns and questions by saying she knew no more than they did, and they'd all have to be patient and, of course, careful. She then turned to Baby. "Can I help you, Judge?"

"I'm curious about the doors in Toll House. Three, aren't there?" When Estelle nodded, she went on, "Who actually is responsible for locking them at night? Or are they routinely left unlocked when visitors are occupying the house?"

"Oh, no, they're supposed to be locked. We have a student who goes around at ten o'clock and locks all the doors of this house and any outbuildings if they are not already locked."

"And I gathered from what the sheriff didn't say that no one actually appeared to have broken in early this morning?"

Estelle nodded, rather brightly. "Yes, and that's good. Presumably, the poor woman let him in, I'd guess. That should be something of a comfort for everyone. Obviously, this was some personal thing between Vicki and her killer. I agree with the sheriff."

The judge nodded, not stating the obvious unmentioned possibility that the killer might be staying in the house, and thanked her for the information. She went thoughtfully to her room to ready herself for the session.

Upstairs, Baby took up the folder containing her poetry and began to sort through it. Which poem should she bring for the initial reading? She thought maybe "Woman With a Walking Stick." She considered it an impressionistic poem, not imbued with ideas of universal significance but rather giving a glimpse, she hoped, of something interesting. It had the further advantage of being quite short. She had already made ten copies to be handed out to her fellow poets and Diane as had been requested in her letter of acceptance, but she now subtracted one copy. Poor Vicki, so brutally murdered. Yet, it seemed a rather business-like murder, she reflected, without frenzied overkill, which is sometimes a clue to a very personal relationship. This seemed, in a sense, more like an execution, quietly and efficiently done. In fact, Sheriff Stringfellow was probably correct: this was not a random crime. She, too, believed Vicki was targeted

This murder was going to be a distraction, she admitted to herself. Well, there was nothing for it, she'd better concentrate on poetry. No one was calling on her services to help unlock the mystery of Vicki Duggan's murder. Not yet, anyhow. It remained to be seen if she could do a little quiet investigating on her own.

In the library, now filling up with participants, she sat on an upright chair next to Sarah Husbands, still complaining about being kept from going home. "This is unconscionable, Judge. You are a judge, huh?" She barely acknowledged Baby's nod before going on heatedly. "They've got contact information, don't they, so why should we stay in a dangerous environment? Why, this investigation could take months."

"They have to make some sort of effort initially," Baby replied, "but in my experience, if it begins to take too long to find who's guilty of the crime, they'll have to let us go. At the moment, we're part of a crime scene and unfortunately we must stick it out."

"I can't see the local sheriff making much headway," commented the thin man named Blair Babcock. "I bet he hasn't solved a murder in his entire career unless the 'perp' as they like to call them, walked in and confessed."

Everyone laughed at this as a way to relieve the tension, Baby felt. Not an unusual response to a highly charged atmosphere. Just then, Diane entered the room, followed by Carla and Dottie Morris. A chair beside a candle stand had been set aside for their leader near the fireplace.

Baby looked around at the nine poets. Three men were present, including Babcock, Edward Ormond, and Rafe Barlow. Maybe the latter's interest in poetry explained why he and Diane were tête à tête yesterday. She recognized all the women in the group by name except for a mousy young woman seated in a corner of the sofa. Her name tag was not quite visible to Baby, but she assumed Diane would allow for some sort of introduction of the participants to take place.

"Rather than give you a talk about poetry, I think the most interesting and helpful activity now would be for each of you to share with the others a sample of your work." She smiled at them in a reassuring way, and her features softened. "Who'd like to begin? Anyone–or shall I decide for you? I know it's difficult to begin reading one's work aloud, but once you get your feet wet, you'll find it gets easier." She looked around the room hopefully. "I know! First, let's start by introducing yourselves and telling us where you're from. Judge Godbold, would you lead off?" she said, nodding at Baby, who was to her immediate left.

Oh, dear, Baby thought. We are blessed with a disorganized leader. She hadn't even prepared her opening activity. She gave a small sigh as she briefly repeated her name and told where she was from. Well, literary types tended to be less interested in process than product, so perhaps she should have expected this. She could only hope Diane's comments would be helpful to the would-be poets.

Chapter 5

After picking up her box lunch, Baby joined Moss on the porch, where they found a small picnic table under the kitchen window. They were alone except for Mittens, who came ambling over to them and reclined with quiet good manners into a sphinx-like position.

Baby looked closely at her friend before biting into a croissant stuffed with chicken salad. "How are things going in your group?" she asked him. He seemed a trifle glum.

"Slow, mighty slow." He grimaced. "If Hillman thinks by dominating the conversation during the workshop session he's fulfilling his role, he's sadly mistaken. He just doesn't get it. I think it might have been smart to have each of us describe our project, for starters."

"Yes, doesn't he remember he's scheduled to give his talk tonight after dinner? I dread it, frankly. He's so full of himself. On the other hand, Diane is to speak tomorrow night, and that may be brief and disjointed, if I'm right about her style. She seems, oddly enough, quite insecure and inexperienced." They both ate in silence for a while.

"Did we make a mistake, Baby?" Moss asked, peeling an orange. "I really thought Hillman had a lot of work to his credit and would be an excellent source of advice for prospective writers. Now, I'm not so sure. He's going to have to work fast to come up to the mark, in my estimation."

"We'll give them a chance, of course, to redeem themselves. Maybe the murder has thrown them off their stride, too. From what you've told me about your stories, though, they sound fascinating. And I'm sure that eventually Hillman will have to let all of you read your stuff. I hope you'll get some helpful feedback." She sighed. "I've got to read one of my poems during the afternoon session, and it'll be a new experience for me. I felt much less intimidated when I presided over my first trial."

"I know, I know," he commiserated. "But we're here for the experience, and no one knows us, so that's a comfort, too, if we make fools of ourselves."

"Exactly," she laughed. "I expect I'll get through it. What I probably won't get through is not knowing what's going on about Vicki Duggan's murder. I'd love to know the details of the autopsy, which won't take place until at least tomorrow afternoon, I heard."

"Why don't you take a trip to the Sheriff's Office in a day or so, introduce yourself again to the sheriff and give him your credentials. He may not have heard of the more famous cases you helped solve, but surely he'd be happy to bring you in for consultation."

"Oh, you think?" she said with a wry smile. "It will take more than that, I expect, to impress this sheriff. But, you know, Moss, I might visit the Sheriff's Office. Yes, I might indeed. All he can do is kick me out, but if he's perplexed by the murder, and I bet he is, he may eventually welcome someone else doing a little sleuthing."

They rose from the table, both in a little better spirits than when they sat down, leaving Mittens eating the corner of Moss's sandwich that he'd left for him on the floor.

By two o'clock, the groups had reassembled, everyone in the poetry session sitting in the same seats as they'd had that morning. Baby could never decide if it was a matter of courage for her to change seats at a regular meeting place or if moving around belonged in the realm of cussedness, just wanting to throw a monkey wrench into the human desire for stability and security. Nonetheless, she meekly took her place along with a few deep breaths since, as Diane had informed them prior to lunch that "Judge Godbold will start off the afternoon session."

After giving the title, "Woman With a Walking Stick," Baby began her reading in a somewhat stilted voice unlike her normally fluid contralto:

I see her every morning

walking as if her life

depended upon it,

wielding a slender

ivory-topped stick

like a baton

as she conducts the ground

beneath her

Not bound by great age

or balky joints

she might be using the stick for show

Or perhaps

she feels the need to quell

the ups and downs of the road

as she pounds through

each grey dawn

Not unexpectedly, a dead silence came over the room after she finished reading. Diane asked her to read it again, following which she commented that it was "an interesting study," and what did others think?

Lois Jelenick, after trying to read Diane's expression, offered that it had little depth, that it was one-dimensional. That set up a flurry of comments, most disagreeing with that assessment. However, Carla Easterling said that it seemed "a bit ordinary." Diane asked them to strive for positive or constructive comments, so Edward Ormond said he liked it; it expressed questions about the way the woman viewed life, didn't it?

"The baton image is quite good," said Dottie Morris from deep within a wing chair. She was a tiny person with a head too large for her body. "The idea of conducting the ground--I don't know what it means, but it seems clever."

Somehow, Baby got through the reading and the criticism with a minimum of discomfort. No one, including Diane, suggested changing any words and that was good. Furthermore, the poem was not personal, so she wasn't embarrassed by revealing too much. She listened to the reading of the next few poems, though, with a little more confidence in her ability to criticize. Hadn't she acquitted herself pretty well for the first go-around?

The unprepossessing young woman in the corner of the couch was named Ashley Benson, who read a surprisingly intense love poem. Blair Babcock read a nature poem describing trees and a river with a rather trite description of his feelings, a point which Baby didn't bring up. Diane made a suggestion on how to change the diction a little to improve it, but generally, people didn't say much to him.

The session ended with Rafe reading a strange poem about cornering a rat. Baby couldn't make up her mind, and neither could the others, if he was talking about an animal or a human. He looked mysterious and, smiling, wouldn't say, only that each person could read into it what he wished. Diane seemed to take it as a joke, asking Rafe to "push the envelope" a little farther for more reflection on his subject.

The dinner meeting seemed inordinately long, with Hillman droning on about his career, the ups and downs of his life, the development of his writing style, the obtuseness of critics, the rewards of fame, and other yawn-producing subjects.

Eventually, they were all dismissed for the evening. Delancy Hart managed to gather together a foursome for bridge, with Moss playing with Delancy and a rather reluctant Baby sitting opposite Lila Stouck. The elderly woman may have looked over the hill, but her bridge skills, Baby discovered, were sharp. The two women won the first rubber. Some conversation was allowed, though occasionally Delancy asked testily, "Can you bid?" The murder was still the main topic, everyone except Baby speculating on why Vicki had been the victim. Lila thought no matter what the sheriff said, that the poor woman had gotten up early for some reason, maybe she heard something, and stumbled upon an intruder.

"But what could he have been after in this old place?" Moss asked. "And if he did or didn't find whatever it was, why wasn't the place turned upside down? Nothing seemed to be touched. I think she was meeting someone."

"Oh, she let him in all right," said Delancy, sorting his cards. "Maybe he followed her here from wherever she's from, Nashville, wasn't it? And planned to knock her off. What if she was blackmailing some married man, a prominent person, who couldn't afford for the affair, if that's what it was, to come out. One no-trump."

"Do you think we'll ever know what happened?" asked Lila plaintively. "It seems to me these kinds of killings go unpunished an awful lot. You read about them in the paper, and then that's the end of it."

"I think we'll know eventually," Baby said. "It may take a more experienced investigator than Sheriff Stringfellow, but I have every confidence this murder will be solved." She smiled at the puzzled looks all but Moss gave her, and then made her bid.

Before the morning session the following day, Baby was in her room, attaching the lapis lazuli earrings that matched her simple bead necklace. She looked at herself in the mirror, wondering if it was time for her to give up wearing black. Her black shirt, which she wore over a jeans skirt, might be accentuating facial lines and wrinkles, according to a magazine article she'd read about graceful aging. She decided that black was not yet unbecoming with her silver streaked dark hair and relatively smooth complexion.

She was locking the door to her room when she became aware of loud voices coming from Diane's room, which was next door to her own. She brazenly walked over to the door and bent her head close to it. No question about it; she could plainly hear Hillman's voice raised in anger. "Don't think of it," he boomed. "You know the consequences."

"Get out, get out!" Diane cried.

Baby backed off, but the door started to open too quickly for her to run for it. She opened her folder of materials and let the papers fall to the floor, dropping to her knees to pick up the papers. Hillman threw back at Diane as he came out of the room, "There are consequences, and don't you forget it."

As he moved around Baby, she muttered, "Sorry," and Hillman, apologizing brusquely, headed down the hall to his own room. Baby glanced through the open door before Diane closed it and noticed the woman looked suspiciously like she'd been crying. She didn't acknowledge Baby's presence.

Well, well, Baby reflected, going downstairs. So those two have something going on between them. The question is: was it something prior to this workshop, or has something erupted since they arrived? She wondered how composed Diane would be at the poetry meeting.

In fact, Diane seemed to have gathered herself together enough to conduct the meeting in her usual style, that is to say, by arranging things so as not to require much of her. The group, though, was beginning to coalesce into something dynamic and real, an entity unto itself.

Chapter 6

They had their first extra-curricular activity that afternoon, a caving expedition, led by a faculty member and assisted by some geology students. Moss had revised his first opinion of the activity, finding it was to be a easy descent for novices, and was going along. As for the judge, she decided this was an ideal time, if such a word could be used, to visit the Sheriff's Office. Would the autopsy have taken place? She was impatient to know the outcome, if indeed the coroner had examined the body. What arrangements were being made for the body? Did the woman have family in Nashville? Surely these were questions the sheriff would answer without any qualms.

Driving down the main street of Nashua, Baby understood why the sheriff had so few people working for him. The county seat was a very small town, with just a few businesses centered around a small courthouse of fairly recent construction in a grassy square. A dilapidated band stand was positioned at one corner of the lawn and indicated that the town fathers at one period in its history had high hopes of a cultural life. No doubt the original courthouse had burned or fallen down. Baby turned at the first intersection and to her surprise found the building she was seeking on an adjacent street.

The Sheriff's Office was a one-story building with an ell on one side, which was surrounded by a high wire fence, most likely the jail area. Inside, Baby saw a woman wearing the latest in a headphone seated at the switchboard, but turned away from it and typing. Multi-tasking would be the order of the day, Baby understood, in such a small office. The woman looked up at her and smiled.

Baby smiled back. "Is Sheriff Stringfellow in? I'm Judge Godbold from Toll House, and I would like to talk to him, if he's in his office."

The woman called out to an open door just beyond her station, "Sheriff, a judge is here to see you."

In a less than a minute, Sheriff Stringfellow came to the door, looking particularly done in, but perhaps, Baby speculated, he'd just been taking a nap in his chair or hunched over an official report, for as he greeted her, he also stretched his lean frame to almost vertical. "What can I do fer ya, ma'am?"

She walked toward him, and he reluctantly made way for her to enter his office. She found a chair opposite his desk and sat down. It would take more than a cool response to her presence to dislodge her before she'd made her request.

And at first the sheriff seemed to accept her interest in the case with equanimity until she asked for details of the autopsy, which he'd told her had taken place that morning. Abruptly, he sat back in his chair as if startled by her inquiry.

She hastened to explain what he might have thought was inordinate interest. "For the last few years I've been assisting the Nashville Police Department as well as the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation on several of their more difficult cases, with their complete approval. As you might suspect, sometimes it's easier for one in my amateur position to ferret out information. In the case of Vicki Duggan, especially with my being Johnny-on-the-spot, I could maybe find out some things that would take much longer for officials to do." She gave a deprecatory shrug and looked down at her lap. She hoped it was more judicious to tack toward quiet modesty than show what he might regard as too much self-assurance.

For a long, silent moment, she wondered if the sheriff was getting ready to throw her out, but when she raised her eyes, he was staring at her and nodding his head. "So you work with law enforcement like as a kind of hobby and not fer pay?"

"Yes," she agreed eagerly. "I involve myself because of my desire to serve the interests of justice. I won't bore you with the details of how this all started, but if you'd like to check on my record, call Lieutenant Manners of the Nashville Police Department and he'll vouch for me."

"I think I'll trust your word, Judge. I have to admit it's a pretty tough situation out there at that Toll House. Look at all those people on the premises with opportunity and nobody able to give an alibi for the time of the murder."

"Has the time been verified?" Baby took a deep breath. She was in!

"Our coroner agreed with your doctor that she'd been strangled manually at approximately 2:00 to 3:00 in the morning."

"Any defensive marks on the body?"

"Nary a one, which made us sit up and take notice, I can tell you that. It must have been fast and furious. Seems a pretty straightforward surprise attack. Also, a knot on the back of her head tells us that she was forced to the floor."

"Yes," Baby remarked thoughtfully. "I thought that might be the case. Sheriff, when will the body be released to her family? I presume someone will be coming to take her home."

"Her brother is comin' tomorrow. Since there weren't no question about her identity, and the family couldn't do nothin' to help, it seemed best to advise him to wait until all possible forensic evidence had been collected." He stated this proudly, as if trying to impress the judge with his professionalism.

"That seems reasonable. Nothing much about the body except the obvious signs of manual strangulation and the bump on her head, you say. Your–ah, forensics team didn't find anything helpful at the scene of the crime, is that right, or are they still investigating from that angle?" As far as she knew, though the tape was still up around the front room, no police were checking further for clues in the room.

The sheriff rose from his desk, Baby following his lead, guessing he`was ready to end the interview. "We think we've recovered all that we're gonna. No helpful fingerprints, since everybody was in that room, according to Miz Odom, when they come in to register. I can tell you in confidence, Judge, there ain't much else to go on. We'll be lettin' you folks back into the room shortly."

"Fine. May I tell the workshop director that, or will you be talking with Ms. Odom?"

"No, you can tell her we'll be back tomorrow to finish up in the room. If she has any more questions, she can talk with me then. We'll be meetin' with everybody there as soon as we get our ducks in a row."

"Ah, yes, absolutely. One more thing. Could you tell me when Vicki Duggan's brother plans to be here tomorrow? Did he give an indication?"

"Yes'm, he thought he'd get here about noon."

"I'd very much like to see him. There are a few questions about his sister's life in Nashville that may be of interest, which I'm hoping he'll share with me. Of course," she added, "I'll relay to you any information that you could possibly use."

At the sheriff's nod, she fished around in her purse and brought out her card and a pen, with which she wrote down her cell phone number. "Please call me when he arrives. I can be here in a matter of minutes. Thank you so much for being so forthcoming, Sheriff."

The sheriff seemed a little non-plussed at Baby's words, muttering that it "was a pleasure," an interesting expression of their meeting, but maybe it was pleasurable for him to have a sincerely interested and possibly helpful confederate working on a baffling case.

That evening after the group had polished off a deep-dish apple pie with the flakiest crust Baby had tasted since lard had been banned as shortening, Estelle rose to introduce Diane. She was identified as a "premier poet," who was prepared to enlighten the participants about the subject. Baby thought it a rather amorphous description and couldn't imagine what was to follow. But as Diane, dressed a little more formally tonight in a flowing figured silk dress, stood to polite applause and began to speak, Baby came to attention. This was not a recital of her struggles and hopes and successes ala Harold Hillman, but instead a rather fascinating overview of historical periods and the poetry that emerged from those periods.

"Like all the arts, fine or applied, poetry reflects the world that the artists inhabit," Diane concluded, after a thirty-minute speech that began with the Greeks. "Now, in our modern age, it's not surprising that we give much latitude to form, rhythm, and rhyme in the composition, a latitude undreamt of in times when life was more structured and behavior enforced by either society's mores or those in power." With a few more words expressing her delight in being with the group, she sat down to more than polite applause.

Baby turned to Moss and said in a low voice, "She may be uncertain-sounding in a small group, but this was quite a scholarly talk. I enjoyed it very much."

"She may be one of those people who do poorly in extemporaneous situations."

"Yes," Baby agreed doubtfully. But maybe she was expecting too much.

Chapter 7

After breakfast the next morning, Baby ran into Estelle, who was entering the dining room from the porch. She stopped to tell her about the sheriff's news that they were about to release the front room from the restrictive tape.

"Thank heavens for that," the woman exclaimed. "I've had so many occasions when I needed to get into the file cabinet or desk. It'll seem a bit creepy, though, going in there after a woman has been killed, but at least there wasn't any blood, was there?"

"No, and not to be callous, but life must go on even in the face of death."

"Absolutely! I guess this means the police won't be messing the place up anymore checking for clues."

"According to Sheriff Stringfellow, there aren't any clues in there. Maybe a state-of-the-art forensics unit would be more particular, but I believe we've gotten all that can be expected from the sheriff and his group."

"I do wish, Judge, someone would get to the bottom of this murder," Estelle said gloomily. "I don't think any of us can fully relax until we know the culprit is in custody."

The two had been carrying on their conversation quietly at the perimeter of the dining room, but now the judge took Estelle's elbow and guided her through the french doors, back onto the porch. "I'm going to meet with Vicki's brother today when he comes for the body, and I hope to continue my private investigation alongside the official one. The sheriff knows and approves of my activity, since I am well acquainted with crime solving in the Nashville area."

Estelle's eyes widened. "Really? I didn't know. Is this part of your judicial work?"

Baby laughed. "No, no, my work as a judge was in Chancery or the non-criminal court. This crime solving activity is my hobby, you might say."

"Wonderful! If there's anything I can do to help, Judge, please don't hesitate. I feel better already knowing someone with real experience in these matters will be looking into the murder." She gave the judge an earnest look. "You know, I don't think there's been a murder in these parts for a long time."

Baby patted her arm in a reassuring way. "I'd like you to keep your eyes and ears open and let me know if you detect anything suspicious concerning our group–any associations that pique your interest, any quarrels you may overhear," in this regard she thought of the words between Diane and Hillman, "and even gossip about participants. Ordinarily, we'd pay no attention to such trivial-seeming matters, but things have changed, and we need to be alert. And one other thing. Please keep this conversation to yourself. Will you do that?"

"Oh, yes," Estelle breathed. "You can count on me."

For the rest of the morning, during the poetry session and lunch, Baby couldn't keep from wondering about her coming interview with Vicki's brother and what she might find out. She had formulated a list of questions in her mind, which she hoped the man could answer. What she didn't know was how close he'd been to his sister. But before she could quite finish her luncheon sandwich, her phone vibrated from inside the pocket of her culottes. She apologized for interrupting Moss's conversation as he chatted away beside her, and answered her phone to the dispatcher's voice, telling her that Ken Duggan was waiting there at the office. "I'll be right over," she assured the woman.

She unhooked her purse from the top of the ladder back chair and grabbed an apple, calling back to the puzzled Moss, "I'll tell you about it later." She'd not mentioned her proposed meeting with Vicki's brother, unsure if the sheriff would even bother to call her. But with the call coming so promptly, her opinion of Sheriff Stringfellow advanced a degree.

The trip to town took no more than ten minutes of fairly fast driving. She pulled the old Mercedes into the parking area in front of the Sheriff's Office and halted with a little too much sudden braking, causing Deputy Crutcher, who was at the door about to enter the office, to stop in his tracks and look around.

She gave him an embarrassed wave of her hand as she emerged from the car. "I have trouble judging distance for these nose-in parking slots."

He smiled at her. She wondered if it was amusement rather than friendliness. "Come in, Judge. The sheriff has already interviewed the Duggan woman's brother, but he says you want to see him too. He'll be inside waiting for the funeral home people from Nashville to load the body." He held the door for her to enter.

"Where is the body? Do you have a morgue?" She envisioned a cold, dank cellar beneath the Sheriff's Office, lit by a bare bulb in the ceiling, a drain in the floor stained with body fluids.

"No, ma'am, we use the regional hospital, which is on the outskirts of town."

Inside the office, Deputy Crutcher looked around and not seeing anyone in the waiting room, addressed the dispatcher, "Where's Mr. Duggan, Becky?"

She pointed to a door at the end of a short hall. "In the conference room."

"Come with me, Judge," the deputy said. Baby followed the young man, thinking he would be a worthy successor to Sheriff Stringfellow. He was no more than thirty, she reckoned and seemingly intelligent–the sheriff's right hand man. He had black hair worn rather long with bright, tobacco-colored eyes in a suntanned face. It was he who'd arrived at the murder scene to do the sheriff's bidding.

Inside the conference room, Deputy Crutcher introduced Baby to a rather portly man with light colored hair who stood up upon her arrival. He was clearly older than his sister, in his late forties or early fifties. They shook hands while the deputy excused himself and left the room.

"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Duggan," Baby said, seating herself on a wooden chair at the solid oak table. After expressing condolences, she said, "Shall we make ourselves as comfortable as possible?"

"I'm glad to be of any help, Judge, but I'm damned–pardon me--if I can figure out what Vicki had to do with someone wanting to kill her. It must have been that she stumbled upon someone in the act of robbery. That's what the sheriff suggested."

Baby raised her eyebrows. "He did?" She recalled the sheriff was quite sure there was no evidence of anything being stolen or even anything there of value to a thief. "I'm afraid, Mr. Duggan, he was trying to make things easier for you. To be frank, I happen to believe Vicki was targeted, that someone wanted her dead. And that's why I needed to talk to you."

He frowned. "I can't believe it, not really. But anything I can tell you, of course, I'm perfectly willing. Vicki led a most inoffensive, almost blameless life. She had many friends, and in her work she was absolutely dedicated to helping people."

"She worked for the Nashville Department of Children's Services, didn't she?"

"Yes, a social worker, if you will. And a darned good one, too!" For a moment he seemed about to break down; then he took a deep breath and pulled himself together.

"I'm sure she was. I happened to have spoken with her over dinner that first evening and I found her to be most personable. Tell me, did she have any men friends? You know, a boyfriend, someone special that she saw?"

"Not that I knew. No, I'm almost sure not. We recently celebrated our mother's seventy-fifth birthday, and Vicki could have brought anyone to the party, but she invited only some long-time women friends, old school chums." He shook his head. "No, I'd say she wasn't seeing anyone at the moment."

"But she had a boyfriend at some time in the past, surely, someone serious?"

"I think so when she was in Clarksville. But it didn't work out, and I never knew much about it. As a matter of fact, we weren't very close at that time. I'd been transferred by my company to Atlanta and worked there until about three years ago, so I didn't know much about her personal relationships." He smiled sadly. "She was always just my sweet little kid sister."

"So she didn't always work in Nashville?"

"No. Up until about a dozen or more years ago she was with social services in Clarksville. Being so close to Fort Campbell, Kentucky, there were quite a few soldier-related problems. Town girls in trouble with GI's–them taking off for duty elsewhere; also the usual abuse cases and then the drug-related cases, it being a college town. We're from Columbia, and it's not so far from Nashville, so I guess it was natural to seek a position in a larger field closer to our old home where Mother still lives. And Vicki has–or rather, she had done well, as I said."

"Was she ever involved in a difficult case, one of some notoriety in maybe Clarksville or even Nashville?" She couldn't think of anything that came across her ken lately, but there'd been too many news stories through the years for her to pull them up in her memory unaided.

Ken Duggan stared at the table, thinking silently. He then looked up and said, "Vicki had to testify years ago in a teen murder. She'd been the case worker for a problem family. A young man--a boy, ,murdered someone, his father, I believe, or older brother. Can't be sure."

"Where was this?" She still couldn't recall such a case in her bailiwick.

"Clarksville, it was. So it had to be at least fifteen years ago. Vicki was fairly shook up about it. She was used to testifying in court, custody cases, that sort of thing, but this was a bad one, as I remember."

"But you don't recall any repercussions as far as Vicki was concerned." At Duggan's negative gesture, she continued, "Do you know what happened to the young man?"

"I have no idea. He was released, I believe."

"There must have been mitigating circumstances," Baby murmured. "And his age, too."

"Of course, no one knew who he was since he was a minor."

"Probably a closed session to maintain privacy. Can you think of any other cases she may have been involved in that were difficult?"

He shook his head. "She had to testify a lot, and there were women that had to be taken to shelters, I remember her talking about that."

"She never complained about being stalked herself?"

"I can't think she ever mentioned anything that threatened her."

Just then, Deputy Crutcher appeared at the door. "The hearse is outside ready to leave."

Duggan and Baby both stood up, the judge giving her hand to him as she expressed again her thanks and sympathy. "When are you planning her services?" she asked.

"Saturday. She'll have many co-workers from both Nashville and Clarksville, as well as family members coming from around Tennessee, so we thought Saturday would be best." The man nodded a gracious goodbye to her and left the room, Baby looking after him thoughtfully. Anything to go on? She wasn't sure.
Chapter 8

Driving back to Toll House, Baby sighed over her brief meeting with Sheriff Stringfellow. She'd stopped in at his office to report on her interview with Duggan, but couldn't elucidate for him anything worth following up on. "If what he told me seems to apply to any of the inmates at Toll House," she assured him, "I'll tell you immediately, but at the moment, nothing springs out at me."

The sheriff permitted himself a small smile. "I couldn't see that he knew diddly-squat when I talked to him. Mebbe you kin nose around at the old place for clues, but I doubt if you kin find out anything important."

"I've not given up yet, and I'll certainly keep you posted. Thanks again, Sheriff, for allowing me to speak with Mr. Duggan."

With a friendly nod to Deputy Crutcher, sitting at a desk near the dispatcher, Baby left the office feeling a little dispirited. What had she expected? A pointed reference that would link one of their number to the murdered woman? That would have been too easy. She backed her car out and drove through the little town and onto the road at a more leisurely pace than when she'd arrived. Of course, she could eliminate a boyfriend turning up in a murderous rage or an inflamed parent from a recent court decision stalking the woman to the countryside and taking revenge for her testimony. Those scenarios simply wouldn't fit the circumstances. The crime, she was still convinced, had to do with those currently at Toll House, which meant considerably more investigation on her part.

Friday evening, Baby and Moss were taking a walk outside, comparing notes on their respective groups. Mittens seemed to have attached himself to Moss, scampering alongside him wherever he went. Moss only complained that Mittens had a tendency to bump up against his leg while they were both walking, a dangerous business. He'd tripped and nearly fallen several times.

The two friends had just left the dinner table, both marveling at the superb meal of ham and new potato salad, fresh green beans, and tomatoes from the vine, all raised on the campus farm and prepared by students under the supervision of Marjorie Henson, the head cook.

Baby confessed to Moss she was increasingly heartened by the poetry sessions, believing she would profit from the exercise of reading and criticism. "And I hear only the occasional grumble from those few who consider themselves prisoners."

Moss, on the other hand, complained at the still sluggish pace of their group. "Hillman interrupts the readings every so often, which makes everybody nervous and self-conscious. I have to wonder how many writers workshops he's been involved with. He's really a very annoying individual, published writer that he may be."

Baby agreed. "I confess I don't think much of him as a person, but maybe you can come away with some good tips on how to attack the publishing world--he seems to be quite knowledgeable on that point."

They laughed, rounding the corner of the house and setting off in the direction of the bell tower. Mittens ran ahead, jumping awkwardly over some particularly high weeds. The evening was fine with a fresh breeze blowing, which although it promised rain, moderated the heat to a mild simmer.

"I understand Vicki Duggan's funeral is tomorrow," said Moss.

"Yes, and isn't it odd, I somehow feel we all should be attending it. We'd only known the woman one day, and yet because of our circumstances, I have a sense of almost kinship with not just Vicki but everyone else here."

Moss nodded in agreement. "Maybe it's the lifeboat syndrome. We're all members of some sort of brotherhood--you know, all vulnerable to exposure and criticism and especially to our own insecurities."

"Maybe even more vulnerable now."

"Found any hot clues to the murder?" Moss looked up at her with a mischievous grin.

She shrugged. "I know you think I'm a little silly spending so much thought on the crime, and really, I know it's what the police should be doing, but, darn it, Moss, mostly the police in these rural areas don't have the time or experience to persist in difficult crimes. If the suspect doesn't practically jump out and confess, they don't bother to dig for the answers or even to check for less than obvious evidence."

"And that drives you crazy, right?" He laughed, taking a little hop step to keep up with Baby's long-legged stride across the lawn. Their walk led them past the bell tower and at the back of the cabins, as they headed toward the deep woods at the perimeter of the property.

"Yes," she admitted, ruefully, "it does. I can't seem to rest easy until I've gotten some answers--if not from the police then from my own snooping. Her brother says that Vicki Duggan had never been married, and she apparently had no current boyfriend. So I think we can rule out anyone coming from Nashville after her. There's no point to that. I am definitely convinced the murder was committed by someone in our group."

"Do you feel safe, considering?"

"Actually, I do. I can lock the door to my room, and that's the important thing. We can't know at this point if the murderer came from outside or was already inside the house. I don't want to tip my hand, of course, about my investigating. And even though I felt I had to let Estelle in on my snooping, I've asked her to keep quiet about it."

"What about the Nashville connection? Anybody in our group from there?"

"Not at first glance, but I intend to check out the history of the men to see if someone had originally come from there, or ever lived near there at some time."

"Men? Then you've narrowed it down?"

"Think about it: it's a man's crime, for one thing, violent and brutal. I've never heard of a woman throttling another grown person. They may have, but I've not heard of it. It requires a great deal of strength for one thing. Most women couldn't have done it without Vicki putting up a fight, and that kind of struggle would leave marks."

"So all we guys are suspects." .

"Not you, of course," she acknowledged genially, "or Delancy Hart either. He's a bit too old. I noticed, too, that his hands are arthritic. I'd have to count seven men as potential killers: the major, Rafe Barlow, the two grad students, George and Omar, Blair Babcock--though he doesn't look quite strong enough either--and Edward Ormond, the professor."

"That's only six–oh," he said, holding up fingers, "Harold Hillman, of course."

"Yes, Hillman. I shouldn't want to leave him out. As a matter of fact, he seems to be universally disliked. The other morning, I overheard Diane Marvel cursing him as she threw him out of her room."

"Really!"

"Yes, but a person can be very disagreeable and not be a murderer. I don't have any reason to suspect him more than the others. I must try to find out some background information on these gentlemen. Moss--would you, could you help?" She stopped and put her hand on his arm, giving him a coaxing smile.

"Me? You want me to pry into their histories, too?"

"I'd like you to find yourself seated beside these men at the dining table during meals–one or two at a time, of course. I'll sit with you and, naturally, make conversation with them too. If I simply try to interview people, I won't come off as unobtrusively as I'd like."

Moss shrugged helplessly. "Okay, I'll do my best, but without being too obvious, it might take a few days to arrange."

"We're not going anywhere." As if to illustrate her words, she stopped abruptly at the edge of the woods and turned around to go back. "I know I can count on you."

"By the way," Moss commented in an off-hand sort of way, "Blair Babcock may look like a weakling, but have you noticed his hands? The fingers are strong, spatulate. What's his background?"

"He said he teaches music at a college in Lexington. Say–come to think of it, he plays the organ. Works as an organist at a large church and also gives concerts, he says. Yes, I see–strong hands needed. Very observant, Moss!" Baby said delightedly.

"It's my business to notice physical details, you remember." He acknowledged her compliment with a pleased look. "Glad to help."
Chapter 9

Along with her interest in collecting pertinent information on the men at the writers workshop, Baby had not forgotten her plan to investigate the old murder of Angelica Bolen. The rain was pelting down Saturday morning, and it seemed like an ideal time to dig into old records, especially since there were no sessions that morning. She'd noticed that someone from the Sheriff's Office had come to Toll House the day before and removed the restrictive tape at the doorways of the front room. Therefore, she'd taken an opportune moment alone with Estelle to casually inquire as to the possibility of her getting hold of the records that pertained to that long ago death.

No--yes, Estelle had replied, her eyes changing focus as she tried to switch to the judge's inquiry from her immediate concerns of placating the disgruntled or nervous participants who had been hovering around her. She still had no word from the sheriff, she confessed to Baby, as to the possibility of anyone leaving the workshop to go home; at least four people were chomping at the bit--two from the poetry group, Blair Babcock and Sarah Husbands, and two from fiction, Mary Ann Gore and Lila Stouck. "And why hasn't the sheriff started the interviews, I'd like to know? It's driving everyone crazy, the waiting."

"Yes, I understand how frustrating this situation is. If we haven't heard from Sheriff Stringfellow by the first of next week, I'll talk to him. Somehow, I feel he's trying to palm off this investigation to higher-ups, or he hopes to sweep it under the rug, but we'll soon find out, that I promise. Now about the files–"

Estelle hesitated only a second or two about the judge's request and then said, "Yes, as I mentioned, we do have some records from that early time. I haven't looked at the letters of Thomas Bolen and other family members, but you might find references to those involved. Also, I believe there are some old newspaper clippings." She gave the judge a puzzled look. "Why would you want to see that old stuff?"

Baby shrugged. "No important reason. The story interested me, that's all. I thought I might occupy an idle moment or two looking at the material. If it's not too much trouble for you," she added. The poor woman seemed perilously close to being permanently addled.

Estelle's nostrils tightened. "No trouble," she said insincerely. "I'll give you the key; then look in the third drawer, I think. Maybe it's the bottom drawer. Well, come along, let me help you," she said with little attempt to stifle the annoyance in her voice.

"Thank you." Baby said meekly and followed in her wake.

Estelle sorted through her bunch of keys, trying several before fitting one in the lock. She yanked open the third file drawer and rifled through file folders, removing several and handing them to Judge Godbold. "Take care of these, won't you?" She seemed to have acquired a sharp sense of responsibility since entering the room. "I know you're used to handling important documents, of course, but these are historical."

"Absolutely. I'll guard them with my life and hand them back to you personally when I'm through."

"Just slip them back in the file, alphabetically; I guess I can lock it later," she said, breezing out of the room, her anxiety for the safety of the documents magically quelled.

Baby took the files to her room, seating herself in the rump-sprung easy chair by the window and using a large folder for a reading and writing surface. The file that she first opened contained old letters, yellowing and dog-eared. Baby pursed her mouth disapprovingly. This was no way to preserve old papers. They needed to be acid treated and incased in special sleeves. She looked among the pages for transcriptions, but no one had troubled to decipher the spidery 19th century handwriting with its medial, long sloping s's, which looked deceptively like f's, to mention only one difficulty. All the ink had faded to a delicate brown and there were strange spots that made the writing look as if it were blooming, completely obliterating certain words.

Her perusal was cursory at first, looking for references to "Angelica" or "death" or "died" as key words. Finally, she spotted what she was looking for in a letter from Angelica's mother from Lexington, Kentucky, dated April 5, 1855--almost six months exactly before the time of her death. "My dear Angelica," she read, "I cannot give the customary and expected Civil Greetings and Inquiries of everyone's Health, being [indecipherable] at your distressing Letter. I wonder that you have not taken in the valuable Teachings from the Rev. Isaiah Brompton, and even the less Learned but certainly as concerned Instructions from your Honored Father and Myself. We know you want to be a Dutiful and Submissive Wife, You have within you the [indecipherable] to please your Husband and perform whatever Responsibilities Life metes out to you. Please make every Effort to forget these Childish Fears and give to your Husband the Devotion required and know you will be supported by our Gracious Lord as well as Your Fond Mother, Mary Anne McPherson."

Baby eagerly skipped through several other letters, looking for more from the chiding mama. Evidently, a domestic problem had surfaced, and the young Angelica was less than happy with her husband, maybe threatening to leave him. Or he might have been unhappy with her and threatening to send her packing. Baby's face glowed with the thrill of the hunt. This was more like it! Somehow, somewhere clues would emerge, she was quite sure. With tension between husband and wife so obviously spelled out, Baby believed there was more to the story. And how did the convicted horse trainer fit into this scenario? It looked like murder was brewing, but she had to wonder about who killed whom.

The reading of the old script was tedious, the transcribing of it for future reference time-consuming, but it was a task deeply engrossing as she began to delve into the bygone relationships presented in the letters.

Two hours later, she stretched and got up stiffly from the chair. The evidence at hand was not overwhelming, but certainly suggestive of a possibly violent, certainly ill-tempered husband, who was extremely possessive of his wife's affections. Thomas Bolen had written of her with barely disguised hostility to his brother in Virginia and then made a copy. "I am certain she has no thought for the supplier of her contentment--she craves the company of those who should be beneath her notice as much as she seeks my own. It is with deep humiliation that I observe her overwhelming interest in matters outside her domestic duties." Could Bolen have been referring obliquely to the horse trainer, the man he fingered for Angelica's murder, in his mention of "those who should be beneath her notice"?

Why did Thomas Bolen's letter remind her of something? Had she heard someone say much the same sort of thing at a hearing in her court, perhaps? Surely she'd be clearer about it if that were the case. Something was there, though, nibbling at her memory. She'd think of it eventually, but she'd have to wait for the thought to emerge on its own.

After such a great span of years, no one could possibly reconstruct how this particular crime was committed, but one could perhaps determine a clearer motive than the vague and peculiar accounts given by contemporary newspapers. The so-called clippings that Estelle referred to were actually photostats from microfilm records of papers as far away as Lexington and Bowling Green. Someone besides herself had investigated this story at an earlier time. Perhaps a student for a project had checked out newspaper accounts.

The newspapers reported what must have come out at the trial, that the horse trainer, a David Myers, went "mad" and strangled the mistress of Toll House. Apparently asleep in his apartments over the stable, he had been rounded up by the local constabulary the morning her body was discovered, a move prompted by Angelica's "grieving" husband.

One clipping, dated only one month after Angelica's murder, told of Myers being hung at the county courthouse, "with a goodly number in attendance," as if reporting on a musical evening at the opera house. Also mentioned in passing was Myers' father, Mr. Henley Myers, harness maker, and "Wife," and their other son, Cudworth Myers, who were from Liberty, Kentucky, all of whom "bore witness to the terrible event." She'd like to take a look at the court records of the trial. Did David Myers have a defense attorney? Did he confess or maintain innocence? Was it a jury trial or before a judge?

Nothing she'd read so far indicated exactly where or when Angelica had been killed. Was it outside or inside the house? When was the body discovered? Did she and Thomas have separate bedrooms? So many unanswered questions. And as with Vicki Duggan's murder, almost no one would have an alibi for the middle of the night unless one had a roommate.

Baby's thoughts shifted to the present as she remembered George Childress saying he had been outside early that morning unable to sleep and claimed to have seen someone around the side of the house. That not only could implicate him, but also his roommate Omar and, of course, the prowler, if in fact he was telling the truth. She very much doubted that this crime would be solved by the breaking of alibis or the discovery of clandestine movements and then tracking backwards to the murder. Despite Chief Stringfellow's view that finding the motive would be difficult, Baby believed she would first find the answer to "why" and thereby discover the culprit. But now it was time set aside thoughts of murder, past and present, and prepare for the afternoon session.
Chapter 10

She breakfasted rather late the next morning, atypically sleeping past her usual rising time. Her late hours and almost ceaseless activities, mental and physical, were beginning to tell on her energies. Also, she had no wish to tempt fate by slipping downstairs and wandering around alone in the dark morning hours, so even when she woke up early, she allowed herself to drift in and out of a half-sleep until morning light and household sounds signaled rising time.

Moss had already eaten; she saw him through the glass doors of the dining room talking to Omar and George on the side porch. Good! He was evidently working on establishing a certain bon homie so he could join them at the table. Her efforts to question the men in the poetry group would begin today also. Maybe during lunch, if she could arrange it.

Being Sunday, it was a free day with the scheduled activity for interested parties an afternoon trip to a state park forty-five minutes away to view some locally famous falls. The rain yesterday had left the area glistening in the sun, but Baby declined to go on the field trip, not quite up to tramping around on possibly muddy ground. Besides, she knew the park was in a rough area of ravines and cliffs, and she decided if the guilty party was on the trip and had somehow detected that she was investigating the murder on her own, a convenient accident would put a halt to her efforts. She was experienced enough in the ways and wiles of criminals to try to keep herself out of harm's way.

She spent the morning in the library, reading and thinking. Mainly she thought about Vicki's murder and what more should she be doing. Here she was in the middle of a heinous crime, probably sitting next to the killer at times during the day, and she was clueless. When she talked to the sheriff next week, she'd get him going in the direction of Vicki's prior cases. That was something as an official he could manage that she couldn't without some sort of authorization, and she'd rather keep her role sub rosa for the time being. But even with that hope of positive activity looming, she couldn't work up much enthusiasm.

Diane, who was seated at Baby's table at lunch, seemed a little dispirited herself. Baby couldn't help but notice that she listened to conversations with a half-abstracted air and commented little. After lunch, Baby went back into the library to read from her favorite poetry anthology, The New Oxford Book of Victorian Verse, which she'd brought along for diversion. Moss had decided to visit the falls, but she was glad to have a quiet time to do little but enjoy the writings of real artists in the genre. She smiled at but didn't join Sarah Husbands and Ashley Benson, who were talking together. Delancy Hart was watching a movie on TV.

She thumbed idly through her book, trying to decide which author to read. It was when she came across Robert Browning's name, without even seeing the poem in question, that her memory was jogged. She turned eagerly to "My Last Duchess" and began to read the musings of the old duke, sourly contemplating his late lady's portrait on the wall. His character became increasingly evident, his jealousy and viciousness clearer as he described the young woman's behavior. "Her looks went everywhere," he complained, and bitterly compared her treatment of him to her notice of lesser mortals: ". . . she smiled, no doubt,/ Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without; Much the same smile?" The relationship patently disintegrates until ". . . all smiles stopped together." Thomas Bolen might have taken a page out of the Duke of Ferrara's play book. Browning captured in his poem the older man with a distinguished name who feared for the affections of his young wife until he was driven to violence by his jealousy and insecurity. This was no proof for the Bolen murder, but as a motive, it was certainly suggestive and quite plausible. Somehow, finding what might be a clue to that long-ago murder lifted her spirits, and she spent the rest of the day enjoying her solitude, her mind blissfully off the subject of Vicki Duggan's murder. Time enough tomorrow to worry about that.

Baby read her poem about her dog Monday morning. It was an old poem. Avery, a golden retriever, had long been dead, but his antics and attitude had been a source for philosophical reflection on the nature of such an animal compared to that of humans. He really had been Dan's dog, and even though the animal had lived to a ripe old age of fourteen, he'd hung on only a few weeks after Dan died before he gave up the ghost. She read with heat on her cheeks and her neck, wishing fervently she had never enrolled at this damned workshop. This poem was more revealing than the umbrella thing she had read Saturday afternoon.

Surprising to her, the men in the group responded the most. Rafe Barlow even surreptitiously wiped the corner of his eye, Baby noted with gratification. Edward Ormond nodded and said feelingly, "Wonderful!"

Although Diane said it was written "affectingly," she also cautioned her against a sentimental tendency, explaining to the class how sentimental writing tries too hard to pluck the heart strings. "Not that you overstepped the line, Judge," she assured her, "but it's something to be aware of when you're dealing with emotion in your work." Baby humbly thanked her for her cautionary words, grateful for small favors.

Lunch was served promptly following the session. Seated next to Moss at a table with Omar and George, Baby said in a low tone, tilting her head toward the two men, "Thanks."

He smiled nonchalantly, picking up a triangle of pizza in his hand.

Baby greeted the two younger men. "How's it going so far, in your group, I mean?"

They looked at one another and shrugged. George said with a glance at Hillman who was seated at a table across the room. "He hates my writing."

Both Omar and Moss made soothing sounds, but George shook his head. "I don't think I could write anything to please him. Not that I'd like to write like him, but I'd hoped to get some practical tips on how to prepare a manuscript for a reading by an editor or agent."

"And he's just being negative?" Baby asked gently. George seemed the sensitive, artistic type, to say the least.

Moss said, "He seems to feel he has to criticize in the bad sense if he comments at all. We've all come in for sharp remarks, but George is right. He's almost abusive to him about his writing. I think it's very good, myself." He smiled encouragingly at the young man who could only shrug.

"Hillman's a New Yorker, don't forget," said Baby to Moss. Then she covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh, I'm so sorry. You both are from New York, too, aren't you?"

They nodded. Omar grinned at her. "We do have a reputation for being a bit abrupt and harsh, but most of us are really quite nice one-on-one."

"I can see that!" Baby looked from one to the other brightly. "Were you both born there? You have different accents, but I presume they're both eastern seaboard."

"I'm a native New Yorker," said George. "This is the farthest west and south I've been. It's wonderful meeting people from this part of the country."

"And you?" Baby asked Omar.

"I was born in Armenia, but I've been in America since I was three years old. I suppose something of my parents' accent remains with me."

"Have you traveled much?" she persisted, noticing his well developed arms.

"Not in the United States, although we did take a trip to California to visit some relatives when I was fourteen. I've gone back to Armenia once and to Greece."

"Ah, how exciting." Baby smiled. Nothing there. Very unlikely connection between either of them and the murder victim. But she wanted to leave no stone unturned.

Then the students began to question Baby and Moss about the South and Nashville in particular. They displayed at first a slightly mocking attitude, but by the end of the meal had been won over and declared they must come to the "Athens of the South" for a visit.

Baby swallowed the last of her chess pie, and said goodbye to Omar and George, who had asked to be excused. They wanted to get organized for the afternoon session.

"How do you feel about them?" Moss asked. "Are they off the hook? Or can you tell?

"They themselves mentioned Nashville, which seemed a good sign."

"I'll try to get to a couple of other fellows in my group this afternoon."

"By the way," she said with sly look at Moss, "what has Daisy to say about your sojourn at Toll House, considering the circumstances?" Moss's wife was known to be the anxious type.

"Well," he said diffidently, "I haven't told her." Then he looked squarely at Baby and said with some heat, "And don't you go telling Jo either. She's apt to call up Daisy and ruin everything! This is the most exciting time I've had in years."

Baby laughed and promised not to spill the beans to her sister or anyone else in Nashville, other than the authorities, if necessary.

She looked at the table where Diane sat with Harold Hillman, Rafe, Carla, Edward Ormond, and Sarah Husbands. They were lingering over their meal, chatting among themselves quite happily. Diane's spirits seemed to have recovered. Her red cotton shirtwaist dress was becoming to her dark hair and strange cat eyes, though her face was rather pale. Hillman sat across from her, but his attention was diverted by the young and lovely Carla.

Baby arranged to nearly bump into Edward as he headed toward the library after lunch. She apologized and walked ahead through the door. "I've been meaning to look over the collection of books more closely. Do they interest you, too?"

"Yes, indeed. I teach English and Philosophy, so I'm always fascinated by books, particularly old volumes."

"Do you collect them?"

He nodded with an offhand shrug. "I have a few old editions, but nothing extensive."

"You're from Lexington, aren't you?"

"Yes, I teach at the University. Hey," he said, lifting a volume from a shelf, "a Bulfinch Mythology . . ." He carefully thumbed a few pages. "With an 1855 copyright! Pretty good condition, too, surprisingly. There's no climate control, but I think the house is at a high enough altitude that the dampness isn't such a problem."

"I've had a modest interest in preservation in Nashville." She waited for him to acknowledge her remark with a polite raised eyebrow and then went on. "I've served on the board of directors at a local historic home for a few years--Traveler's Rest. Do you know it?"

He shook his head. "Although I've traveled throughout the U.S., I've never been to Nashville, but I'd like to. It's rich historically, and generally they've taken care of their historic sites. I've heard they have a nice display of artifacts in the Tennessee Museum. At the very least, I guess everyone ought to see Andrew Jackson's Hermitage."

Baby agreed with loyal enthusiasm, though she privately thought the new-style self-paced electronic tour sadly lacking. She found no evidence that Ormond was fibbing about his unfamiliarity with Nashville and shortly took her leave of him.

Chapter 11

Diane had cramps. She lay stomach down on the bed, her hand pressing into her abdomen. Damn! Had it ever failed that she got her period on a trip? When she first had arrived, she was nervous, tense. Now, she had graduated to weak and wan, the painful spot seeming to draw all her strength into its bright center. And Rafe here, too, at first suspecting she was merely putting him off. He had looked so disappointed, always vulnerable to slights and rejection. She, too, was bitterly disappointed, she had assured him; it was so hard to see him every day and not be able to make love. She gave a derisive laugh. The faithful wife, but only out of necessity.

She was acutely aware that with the insufferable Hillman on the premises, sneering at her, following her even into her room, she needed to be doubly careful. Ah, Rafe. He had left his work at the club just to be with her. He was a darling, a true diamond in the rough. How could she ever tell him that it wasn't for real? That they were like ships passing in the night--but what a night!

She groaned, half from the pain, half from her dismay at getting herself into a romantic entanglement. At least, Hillman hadn't found out about that! She had always been scrupulous about the care she took in arranging her trysts with Rafe--and would not allow for any slips even for the most innocent meeting between them here.

With what Hillman had cooking, though, he probably couldn't care less what was going on in her sex life. He wouldn't rest until he had ruined her and John professionally at no cost to himself. Poor John! He was a dope, but very sweet for all that and a wonderfully successful publisher, too. Her first volume of plagiarized verse, so well received in literary circles, had been her entree into the world that she had always longed for. John had known nothing of the dishonest way she came by such beautiful work. They had married within six months after the book was accepted for publication.

She had hoped to confess her crime to him, for surely such stealing, even from a dead woman who had never published a line, was a crime, but she couldn't do it. He would not understand the compulsion that drove her to retype the marvelous verses and send them off in her name. The manuscript folders had been in the campus apartment, tucked in the recesses of a closet shelf and missed by the distraught girl's parents when they came to retrieve her belongings.

After the second volume was released, she got a call from Harold Hillman, whom she had met on several occasions at literary events and cocktail parties. His voice sounded unnaturally brusque for what appeared to be a social invitation. Could she meet him in New York for drinks to talk about something he was working on. Hillman was notorious for his harangues at publishing houses, who he complained were "too commercial," and book reviewers, who failed to give him the publicity and credit he thought his due. At the time of their meeting, he had been peddling his latest novel for two years with no success, and had only one mediocre book out, published ten years earlier. She didn't much want to meet him, but it seemed rude to refuse.

"You didn't know I taught English at a SUNY community college, did you," he stated at the restaurant after they had exchanged amenities and ordered drinks.

"No, I guess I always thought you ran a book store."

"I got out of teaching because idiots drive me crazy. People who get their understanding of life from television have no business thinking they can play catch-up in a college class. My classes were full of them every year. Looking at me with blank eyes, sometimes actually hostile, when I asked them to write an essay on, say, Henry James' view of women based on Daisy Miller. By God, you'd think I'd asked them to turn in a translation of the Rosetta Stone."

"I can imagine." She wondered if this lunch was an excuse to vent his frustrations to a new ear, or if he wanted to ask her something specific. She looked surreptitiously at her watch. She had an appointment for a haircut in one hour on East 75th.

"Actually," he went on, creasing the cocktail napkin into progressively smaller squares with one deft hand, "I found only one ray of light in that gloomy place--a very talented student, whom I was supposed to teach in a creative writing class." He seemed strangely humble. "I couldn't teach her a thing, actually."

"Yes?" Diane's jaw tightened reflexively; she knew then what was coming. It had been risky, but after six years, she had begun to feel safe again.

"Martina DeAngelo was a troubled young woman, no doubt about it, but she could swoop down on the essence of a thing or a person or an idea and capture it in the most glowing phrases. Her verse was haunting and--memorable. I wondered what had become of her after she left our college. Now I know; she enrolled as an upperclassman at Columbia, wasn't it?"

They stared at one another for a long moment. I will not speak first, Diane said to herself with steely determination. He won't force me to any admission or even to discuss it.

"I didn't read your first volume, so it wasn't until this last book came out that I looked over what were strangely familiar lines. As it happens," he said, almost smugly, reaching into his briefcase and bringing out a folder, "I'd kept her poetry notebooks she'd handed in for assignments. They were too good to throw away. Doing a little research, I discovered Martina had died. At that point, I had some thought to arrange for posthumous publication. You might like to glance over them."

She batted the folder away. "How much?"

"I think we can come up with a nice deal for my current novel, which I happen to have with me."

After John had published three of Hillman's novels, all written during Hillman's ten-year-hiatus from publishing, they each in turn received terrible pans from reviewers. As for her deceit, John had been shocked by her revelation but sensitive to the gravity of the situation. From the time she explained to him the conditions of the blackmailer and he agreed to publish Hillman's work, they never again referred to the purloined poetry.

Meanwhile, Hillman continued to write and publish and had won some sort of name as a fairly prolific writer. He was read because his name had become somewhat familiar, though his work received no more plaudits now than it had from the first. Diane herself had worked diligently to copy Martina's style, and though her work just missed being good poetry, she could always get a poem or two published occasionally in prestigious magazines and journals.

Diane rolled onto her side and propped her head on her hand, staring through the window. She could see tops of trees in the distance, framed by a blue sky. Hillman might be her nemesis, but she wouldn't stand for his bothering and bullying her. At least she could still choose which people she wanted around her. Speaking of which, how did it happen that a retired army officer named DeAngelo turned up at this conference? Simply a coincidence? Was the major connected in any way to the dead girl? It was so many years ago she couldn't even remember if Martina had a brother. And why would he turn up now, at this place? No, it would be too bizarre. Still, she'd like to know. Did she have the nerve to confront him directly and ask if he was Martina's brother, cousin, kin of some kind? For her own peace of mind, she thought she'd have to. At least he wasn't in her group. She groaned and knotted her fist into the well of pain. What had she done to her life?

Chapter 12

On Tuesday morning at breakfast, Moss and Baby sat with their heads together alone at a corner table. Baby had pretty well surveyed all the men in their groups for a Nashville or even Clarksville connection and at first had come up blank, except that Rafe Barlow's Southern accent had not been satisfactorily explained. He told Baby he was originally from Cairo, Illinois, which was nearly in the South, but not quite. Although he said nothing explicit, she got the distinct impression his family was Southern in origin. His name, for instance–"Rafe," could be the English pronunciation of "Ralph," spelled phonetically, and that was consistent with those of English heritage who settled south of the Mason-Dixon line. He was non-committal about his family's subsequent moves from Cairo, and unable to bring herself to ask outright probing questions, she had to drop the subject–for the time being.

Then she found out through a casual conversation as several of them were watching a war movie on TV the night before, that the major had been posted to Fort Campbell in Kentucky for one tour, where he served in the ROTC program at the university in Clarksville, Vicki's old stomping ground before she came to Nashville. Baby had a memory of their first evening at Toll House, a memory of Vicki coming in from the porch, followed rather closely by the major. Though to be fair, Blair Babcock also trailed in behind Vicki. She also remembered seeing two indistinct figures around the back side of the porch talking together as she sat on a stump by the bell tower. Were there hidden connections to the murdered woman that neither man was admitting to?

"Either someone is covering up for obvious reasons, or Vicki Duggan's death was an accident," said Baby to Moss, keeping her deep voice soft.

"An accident!" Moss, startled at himself, looked around as if someone else had uttered the loud exclamation and then lowered his voice. "How could that be? She was deliberately strangled, killed at close quarters. This was no random pistol shot." He frowned, taking a large bite of shredded wheat.

Baby waved her hand impatiently. "Of course she was deliberately killed, but maybe her death resulted from her accidently being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The victim might have been anyone who happened into the front room when someone else was there for a reason we can't know at this point."

"I see. Yes, that would make it doubly difficult to figure out. We don't seem to be getting anywhere with surreptitious questioning. At least that's how it seems to me."

"In any case," Baby continued, "we'll have a break this weekend from our readings and meetings to work on this from another angle. I'm thinking it might be a good time then for me to come out of the closet, so to speak, and admit I'm investigating the murder. It might stir things up a bit. And I can ask more direct questions."

"I'm a little relieved, actually," Moss said. "Getting things in the open could be what we need. Our group is extremely tense at times. And to make things worse, Hillman is not exactly improving in his style of making comments."

"Has he been nasty about your story?"

"No, not mine, although he says it's too slow moving, that I don't get into the conflict quickly enough--which I appreciated, of course. I mean primarily his response to poor George, who is so eager. But he's young and tries too hard. Hillman crucifies him, humiliates him, it seems to me, for no good purpose. And the interesting thing is that George mentioned his father knew Hillman quite well when they both taught college English in New York."

Baby frowned. "How strange. Is it the subject matter that he objects to or is it George?"

"I'm not sure, but the story is hardly a story, more the philosophical ramblings of an unhinged mind–the protagonist, I mean. Hillman has nothing good to say about it."

"Hmm. If Hillman wasn't so rude, he might help him. How is George handling it?"

"Badly, of course. He's like the walking wounded. His voice trembles when he has to read a section. Then, Hillman interrupts him and snarls insults."

"Does he treat anyone else that way?"

"He's not a diplomat, as I say, but for the most part he handles the criticism less crudely. I thought maybe he doesn't like George, since Omar's work goes by with hardly a comment. He's writing a rather exotic tale set in the land of his forefathers. Maybe Hillman is not as sure of himself when it comes to Armenian literature."

Baby gathered up her dishes and put them neatly on her tray. "I haven't seen hide nor hair of Stringfellow for days. I promised Estelle I'd give him a call and ask about his so-called investigation. I bet he's abandoned it for lack of evidence or passed on the responsibility to the State Police, which is Kentucky's investigating arm."

Moss looked interested. "You think he'd do that?"

"Of course. Usually, it takes a seasoned investigator to get some answers when these small town sheriffs close the door on a case."

Privately, Baby was also making up her mind to confront Diane about the conversation or, rather, argument she overheard between her and Hillman. She would ask to see her alone, and soon. Whether she could get the woman to level with her remained to be seen. Unfortunately, she had no leverage over Diane, only an implied authority, which might or might not impress her.

"Tell me," said Moss, setting down his coffee mug, "how would you describe your method of investigation? Everything seems jumbled together. I don't see how you sort out what's important and what can be dismissed, for example."

"Good question." Baby looked thoughtfully out the window. "How can I explain . . . I guess I'm the opposite from Sherlock Holmes. I admire that neat, logical, objective look at evidence, but I'm more keenly interested in the human aspect. If we can discover why certain people might kill, we can often discover who and when. In other words, motives can be determined, even those which are carefully hidden. Of course, the trick, then, is to match motive to evidence." She smiled at Moss. "Despite what I just said, I do believe Vicki Duggan's murder was not random. It's the absence of any suspicious activity going on that morning that convinces me. Of course, the only real evidence we have at the crime scene is the body, with one possible exception, but the motive is there--somewhere--if I can only sniff it out in time. Sometimes that means jumping to conclusions and then sorting out what's what."

"In time for what--the end of the workshop? We only have about ten days left, you know."

"Yes, that, but I'm afraid of a more pressing urgency. The murderer may not stop at one victim."

Moss raised his eyebrows. "Oh dear, you don't mean it."

Chapter 13

Baby checked her watch. An hour yet before the morning session. Plenty of time to call Sheriff Stringfellow and maybe even talk to Diane if she wasn't prepping for the workshop.

"Sheriff Stringfellow, speakin'."

"Hello, Sheriff, this is Judge Godbold."

"Yes," the voice drawled without measurable excitement.

"I wondered if you had found out anything of interest about the dead woman or gotten any more clues as to who might have committed the crime."

"Can't say I have." He grunted a bit, and Baby visualized him straightening up in his chair.

"What about her cell phone? Any numbers there we should know about–received calls,

the address book?"

"We looked at it and checked out the names with her brother, but nothin' suspicious or worth investigatin' further."

"Could you do something for me?"

"I don't rightly know why not."

"Could you get a printout of Vicki Duggan's case load from Nashville's Department of Children's Services? Surely they've got that stuff on the computer now. It would be helpful to have case summaries and dispositions, too. I wouldn't mind having anything from when she was in Clarksville, too, but that was a long time ago, so I'm not hopeful."

"I guess I can give both those departments a call and see what they kin do."

"Speaking of computers," Baby continued, "could you or your State Police get hold of her personal computer, if she has one, or the computer at her workplace to be gone over by an expert?"

"How's that again?"

Baby repeated her request. Her voice was calm, the tone firm.

"I'll check with the State Police about the computer and see what they say."

She thanked the sheriff and assured him that she would share with him any insights gleaned from the case work. "Another thing. People here are getting anxious, some wanting to go home. Are you planning on interviews any time soon?"

He hesitated and then cleared his throat noisily. "I've put in a request for an investigator from the Kentucky State Police to assist in this matter. I b'lieve we'll be hearin' from someone in a day or so about the interviews."

"Oh, good. I think the participants have been quite patient, waiting well over a week to get the go-ahead so they can decide to leave or stay."

"Who wants to leave?" He sounded mildly interested.

"The only ones making noises to that effect are three women and one man, Blair Babcock. The women shouldn't interest anyone since I'm sure you'd agree that it was a man's crime, wouldn't you, Sheriff?"

"I couldn't hardly say," he drawled.

"Really? The strength required . . .no, I'd never attribute that method to a woman, unless she was, well, my size," she joked, and then thought that was a mistake when the sheriff didn't comment for a long moment.

"Heh, heh," he chortled stiffly. "I guess that's a fair estimation of the perpetrator. People will just have to be patient a little longer. Gotta go now, Judge. You'll be hearin' from us soon."

She thanked him and hung up. Diane next.

She knocked on the woman's door gently, hoping she wouldn't be deeply engaged in preparing for the session, but the door swung open nearly at once.

"Oh, hello, Judge."

"I'm sorry to bother you before the workshop, but I hope to snatch just a few minutes of your time. Will I disturb your routine?"

"No, not at all. I was just ready to go downstairs." She smiled and opened the door wider to admit the judge. "I haven't very comfortable seating. Would you prefer the bed or this chair?"

Baby sat down in the wooden chair. "I do hope I'm not being a nuisance, but I have some questions . . ."

"About your poetry? I assure you, Judge, with a little work, you can develop into a creditable poet."

Baby waved her hand and shook her head dismissively. "I appreciate that, Diane, but I am here about a more serious matter. I'm helping the police in the investigation of Vicki Duggan's murder, unofficially, of course." She watched Diane's face closely, but only polite inquiry registered on the woman's narrow, interesting face.

"What can I tell you? I didn't know her from Adam--or should I say Eve."

"I understand. But I've found that the strangest things are sometimes connected when there's foul play. Something a little unusual or off-beat might lead to something else that reveals a whole new area for investigating. For example, the other day I happened to be walking by your door and couldn't help overhearing an argument. Almost immediately, Harold Hillman came out and passed me in the hall. I noticed you seemed very upset. I presume you knew each other before this workshop, but I'd like to know what other connection you have."

This time, Baby could see Diane's face visibly change. It seemed to grow stiff and almost ugly. "I don't see that our differences have anything to do with your investigation." Her voice was cold, and she stood up as if to end the interview.

"Please, Diane," said Baby, not moving, "I don't want to get heavy-handed about this; I'd rather this be between you and me, rather than bringing in Sheriff Stringfellow, but if I can't find out what I want to know, I won't hesitate to mention this to him."

Diane continued to stand and stare at Baby. Her face had gone from pink to ashen. She sat down suddenly. "What's between Harold Hillman and me has nothing to do with Vicki Duggan. I didn't know the woman; I have no idea why anyone would kill her."

"I understand, but I'm still not convinced that Vicki was the intended victim. Did you, for example, have any reason to go into the parlor sometime during that night or early morning to meet someone, maybe?"

She hesitated and then shook her head. "No, no. I went nowhere except for a walk earlier, as I told the authorities."

"Alone?"

"Well, I happened to meet Rafe Barlow, who was also strolling around the property. We walked on together and then parted company outside about ten o'clock."

"How long have you known Hillman?"

The abruptness of the question again seemed to disturb her composure and she stumbled over her words. "I don't really--that is, I guess eight, maybe ten years."

"But you're not in the same social or professional set?"

"God, no! He's a parasite. No decent literary people want anything to do with him."

"Parasite? What do you mean?"

"I mean he lives off--" Again, she broke off, pacing nervously in the small space.

"Tell me about your argument."

Diane frowned and looked past Baby toward the window. "He's a bully. He has another novel that he wants published and my husband is a publisher. That's it."

"How can he bully you over it? I would think he's subject to the same professional judgment as any other writer. Does he have some hold over you?"

She sank onto the bed but said nothing.

"I don't necessarily need to know at this point the specifics of what he's holding over you, but he is indeed using pressure, isn't he?"

Diane nodded. "I simply can't tell you what this is all about; it's too personal. But yes, he's blackmailing me."

"Does your husband know?"

"Yes, and he's suffered, too, but there's no way out."

"Can you not come clean about it? Sometimes these things are more threatening unspoken, but once they're out in the open, they're soon forgotten and life goes on."

"No, this is different. Hillman knows it would ruin me professionally and personally." She gave a gasping sob and held her face in her hands. Her words were muffled. "There's no end to it, so all I can do is promise to get his books published." She looked up angrily, wiping away tears. "At least he can't force the public to buy them!"

Baby arose and held out her hand for Diane to shake. "Thank you for being so candid. I don't mean to suggest that this information might have some bearing on the murder, but I need to check out unusual situations. Sometimes strong feelings go beyond the obvious; they ripple outward and have strange effects on other people."

Back in her room, she retrieved her workshop folder automatically, thinking about the brief but rather startling interview she'd just had. She doubted that the blackmailer had anything on Diane that related to sexual dalliance, as she had mentioned "professional" ruin as well as personal. Eventually, she'd get to the bottom of it, but for now it was enough that Hillman was using nefarious means to get published. She disliked him even more than her earlier impression of him had warranted. A scumbag, that's what. My, how she disliked blackmailers!

Chapter 14

After the interview with Diane, the rest of the morning passed without event. Diane seemed perfectly composed and conducted the session in her usual competent manner. She even called on the judge to comment on Edward Ormond's poem, something of a compliment since Ormond's work seemed decidedly superior to anyone else's in the room, and the other participants always hesitated to make a statement one way or the other. Baby had by now learned some of the jargon for at least intelligent-sounding criticism. She spoke about "diction" and "metaphors" and "no sense of the inevitable." Other critiques followed in her wake that heaped praise upon the English teacher, who though impressive in his work continued to be charming and pleasantly humble. Baby had difficulty regarding him as a potential suspect. But that was the problem altogether! No viable suspects, no evidence that amounted to anything. Something would have to break soon, or she'd be forced to follow the example of Sheriff Stringfellow and simply wait for the state authorities to take over.

Following the session, several of the participants, including Baby, Blair Babcock, Ormond, and Carla Easterling strolled out to the porch, the latter to smoke a cigarette, the others to enjoy what was a fine day. They were continuing a discussion of Diane's comments on their work, and Edmond said he wished he could get some advice on publishing.

"She should know," Blair Babcock piped up. "Her husband's in the business, and I expect she's got a good idea what sells and what doesn't."

"I don't think my stuff is ever going to sell," Carla lamented. "I keep hearing the criticism that it's too sentimental. But how do I get rid of that tendency?"

Baby suggested more distance in time from her subject. Others agreed, but all supported Edmond's abilities and encouraged him to submit to various journals that published poetry.

"That's what you need to do," Blair said, "before any big publisher will do a book of poetry."

Baby looked into the dining room to see if luncheon was about ready and alerted the others, who filed inside. The room was filling up and Baby joined Moss at their usual table. The lunch of salad and chicken noodle soup quickly dispatched, Baby left for her room to take a nap. The afternoon session had been put off by Diane, who suggested they might like to write additional poems, perhaps inspired by this place and reflecting upon the situation, or maybe they could revise some of their other completed poems. Ever since the murder, the two guest writers were requiring less and less of the participants. Why was this? Or was a falling away typical of most workshops, particularly those that were as long as this one? After freshening up following her nap, Baby took out her portfolio and scrutinized her work. Suddenly, the poems appeared foolish and jejune to her. How could she have ever thought they were worth a fig? She couldn't read these trite things out loud!

Feeling defeated, she sat pondering. She would have to start over. "Playing for time," she wrote in her notebook. The title stared back at her. Why did she write that? She started on the next line without much conscious thought. "The tune ran through his mind/ and sent a shiver of rage./ It ran through fingers/ which curled around her throat./ A fugue, it started over. . ." What nonsense! She ripped out the sheet and wadded it up. Something was bothering her about some of the people here at the workshop.

She ran through the list of potential suspects in her mind. She knew the names and faces of the men now, but instead of them all becoming more real to her, with their individuality self-evident, some of them had become fainter, less real. She must sort this out. She got out her list of participants and examined it name by name. Someone was living a lie, and she had to find out who.

Rafe Barlow, he seemed a puzzling sort to appear at a writers workshop. Why did he and Diane always seem to be linking up? Both from New York. A connection? But what did that have to do with Vicki Duggan? Then there was Major Joseph DeAngelo; she wouldn't have exactly picked him as the usual workshop attendee, but all sorts of types had an itch to write, and he'd had a responsible job in the service, honorably discharged, she suspected, though that was something she might want to check out if the police didn't. Blair Babcock fitted in perfectly to her idea of a sensitive poet type, who couldn't hurt a fly. Well, that type had come a cropper before, in her experience with criminals. He couldn't be ruled out even though he seemed too lightweight to strangle a full-grown woman. Still, a kind of madness gave strength to individuals. Edward Ormond was again the perfect candidate to further his writing ambitions, and a teacher to boot. But did that excuse him from murder? The grad students, George and Omar, were removed in distance and age from Vicki and though from New York, either could have been lying about not having known Nashville. None of the men so far had been proven to have a relationship to Vicki, so they all, within reason, must be considered as potential suspects.

She smoothed out the sheet of paper she'd crumbled and looked at the words. Playing for time was right. . . had the killer, whoever he was, been waiting for the right moment? The murder happened so soon after their arrival that "playing for time" hardly seemed appropriate. She didn't know what she meant. Or had he known Vicki would be coming to the workshop? That was a possibility, but she'd have to somehow find out about a prior connection. Possibly information from Vicki's computer could show she knew one of the workshop attendees.

With more a sense of desperation than hopefulness, she got out her billfold and retrieved Ken Duggan's card, which had his cell phone number. She dialed, and within a couple of rings he answered. After apologizing for bothering him during working hours, she asked if he knew the name of Vicki's attorney. "I need to check out a few facts, probably coming to nothing, but I like to cover all the angles, if possible."

"Why, yes, Anthony Zeller. He's our family attorney. I don't know the name of the city attorney who represented her in any of those hearings or trials where she testified."

Duggan was able to give her the phone number of Zeller, which she noted. Then she asked, "Another thing. Did Vicki have anyone visit her, or did she go out of town over the last year–a major trip like a vacation?"

Ken hesitated for a moment as if thinking, then replied slowly, "I don't recall if anyone visited her, but yes, she went to New York last summer, in August, I believe."

"Was she alone?"

"I don't remember if she went with a friend or not. It was simply a vacation to take in a few plays and do some shopping. She was probably with some tour group."

Baby thanked him for the information and rang off, but where was she going with it? The fact was that so many of the participants were from New York–even Hillman and Diane, of course. But New York City was a big place and didn't suggest a chance meeting. It did suggest a planned one, however.

She was able to reach Attorney Zeller at his office and with her credentials question him about his deceased client, Vicki Duggan. He knew nothing about the woman's affairs which might be considered out of the ordinary. She had made a will years before, leaving her worldly possessions to her brother. No personal law suits, though she had been peripherally involved in a bad case about ten or more years ago when she worked in Clarksville. It had to do with a drunken father who had killed his wife and then was in turn killed by his son. She had been the case worker and had to testify. Zeller had been asked his advice, in the event Vicki would be held liable for her role in watching over the children, but the case was settled quickly. Plea bargain, suspended sentence, if he remembered correctly.

"Yes," said Baby thoughtfully. "I recently heard about that case. It wasn't, apparently, publicized much in Nashville." She thanked him for his help and hung up, then dialed the archives of the Clarksville Leaf-Chronicle, the city's daily paper. The clerk would call her back when she found the story about the murders.

She put her phone away and, locking her door, went downstairs to the library, thinking a soft drink might taste good. Then maybe a stroll around the perimeter of the property. Few people were in the room. After getting her drink, Baby spotted George Childress and Joe DeAngelo seated in the wing chairs. They were laughing and talking like old buddies. Strange bedfellows! Of course, they were both in the fiction workshop, so they may have been comparing their mutual writing problems. Although George was still convinced he was not getting a fair shake from Hillman, this afternoon his spirits didn't seem to be dampened in the least. She decided not to interrupt their tete-a-tete.

She walked over to the bookcase and opened the doors to continue her perusal of its contents. So many old and probably valuable books left in this place to molder away unread and unloved. She pulled out a large book on herbal medicine and thumbed it idly. Her fingers slipped over a loose sheet. The paper was yellow but whole, the writing faint but recognizable as Thomas Bolen's.

The date was two weeks before Angelica's death and addressed to her: "My dear Angelica--" How very odd that he would write her a letter unless, of course, she had gone somewhere for a visit. But no. "I address you thus so we may continue to have such intercourse as is necessary and proper between the master of a household and his wife. You choose to ignore my requests to talk together, but I cannot leave the matter at that. Though farm affairs may occupy me, the duties of my wife are also my concern as is the state of her affections. Let us have an end to this childishness! I demand you return to your usual cheerful demeanor, and that there be no more coldness between us. I have long been ready to forgive you, and no one will know of this matter, but your behavior and manner have caused me great anguish, do not fail me and your duty. This life cannot go on! Your husband in good faith, Thomas Bolen."

The emotions of the writer spilled onto the paper, and though the sloping letters were faint, the blotted ink towards the end of the letter and thickened strokes gave ample clues to Bolen's mental state. Perhaps Angelica really was in danger from her own husband. If so, her friend, the horse trainer David Myers, may have seen fit to talk to the man and warn him that he was keeping watch over the other man's wife. If Bolen had believed the two were having an affair, however, his violent nature may have found relief in strangling his wife and casting the blame onto Myers. Maybe Bolen, too, had "played for time" until the right moment when Myers had no alibi and the servants were long gone to bed. He had been above suspicion, respected and powerful. As long as he hadn't been too obvious about it, no one would have suggested his culpability. Was that really what had happened here 150 years ago? Baby sighed. She had discovered the perfect motive for murder and maybe the perfect murder. Perhaps the same could be said for Vicki Duggan's. But with this crime as with Vicki Duggan's the evidence was nebulous, if it existed at all!

She replaced the letter in the book and shut the bookcase door. When she had a chance she'd rescue the letter and file it with the others. As she walked through the dining room on her way outdoors, she saw Moss on the porch, standing with his hands in his pockets looking up at the bell tower. As usual, Mittens seemed attached to his pant leg.

"Hi, Doc! Hello, Mittens." Baby leaned over to scratch between the cat's ears, but he deftly avoided her hand.

Moss greeted Baby with a smile. "I'd like to see the inside of that building." He gestured to the structure. "Do you think it's open?"

"Let's look." They set off across the yard. Hillman had also cancelled the afternoon fiction session, so they were free until tomorrow when another general session was scheduled. The two guest writers were to read from their work, followed by discussion.

"Maybe we could go to town this evening," Baby suggested. "I noticed when I went in to see Stringfellow there was a movie theater."

"Good idea. I'm getting cabin fever. Feeling restless, jumpy, you know."

"Yes, I know. I've even started writing poems from my unconscious. It's time for a change of pace." They reached the door to the tower and tried it. Grass had grown up and nearly blocked the entrance. Although it swung with difficulty, both of them straining could push it open enough for Baby to squeeze through. "Uhg, it's tight," she complained, noticing with dismay the front of her cotton jersey shirt had gotten stained with rust from the door lock.

The bottom of the tower was dim and dank, lighted from only the firing slits at intervals in the walls, and from under the eaves at the top where the bell hung. Embedded into the earthen floor, a rusty iron stairway circled the wall to the very top.

"Fascinating!" cried Moss. "Do you suppose anyone could make it to the top?"

"I wouldn't want to try." She grabbed the rail and pulled. "Seems sturdy enough, though. Look, there's the rope that rings the bell." She pointed to partway up the stairs where the rope was wound several times around a hook.

"Kinda creepy place, but I guess it was better than nothing for fighting off Indian attacks."

"Yes. I've read that Indians didn't know what stairs were, so people were safe up high. I doubt that, though. I expect the settlers had a rope ladder that they pulled to the top for safety."

"Let's get out of here." Moss gave a shudder.

Chapter 15

As the two walked slowly toward the house, Baby told Moss about her conversation with Diane. "I was afraid she'd tell me to get the hell out, so I put on my judge's robes, figuratively speaking, to get her to break her silence."

"It sounds as if her emotions were close to the surface and all it took was a little pressure. Also, she didn't give away the cause of the blackmail, so in a sense she still protected herself."

Baby nodded, "True. Being in such close proximity to Hillman must be a trial for her. I bet she didn't know until too late he'd been substituted for another author at the last minute."

"Oh, Judge," called a female voice behind them. Baby turned to see Lila Stouck making her way from the cabin area. "If you and Doc will wait a minute, I'd like to talk to you."

"Sure," Baby said, smiling at the older woman, who seemed one of the liveliest and most active of all the participants. She reminded herself again that appearances can be deceiving.

The three climbed the steps to the porch and Baby indicated the porch chairs, which Moss arranged in a conversational grouping. "Let's sit here," she said. "The little breeze makes a change from the stifling heat, doesn't it."

"That's why I keep a sweater handy," replied Lila. "The slightest breeze gives me a chill. Now, I know it's none of my business, Judge, but you seem to be a woman who keeps her eye on things–not that you don't, Dr. Cunningham, but I've been around the judge more and noticed she takes an interest in what goes on among those in our group."

"By that do you mean the poetry group?" Baby asked. She immediately thought of Lila and her verse, which to the judge's ear sounded like the inside of greeting cards.

"No, I mean everybody here. That is, I saw you talking to the two young men from New York the other day, and I thought I should mention something I observed myself. I'm staying in the cabin next to them, you know."

Baby and Moss exchanged glances. "Yes, go on," said Baby encouragingly.

"I've been a light sleeper all my life–only get into deep sleep toward morning, so several times I've heard noises at night, talking, movements around the cabins. Twice I've looked out my window and in the moonlight, after midnight, mind you, I saw George and what's his name?" She looked to the others to supply "Omar" and went on. "They seem to wander around the grounds at night."

Baby sighed. "I suppose they're bored. It's not a very stimulating activity, you know, for a couple of young men used to the lights of New York. Are you from around here, Lila?"

"Oh, yes, I live just about forty miles away. I've visited this Toll House before. The college has a Fall Fest when they sell a lot of homemade items, crafts, produce, and so forth. When I heard about the Nashua Writers Workshop I jumped at the chance."

"I'd think," said Moss, "you might have preferred staying in the house itself, instead of the cabins."

"Well, because I do have trouble going to sleep, I felt I'd do better in a cabin. I know my roommate, Terry Givens, whose mother and I were in school together. She's a nice quiet thing who sleeps like a felled tree."

They all laughed. Baby thanked Lila for her observations and told her she'd keep the information in mind and in confidence. Lila left them to go watch TV while Moss and Baby removed to their rooms to get ready to leave for the movie theater in town. At the top of the stairs, Moss said, "Do you put any stock in what Miss Lila said about the roaming fellows?"

"All I can do at this point is tuck away the information. I keep finding more and more mysterious goings-on. But so far there's nothing sensational that would point to a murderer."

Harold Hillman lay on his bed, smoking, a bottle of Jack Daniels on the night stand beside him. He was contemplating his sojourn at Toll House. Everything was working out nicely, he considered. How fortunate he'd been to get to the Forrester woman before the workshop had started. It had cost him the few hundred for her fees as the guest novelist, but that wouldn't matter in the long run. His researcher had come up aces, getting to him the news of his subject's participation in this workshop just in time. Nancy Ann Forrester had been cooperative, and no doubt this Estelle woman had been relieved and gratified to get someone with the Hillman reputation as a workshop leader.

Oh, he gloated to himself, it had been a clever idea to do this latest book; he was still convinced of that, no matter how negative his publisher was. And here at the workshop he could be as up close and personal as he needed to be. He was able to get hold of the subject just before he left for the workshop, explaining he hoped to interview him personally here at Toll House. Yeah, he'd acted shocked, not particularly cooperative, you might say, but that was too bad. It would give his work the verisimilitude he was after. And ultimately the money. He was sure he'd rake it in, a real-life exposé with no fear of a lawsuit. So what if the guy changed his name. Too bad for him, but he'll get over it. Hell, he might prosper himself from the notoriety.

If that son of a bitch publisher gave him any more trouble about going forward with this project, he knew what to do about it. He'd already told Diane in no uncertain terms that he could play hardball, if she had any thoughts that the situation had changed over the years. Those tears of hers didn't cut any ice with him. He knew, if pressed to admit it, his material wasn't handled in the most brilliant style, but somehow, the public ate it up. That one asshole reviewer called him a "3-D writer–dull, dirty, and depressing." It stuck for a while, but by and large, the public didn't pay that much attention to reviewers once an author became established. Fact is, he'd match his bank account with that bloke any day. And he was respected at groups like this one in the sticks. No apologies necessary, thank you. So far, life had treated him well. Funny, he'd never thought that taking a job all those years ago at a second-rate community college would have given him the passport to fame, but that's how things had worked out.

Not that he hadn't been sincere in his appreciation of the girl. Not at all, but his support of her and later her parents had paid off in ways he wouldn't have dreamed of when as a teacher making zilch he was churning out novels and then sending them off only to receive those endless rejection letters. Yes, Diane had been cooperative from the first, understanding immediately that she'd have to pay a price for her behavior. And, no, as he just told her, which she was free to repeat to her husband, he wasn't interested in good taste at this point, or even mercy. He had no qualms about his project, and there wasn't anything in it for him this time other than writing the book and getting the royalties. No other payoff was possible. And what the hell did it matter anyway!

He looked at his watch. Two more hours until the little meeting, in the bell tower of all places. Very mysterious. Probably hoping to convince him to keep their association on the Q.T. That was O.K. with him. It would all come out soon enough. He smiled to himself as he contemplated the stir this book might cause–provided he got the right publicity. That was the key. Raising himself from the bed, he poured a glass of whiskey and then, leaning back against his pillows, sipped slowly and with satisfaction.

Sleep hadn't come easy to Baby that night, and she tossed and dozed until the tolling of the bell registered on her consciousness. She thought there'd been only three gongs, but she couldn't be sure her half-asleep state hadn't absorbed more ringing and incorporated it into a dream she was having. All alone on a flat and open plain, she was trying to speak, but no one was there to hear. She kept thinking if the words would come, then so would other people. The scene changed and like a failed comic in a burlesque show, she heard the exit cymbals from the orchestra pit and saw someone off stage motioning her to leave.

She sat up in bed and turned on the flashlight she'd placed on the bedside table. Her travel clock said 1:35. Throwing on a robe, she stepped into the hall. She saw several other heads poking out of doorways.

"What was that?" Carla Easterling called in a sleepy voice.

"A bell, obviously," snapped the major, his normally neat hair sticking up like Dagwood Bumstead's. He was clad only in his pajamas.

Blair Babcock opened his door. "Who in God's name is disturbing the peace at this hour?" He was wrapped in a robe, his bare legs sticking out from under it.

"Why would someone ring the bell?" Moss asked. He had come over to Baby's doorway.

"I don't know, but without Estelle to direct us, I expect we'd better find out." Baby went back into her room and slipped into a pair of loafers and grabbed her flashlight. Out in the hall she took Moss's arm. "Come on, Doc." She glanced down the hall and said quietly, "Major, would you mind coming with us to see what's going on?"

He stepped back into his room and after donning a robe joined them.

Sarah Husbands opened her door a crack and whispered, "What happened?" Giving up on departing the workshop anytime soon, she'd moved from a cabin into Vicki Duggan's old room, despite a slight creepiness at first as she confessed to Baby, but she believed in safety in numbers. Farther down the hall, all was quiet, and even Diane had not made a sound, though her door was next to Baby's.

"I suggest you all go back to bed," said Baby. "Don't worry, we'll call Sheriff Stringfellow if there's an intruder."

"Be careful," Carla urged in a stage whisper.

Even with the three people they had left awake upstairs, the house might have been unoccupied in the silence of the night. The three made their way across the dark passage to the dining room, and stopped in front of the door leading to the back porch. Peering through the glass doors, Baby said in a whisper, "I don't see a sign of life outside, do you?"

"All's quiet on the eastern front," the major quipped. Baby gave him a wry smile.

"I bet some people in the cabins are awake," said Moss. "They're even closer to the bell."

"Well," said Baby, "let's take a look."

As they approached the tower, they were joined by Mittens, who bounded along beside Moss. Baby noticed the door was open wide enough to comfortably admit them one by one. The faint musty smell of the interior grew stronger.

"Do you suppose there's a light inside?" asked DeAngelo.

"There isn't," answered Baby. "That's why I brought this." She switched on her flashlight.

The ground floor stood out in relief from the strong beam of light. She flashed the light to the stairway and then upward into the recess thirty feet above which held the large bell. Trousered legs dangled only about twelve feet above them.

"Oh, dear," Baby said. "Somehow, I was afraid of this." She looked for the bell rope which had been wound around the hook when she and Moss had earlier visited. It was no longer in place, now obviously serving another purpose.

"My God!" Joe DeAngelo seemed shaken. "Who is it?"

"Somebody's going to have to go up there to find out, but I think I know. We need the officials here, of course," Baby said. "Major, will you stand guard while Moss and I go back to phone and notify the others?" She handed him her flashlight. "You can even use it as a club, if necessary. I have before."

Lights had come on in a couple of the cabins, and as Baby and Moss walked toward Toll House, a voice hailed them. "Hey, what's going on?"

"Rafe Barlow," murmured Baby to Moss. They stopped and waited until he got near them. "We've discovered another body, it seems. The bell woke several of us up, and we decided to investigate. I suppose you heard the bell, too?"

He nodded. "I wondered about it, but I decided it wasn't none of my business. Then I heard y'all so I got dressed and came out to see what was going on." Barlow looked less bizarre than the others, wearing jeans and a t-shirt which outlined his broad chest and well developed muscles. "So what happened in the tower?"

"It appears," Moss explained, "that someone is hanging there."

"Wow! Anything I can do?" Rafe asked, hesitating between walking toward the house or the tower.

Baby took his arm. "I think not; come along with us to the house. We need to get hold of the sheriff and wait until he and his men come. Joe is standing guard."

While Moss phoned, Baby went upstairs to wake the others. She was determined to see for herself who were or weren't in their rooms. There were ten bedrooms upstairs occupied by Baby, Moss, Major DeAngelo, Edward Ormond, Sarah Husbands, Diane Marvel, Delancy Hart, Carla Easterling, Lois Jelenick, and Blair Babcock. The rest were distributed among the six cabins.

Soon, every room had been cleared, and people were in the hallway in disarray--some chattering and pacing, others crowding around Baby, others still half-asleep and, having determined there was no fire, leaning against the wall. Diane hadn't moved from her open doorway or said a word. Her eyes were enormous in her white face.

"There's been either another murder or a suicide," explained Baby.

"Was it you who rang the bell?" asked Lois Jelenick, wide-eyed.

"I don't know who rang the bell. It woke me up as it did several of you, I guess."

"Did you see who--" Diane's voice cracked and she stopped speaking. Her eyes were fastened on Baby's.

"No, we couldn't see for sure who it was."

She went to the stairway when she heard Moss as he came upstairs from phoning. "Would you go with me to notify those in the cabins? We can check on the Major, too." She turned to the others. "Why don't you all gather the library until the police get here. Maybe somebody can scare up some coffee." As they left the house, Rafe followed in their footsteps.

Outside, a few people had congregated near the doorway of the tower, talking to Major DeAngelo. Alongside him, Mary Ann Gore and Dottie Morris stood hugging their arms as if they were cold though the night was humid and warm. Lila Stouck had emerged from her cabin and was heading toward Baby.

"More excitement?" she asked in a high-pitched voice. She wore a heavy robe and a hair net. Spit curls on her cheeks were taped down with Scotch tape, which gleamed in the moonlight.

"I'm afraid so. Let's see who's shown up," said Baby, counting on her fingers. "There's you and Mary Ann and Dottie and Rafe. What about your roommate?"

"Yes, Terry. She's in the novels group. Quite good, too," she rattled on, but was cut short by Baby's terse question.

"And where is she?"

"In the cabin. She's a sleepyhead as I mentioned. I can hardly get her out of bed in the morning. She'll never get up in the middle of the night. Think of all she misses!"

"I expect she'll be getting up soon whether she likes it or not."

"What's happened?" Lila asked, glancing at the tower.

The headlights of a car pulling into the drive at the back of the house interrupted the judge's answer. She eagerly stepped toward the patrol car as the passenger door opened. "Hello, Sheriff."

Stringfellow slowly eased himself from the car while a deputy exited from the driver's side and ran toward the tower. Although he was not Doug Crutcher, he too was young and able looking.

"What's this, Judge, about a hangin'?" the sheriff asked with a weary edge to his voice.

"We don't know, Sheriff." They, too, began to walk toward the tower. "About thirty minutes ago I heard the bell ringing, maybe three or four times, I guess, maybe more. I was asleep, so I can't guarantee how long it had been ringing before it roused me to consciousness." "Mighty strange."

"Yes, when Dr. Cartwright and Major DeAngelo and I went to find the cause, we discovered something quite horrible."

"Somebody was hangin' there, the Doc said."

"We can't see who, but I have an idea; I made a point of checking out who were in their rooms and who have come outside. Three men are missing from our midst."

"You always seem to be johnny-on-the-spot when it comes to finding bodies," the sheriff said in his laconic way. Baby wasn't sure if this was his attempt at humor or something more ominous, so she said nothing.

They had reached the entrance to the tower. The sheriff went in first and gazed upward as the deputy and the major both trained their flashlights overhead. In the brighter light Baby could see that the body was Harold Hillman. She could also see that his hands were tied behind his back and his mouth taped.

"A man," Sheriff Stringfellow said. "Better climb up there, Ray, and check it out."

"This here thing looks purty rickety," the deputy protested, shaking the iron stair.

"It held at least two persons tonight," the sheriff snapped back. "I reckon it'll hold one more 'fore it falls down."

"It's fastened pretty securely at intervals into the mortar with iron rods." Moss contributed. "I'd examined it earlier. Some of the mortar has eroded which makes it give a little, but the stairs won't fall down."

Others began to crowd into the room to watch the deputy's ascent. When the stair gave a great squeak, some of the women gasped. The deputy cursed softly.

Finally on the stair adjacent the body, the deputy called down. "He's a goner all right."

"Well, we figured that," the sheriff snapped.

"How will you get him down?" Baby asked Stringfellow.

He didn't reply directly but called, "Whattaya think, Ray? Kin you haul him down?"

"I can't reach the rope and I sure can't hold a flashlight and cut it. What should I do?"

"There's a tool shed," Joe DeAngelo said. "I'll go see what I can find. I'll need the flashlight, though."

The sheriff agreed and added, "I've got an idea. Get in the trunk of the patrol car, if you will, and get the tarp that's folded up there. He'll have to be cut down, but we can hold the tarp to cushion his fall."

"Good idea, Sheriff," said Baby. "That will help preserve any evidence for the coroner."

"That's my thinkin' Judge." He turned to the others who had come into the towere. "I want all of you except Doc and the judge, and this gentleman here," he motioned to Rafe, "to go into the house. We'll be along shortly and have a little discussion."

Accompanied by some muttering, the others dispersed. Joe returned with a rake and the tarp, which was grasped by those who remained in the tower and stretched out under the body.

Baby called to the deputy. "Lay the flashlight on the stair so that it shines on the rope. That way, you'll have a light and both hands to use your knife."

"OK, Ray. Cut him and let him fall,' the Sheriff called. Somehow, the outstretched tarp held and sagged only a few inches as the body plummeted onto it. They lowered it to the earthen floor.

The sheriff took up Baby's flashlight and shone it on the recumbent figure. The frozen features and twisted limbs of Harold Hillman presented a ghoulish spectacle.

"Who is he?" the sheriff asked. "He smells to high heaven of liquor."

Baby explained about his role at the workshop and then said , "I'm curious to see what was used to tie him up."

"Let's take a look." The sheriff called to the deputy, who rolled the body over enough to check his hands. The sheriff nodded. "Looks like clothesline rope."

Baby agreed. "Using what was available, I suppose." She and the others stepped outside with the sheriff.

"Is there a clothesline around here?" Sheriff Stringfellow looked to the right and left as if he might spot one in the dark. Most of the crowd had gone into the house as if seeking to escape the inevitable sense of revulsion at such close proximity to violent death. Both Moss and the Major still waited nearby. Rafe had left for the house as soon as the body was retrieved.

Baby thought a moment. "Yes, in the laundry room, underneath the kitchen. If you go through the door under the porch you'll see a rather narrow room someone finished out of probably an old root cellar. It's got a washer and dryer and at one end a clothesline attached to wall studs. I know because I had occasion to use it myself the other day."

"Who else might use the laundry?"

"Everyone does. Not often, but now and then. There's a laundry in town, but that's something of a nuisance for us."

"Do you sign up to use it?"

Baby shook her head. "It's really not that busy. I guess if you find out that's the rope that was used, it means someone in our group is responsible for this attack, too. What's needed now is a thorough search."

"What I need is a search warrant–and a bigger force," the sheriff said despondently.

"But you'll only have to search the men's rooms, don't you think?"

"I s'pose that makes sense. Better get in to the dining room with the others, Judge, and I'll be along presently. Ray," he called to the deputy, who had finished his call for an ambulance. "I'll wait here while you go to the rooms upstairs and the cabins. Roust out everybody and make sure they meet downstairs in the house right away so I kin talk to 'em. Then get a call to Doug and have him come on out so you kin search the victim's cabin while I meet with the folks here."

"Sheriff," Baby said, "I already checked the bedrooms in the house to see if everyone was in his or her room, which they were. Of course, by the time we heard the bell and got ourselves outside, anyone could have returned to a bedroom and thrown on nightwear. Should I get us all together in the dining room?" She also resolved to give Estelle a heads-up. If she wanted to come out to the house for the sheriff's little meeting, that would be up to her.

"Where else?" he snapped. Then, as if he felt abashed at his rudeness when Baby had offered to help, he said more gently, "Thanks, Judge."

Chapter 16

The assembled group in the dining room looked around at each other. They'd been waiting for over an hour, some more patiently than others. Deputy Doug Crutcher had arrived and had taken pictures of the crime scene and was keeping watch over the tower while Ray sat with the sheriff. The coroner had come with the ambulance and given a cursory examination before taking the body to the hospital. Now in the light from the chandelier, it was apparent the sheriff had been called out after he'd gone to bed: still a bit bleary eyed with a gray stubble of beard on his chin, he didn't have on his usual tie but merely his uniform shirt and trousers. "Everybody here?" he asked.

Baby nudged Moss and whispered, "I hate to say it, but the two wanderers are absent." She raised a hand. "Omar and George are missing, the two grad students from New York."

Sheriff Stringfellow nodded to the deputy, who scribbled in a small notebook. "Now which of you," he said, "was the last to go to your rooms last night–those of you inside the house and those of you in the cabins?"

Baby looked at Moss, who raised an eyebrow at her. The question seemed inane. Who, if guilty, would admit to being out last? She spoke first. "Dr. Cartwright and I came in before 10:30, which is supposed to be the deadline for locking up." She turned to Estelle, who had decided to come out to Toll House for this meeting.

"Yes, that's right," Estelle confirmed. "The house is locked at 10:30. Everyone knows to be in by that time. If not, they can always call me to notify the young man making the rounds to wait a few minutes."

"Couldn't someone go outside after that if they wanted to?" asked the sheriff.

Estelle nodded uncertainly. "I guess so. Everyone should know to lock up though."

"Well," he drawled, "did anyone go out after 10:30?"

"Yes . . . yes," said Diane in a small voice. "I couldn't sleep and went outside about 11:00--just to the porch for a few minutes. But it was so humid I didn't stay long. When I went inside, I locked the door behind me, of course."

"Did you see Mr. Hillman while you were outside?"

"No, I didn't."

"Did anyone else go outside after that?"

Everyone seemed to be looking at one another, but no one spoke. Suddenly, there was a commontion on the back porch and the two wayward young men were ushered in by the other deputy, who had been working the men's cabins.

"These two just came back," he said to the sheriff.

Sheriff Stringfellow motioned to a couple of empty chairs nearby. "Where have you fellows been?"

George and Omar looked at one another and after a slight pause, George spoke. "We needed exercise, so we thought we'd take a bit of a walk. I guess we went farther than we thought and it's taken a while to get back." Then he looked with curiosity around the room. "This gathering surely isn't on our behalf, is it? We didn't think it was against any rules to go out in the evening."

"No," the sheriff said laconically. "I'm only interested to know when you went outside for your walk." He looked at his watch. "Most everyone here was alerted at about 1:30. It's now just past three."

Omar responded quickly. "We left on our walk about midnight, wasn't it, George?" "Yeah. What's happened?"

After the sheriff explained about the murder, he said to the group, "I know y'all are ready to go back to bed," he said, so I won't keep you no longer. Just lemme say that this here death puts a different light on the first murder. I'm sure we'll be getting some help tomorrow from the State Police."

"Thank heavens!" muttered Professor Ormond, who with his unbrushed hair looked more like a tousled and peevish rooster than his usual digified self.

"When can we leave this awful place?" cried Sarah Husbands. "That's all I want to know."

Estelle gave her a hostile glance.

"Nobody can leave for a while yet," answered the sheriff calmly. "I'm seein' to it that the place has a guard every evenin' though. I've decided to hire a special deputy just for this duty. It's out of the ordinary, not that I think you all are in any real danger, but we won't take chances."

"I suppose no one wants to confess and get it over with," said Delany Hart, puffing on a pipe despite a large sign in the room which stated, "This is a historic site. Smoking is forbidden inside the house." No one seemed to notice.

"That's no joke, sir," the sheriff said sternly. "We'll do our best to get this cleared up pronto."

"What does the coroner say about the time of Hillman's death?" asked Baby.

"Recently–no more than two to three hours ago."

She didn't say it aloud, but according to that calculation, the death would have occurred close to the time they heard the bell tolling. What kind of a murderer would announce the deed? If, in fact, that's what he did. She frowned.

"Well," said Sheriff Stringfellow, rising from his seat, "that should do it for tonight. Just stay put, go 'bout your business as usual, and we'll be talkin' to you more tomorrow."

Several people groaned, and the group began to disperse, heading to their respective rooms. Baby saw Estelle stop to talk to the sheriff, her brow furrowed, her face ashy. Poor woman! The workshop, her brain child, was taking on the aspect of a macabre farce.

The next morning, before Baby had reached the stairs to go down for breakfast, she was accosted by Joe DeAngelo, who took her arm and ushered her back near the door to her room.

"What is it, Major?" Baby asked.

"I'm sorry to be so mysterious, Judge, but I need some advice." He glanced around and lowered his voice even more. "I'm afraid I did a stupid thing, and now with the State Police getting in on the investigation, it's sure to come out." His brow was furrowed, his eyes anxious.

"Let's step into my room." She unlocked her door and led him inside. "Tell me."

"I knew Vicki Duggan. As a matter of fact, we dated years ago when I was teaching ROTC in Clarksville. We broke up and hadn't seen one another all those years since. After I retired a year ago this spring, I moved back to New York, where I'm from originally. Then last summer, while my wife and I were at an off-Broadway play, I ran into Vicki, of all the strange coincidences."

"Yes, I can see how amazing that must have seemed," Baby said encouragingly.

"Well, we chatted during intermission, just she and I, since my wife had remained in her seat. We–well, to make a long story short, we exchanged e-mail addresses. After she got back to Nashville, I began to get e-mails from her. You know, friendly, informative ones, then a little more personal."

"And you responded?"

"Yes, but I really wanted to break the association. It was getting a little sticky. My wife, you know—I wanted to forget the episode. But somehow, it was hard to do. I didn't want to hurt her either."

"In New York, did you meet again other than that one time?" " Baby's voice was deceptively soft but her penetrating grey eyes bored into Joe's.

Joe looked down and nodded. "I'm afraid so. It was foolish, a kind of one night stand at her hotel." He raised his eyes. "Actually, our . . . assignation took place during the day, more of a brief encounter."

"I see. So how did both you and she end up here at the workshop?"

"I'm afraid I mentioned I planned to attend."

"And so she followed you here?"

"Yes, at least that's what I believe. I was stunned to see her. At the first opportunity, I confronted her, and she adamantly denied it. She said she had always wanted to attend a workshop, that her interest in writing poetry had grown during the years. Well, you get the idea. I'm still not sure what she was up to, but as you can see, the whole thing puts me in a bad light with the authorities."

"I think you'd be wise to tell the investigator what you've told me. In fact, they'll soon find out, since they'll be examining her computer shortly–at my suggestion." She opened her door and let Joe pass on through, turning to lock up as Blair Babcock emerged from his room, giving the two of them a curious look, then a nod as he walked briskly past them.

"That's my advice, Major. " Baby continued as they went down the stairs. "You really have no choice, and whatever your excuse for not mentioning the connection to Sheriff Stringfellow, it will go hard on you, I'm afraid." She wasn't about to give him platitudes for his withholding information.

"I thought that would be your advice," he said. "I've been really stupid." They stopped at the door to the dining room where he took a deep breath and smiled. "Well, the condemned man can at least have a good breakfast." He held out his arm to Baby. "Shall we?"

After Baby helped herself to toast and coffee from the buffet, she sat down with Moss at one of the dining tables. Joe had taken a seat at the opposite side of the room where Babcock was sitting as if he wanted to forget his confession and discourage any more discussion on the subject. There was no one else partaking of food at this early hour, the others apparently trying to make up their lost sleep from the night before. Baby had consistently been the first to arrive for breakfast, followed shortly by Moss.

"Well, Baby, do you think we'll ever be able to go home?" Moss looked perky and fresh-faced, despite his gloomy tone. He attacked his scrambled eggs and ham with enthusiasm.

"I'm just curious what Estelle will do. Will she opt to replace Hillman since your group is rudderless or will she cancel the workshop and refund the money?"

Moss swallowed hastily. "I talked to her briefly last night before we turned in after the meeting. I guess she thinks the show must go on. She said she would get busy this morning and try to reach some published novelist she knew who lives in Bardstown, Kentucky--Mary Mosby Smith."

Baby nodded. "I've heard of her. I even read one of her books. She writes Southern historicals, but they're considered 'literary' novels." She munched on a piece of toast. "She might be an improvement on Hillman even though she's not as famous."

Moss lowered his voice. "Anyone would be an improvement on Hillman--not that I wished him dead, but George might have, to put it bluntly."

"Yes, it sounded as if their relationship had gotten quite rancorous," she said thoughtfully. "And if Omar were in league with him, the previous evening gave them plenty of free time to do the deed." She considered that with George and Omar and Rafe occupying the cabins, it would be much more convenient for committing murder without being observed. On the other hand, the killer could have sneaked out of the house to meet Hillman on some pretext and then after Hillman was dispatched, run back and undressed, putting on an act of sleepiness when the body was discovered.

"Another man," she murmured.

"Hmm?" Moss looked up quizzically.

"This murder had to be committed by a man, the same man, I expect."

"Yes, I see. No weak person, certainly, could have subdued Hillman, bound and gagged him. Not the type of crime that any woman would attempt, I'd guess."

"Yes, I could imagine Hillman, his mouth taped, being forced at the point of a gun or a knife to climb the stairs to the platform at the top where his hands were bound and a noose put around his neck. A bit tricky for a woman.

"Also," Baby went on, "that door to the tower is difficult to open. It took our combined strength to budge it. Though Hillman may have been forced to help open it, so that may not be much of a clue." She paused. "I want to ask the sheriff about the coroner's report. You haven't heard any more details this morning, have you?"

"No, other than the deputy on guard, no one in authority has shown up yet." Moss said.

"I want to know if he died from strangulation or what. That could be important."

"Why? Oh, I see, maybe a blow to the head before he was hanged. You know, Baby, it's hard to imagine anyone hating the bloke so much he'd arrange such an awful death."

"There's another thing that's bothersome--the connection between Diane and Hillman. I'd rather the sheriff didn't hear about it from me."

"You'll have to mention it during the interview, don't you think?"

"I'm hoping Diane will talk about the blackmail herself. If she's smart, she won't hesitate, but I mean to give her an opportunity before I broach the subject."

Baby looked around the dining room. Several people had come in and after selecting their food from the buffet were eyeing Moss and her with friendly may-I-join-you expressions on their faces. "Let's continue this after we finish eating. There's another matter that's just come to light that I want to tell you about."

Within a few minutes they'd taken their trays to the pass-through and stepped out onto the porch where they sat down in the bouncy metal chairs. For a minute Baby stared at the tower, then began telling Moss about DeAngelo's relationship with the deceased woman.

"Wow," exclaimed the doctor. "This could be some sort of breakthrough on the case when the sheriff and investigator hear about it. I can't imagine what he might have had against Hillman, but they both were from New York."

"Too many connections and coincidences? I wonder. Of course, it all could be entirely innocent, but the authorities will soon know about them. I can't believe they'd keep this information on the back burner."

"I think we both know that all too often if it's not open-and-shut, the police tend to let matters rest until they become cold cases and never pursued again."

"Yes," Baby agreed, "but perhaps with this second murder, the investigator will push forward. I'll be keeping my own options open," Baby added.

"Hmm. Now just take care, Baby. We're living in close quarters with a murderer, remember? Don't put yourself in harm's way."

She laughed. "I'll try not."

Sheriff Stringfellow arrived at 9:00 with a youngish-looking woman, who turned out to be the investigator from the State Police. They set up shop in the front room, ironically, Baby thought, the scene of the first murder. People were called in to be interviewed and then called back again as if in an afterthought. Baby spent most of the morning twiddling her thumbs waiting her turn. A small team of crime scene investigators had gone through the tower, but had finished up their collection of whatever evidence could be found. The deputies arrived around 11:00 with a search warrant to go through the men's rooms and had started on the cabins.

Baby was disappointed she had to wait so long to see the investigator but tried not to show it when she was called into the front room just before lunch. With her being one of the first on the scene, she might have expected to be one of the first to be called in. Such disorganization!

The investigator, Gail Bryant, appeared to be a no-nonsense woman whose nervously frowning demeanor suggested inexperience or insecurity or both, Baby couldn't be sure. She wore a short-sleeved, crisply tailored natural linen suit and small, silver earrings as her only jewelry besides a watch. Sheriff Stringfellow sat to one side as an observer, Baby supposed, crouched in his chair and staring at the floor. He looked exceptionally tired.

Dispensing with the amenities, Ms. Bryant shuffled papers and without looking at Baby said, "I'd like a full accounting of your activities from ten o'clock last night to the time you discovered the body." She then looked up and Baby's eyes met the other woman's. The tape recorder made a faint humming sound. Baby gave her a friendly, disarming smile, which was met coldly. Really! Did she think being rude and unfriendly was the proper technique for interviewing people?

Baby sighed. "Dr. Cartwright and I went into town to a movie. We arrived back at Toll House at about 10:15." The investigator wrote furiously, and Baby waited until she looked up. "I went straight to my room and prepared for bed. I fell asleep promptly, but it was somewhat fitful. I got up about midnight and went to the bathroom--"

Ms. Bryant interrupted, "Did you see or hear anything then?"

"Not a thing. I went back to sleep until I was awakened by the sound of the bell."

"What time was this?"

"Ten after one exactly."

"How do you know for sure?"

"I turned on the bedside lamp and looked at my clock."

"And what then were your movements?"

Baby related the chain of events as they led to the discovery of Hillman's body. She was careful to say whom she had seen awake and out of their rooms, and those who came from the cabins when they were leaving the tower to phone the police.

"The door to the tower was open, you say. Was it always open, unlocked?"

"It was unlocked earlier in the day when Moss--Dr. Cartwright and I looked inside."

Ms. Bryant snapped her head. "You what?"

"Judge Godbold has an inquirin' mind," put in the sheriff with a slight smile. Ms. Bryant ignored him and stared at Baby.

"We visited the place yesterday afternoon, just to take a look. The door was unlocked but slightly open. I might add, neither the doctor nor I could push it farther than it took for us to squeeze in."

"And you two were alone in there?"

"Yes," she said with a straight face, "no would-be murderers hanging around."

"Thank you, Judge," the woman said with a curt nod of her head. "We'll call you later for more questioning, if necessary."

"Good luck," called Baby as she left the room.

Chapter 17

Dinner that evening was not as strained an affair as Baby might have imagined. At her table, Diane and Joe sat across from Baby, while Terry Givens and George had their heads together, laughing over some movie they'd mutually enjoyed. Moss was talking to Edward Ormond at another table, and Baby herself was occupied by Lila Stouck reminiscing of her college days. In between trying to listen attentively enough to make polite responses, she tried to keep a listening ear on Diane and Joe DeAngelo's conversation, especially when she saw Diane's face freeze and she looked down at her plate. The major, on the other hand, seemed quite animated. Baby heard him describing someone as "talented" and mentioning "Columbia."

Why was Diane so stony-faced? If only old Lila would finish her meal and take off. But that was unfair. Baby repented of her impatience and smiled at the elderly woman, asking her about sororities and fraternities in those days. While Lila expounded Baby forced herself to pay no attention to the Major's and Diane's words which drifted across in tantalizing snippets. She couldn't help but hear Diane plainly say to Joe, "I was an English major in college, but I didn't write much then that was publishable. I guess your sister didn't either." Baby supposed she could again accost Diane about the conversation. She'd pretty well come clean when asked about Hillman's pressuring her, although she wouldn't confess as to the gist of the blackmail. Now DeAngelo seemed to be upsetting her. With the recent murder, Baby had already decided to find out if Diane had confessed to the authorities about Hillman's unsavory role in her life. She might as well get to the bottom of it with Diane, including Joe's seeming interest in her background, which just might be connected in some way.

Baby glanced to the table beyond them and saw Rafe Barlow glaring at what might have been the back of the major's head. Now what was that about? Or maybe he was contemplating something unpleasant and it just happened that his focus seemed personal. Or was she, in fact, getting a strange kind of cabin fever where she suspected nearly everyone of nefarious behavior or at the least of questionable intentions?

Suddenly, Diane rose from her chair, her face pinched and white. Wadding up her napkin, she threw it on her plate, and without a word to anyone she made her way to the stairs and presumably her room. Baby herself made her excuses to Lila and departed the table but headed in the other direction, thinking to herself, sister? Their conversation–as much as she could overhear–seemed to be about Joe's sister. But what had she to do with Diane? Baby was still speculating on the conversation as she reached the french doors at the same time as Rafe did. He courteously gestured for her to precede him onto the porch.

"I believe it might be a touch cooler this evening," she said, settling herself into one of the springy metal chairs. "We might get some rain."

He took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, "I should quit these things."

"I suppose so," she said in a non-committal voice. "Are you hankering to be off," she asked, "what with all the tragic circumstances?"

"Off? From the workshop?" He half-sat on the porch rail, facing her. "No, I'm glad I came. I never would have learned so much. Diane's great, isn't she?"

"She's a very good teacher, I agree. And we have some creditable poets in our group." She tilted her head and gave him a close look as he sat opposite her, smoke drifting off. His blue eyes--so guileless are blue eyes, she thought--looking past her toward the dining room. "Have you been writing long, Rafe?"

"Not all that long, but I always wanted to write. Something in me was busting to get out, you know?"

"I know the feeling–that through my poems I can express important ideas and feelings–important to me, that is. " She sighed. "But I've found they seem to stay locked up and all I can produce is the most pedestrian verse. I might as well be writing advertising jingles."

Rafe laughed. "That sounds funny. Maybe you should write with more humor."

"Maybe I should. At the end of this workshop, I still hope to have my sense of humor." She looked up as Moss and Edward came out onto the porch and approached them. Rafe gave them both a nod, then excused himself with a "See you later," and sauntered off toward his cabin.

"So you actually got the taciturn Rafe to engage in a conversation," Edward said with a laugh.

"Kind of like pulling teeth," said Baby, "but he was willing to talk a little about his interest in poetry."

"Surprising interest, it seems to me," asserted Moss, sitting beside Baby in another of the numerous chairs that lined the porch. Edward took up Rafe's position along the rail.

"Yes," Baby agreed. "I've wondered about that, too. He's not a typical participant, I'd say. And he has a business that must need his attention, too. Strange, in a way."

"Not many of us can justify participation in such an activity," Edward said. "It's pretty self-indulgent if you think about it. I mean it's not really going to lead to anything important for most of us."

"But it's not a bad thing," Moss said. "I like to think it's a form of self-improvement or self knowledge. And Rafe Barlow might be longing for that just as much as we do."

"Yet he seems to be more than just admiring of Diane as a teacher," Baby said with a shrug, "and she, too, keeps turning up by his side. I may investigate that relationship a bit more."

"I'm sure you will," laughed Moss. "Let us know what you find out."

When the men got into a conversation about golf, Baby excused herself and went to her room. She thought she might give her sister Jo a call, and she had just dialed when a movement below in the driveway caught her eye. Walking rapidly in the direction of the woods, Diane cast a backward glance as if to check for spying eyes. She must have left by the front door and walked around the house to avoid meeting anyone. Baby stopped the call and drew back behind the lace curtain. Diane was most probably going off to meet someone. The major? Rafe Barlow? With Diane, at the end of a trying day and with a suggestion of a rainstorm brewing, she most certainly was not on a pleasure walk. Baby grabbed a billed khaki cap and left her room, carefully locking the door behind her.

She crossed the hall into the dining room, noticing a twosome in a corner. Edward Ormond and Sarah Husbands. Perhaps that was to be expected. Not only the murders, but also the shipboard atmosphere of this workshop encouraged these alliances--or misalliances.

Once outside, she glanced to the west. What was left of the sun was hiding behind thick pink clouds, and she automatically intoned softly, "Red at night, sailors' delight," and thought, a nice day tomorrow then. She looked above her toward the wind and saw even darker clouds heading their way. Yes, rain. She'd have to hurry. Her stride lengthened into a near run. She'd supposed she was in good condition from daily brisk walks, but she was having some difficulty in overtaking the fast-walking Diane, whose steps were leading her nearer the woods.

"Diane!" Baby called out. "Hello!"

The woman turned sharply and stopped. She smiled at Baby tentatively. "Hi! Are you out for exercise too?"

"I'd planned on taking a walk this evening," Baby lied, "but I may be rained out."

"Maybe we'd better turn back," Diane said nervously. They began to walk toward Toll House about a quarter mile away.

"As long as we're alone, I think it might be a good idea, now that we know Hillman was murdered, for you to tell me all--why he was blackmailing you. I'm guessing you haven't told the police any of it." At Diane's nod of assent, Baby went on, "I'm not looking to get you in trouble. But the fact is, you can't have secrets that the police might consider pertinent to the man's death. If blackmail isn't the motive, then that situation needs to be cleared up. You know that I can't remain silent forever under the circumstances. Don't you think it would be better to tell me what's behind the blackmail? Maybe I can help."

Diane walked slowly, not speaking, her face drawn into a frown of consternation. Finally, she stopped in her tracks. "I didn't kill Hillman. You've got to believe me. But this puts me in a very bad light and is horribly embarrassing–shameful, really."

"I couldn't help but notice how upset you were when the major was talking to you tonight. You don't dissemble well, Diane. Did what he say have something to do with this matter?" Baby touched Diane's arm lightly, but it was enough to draw Diane's eyes toward Baby's.

"I don't want to tell you about it; you know I don't, but I see the point." She began to relate the circumstances of the poems and Harold Hillman's connection to the dead girl.

"What was the name of your former roommate?" So Diane wasn't a great poet after all! She'd not only been living a lie, but also capitalizing on it. Baby's mind was reeling with the admission but long practice kept her voice calm, her demeanor unchanged.

"Martina DeAngelo."

"So that's his connection. And he remembered you were her roommate?" Baby felt a thrill run through her. A fantastic admission!

Diane gave Baby a blank stare. "Yes." She started again walking toward the house.

Baby caught up with her. Rain was beginning to spit and the wind was stronger. "Major DeAngelo--you must have seen his name on the roster before you came here." She touched the woman's arm.

Diane looked at her without emotion as if she had begun to steel herself to the circumstances. "I saw the roster before I came, of course, but I don't remember his name on it. I was really looking to see who would be in my group."

"I see. Yes, he is in the fiction group." She glanced at the sky, now a jumble of slate colored clouds. "We'd better hurry back before we get drenched." They began to run.

On the back porch, Baby had to stop and catch her breath, holding the door closed with her hand on the knob. She looked closely at Diane and said, "When Joe was speaking with you at dinner tonight, I could tell you were very upset. Did he give any hint that he knows about you being Martina's roommate?"

Diane groaned and closed her eyes. "I don't think so. It was a horrible strain talking about her. I kept thinking he knows and is just waiting for me to break. But nothing was said, so I really don't know what he knows."

"Then we must find out," Baby said with determination as she opened the door to the dining room, the rain pelting down around them. "Yes, I think I'll have to find out about that."

Chapter 18

"Oh, please, Judge, do you have to let on to him about my connection to his sister?" Diane clutched at Baby's arm.

"Let's go to my room for a few minutes, Diane, so we can discuss this matter more fully." Baby let Diane precede her into the dining room and up the stairs. Once inside her room, she invited Diane to sit in the one chair while she perched on the edge of the bed.

"Now, then, I believe we need to get something straight. You know you can't continue to pass yourself off as the originator of those books of poems. I wish you'd tell me the history of this duplicitous scheme. How did it come about in your mind and how many books were there that belonged rightfully to Martina?" Baby's tone was modulated but unwavering, her manner kindly but no-nonsense.

"Two," Diane answered in a low voice. "I'm not sure when I considered the possibility of putting my name to the poems, but for some reason, I never made the effort to find Martina's folks and return them. The first book I published when I'd been out of college about three years. I'd married John the year before, and with him being in the book publishing business, I guess it was too tempting."

"But now that Hillman's dead, you have to come clean. Don't you see? If you tell the authorities about the blackmail, they'll probably grill you a bit, but anyone of sense can see you couldn't possibly be considered a real suspect. No woman could have managed to commit that crime. Still, you and Hillman were in cahoots supporting a lie and with his death it's over, which is suggestive." She didn't want to say it, but Diane must know that if she didn't confess, Baby would be forced to tell those in charge of this case about the plagiarism and blackmail. She really had no choice.

"As for now," she went on, "you must start making plans to give credit where credit is due. I think you'll be cleared of Hillman's murder without any problem as I said, so then you can attend to re-publishing the poems under Martina DeAngelo's name. Oh, there'll be a flurry in certain circles about your plagiarism, but it will pass and you'll go on with your life"

Diane looked at the judge through her tears unable to speak. Baby handed her a tissue, and after Diane wiped her eyes and blew her nose, she then gave a nod and said, "I know it's the right thing to do. It has been bothering me for years, but I hadn't the courage to admit it and have my reputation come crashing down around me. No matter what I do or say, I can never really make up for it, though, can I?"

"Doing what you must do now goes a long way in the right direction. I think you'll survive the embarrassment." She stood up, Diane following her lead, and the two walked toward the door. "Give the authorities the complete story despite how bad it might look. That will be best since this information has to come from you. I hope you understand what I'm saying."

"Yes, Judge, I understand." She turned and gave Baby a tentative smile. "I don't know why I should be grateful to you when you've been instrumental in unraveling my life, but I feel a strange sort of relief, knowing the subterfuge will be ending, painful as it will be." Then she frowned a little, looking pensive. "Just one thing. How am I to carry on at the workshop? Should all this come out to everyone in the class?"

"Oh, I don't think that's necessary. You've published other books of poetry all on your own, haven't you? And besides, I have come to the realization that you're a fine teacher, which although that's quite different from being a poet of genius, it also serves an important function." She smiled at Diane. "Your style in our workshop confused me at first, since I expected our leader to be more–well . . ."

"Judgmental?" Diane interjected.

"Ouch," said Baby with a wry smile. "But yes, I suppose I'm used to a more pontificating approach to instruction. I like the way you allow for peer reviews, and then stepping in with helpful comments after we've had a chance to explore a work."

Diane bowed her head gracefully, "Thank you. I'll take your advice, then, and continue on with the workshop as long as the authorities allow us to proceed. I'll think about the right time to tell Joe DeAngelo."

Baby paused for a few seconds, thinking, and then said, "Keep quiet about this whole affair to Joe for the time being. Let me see what I can find out by drawing him out as carefully as I can. I won't say anything about this matter except to the police if I'm asked. Of course, I can't predict what they'll make of this information as it pertains to Hillman's death, but that's the chance you'll have to take."

"I understand. Thanks again, Judge." They shook hands and Diane departed to her own room.

Baby stood in the open doorway for a moment, then went back to phoning Sister. She wanted to tell someone who was completely detached and uninvolved about the circumstances as they were unfolding. Moss was concerned but he had his own ideas and perhaps even biases, as she herself may have.

Josephine Marshall, better known as Sister to Baby, answered promptly. She spent most evenings at home but her days seemed filled with activities, now that she was retired for the last two years from teaching at Vanderbilt University. "I'm just enjoying myself as a lady of leisure, getting together with old friends. Nothing very earth shattering or intellectually stimulating," she had laughingly admitted to Baby. "I belong to a book club where nobody reads and a garden club where nobody digs. When I move next year into the high rise condo, I've decided I can still continue with the latter. No one will care a hoot that my only gardening activity will be indoor potted plants."

The two sisters were five years apart in age but close in spirit. They looked very different, hardly like sisters at all with Jo, as she was called by her friends, a diminutive five-foot two, contrasted to Baby's five-foot ten and a half. Now after being the recipient of a couple of other calls from Baby following the two murders, Jo asked quickly what further news did Baby have regarding the mysterious deaths.

"Nothing concrete, but I thought you'd be interested to hear the latest about our poetry mentor and teacher." As she related the reason for the blackmail, she heard Sister's intake of breath.

"My word," Sister said finally. "Coming from the academic community, I'm extremely aware of the consequences of plagiarism. A foolish, foolish woman. And you know, Baby, this literary crime is almost always found out eventually, despite the plagiarist's vain hope that it will never happen. Someone, somewhere always spots the duplication and reports it. And then the writer's reputation is tarred beyond redemption. I would say from Diane's perspective, Hillman's threat of exposure could possibly lead at the least to murderous thoughts."

"I've considered her culpability, but she's physically incapable of committing either crime, and furthermore, I see no connection between her and the murdered woman."

"You'll just have to keep on keeping on, but don't take any unnecessary risks."

"Yes, I know it's risky to start showing my hand to everyone, but I think it's equally important to draw out the killer. I'm not very confident of the talents of the authorities, even the investigator from the State Police. All I do, really, is try to get to the bottom of anything that puzzles me. I'm amazed, frankly, that Diane capitulated so quickly when I began questioning her. I knew something was wrong, and when I confronted her the other day about Hillman upsetting her and then today for the reason behind the blackmail she caved very quickly."

Sister laughed. "It's that hypnotic power you possess that gets people talking against their own best interests. You just can't help it. And neither can anyone you set in your sights."

"Oh, bosh. I wish that were true, but I think Diane was itching to tell someone, particularly after Hillman's death and then meeting Martina's brother face to face. To a normal person, which I presume Diane basically is, living a lie can be hard on one's emotional state. As long as she didn't have to deal with it or think about it every day, she could manage, but too many reminders began to crowd around her and to eat at her. Maybe the workshop itself became unbearable. I think coming clean is for the best, now that I know what the blackmail was all about. It's funny, but I think Diane will feel less like a charlatan at the workshop, even if no one but me among the participants knows about her plagiarism."

"But," said Jo quietly, "this doesn't get you further down the road to solving the crimes, does it?"

"It may, it may. I still have something up my sleeve to force the issue a bit. I've not quite made up my mind, but I'll tell you what I decide. If I decide to do it."

Her sister sighed. "Yes, I know you, Baby. You'll go forward full steam ahead, even–no, especially in dangerous waters. All I can say again is to take care."

They exchanged goodbyes and Baby sat for a few moments thinking. Then she went on downstairs to watch TV with others gathered in the library.

On Friday morning, Baby got a call from the Clarksville newspaper's morgue. The helpful clerk had combed the pertinent pages of newspapers on microfilm and finally located the story the judge was seeking, which had appeared sixteen years ago. She would mail the judge a copy. There was more good news at lunch. Estelle announced that Mary Mosby Smith was available and would take over the fiction group.

"She must be a courageous soul," murmured Moss to the judge. They were sipping iced tea during Estelle's announcements after finishing their chicken-filled croissants and fruit salad. The workshop director, looking haggard and a few pounds lighter, left the room after making her announcement, giving a wan smile to the group at large.

"I have to admit," Moss confessed, "I'm losing my enthusiasm for this workshop."

"You don't feel threatened, do you?" Baby gave her friend an inquiring look. "I told you these aren't random murders by some madman. Someone is working out a plan, maybe developed extemporaneously since coming here, but a plan, nonetheless."

"I don't exactly feel I'm in harm's way, but some vicious person without benefit of your analysis might not view me in the same light."

Baby laughed. "I've been thinking about doing something positive if I can get Estelle's and Sheriff Stringfellow's approval. Maybe while we're waiting to resume our groups I could give a lecture about my thoughts on these crimes, just to allay nervous speculation."

"You know," said Moss with raised eyebrows, "that might be a great idea!"

"Think so?" Baby considered the matter thoughtfully. "And maybe it would do more than reduce the anxiety of our fellow--what are we, observers to murder?"

"I suppose so, but what do you mean do more?"

"Maybe my little talk about what I suspect might increase the anxiety of the murderer."

"Oh." Moss's face fell. "I hadn't thought of that." He shook his head. "No, that won't do, Baby. You could endanger yourself, you know."

"Yes, but that could be the break this case needs. He would have to confront me, particularly if I let the group know that I'm looking forward to examining some possible evidence being sent to me."

"What evidence?"

"A sixteen-year-old court case in which Vicki Duggan testified. Something about a woman being killed by her husband. who in turn was killed by his son. The family in question apparently was one of Vicki's. The case was important, so concerning to Vicki that she consulted with her family lawyer as to her culpability in not preventing the tragedies. I'm having the newspaper account sent by someone at the Leaf Chronicle, and the sheriff is supposed to be getting Vicki's case files from the social agencies where she worked." She hesitated for a moment. "I just remembered something else I need to get from the sheriff just in the event I can't get into certain files or they've been disposed of because of time limits."

"Oh?"

She waved her hand. "This may be nothing, of course. I'll let you know if it's pertinent or not."

Moss and Baby rose from the table and went outside, the heat and humidity hitting them like a hammer. Any respite from last night's rain was over. Mittens had fallen asleep under the dining table and missed Moss's exit, so they found themselves alone on the porch. The other participants tended to stay in the air conditioning, with the exception of Lila, who constantly complained about the chill in the air. She, however, had taken off to her cabin for her afternoon nap. Baby and Moss stood at the porch rail, looking out onto the yard. The bell tower seemed larger and bleaker than Baby had remembered.

"Moss, are you game for another look-see in the tower?"

"Haven't the police checked it out enough for you?" Moss said teasingly.

"Well, yes, but it's a fascinating place in its own right. I'd like to see if I can spot anything else there in the cold light of day. I have a feeling it has possibilities."

"Really?"

"Yes, indeed. And besides, it will give us something to do and be a heck of a lot cooler in there than here."

"Let's give her a go then."

Today, the door to the tower was firmly closed, but the crime scene tape had been removed, giving a clear signal that the authorities had finished with their inspection. It took both of them to push the door open enough to admit Baby's broad figure. "Don't you think it interesting that the door was open quite far the night of the murder?" she asked. "We had no trouble getting inside if you recall."

Moss looked at her blankly. "You've mentioned that before. I don't get it, other than someone strong had to push it open."

"Exactly, or two people" she said, casting her eyes around the gloom. "I told the sheriff about it, but I don't know if that registered or not. I wish I'd brought my flashlight. Even with the sun overhead, those little apertures don't provide much light. But I think I can see enough."

She began to walk around the perimeter near the wall.

"What are we looking for?" asked Moss, following her.

"I wish I knew. Seems strange, in a way, that there's virtually no evidence left of the earlier habitation, only the bare walls. These stones are still tightly cemented in most places. Amazing, after all the years since it was constructed."

"When was it constructed? Do you know the date?"

"I heard Estelle, on the little tour, say that it was built shortly before the house. That would have made it before 1800, I suppose, if the first part of the house was finished after the turn of the century. The family apparently lived in it and used it for protection while they were building the house. I believe the wall and this tower were constructed of stone not only for durability but also as a way to clear the land." She stopped in her examination and looked upward. "I suppose originally there was a wooden floor above, and I'm sure the iron stairs are a replacement. Probably a rope ladder would have been the only access to the top." She resumed her slow perusal of the walls from eye level down to the ground.

"Sounds uncomfortable."

"Well, look here, Moss!"

"What is it?"

Baby had stopped her pacing and was attempting to pry out a stone about five feet from the ground. "You don't happen to carry a pen knife, do you?"

"Sure do." Moss dug in his pocket and handed her a small knife, which she opened to began scraping around the stone.

"What in heaven's name are you up to, Baby?"

She now was poking her hand into a crevice in the masonry.

"I can't see," Moss complained, peering over Baby's shoulder.

"I noticed this particular stone stood out among the rest, if you're looking for it." She handed him a blackish stone. "A markedly different color and it's been purposely loosened. In fact, the grout was missing around it," she said, rooting even deeper. "Voila! " She drew out a brown, leather-wrapped bundle.

"How did you ever know to look for that?"

"I didn't know, of course, but I figured this place was a natural if someone wanted to secretly communicate to someone else. What does a young woman do with a jealous, maybe abusive husband, many servants spying on you, and a need to get help? This pouch looks very old. The leather is virtually falling apart."

"Maybe we should examine it outside in better light. Somewhere in the shade, though."

They stepped into the sunshine and then walked again onto the porch where the overhang gave some relief from the heat.

Around the corner near the kitchen window, they slid onto a bench beside the trestle table. "We seem to be alone, but just in case someone comes outside and sees what we've got," cautioned Baby, "let's say I found this behind some books in the library. I don't want to be accused of pilfering from a crime scene."

"It's a letter case, isn't it?"

"Yes, I'd say a repository for money or messages–yes, messages," she exclaimed, bringing out the nearly shredded folds of brownish-yellow paper. She laid it out flat on the table between them.

"Love letters?" asked Moss, peering closely at the sheet.

Baby tried to read the faded ink, the paper riddled with spots of mildew. "I think I can make out the name, whom it's addressed to. David. That's it, David." She looked up. "Wow!"

"David who?"

"It's got to be the horse trainer who was hanged for killing the beautiful Angelica." She turned over the sheet. "I can just make out part of the signature." She looked up triumphantly. "A-N-G-E-L-. It's from her! How exciting! And just as I suspected from reading some other letters."

Moss shook his head. "I don't know what's got you so het up, Baby. It's just an old letter."

"It's possibly some very important evidence for a long-ago murder." She began to decipher aloud through the obliterating spots, sometimes having to spell partial words. "David--I write hurried . . . make arrangements . . . Thomas . . .I-o-u-s." Baby stopped and suggested, "Furious, or suspicious?" She smiled at Moss. "Considering what I've read in his own words I'd say 'suspicious' is more likely."

"What about his own words? You haven't told me about that."

"No, we've had other excitements to occupy our conversations. As a matter of fact, from the first mention of the young wife of the son of the founder whose portrait we saw, I've been pursuing my own ideas about her death. If you recall, she was strangled, supposedly by the horse trainer, a young man named David Myers, who was accused by Angelica's husband, Thomas Bolen; tried for the murder, even though he had to be roused from his bed the morning her body was discovered; and eventually executed as the killer. It sounded improbable to me, especially after reading some of the letters in the files. Then I got the newspaper reports of the trial to confirm what might have been just an apocryphal story, and yes, David Myers really did hang for the murder. Now, this note makes it even more convincing that the two of them–Angelica and David–were planning on running away. She sounded quite desperate in her letters, and her mother was chiding her about being a more dutiful wife. What choice did she have?"

"No choice back then," Moss said. "But that's all long gone. What difference does it make now?"

"I'm not sure–yet. But let's finish reading what we have now." She continued her perusal of the letter: "That does not matter--I am not tortured any . . . life is in danger--I will be waiting at the front parlor wi . . . signal--At last! I know God will for . . . anxious hopes--We shall rely on Him and the speed of the hors . . . Angel. . . ."

"No date that I can find," Baby muttered. "Angelica is planning to flee on horseback with David. This surely is proof, circumstantial, that the husband killed her. If only this had been found after Angelica's murder, a young man, a very brave young man would not have been put to death."

"Does it matter now?" asked Moss.

"I will make it my task to clear David Myers' name--after our own mystery is cleared up."

Chapter 19

Estelle was silent for a few moments while she considered Baby's offer to talk to the group about the crimes. Baby had cornered her mid-morning the next day while Estelle was in the office.

"Don't you think you should check first with Sheriff Stringfellow, or maybe the investigator, Gail Bryant?" Estelle asked.

Baby nodded. "I already have with the sheriff, and he said he didn't see that my discussing the murders would matter a whit as far as their efforts are concerned. The sheriff knows I'm doing a little investigating on my own, but I see my role in talking to our group more as counseling, rather than representing officialdom. If you think any remarks I make would cause more upset, of course, I--"

"Oh, no, Judge, not at all. I didn't mean to imply that. I guess that would be fine. I'll announce today at lunch that you'll share your ideas about what's happened--let's see, do you want to meet in the library?" Estelle looked at Baby with hollow eyes.

Baby reached across the desk and patted the woman's arm. "That will be fine. And I'll be circumspect. I think we all could do with a gab session on this whole business. We can't ignore it, you know, Estelle, as much as we'd like to."

"I know, I know," Estelle cried with a catch in her voice. Then she gave Baby a quavery smile. "Actually, we need something to fill the time today, anyway. Mary Mosby Smith won't be here until this evening, so this meeting of yours will be well-timed."

"Ah, good."

Moss joined Baby outside to stroll around the property. The day was cloudy and thus more conducive to light exercise.

"Did you talk to Stringfellow about the coroner's report?" Moss asked, obviously interested.

"Yes, it revealed what we surmised, that Hillman had been struck a blow to his head with a blunt, heavy object before he strangled to death. Someone had met him late at night, probably in the bell tower, and after presumably forcing him to the top, maybe with a gun or a knife."

"But what would the perpetrator have done with the weapon? The police searched the men's rooms if you recall."

Baby nodded. "I know. He must have hidden it immediately after the crime, somewhere like under the porch, for example. And it might have been something as innocuous as a piece of wood or a heavy branch used as a walking stick. But to continue. He then coshed Hillman on the head so the rope could be fixed around his neck, and threw him over the side to dangle until the life was squeezed out of him. If he had been only partly unconscious and was aware of his predicament, might he not have thrashed around in his death throes, thereby ringing the bell, and in turn awakening the household?"

"Sure," Moss agreed. "Or even the weight of an inert body thrown off the platform would cause the bell to ring for a time."

"Yes, that was undoubtedly how the bell happened to ring. It would make more sense than the murderer announcing his deed." Baby gave a involuntary shudder at the mental picture of Hillman struggling helplessly, giving one final effort to preserve his life--dying to the infernal ringing of that bell.

"I wish," she said quietly, "that the awakening of the household had made a difference in pointing toward the murderer. But I can't see that it matters. It's obvious that some minutes had to elapse for the ringing to awaken people. Any male from either the cabins or the house would have had time to rush back to his room and feign surprise, so that hasn't helped. The authorities are stuck, too, that's clear. There seems to be nothing else to cudgel my brains about what took place that early morning."

Moss couldn't contribute anything further from his own observations, and they finished their walk in desultory spurts of conversation. Baby went to her room to rest before lunch and sort through her notes in preparation for the meeting.

So far, the clues were lining up against Joe DeAngelo. The police had sent for him after he'd confessed to his connection to Vicki and grilled him, but without any real evidence they had to let him go, considering him, as the sheriff told her, "a person of interest" the latest in police jargon. If Vicki had proved to be a dangerous nuisance, a home wrecker, that could be enough. Love in all its aspects had shown up time and again as a powerful motive for murder.

She also wondered how much Joe knew concerning Hillman and his dead sister. Was he aware that Hillman had taught Martina all those years ago? She would make a point of asking him about that. And had Joe somehow discovered the author's preventing the unhappy girl from being published? But his having knowledge of the blackmail had yet to be proven, of course. She needed to clarify that point, too, with Diane. Even if Joe somehow found out everything, the rationale did seem rather shaky for murder.

Continuing with the list of suspects, she could make a good case for George doing away with Hillman, his supposed mentor during the workshop, who was systematically destroying his confidence by relentlessly and ruthlessly attacking his best efforts, according to Moss. Shocking as it was to one of her age, more and more, it seemed, murder as a solution was making the front pages among the young and godless in modern society. Is that what had gone on in the minds of the two grad students? Retribution? They certainly had the opportunity, wandering around during all hours. And as she pointed out to Moss, two men could have managed both the heavy door and getting Hillman subdued. But that left Vicki's murder unexplained since at this point, there seemed to be nothing going on between the dead woman and George. Of course, there may be no connection to the two murders. Now that really would be something!

The entire group assembled after lunch in the library. Baby glanced around, counting noses. No one had begged off, including Estelle. Extra chairs had to be brought in from the dining room, and some sat on the floor, but the room had been the right choice, Baby thought, for a meeting like this. The dark paneled walls with their yellowed prints of botanical subjects and early U. S. presidents hinted at stability; the crowded old furnishings and books seemed reassuring.

They were speaking in low tones to one another. Baby noticed Diane was sitting on a dining room chair between Delancy Hart and Rafe Barlow. She was leaning as if to a magnet in Rafe's direction though they weren't speaking. Suddenly, Baby knew they were sexually involved. She mentally slapped her head for a blind fool. Of course! His poetry with its leading inferences of a physical relationship, their inevitable proximity at meals or meetings, the electricity she had sensed between them, the two together that first day coming from the woods. She must have blocked such pictures from her mind, for some reason. Of course, they weren't a likely pair either in age or station in life, so making a connection between them was a stretch. Baby reminded herself to corner Rafe and try to get more of his background.

Finally, the last of the conversations dribbled out and everyone grew silent.

Baby smiled, looking at the individual faces. "I bet there's not been such a writers workshop in the history of writers workshops!"

Everyone either chuckled ruefully or agreed out loud.

"The events of the past week or so have been shocking, I know, no less to Estelle and the college--" she acknowledged Estelle with a nod, to which Estelle gave a grateful smile, "as to all of us. For most of my adult life I've been involved, strictly as an amateur, in helping the authorities solve crimes. Because of this long-term interest, I've come to some conclusions about the murders in our midst. I'd like to talk to you about my ideas, and give you an opportunity to express your feelings and ideas, too."

They listened attentively as Baby talked about the crucial importance of motive for murder--the controlling passion that drove a seemingly normal person to take another's life. "It's my belief that unless we're dealing with a psychopath who is randomly killing for perverted pleasure–and I personally discount that idea--there is a connection between Vicki Duggan and Harold Hillman, at least for the murderer."

"What about a serial killer?" asked Mrs. Stouck eagerly, leaning forward from her seat on the sofa, her wizened face alert and interested. "Maybe someone is hanging around the area, using our group for his grisly deeds."

Baby shook her head. "I'd say no. Usually, if not always, there's some sexual implication, an identifying trademark, or some other clue that lets us know this person is deviant and is seeking gratification and publicity. I see nothing of that, and I've not heard the authorities suggest any such thing, either."

"What about the authorities?" asked Delancy Hart. He was tapping his middle finger on the arm of one of the wing chairs, a soft but annoying thud. "Are they digging around for clues?"

Baby shrugged. "We'll see. As those in charge, they should be doing the usual things that an investigation requires, or not! With Hillman's remains leaving for New York shortly, they've been concentrating on post mortem evidence, I suppose. I've not been taken into Ms. Bryant's confidence, so I can only guess." She raised her hands in an inclusive gesture. "In the meantime, I think we all should make the best of it and keep on with our workshops. I don't believe we should fear for our lives, or at least, those who are not secretly involved with Duggan or Hillman have nothing to fear."

"Secretly involved!" Lois Jelenick, the unmarried teacher, frowned. "What's going on here, really, I mean? What is the connection between the two murders?"

"I think someone is covering tracks or seeking revenge. I'm not sure which, but I've got some feelers out, and when information comes in, I'll know more." She waved off the excited queries. "I can't say any more because I don't know much."

"I still want to go home," murmured Sarah Husbands. "I think it's criminal the way we've been treated. I'm afraid to go anywhere by myself or leave the house." She turned to Diane. "I can't imagine why you'd go out alone, especially at night, while a murderer is on the loose."

Diane flushed and tightened her lips, but she didn't reply. Baby had wondered the same thing, but had been biding her time to seek out the answer from Diane. Now she was fairly sure of the reason.

"Just behave naturally, folks, using some caution," she continued, "and we should all get through this without any further dire consequences." She held up a cautioning hand. "I wouldn't, for instance, go wandering around anymore at night by yourself, no matter how compelling the reason." Baby looked directly at Diane when she spoke. She felt some sympathy. Rafe was a damned attractive man, but any after-hours trysts with him could endanger her if she happened to stumble upon the wrong person. Of course, the possibility existed that Rafe was insanely devoted to Diane and was acting as her agent in killing Hillman. She looked speculatively at the burly man, in his early thirties, with an unknown background that could have set him up as a killer. Suddenly, as the conversations among her audience erupted and took attention away from her, she felt a chill come over her as she contemplated the perfidy of one of these relative strangers. Could it have been as Lila suggested? No real motive other than some twisted, bizarre need to kill? Not a stranger in the neighborhood, but one of their own? She took a deep breath. No, her experience told her these crimes were not random nor without motive, and she would ferret out the truth, given enough time. That was the main problem, she realized, time. And if her hints today gave the killer a motive to make a move toward her, so much the better. She'd be on her guard.

Chapter 20

Mary Mosby Smith arrived as the group was finishing their evening meal. Perhaps because of the strain of the past few days, a sense of unreality pervaded the atmosphere; the new participant was greeted like a film star, with everyone rising to their feet and clapping. She waved somewhat awkwardly and turned for direction to Estelle, who called order by tapping on a glass so she could officially welcome the new workshop leader and set out the agenda for the following week.

Mary Mosby–which, according to Estelle, she preferred being called--was a heavy-set woman in her early forties, pretty, with small features and smooth skin. Baby thought she kept herself up very well. Still, she had a few of those subtle signs that all women of that age or older recognized, the sagging muscles around her mouth and crinkles here and there when she smiled. She had fluffy blond hair and wore her flowered cotton dress with graceful aplomb, despite her size. Baby figured her to be a diligent and self-assured person, who, though not as colorful as Hillman, should acquit herself well in this type of activity; she had, after all, seven books to her credit and had the gumption to pinch-hit in an appalling situation.

She spoke a few words to the group, at one point slipping into gallows humor, perhaps inadvertently, Baby conceded, about following in Hillman's "wake." She uttered "oops" and shrugged apologetically at the low chuckles. Sitting down at Baby's table, she joined them for coffee and a piece of angel food cake with a creamy orange sauce, murmuring that she "shouldn't" but she "couldn't resist." Baby was distracted, however. Her thoughts were less on conversing with Mary Mosby Smith than they were on finding an opportunity to talk alone with Joe. She also had a further question about Hillman that only Diane could answer.

She watched Diane and Rafe leave the table and casually stroll first to the back porch and then onto the lawn. Joe DeAngelo was still sitting at the table with Delancy Hart and Sarah Husbands. After excusing herself from the table, Baby moved across the room and in passing turned toward them and smiled. Hart still looked the immaculate English gentleman in his white linen suit and silk ascot. He gestured in an agreeable manner to the empty chair for Baby to take.

"We were wondering," explained Hart, "if these murders would touch off any poetry or stories from our resident writers."

"I shouldn't be surprised," Baby concurred. "I found myself composing some strange, non-intellectualized verse earlier. I can't think that I've ever written like that before. Not," she hastily amended with a grin, "that I'd ever read aloud what appeared on the paper certainly against my conscious will."

"Oh, you should," exclaimed Sarah. "I think your deepest feelings about this experience would be fascinating."

Baby smiled. "I'd rather hear the compositions of my fellow writers. Do you ever write poetry, Joe?" She gave him a direct, pleasant look.

He shook his head impatiently. "I can't be bothered with that stuff. I like reality. That's what my novel will be based on--hard hitting reality."

"The major has had interesting experiences in the Gulf." Delancy Hart spoke with the authority of one who had listened critically to the work.

"I'm surprised you got out of the service; you must have done well to be promoted to major at your age," Baby commented.

He stroked his short mustache with some embarrassment. "I was lucky to get some good assignments. But I wanted a different sort of life. I came up through the ranks from the time I was eighteen years old. Now, with my retirement, I can do some other things I've always wanted to do--like write."

"Excellent!" said Hart, approvingly.

"Do you come from a family of writers, Joe?" Baby asked.

"I guess so. An aunt wrote children's stories for magazines. My sister--I believe she could have published her poetry."

"Could have?"

He gave her a sober look. "She died young."

"Ah, sorry." She hesitated only momentarily and then said, "I wonder if I might ask your advice about something, Joe. Could I see you for a few minutes?" She began to rise from her chair.

Joe DeAngelo looked a little surprised, but he joined Baby as she walked toward the hallway.

"I don't exactly want advice," she confessed. "I need to know something, and I didn't want to sound as if I was quizzing you, but you can help me if you will. To get right to the point–did you have a sister named Martina?"

He started a little in surprise and then nodded slowly, staring at Baby with a frown. "Why, yes. How did you know? What does that have to do with anything?"

"I know her name because of her connection with a couple of people at this workshop, Harold Hillman for one. The connections may have no significance, but I am curious to know how you happened to turn up at this particular workshop."

He shrugged. "I've known Harold Hillman casually for years since he'd been my sister's mentor when she was in college. After she tragically died, he--well, he sort of helped my folks clear up her things, came to the funeral, you know. I met him there and we got to talking. Later, I kept up with his writing career. I always thought it was kind of fun to know a famous novelist."

"And you found out he would be the guest novelist for this event and signed up?"

"Yes, eventually. I'd been wanting some professional opinion on my book, and I read about the workshop in a writers magazine. He wasn't even listed as the guest novelist. But I thought this would be the ideal opportunity at an interesting place that was new to me. I was very near the deadline, but I wrote for information. Imagine my surprise and pleasure to see Hillman turning up on the program."

"At that time, you were still communicating with Vicki, as you suggested?"

"Yes, I mentioned then I had signed up, never guessing she would get a slot in the poetry group. I was dumbfounded to see her."

"But you didn't know the other guest writer, Diane Marvel, before this workshop?"

He raised his eyebrows as if the question was absurd. "Not at all. As I mentioned, I've not been well acquainted with poets, except for my sister, and she was quite a bit older than I, so her life and interests were different from mine."

Baby nodded and thanked him for his help. He walked away in his habitually stiff manner while she watched him go. A plausible explanation of his attendance here, given without hesitation, she had to admit. And no seeming animosity toward Hillman. If he ever knew about the stolen poetry, he was extremely good at dissembling. She was not going to be the one to spill the beans about Diane's pilfering. That would have to come from her.

Workshop sessions were scheduled the following morning, mainly to get the prose group acquainted with their new leader. The poetry participants were subdued but strangely cheerful, as if the events had begun to be put in perspective. Maybe her talk had helped, Baby surmised. Her purpose, really, had not been to smoke out the killer as Moss had feared but to calm the innocent bystanders. Still, if her discussion of the murders caused someone to become nervous and maybe make mistakes . . . well, that would be dandy. She did believe that the murders were extemporaneous but following a rationale she was yet to discover. Finding the reason was her main task. If only the information from Clarksville would arrive, that might shed some light on at least one of her questions. But the noon mail delivery contained nothing for her, and so the waiting continued. And her plans to seek out Diane were foiled also. She and several others drove the hour or so into Bowling Green for an afternoon of shopping, but Baby declined the trip. Shopping excursions were of little interest to her, unless she was on the trail of unusual local products and that didn't seem likely so close to her native area of Nashville. Sunday would no doubt provide an opportunity to chat with Diane.

Instead, she and Moss drove to the college campus to look around. The school buildings, for the most part, were from the turn of the 20th century when the place was a military academy, according to an historical marker. As was her wont, Baby had a motive other than sightseeing for visiting the campus. She suggested taking a look at the library, which was one of the newer buildings. While Moss wandered in the stacks, she found the librarian in charge and after introducing herself and mentioning her connection to Toll House, asked about using a computer to check for information on the Myers family of Liberty, Kentucky, in a nearby county. She explained her interest in finding descendants of the brother of David Myers, one Cudworth Myers.

"I believe the wrong man was convicted of the murder in 1855 of the mistress of Toll House, and I'm hoping to talk to anyone who might still live in the area related to that family."

"Let's look up the phone number of the archives office in that county, first of all," the librarian suggested in the detached way that librarians seem to have mastered. "Then on Monday, you can call them and someone will probably even know the family first hand. It's a small county, you know."

After retrieving the phone number, Baby thanked the woman and went in search of Moss, who had decided to buy a novel from a table of used books that were being sold to raise money. Baby glanced at the titles displayed and found a Barbara Pym, one of her favorite authors, which she bought for future reading. At the moment, she had other more pressing affairs to attend to.

Sunday morning, Baby rose at her usual time--5:30. She showered and dressed and also as usual prepared to be the first one for breakfast. Sometimes she had helped the cook by making coffee and setting the buffet table. This morning she met Moss in the hall going for his morning ablutions. Her hand was on the railing and she had taken one step down when the bannister gave way and she lost her balance, teetering over the edge. Involuntarily, she let out a loud cry as the weight of her body pushed the railing far over the stair well to terrifying cracking sounds.

"What the--" Moss had run back to the stairway and grabbing Baby's other arm pulled her to safety. She sat down heavily on the first stair, trembling a little. "Thank you," she said meekly. "I nearly tumbled over the edge."

"I'm glad I was able to help." He reached over to the distended bannister and gave it a tug. One of its two supports had broken off and it was held in place by a single baluster at the turn in the stairs. "This is a disaster waiting to happen!" he said.

"I noticed the bannisters on the porch were looking worn out, but I never thought about this one going too."

By now, others had come from their rooms and began to gather around Baby asking if she was hurt, lamenting at the condition of the house.

"No harm done, but I guess we should put up a sign to warn late risers not to use the railing until it's fixed." Sarah Husbands agreed to take care of that, saying she had scotch tape to fasten the notice.

Baby finally felt calm enough to get to her feet, and assisted by Moss, she went back into her room.

"What kind of `accident' was that, Baby?" Moss said, consternation in his voice.

She waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, I think it was an old-house accident. Don't begin thinking someone's trying to kill me. That wouldn't be a very sure method, anyway. Lots of people use that stairway, you know."

"Yes, but everyone knows you're the first one down in the morning."

Baby paused for a moment. "Yes, I guess that's true. I have to admit, it would have been a long drop with these high ceilings. I'll be all right, though, Moss. And, frankly, I'm still at a loss about who may be our murderer, so it's hard to imagine my being a specific target."

"You may know more than you think, or you may have sounded as if you know more than you know when you talked to us."

"Really? I'll have to review what I said to the group to get a clue. You may be right, though, that I am suddenly seen as a danger to the killer." She gave a sigh. "I suppose my taking the initiative in openly discussing the murders could be upsetting to someone, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'll need proof before I admit to being a target."

Moss moved toward the door. "And that's what I intend to look for–proof. I'm going to closely examine the bannister and determine what made it give way."

Chapter 21

Despite the chilling start to the morning, Baby had recovered nicely and was in good spirits during the poetry readings as long as she kept her mind on poetry. Diane made complimentary comments about several of the poems read, but left it to others to question or discuss the meaning of Rafe's poem about the sea, which he read in his husky voice, softer than usual:

I sail before the wind

Spray lapping the gunnels

Licking my cheeks

Before me is a wilderness of waves

Clean and pure

Calling me home

If I would drown

Could that brine

Clean my heart

And clear my head

To perfect ease

Like it scrubs

The bottom of the boat

I sail before the wind

Throughout the reading, Baby went from surprise to wonderment at the change in Rafe's content. His other poems seemed to have been designed to shock, the rat poem, for instance, Now this. It seemed a complete turnaround, poignant and winsome. His fellow poets were unanimous in their admiration, with only one negative comment about the way it scanned, whatever that meant, from Blair Babcock. Then suddenly, Baby went cold all over as she considered they might be praising the work of a killer! Was it his unclean, murderous soul that needed to be scrubbed? She had to consider it as part of her commitment to solve the murders, but the thought was repellent. She sighed. This was not the first time she'd been struck by the incongruities she discovered when on the trail of a criminal. Still, nothing was sure at this point, and Rafe might be completely innocent.

After the morning session, Baby happened to catch Rafe as he prepared to leave the room. Baby had lingered a few minutes in the library, sorting through her papers, organizing her folder and then noticed him, his eyes on Diane, as she finally left the room after being confronted with questions by some of the participants. Rafe seemed to be timing his exit to follow her through the door, but the three women, Carla, Sarah, and Lois, had beaten him to it.

"I very much liked the poem you read today, Rafe," Baby called out.

The man turned and gave her a charming smile. Like all men who loved women, Baby thought, he knew what pleased, and now he gallantly gestured for Baby to pass through the doorway ahead of him. He wore his usual jeans and a bright yellow knit shirt that showed every contour of his arms and chest.

"Thank you, ma'am." His voice, at once soft and gruff caressed her ears.

She paused at the entryway, putting her hand on his arm. "You must have spent some time near the sea to have written about it. As a landlubber, I wouldn't know where to start in describing its effects on the human soul."

He gave an odd little laugh. "I live close to the sea now, ma'am, but I was landlocked once, too."

"Oh, and where did you live besides Cairo?"

"Here and there," he said, "but always in the South and never near water. I love the sea, though, and I'll never let myself get far away from it."

"You run a health club, I understand."

He nodded but didn't go into further explanation. He seems shy, Baby thought, somewhat surprised. "Did you ever live in Tennessee?" she asked bluntly. Might as well get it over with.

He looked surprised but answered without a pause, "Yeah, I went to high school all around the area. My dad was in construction, built restaurants, that sort of thing, so we didn't stay long in any one place."

"Ah," Baby said. He gave her just enough information to be tantalizing and suggestive, but not enough to probe further without arousing his suspicions. As they stepped into the dining room, he gave a polite little nod to Baby and headed toward Diane, who was standing as if uncertain where to go. Giving Baby a backward glance, she walked toward the door to the porch. Baby smiled and called out, "See you folks later." But the two seemed oblivious to her. She mentally chided herself for being so clueless till now of their relationship. Certainly, Rafe would be the obvious choice to do Diane's bidding if she wanted her blackmailer silenced. It was something she had to consider. From the dining room she went through what had been a dog trot originally and then into the front room, now the office. She'd been checking daily to see if her request from the newspaper had come through.

Sitting at her desk, the student secretary upon seeing Baby pulled out two envelopes from a stack of mail. "Something finally came for you, Judge."

Baby thanked her and clutched in one hand the document envelope from the Leaf-Chronicle as well as a personal letter. She hurried up the stairs, noticing the bannister had been removed, holding tightly to the rail that was attached to the wall. She shuddered involuntarily as she thought of her near fall.

As was her habit, she didn't look at the mail until she had put away her notebook, freshened up in the bathroom, and settled herself in the lumpy little chair by the window. She liked to savor pleasure without other pressures intruding. The letter was from her long-time friend, Lillian Grant, who sometimes accompanied her on vacations. Lil had obtained Baby's address from Sister and had written a news-filled letter as if Baby was off to Timbuktu for a year.

The large brown envelope contained the photocopies of the microfilmed news reports of the Clarksville double murder. Baby eagerly scanned the article and the successive pages to look for pictures. The family name was Brinkley–no help there. The only picture was of the dead woman. The son, who was a minor, was not even named, let alone pictured. He had received a five-year sentence in a juvenile facility after pleading guilty to manslaughter. She picked up her cell phone and called the sheriff's office. She was immediately put through to Sheriff Stringfellow.

"Sheriff, have you gotten the list of birth dates of the men in our group?"

"Yep. I got'em from Ms. Bryant when she interviewed y'all"

"I'd like to have them read to me now if you don't mind."

The sheriff agreed and after a long absence from the phone, read out the dates to her. "I don't know what good these here dates is gonna do you," he said, somewhat peevishly. "The State is dropping the investigations anyways."

"What? You can't be serious." She was stunned with disbelief.

"Oh, I'm serious. Lack of evidence for both deaths. Looks like it'll be `death by misadventure or by person or persons unknown' and that'll be that."

"Misadventure indeed! What about Vicki Duggan? Somebody strangled her for some reason."

"Intruder. Probably was fixin' to rob the place. Burglary gone wrong."

"Ridiculous! And Hillman. I suppose they believe he hung himself, with that bump on his head and his hands tied behind his back?"

"All I kin say is that we've done all that's humanly possible. As you know, Miz Marvel and him had a bad deal going on, but we can't prove she had a thing to do with the guy's murder. Or the Duggan woman's either. Fact is, there's too many suspects and no real evidence at Toll House for any breakthrough that we can see at the present time. Both murder cases will go into the cold file, so there won't be any more active investigation of your group. But who's to say it's over? If we or the State Police get helpful tips from the public, we'll reopen the cases."

"How can you possibly get any tips if you don't do a more thorough checking into backgrounds or maybe do a report on national news broadcasts? The murderer is part of our group at Toll House, I am convinced. Soon, we'll all be departing for various locales, which will effectively end the investigation for good."

The sheriff didn't respond.

"I had a feeling that girl wasn't up to it," Baby muttered finally.

"What's that you say?"

"Nothing. I still have a couple of points to check out about Hillman, and when I get what I need, and if it's pertinent, I'll report back to you."

"Right kindly of you, Judge. We'll take all the help we can get at this point." His tone was friendlier now as if he could see an end to their dealings.

"And thanks for the information, Sheriff."

After hanging up the phone, Baby looked at the birth dates of the men. Rafe, George, Omar, and Blair Babcock were near enough the right age to have been the unnamed teenager who had killed his father. George and Omar both claimed never to have lived in the South, and it was true they spoke with more of a Northeastern accent than a Southern drawl, which was hardly conclusive, she had to admit. Blair seemed too thin and nervous to be an effective killer, but one couldn't always go by appearances. She reviewed her notes on him. He had always lived in Kentucky, so he said, but he could be lying.

Down deep, she thought if it were anyone, it would be Rafe. Although he would have had to change his name, he seemed so honest and real--not a disturbed killer. She began to pace the floor, thinking. All of this was merely speculation. She had no proof the convicted teenager was one of their group anyway. Although the trial was obviously important in Vicki's work life, it certainly may have had no connection to her murder. And how did Hillman's murder connect with Vicki's? Was the major somehow involved? His acquaintance with Hillman was clear, though also not proven that he knew about either Diane's taking his sister's poems or the blackmail. Even more tellingly, Joe had to admit to his connection with Vicki Duggan because of the computer record. Was a romantic entanglement reason enough for murder? That could be an entirely false trail.

She went down the stairs carefully, hanging again onto the rail attached to the wall. Still thinking of her list of suspects, she was unaware of others in the dining room. She felt her work was leading nowhere, her theories were faulty, and the necessary connections too obscure for her to penetrate. What she needed was a spot of good luck. Diane next. She had an important question to ask her. And then she mustn't forget her commitment to seek out descendants of David Myers' brother. Time was running out. She sat down at the first table she came to with a box lunch in front of her and found herself next to two of her group members, Carla Easterling and Dottie Morris, who asked her a question that she had to have repeated. She mentally shook herself to attention and began to converse with the two women as if her only concerns were rhythm and internal rhyme.

Chapter 22

That afternoon following their workshop session, luck finally came her way. First of all, the now testy Sheriff Stringfellow called to inform her that Vicki Duggan's case load printout had just come in the mail from Nashville.

"But you're outta luck with the Clarksville office, lest you wanna go root around in their storage area. It's been too long a time to keep those records at hand." He sounded almost triumphant.

Well, she could hardly blame him. After all, she was delving into his own province, no matter that he seemed little interested. She said to him in a pacifying manner, "I don't know if

any of it will help, but I must take a look. I've already got some information from the Clarksville newspaper, which will have to do since I don't have the luxury of time enough to dig through years of records. In any case, thanks for your help, Sheriff. I'll come right over to pick up the copies."

On the way to her car, Baby saw Moss poking a stick in some shrubbery at the back of the house. Mittens stood nearby, his feet in position five, an expression of interest on his face.

"Lose a golf ball?"she called out.

"Goodness, you startled me, Baby!"

He straightened up with his hand in the small of his back. "I think I've gotten some muscle strain from my investigative work. I seem to find myself always bending or stretching or climbing somewhere."

"What are you looking for in the bushes?" She peered into the dense boxwood.

"Why, I was standing there," he pointed, "at the end of the porch and could see right down into them. I thought I spotted something that looked interesting, but I can't quite reach it."

"Let me try. I've got long arms." She bent forward to see what Moss had seen. It was an envelope, dirty white from exposure. By stooping forward and dragging Moss's stick under the foliage, she managed to scrape the paper near enough to grasp with her fingers. The cat scrambled under the bushes and leapt on what might have been a leaf or an insect.

"Out of the way, Mittens!" Baby straightened up laboriously. "I know what you mean about bending. I should keep to mental sleuthing only, like Hercule Poirot." She peered at the faint address on the envelope.

"It's addressed to Vicki Duggan!" She grinned at Moss. "Now who'da thunk we'd find a clue in the bushes!"

"Probably a bill she dropped. Don't get your hopes up, Baby."

"Accidently dropped into the bushes?" Baby scoffed. "And furthermore, it's handwritten. Let's just see." She removed a sheet of paper from the envelope and carefully unfolded it. "It's been rained on, so the ink is not in the best shape."

Baby scanned the sheet quickly and found a signature at the bottom that said simply, "Joe." Baby began to read the contents with difficulty, many of the words smeared beyond recognition. She interrupted herself and gave Moss a wry look. "I keep finding letters around this place. I wish just once I'd find one that is decipherable."

"What does it say?"

"Dear Vicki, I . . . surprised to see your name . . . the participants. . . . We need to talk again about our . . . . Apparently, what is over for . . . isn't . . . you." Baby looked up at Moss. "This just confirms what Joe had to admit."

"Keep reading."

"'Remember, Vicki, the . . . is past. I don't appreciate . . . following me here. I think this might . . . stalking.' Well, this is pretty strong stuff," Baby exclaimed.

"Do you suppose this letter really is a kind of sign, a clue?" said Moss. "She might have had a premonition of danger and left a clue that the Major wouldn't find to destroy."

"She couldn't have told anyone, that's for sure, since she apparently was obsessed with him," Baby said quietly. "He's admitted their connection to me only when the State Police got involved and when I told him Vicki's computer would be searched. He said how surprised he was at her turning up here. He made it sound very civilized, however."

"So we know Vicki and the Major knew each other," Moss said. "And that she was actively pursuing him."

Baby folded the sheet into the envelope and tucked it into her handbag. "I'll worry about the tone of this message later. Right now I'm going to town to pick up copies of Vicki's Nashville case records. Do you want to ride along?"

As they walked to the parking area, Baby glanced toward an old shed used for lawn equipment and tools. The door stood open; Delancy Hart was inside with a young man, both of whom seemed to be examining something.

Moss called out a greeting and Hart spun around.

"This is the student carpenter who's working on the railing," Hart explained. "When I saw the door open I thought I'd look inside." He pointed to the wood. "The railing even after so many years of construction should have been secure, but it failed. Isn't that right?" he asked the carpenter.

The young man nodded, holding up one end of the rail, which was in two parts, seven or so feet in length. "I had to take the rail apart in order to repair it. As you can see, it was attached to the post at the top by a kind of peg, called a tenon. It had loosened from use during the years, but it shouldn't have come out altogether."

"I noticed the railing wobbled a little, but how did it come out?" Moss asked. "It would appear to have been a pretty good way to fasten the two pieces together."

"You can figure that one out yourself!" Delancy Hart expostulated. "Someone had to have made a great effort to get them apart, probably by pulling back on the post and kicking the rail loose. Then when the judge grabbed hold of it in the dim light of early morning, it gave way, nearly breaking off the joining of the intermediate post to the rail." He pointed to a post which had a splintered peg at the top.

"I suppose it might have just worked itself loose," the boy said unhappily. "I can't believe this was deliberately tampered with. Why, someone could have gotten hurt!"

"That was the idea," Moss said dryly. "Can you get it repaired speedily?"

"If I put a shim at the base of the top post and another one at the peg end of the rail along with some glue, I'm pretty sure it should hold just fine. I'll have to think how to repair the middle post, maybe replace it altogether."

"Well, whatever the cause, "Baby soothed. "No harm was done, and I can see you're going to do a bang up job of fixing it. In the meantime, could you possibly find a length of rope to string between the posts? I know it's not like a rail, but it would give some comfort to those of us looking down into that gaping expanse."

"Sure, I'll check with Maintenance and get it up right away."

"Maybe we shouldn't have touched the railing," said Baby. "We could have taken it in to be forensically examined." Then she gave a wry smile. "On the other hand, someone might lose the rail altogether. No one in authority seems too interested in the Toll House happenings."

"But how could anyone kick out the railing," Hart asked, accompanying Baby and Moss to their car, "without being seen or heard, for that matter?"

Baby shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe in the wee hours of the morning."

"Exactly," Moss agreed. "Even if the sound of the rail being jerked from the post awakened anyone, it probably would have been attributed to a dream."

"Chancy, though," Baby said. "It would be a crime of opportunity, perhaps, if it wasn't an accident after all."

Moss frowned. "Someone knew you're the first one up in the morning, Baby, just as we thought, and planned for the bannister to cave in when you grasped it."

Baby looked thoughtful. "It's such a stupid, desperate trick.

Chapter 23

The sheriff handed her a brown envelope. "Here's the stuff from the Welfare Office. You had to have it," he added sourly.

"Thanks, Sheriff, for all your help." She parted from him without further ado.

"Now what?" asked Moss, as Baby settled herself in the car and turned on the ignition.

"I don't know. At this point, I keep wavering between Joe DeAngelo and Rafe Barlow as the likely suspects with a rather unlikely one lurking in the background."

She glanced at Moss, who was giving her an uncomprehending stare. "Why Rafe?" he asked.

"I forgot that you didn't know about the affair between Rafe and Diane. Been going on for some time, I expect, though I also think it's just a fling, as far as Diane's concerned." She drove imperturbably over chuck holes, the stiff old Mercedes shuddering. "If he's in love with her, she could have pressured him into killing Hillman, which would solve one problem for her. Also, he's the right age to have committed patricide sixteen years ago in Clarksville–and subsequently changed his name, of course. According to the newspaper reports, as a minor, the young man pled guilty to manslaughter and got five years in a juvenile facility, more like a group home, I expect. Vicki's own lawyer, whom I talked with earlier, couldn't remember much about the case, only that he was consulted by Vicki, though not hired to represent her. As the case worker, she had to testify at the trial and wondered about her liability. He thought the boy had got off entirely."

"I see. But what was her problem with Hillman that Diane would resort to planning a murder?"

"It's a case of blackmail for a long ago plagiarism, which I won't go into at the moment. Even so, I can't prove that Rafe killed on her orders."

"Sounds intriguing though. So much for the Rafe theory. Now, what about Major DeAngelo?"

"DeAngelo's connection to Hillman is also very strong. Joe's sister was being denied the credit she deserved as a poet because Hillman was using his knowledge of Diane's misdeeds to his benefit. Hillman didn't expose her because holding on to the information was too professionally lucrative. So from Joe DeAngelo's point of view, providing he knew all about the blackmail, Hillman was the fly in the ointment, the spoiler."

"I see, or rather I don't quite see, but I trust you do. And this difficulty with Vicki Duggan? I guess the note makes that pretty clear, but I'm wondering how their affair began."

"We know the problem between the Major and Vicki was substantial enough for him ultimately to try to avoid her, maybe at all costs. Apparently a misbegotten romance from years ago was briefly rekindled last year. They'd corresponded for a while with Joe eventually trying in a diplomatic way to discourage her, as he explained to me. He had mentioned to her his signing up for the workshop, not guessing she'd enroll in it herself. That was very disturbing to him, and he must have given her the letter that first night, explaining his wish to end any discussion between them as well as their association permanently."

"That doesn't sound like much of a motive for murder."

"You'd be surprised. Love and hate are two sides of the same coin. Why do you think so many people kill a spouse or lover? Remember, his marriage was at stake. And to implicate him further, he didn't admit to their connection until after Hillman was killed and the State Police came into our midst."

Moss shook his head. "Whew! I don't see how you figured all that stuff out so fast, Baby, but I guess you know your business."

"But the theories are no good unless I can get some proof. I've got motives galore–besides the love-hate, there's vengeance, rage, fear, which relates to an undoing–oh, it's still a muddle as I contemplate it. I may have made myself out a liar when I told our group about motive being the most important factor in solving a murder. What I didn't say was that without evidence the knowledge of motive is worthless, unless, of course, we get a valid confession."

"What makes a confession valid?"

"No coercion, in front of witnesses, Miranda warning, all details check out, that sort of thing."

"Is it likely you'll get a confession?" Moss clung to the door grip as Baby swung into the driveway of Toll House.

"No. Unless I can plan something to encourage it. I still have a couple more arrows in my quiver."

Moss shook his head. "Oh dear, Baby. I hope you're not being over-confident. You're dealing with a cold-blooded murderer, you know."

"I haven't forgotten," she remarked grimly, slamming the car door behind her. "But I can't help but think the murders were committed in a panic or rage, rather than cold blood."

Back in her room, she sat down heavily in her chair by the window and then opened the brown envelope the sheriff had given her. Page after page of log sheets summarizing Vicki Duggan's case work over the past ten years. She thumbed through them, not seeing any familiar names or suggestive cases. Not much of interest here. She sighed, disappointed. Well, every possibility had to be investigated. The fact that this proved to be a dead end shouldn't be so discouraging, yet the time factor was weighing heavily on her.

And then there was the broken railing. What a lot of trouble someone had gone to just to frighten or disable her! Baby stood up and walked to the door. An idea had been at the back of her mind that needed checking out immediately. If it had legs, it might change the direction of her investigation and consequently bring danger to Diane. She had no time to lose since the end of the workshop was drawing near. She could see Diane now before dinner, provided she hadn't sneaked off to be with her amour. She walked the few steps down the hall and knocked on the workshop leader's door. To her relief, Diane opened it and invited her in. Baby had to give the woman credit for her poise. After all the confessions she'd coerced out of Diane, one would think she'd have a warier look about her when she saw Baby's smiling face at her door.

"I won't take much of your time," Baby said, refusing the chair. "I'd like to know if Hillman was working on something new that he'd submitted for your husband to publish."

Diane made a face. "Oh, yes. John spoke to me about Hillman's project in general terms. It was something he'd found in reading one of those true crime magazines. He planned to do a story, called in some circles 'faction', about someone killing someone and–oh, I don't know exactly. John didn't say much, other than he didn't want to do it. He thought it sleazy, exploitative and . . . well, probably ruinous to the individual in question."

"But Hillman was insistent?"

"He came to my room and confronted me about it. No arguments. I was supposed to tell John that. He got very ugly about my–well, you know the facts."

Baby remembered Diane and her tears and Hillman steaming out of her room. "Do you know whom he was going to expose?"

"No, I didn't hear a name, and it probably wouldn't have meant anything to me even if I did. John said Hillman had hired an investigator to find out the true identity of the person. Do you think this latest book had something to do with his murder?" Diane's expression showed nothing but interest in Baby's inquiry.

"I honestly don't know. I'm just digging around wherever. Hillman's last minute appearance at this conference is a little suspicious." She paced a little in the small space, thinking. "I'd like you to do me a big favor. Maybe it's nothing, but I must take a look at Hillman's proposal, his–what do you call it?"

"Synopsis, probably. Is that what you need? It would be at the office, of course."

"Yes, would you call your husband and ask if he could do an overnight shipping of the project synopsis? I expect it would contain the information I need to verify if it's related to Hillman's death or not."

"I'll call him immediately," Diane said, looking at her watch. "I should just be able to catch him at work." She sat down on the bed and punched in the number, waiting only a few seconds before she greeted her husband and asked for his help.

"He wants to know why?" Diane looked helplessly at the judge.

"May I speak to him?" Baby asked. Diane handed over the cell phone and Baby introduced herself, explaining her need to check out Hillman's latest writing project as a possible clue to his murder. "I understand. I should get it Wednesday, then. Thank you so much, sir," she handed the phone back to Diane, who completed the call and then sat looking at the judge with curiosity.

"Let me know, if you will, the moment the material is delivered," Baby said, but hesitated before leaving the room. "I don't think I know your husband's name since I recall that you use your maiden name professionally. I'd like to send him a thank you note when I get back home for helping me out."

Diane dug in her purse for the publishing house business card and handed it to Baby. "I use my maiden name since I thought it had a nice ring to it for publishing." She shook her head sadly. "That won't matter anymore, that's for sure. I wonder what I'll do with my life now."

"I hope you'll consider teaching, Diane. As I said before, I think you have a gift for it."

"It's interesting you say that since I've always wanted to do some work with children. We didn't have any of our own. I may just look into the possibility, Judge. I have to make a clean break with my old life–on a couple of fronts."

Baby touched Diane's shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. "So you've accepted your situation?"

Diane nodded. "I'll be getting my just desserts, but I have another chance to live decently instead of with deceit. I've been doing a lot of soul searching lately." She gave Baby a half-smile that was neither sad nor joyful. "It means giving up my self-indulgent life as best I can."

"I think I can guess what you're referring to. Won't he be upset?" Baby felt a tingle of consternation. Rafe might not take rejection well, and until the outcome of the investigation was certain, Baby didn't like to see outside complications.

Diane looked at the judge in astonishment. "So you figured that one out too. I hope I can let him down easy. He's more sensitive than he appears."

"I think that would be a good idea. Thanks again, Diane, for arranging the delivery of Hillman's material." Baby slipped out of the room. It was now past five o'clock, too late for a call to the adjacent county's archive office. The 150-year-old case had to be postponed until tomorrow. It had been a full day and her inquiries weren't over yet.

She approached the stairs carefully and, holding tightly to the other railing, went on down. She walked into the front room that served as the office. Estelle was sitting at her desk, working on disbursements, shuffling bills and writing in a large checkbook in front of her. Baby inwardly quaked at the thought of disturbing her precarious tranquility.

Chapter 24

Estelle glanced up at Baby and smiled. Her disposition had improved with the arrival of Mary Mosby Smith and the hope of a restored writing workshop.

"We'll come out in the black now. For a while I thought everyone would demand their fees to be returned, but everything should be back to normal."

Baby walked to the front window and stood with her back to Estelle for a moment. Then she faced her. "Estelle, I think you should know that I believe we're not out of the woods yet."

The woman raised her eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"There's a possibility that the killer may strike again."

Estelle clapped her hand to her head, looking as if she'd just been abandoned by the forces of good. "Oh, no! How can you suggest such a thing! Just when I thought we'd heard the last of this murder business." She sprang to her feet and, wild-eyed, glared at Baby. "Why can't you let it go? The sheriff and the investigator have. They told me they had no evidence to suppose the deaths were anything but some horrible, weird coincidence, probably by an interloper."

Baby held up pacifying hands. "I have no doubt that you want to put this whole mess behind you. So does the sheriff. But the facts can't be disputed; Vicki Duggan and Harold Hillman were murdered by someone here at Toll House. Furthermore, the killer is still active. I know now that my near fall from the stairs was intended. I know how it was done, and I'm close to knowing who did it."

"What!" the woman screeched weakly. She sank back into her chair and covered her face with her hands. "I knew it was too good to last."

"Now, now, Estelle. If I can figure things out in time, perhaps it really will be over--and soon."

Estelle nodded. "I suppose you're right. But you will be discreet in your investigation, won't you?" A pleading, desperate note was in her voice.

Baby gave her a thin smile. "It's hard to be discreet when confronting a murderer, and I may be doing just that in the next few days. At least I have hopes of putting an end to this whole affair. But don't worry, the workshop will be virtually over by that time. I do have one request from you, though."

The woman sighed. "What is it, Judge?"

"Harold Hillman was a last minute substitution, right?"

"Yes. Nancy Ann Forrester called and said she wouldn't be able to come to the workshop, but she'd obtained a substitute. I was immensely grateful that I didn't have to scramble around for someone at the last minute. Never did I dream that . . . ." She groaned again.

"Yes, well, we never can tell what events may be put in play with certain decisions. I'd like to talk to this Forrester woman. Will you give me her number?"

"What would she have to do with our troubles?"

"I'd like to know the gist of her conversation with Hillman. How she came up with him to take her place."

Estelle turned to her desk phone file and thumbed through it until she found the number, which she transcribed to Baby on a scratch pad.

"There. I hope that will help."

Baby thanked her and went out the front door to the vacant porch. Taking up her cell phone, she keyed in a familiar number in Nashville. She should be able to catch her brother if he and Mary Rose were going out for the evening. They had a lot of social engagements since he had retired as a general from the army.

Dear Son! He had always had more social obligations than he ever wanted, but between the officer corps and his wife he never had been able to escape them. "Just during a war," he had remarked ruefully.

Waiting for the phone to be answered, Baby chuckled to herself at the absurdity of her family's nicknames, taken up by their friends as well as family. Only in the South, Baby mused.

"Son?" Baby was grateful to hear the deep, warm voice of her brother instead of Mary Rose's. Not that she disliked her sister-in-law, but she hadn't the time or interest at the moment to chat about the latest parties and get-togethers that accounted for Mary Rose's time. "I'm glad I caught you. I need a big favor."

"Don't tell me. You want to mount a covert offensive against a gang of murderers and you need me to organize the team."

"Oh, funny! Really, now, Son, you make my crime-fighting efforts sounds foolish, the idle pursuits of an old lady needing to fill her days with excitement. In fact, I am knee deep in murder at this out of the way place." She described briefly the situation to date.

"I'm sorry, Baby. No offense. What do you need?"

"Can you get the record of a certain retired Army officer?"

"How soon?"

"By tomorrow?" she said meekly,

"Oh, rats! That means I can't go through channels." He sighed. "I'll pull strings and see what I can do. Don't count on it, though."

"Thanks, Son. It may be important, it may not, but I need to cover all bases. I'll do you a favor sometime--you know that."

"I know. I'll call you back as soon as I have any news. Now, who's the culprit?"

"I didn't say he's a culprit! His name is--" She lowered her voice, looking around again at the perimeters of the porch to make sure she was still alone. "His name is Joseph DeAngelo, Major, U. S. Army, Retired. Got it?"

Son repeated the name and after exchanging further amenities with each other, they signed off. She then punched in the number Estelle had given her and after a few rings heard the voice mail of Nancy Ann Forrester. Baby left her name and number and that she was currently at

Toll House, needing a some information regarding Harold Hillman. She hoped and prayed the woman had not gone out of town, but she suspected she already knew the answer.

What did she have, really? Two reasonable suspects, and only the merest chance that the guilty one could be bluffed into revealing himself! A possible third suspect might be confirmed soon or she might be on the wrong track altogether. At this stage of her investigation, the threads were still tangled, and yet she felt–she knew that she was close. What had she forgotten? Was there something that still needed to be checked out or even analyzed more closely?

She thought again about Rafe, once so obvious to her as someone dangerous, maybe springing from a difficult family situation, certainly capable with his physical strength and possible strength of purpose in strangling poor Vicki Duggan. Furthermore, he could have been told by Diane about Hillman's blackmail and in his misguided, unsophisticated way agreed to help her out by eliminating the source of her troubles. He could have done the deed on his own or it could be that Diane had been in on the murder, and from Baby's observations of her, that didn't seem likely. She had confessed too quickly her guilty secret. How easy it would have been for Diane to usher Baby from her presence, ending all talk of her disagreement with Hillman. No, it didn't compute, any of it. Baby eliminated the possibility of Diane telling Rafe about the plagiarism. Why give yourself feet of clay? On the other hand, if Hillman really was writing an exposé of Rafe's life, which he might believe would end forever his relationship with Diane, wouldn't Rafe be quite sure that Diane already knew about the book, or that she could have talked with her husband after Hillman's death? So from a personal standpoint, Rafe had no motive to snuff out Hillman for his own protection. Yes, if he had done the deed, it would have been on his own account.

Baby sat quietly for few moments on the hard Adirondack chair pondering the various Rafe scenarios. She wasn't convinced that Rafe was the story Hillman was pursuing. And, most importantly, if he wasn't the guilty party, then Diane could very well be in danger from at least one of the remaining two suspects. Maybe, she thought, heaving herself from the depths of the chair, she was getting closer after all, provided she was reading people rightly.

Baby had an opportunity after dinner to have a little lie-down for twenty minutes. She spent the time not in the welcome oblivion of sleep, but in thinking about Diane's safety. If she expressed such a nebulous rationale for the killer striking again, the sheriff would chalk it up to the imaginings of an old, foolish woman. Furthermore, she couldn't imagine what good it had done Diane to warn her of danger. What did that kind of warning mean in practical terms? And then, she might be wrong altogether.

She heaved herself to her feet and, slipping into a pair of loafers, made her way to the front porch. The sun was low and full on, striking her in the eyes. She pulled a chair behind a thick post and sat down.

She believed she knew the reason for the murders. The killer was protecting himself by covering up something from the past. Her suspects could have been motivated by these reasons, though from a different slant. Vicki could have recognized him or from the other suspect's point of view, could have made serious trouble for him. Hillman's murder was important to the killer again from the standpoint of either protecting his identity or from hatred and revenge.

The Major most certainly had reasons for eliminating Vicki Duggan. They had known each other intimately years ago, and Vicki obviously had become a nuisance over the past year. To continue with the DeAngelo, he could have killed Hillman because Hillman was blackmailing someone (identity most likely unknown to the Major) and suppressing the Major's sister's poetry from the literary world.

Baby got to her feet, stretched broadly and went down the front steps, preparing to take a stroll before bed. The evening would be warm but not as humid as it had been. She walked toward the far edge of the property in a wide sweep to the little graveyard which bounded the land on the east. She wondered why she had not taken the time to examine the markers. Careless of her, but the latter-day deaths had become increasingly more urgent than the more ancient one.

Some graves seemed very old with table stones in the style of the eighteenth century. They housed the remains of the original builder, who died in 1830, and his wife who lived only five years beyond her husband.

An obelisk in the Greek manner indicated the grave of his son, the letter writer, Thomas Bolen, husband of the ill-fated Angelica. He died in 1964. Baby walked among the weeds and less ornate stones of other markers from families succeeding to the property, not Bolands, and, evidently, household servants. She kept looking, though, for a particular grave. As she paced back and forth between the markers, her scalp prickled with an uncanny feeling. The poor woman, if she had been buried here--and where else?--must be lying in an unmarked grave. More proof that the husband had discovered she was prepared to run off with David Myers?

Slowly, she made her way back to the house and around to the front porch and into the parlor to look again at Angelica's portrait.

Chapter 25

Descending the stairs the next morning, a little later than her usual six o'clock, Baby saw signs that the new rail might soon be installed. The carpenter had already arrived and set a tool box beside the stairs. She stepped into the kitchen and helped herself to the freshly brewed coffee. The cook was affable, and she and Baby customarily chatted about food while Baby sipped her first cup. Today, however, she felt too distracted to enjoy idle chatter, so she picked up her cup and carried it to the back porch. The sun was fully over the horizon by this time of morning, casting an elongated shadow from the tower.

A like shadow seemed to be over her mind. She was struggling for a way to get to the truth, but the way eluded her, always beyond her grasp. She felt stupid and unsure even though her instincts told her to keep on with it. For the next day or so, it would be a waiting game.

When she went from breakfast to her room to review her poetry for the morning session, she saw the carpenter along with another student by the stairway.

"You're very early on the job. All set to repair the bannister?" she asked the young man she'd met the day before.

"Right, ma'am. The railing will be tight as a drum when I get it in place." He held up the end of the rail and began to climb to the top. "I couldn't use the middle post, however. We've made another one out of some old walnut. That way it will match the existing stairway."

"Good idea, " said Baby, from the bottom of the stairs. "Did you do all that in the shed?"

"Huh-uh. We have a workshop at the college. I needed a lathe for that job. The shed is for equipment storage. I had to make the post with dowel ends to slip into the socket on the floor and another on the rail. One of the other dowels had broken right off."

She started up the stairs, clinging to the rail on the wall beside her. "I'm glad you're getting it taken care of so promptly."

No call had come in last night from the Forrester woman, which was a little upsetting. She would have liked to get a handle on how Hillman happened to arrive at Toll House. Also she hoped Son would soon have the information on Major DeAngelo, but whatever his army record showed, it wouldn't be substantial evidence either, only suggestive perhaps of instability. Pressure, that was the key. The killer was obviously unable to resist acting out his impulses when he was subjected to certain pressures.

As the sheriff had pointed out, too many at Tollhouse had the opportunity for committing the murders--no one was accounted for at the times of the murders. Assignations could have been secretly arranged with the two victims. Well, she mustn't get ahead of herself. Patience, patience, she cautioned herself.

She fretted intermittently throughout the day, distracted in the morning poetry session, hardly able to concentrate on anyone's readings. After the meeting, she went to her room and called the Archives in the nearby county, explaining to the woman on duty her interest in finding descendants of Cudworth Myers, who had lived there in the 1850s. It sounded like a ridiculous request when she said it aloud. To her surprise, the woman responded without hesitation that there were still members of that Myers family living in the area.

"I'm fortunate that you're so knowledgeable about the genealogy of the area," Baby said admiringly.

"Well," the women replied with a modest little laugh, "My family's from this area and I started here as a volunteer, getting some order out of disorder. The records had been ignored for years. So with a little bit of digging, I can lay my hands on almost any family's history in the area." She'd get back to Baby as soon as she had the answer, which would be no later, she was sure, than tomorrow afternoon. Baby was pleasantly surprised by the efficiency of the office, but reminded herself that small counties could be veritable founts of information concerning their histories.

During the afternoon session, Diane gave a short lecture on dream-based compositions, which had been one of their pre-workshop assignments. Blair Babcock was the first to hand out photocopies of his small poem. Baby tried to keep her attention on the matter at hand. She looked at her copy of the poem and frowned with concentration as he read aloud:

Bright as night, dark as day

sweet as blood, clear as mud

the only way.

Straight as a circle

ever bending

twirling, turning

deeper lasting

breathless liquid

growing lichen

hidden links

I come to ground

the only way.

Then she studied Blair's face as he read it again, but she could see only self-consciousness, the look of one who was feeling exposed, an usual attitude for this normally confident poet. The poem came in for severe criticism from the class as being "featureless" and "without concrete images" and "crudely constructed."

Baby felt some compunction for him being so bludgeoned and stepped in to give her own opinion. "It sounds as if the poet's falling into something, a deep well, perhaps–no, it's a cave, I bet, which must be emblematic of something Freud might like to analyze." Her comment was followed by chuckles around the room.

"It was a confusing dream, but I think you've hit on it," Blair agreed.

"So can't we say then that the poem does have concreteness," Diane interposed finally, "and makes clear something of the nature of the dream, maybe a nightmare?" she added with a smile at the poet. "Descent is a common kind of dream that takes various forms. Your cave poem is actually quite descriptive of the various sensations experienced."

After the session the judge remained seated while the others left the room. She watched Blair walk alone through the doorway. She privately thought his work seemed disturbing, but her own poem was about her sitting on a ledge of a cliff in a barren landscape, watching helplessly as a bomb ticked menacingly on the desert floor beneath her. How ominous can you get! The judge mentally shrugged. A poem does not a confession make.

"We finished a tad early," Moss said, in greeting, as she entered the dining room. "Shall we–"

At that moment, her phone rang, and seeing that it was Son, she answered promptly, motioning for Moss to follow her as she went to an unoccupied table in a corner of the room. Good old Son, always reliable. "Did you get it? Wonderful! What's that? I see. Just a sec." She whipped out a pen from her folder and began to scribble notes. "Thanks ever so much, Son. It doesn't tell me anything I particularly significant, but I needed to know certain things about him. Talk to you when I get back to Nashville. Oh, yes, I'll be careful!"

She nodded at Moss and then read from her notes, "Major DeAngelo, Retired, has an outstanding record–Ranger, Air Assault, Officer Training School after the first Gulf War, where he received a medal. Then highly rated assignments as well as a Purple Heart from his Afghanistan tour. That may explain his stiff walk as if from an injury."

"What were you looking for, Baby," Moss asked, "Dishonorable Discharge?" They began walking toward the porch.

She gave a small laugh. "Not really. I thought if he'd had some mental problem he'd been treated for and then because of that been forced to retire, he might be a strong candidate for violent action. It seems less likely now, but not impossible. I don't like to impugn a serviceman just because he's seen active duty, yet he has killed before." She sat onto a porch chair and rocked it gently.

"I really believe," she continued, "that the motive for these two murders was fear, and quite soon, my theory may become clearer."

"Can you tell me about your theory?" Moss leaned closer.

"First, I'd like to get my hands on a special delivery package from New York." Again her phone rang, and after looking at the incoming number said, "This may be instructive, too."

Her conversation with Nancy Ann Forrester was brief, outlining her need to know the circumstances of Hillman's taking the woman's place. After disconnecting, she turned to Moss and said, "Just as I expected. Harold Hillman asked the originally scheduled workshop leader if he could take the fiction group instead. He actually paid her the fee she would have gotten so that she wouldn't be out anything."

"Remarkable!" Moss still looked puzzled. "But what was he after?"

"I think he was pursuing someone for a book he was in the process of writing. It would appear to have been about a long forgotten crime, which he planned to expose to the light of publicity. He was looking for something titillating."

"Oh, I get it. This could be important, Baby."

"Yes, indeed. I'm expecting the book synopsis tomorrow from his publisher, Diane's husband. If I'm right, and the person's real name is disclosed, that could be what I need in identifying the killer." She stared unseeingly across the wide lawn into the deep woods. "There are other clues that point in a certain direction, but I need something additional before we can put an end to all this."

Chapter 26

Diane walked with brisk authority across the yard to Rafe's cabin as if her resolve had influenced her usual languid stride. But she knew such bravado was a charade. This wasn't going to be easy, and she wasn't used to taking the hard road in life. She gave three sharp, quick raps on the door that seemed to mirror the beats of her pounding heart. He opened it immediately, glancing around behind her.

"See any spies?" He let her in and closed the door, leaning against it for a moment as he gazed at her fondly. The cabin was almost uncomfortably cool from the window air conditioning unit. "Like maybe old Prying Eyes?"

Diane chuckled. "You mean the judge, Her Busybodiness? No, I didn't see her or anyone else." He moved toward her, but this time, she didn't fall into his waiting arms. "Oh, my

dear, why did we think we could be alone here, of all places. We should never have gone this far." No, she thought, not this far both literally and figuratively.

He took her arm and, drawing her to him, gave her a kiss. "Let's take advantage of being together now."

But she gently pulled away from him and walked over to a chair beside the bed and sat down. He stared at her in disbelief.

Rafe had been a wonderful lover; she had to let him know that, so the let-down wouldn't hurt too much. "Darling, you surely knew this couldn't last forever. I can't tell you how much pleasure and happiness you've given me. But you need to get on with your life, too."

He came over to her and sat on the bed, leaning toward her with an intense expression. "Whattaya mean? Why don't we hitch up, Babe?" He squeezed her shoulder affectionately.

Diane laughed gaily, but it had a forced sound to her ears. "Darling, how can we? I'm married, remember?"

His smokey blue eyes seemed to bore through her. "I've always wanted a real home, Diane. My own family was a mess. I didn't think I'd ever marry anybody, but you've changed my mind. I don't want this here thing between us to be just a roll in the hay and that's all. Get me?"

Diane sat up straighter. She would have to be diplomatic and not wound his tender feelings, but firm. She mustn't cave. "You're a darling! We've had so much together, but I'm

afraid anything more is out of the question. I thought I made that clear from the beginning. I'm sorry, really sorry, that we have to end it, but," she arose from the chair, "I've gotten a cry of conscience that I must heed. From now on I must try to be a wife to John. No more of these clandestine meetings. I never wanted to hurt you, but I knew it would not be permanent, and I think, deep down, you must have known too. I'm so sorry." His face was terrible to behold, and she looked away. Why was the ending so much harder than the beginning?

He took her arm, and the warmth of his hand reminded her of his physical magnetism, but now she steeled herself to his imprecations.

"You're not telling me it's over?" he asked, disbelief in his voice. "I won't let you go this easy."

"I know it's difficult. Don't make it harder for me. Please, Rafe, let me go!" The last was a cry of anguish, and he released her.

She went swiftly to the door and, closing it behind her, walked back to the house, hoping she could get through the rest of the week with her composure intact. Tears streamed from her eyes, and she could only brush them away with her hand. "Damn," she thought, "no hanky at a time like this." The mundane thought calmed her a bit as she headed into the house, and seeing figures on the porch, she stepped by them without any acknowledgment.

She entered the still empty dining room and gave a small sigh of released tension. No one about to see her, including the judge. Had she made a mistake confiding in the woman about the blackmail, the plagiarism? No, better to be open about the situation. Her confession seemed cathartic, to have paved the way to reform. How odd and unexpected. She walked up the stairs, absorbed in her thoughts, holding on to the newly installed bannister. Poor Rafe.

Chapter 27

As Baby left her room to go to dinner, Moss was coming toward her from his end of the hall. She waited for him, and he walked down the stairway behind her, both admiring the

craftsmanship of the repaired railing and balusters.

"I meant to ask you something about your inquiries," Moss said. "You haven't mentioned anything so I presume there's no suggestive report from Vicki's cases in Nashville?"

"No, nothing jumped out at me. I still wonder about Vicki and Joe. He seems perfectly at ease concerning any discussion of their relationship, or former relationship, I should say, but he may be a master of self-control."

"But then," Moss countered, "he would have to have killed Hillman in some sort of revenge mode, provided he'd somehow found out about his sister being cheated out of her proper recognition." Moss sidestepped at the bottom of the stairs as Mittens ran toward him. He picked up the big cat and carried him into the empty front room.

"I don't care much for that scenario, either," Baby said, following him, "but I'm still keeping my options open. I have high hopes for enlightenment when the synopsis comes in tomorrow's delivery."

Moss agreed it sounded promising. "Hillman must have come here to see the person he was writing about, trying to be surreptitious about it. Why else would he have paid to take over the fiction group? It's not that exciting a gig." He went to the door and let Mittens outside to a protesting yowl. "You stay out there until after dinner, my man," he said and closed the door.

"That's what I'm thinking," Baby said. "And the subject had already found out Hillman was on his trail, maybe had already contacted him." Then she frowned. "But we're still speculating that this is the correct reading of Hillman's interest in taking the workshop. It also could have been convenient for him to get next to Diane and cement their deal for his latest book, in case she was thinking he'd relent about the blackmail. Remember, Diane's husband had shown reluctance in publishing it."

"Yes, I'd forgotten about that. So it's still up in the air," Moss said. "Let's go eat dinner and forget about crime for a while." The dining room was nearly filled with those waiting for dinner to begin.

Baby and Moss took their seats at a table with Joe DeAngelo, Sarah Husbands, Carla Easterling, and Edmond Ormond, the latter two having gotten more friendly, Baby had noticed.

The dinner was again remarkable for the variety of fresh vegetables accompanying slices of delicately flavored pork roast. "Yum," Baby said appreciatively, "flavored with port wine, I do believe. I must compliment the cook after dinner. She has a real knack."

"Now that we're in our last few days, I'm actually sorry for it to be over," Sarah Husbands announced. "Two weeks ago I didn't think of anything but getting away from here."

"I don't think we should relax our guard yet," cautioned Baby. "The murderer hasn't been caught, you know. Sorry, Moss," she said apologetically, but he only gave her a rueful smile. She looked around the table, but Ormond and Carla Easterling were engaged in conversation and paying no attention to the others.

"But--" Sarah Husbands looked puzzled, "I thought the police had dismissed the idea of a murderer among us. I haven't seen the authorities around for quite a while."

Moss chuckled softly. "That's because they were stumped. A good bureaucrat knows when to shuffle off quietly."

"And you, Judge," asked Joe with a sarcastic ring to his voice, "aren't you stumped, too?"

"I'm only stumped as to why some people during the interrogations chose to keep silent about certain things."

"What things?" asked Sarah.

Baby leaned forward. "For instance, the Major might like to tell us of his accosting Vicki Duggan that first day, which he omitted to mention until after Hillman was murdered." She knew she was taking a chance in openly challenging him, but some stimulation seemed in order.

Rather than look startled, he only raised his eyebrows and replied in a measured tone, "I didn't 'accost' her, as you say. When I saw her here shortly after I arrived, I immediately went to my room and wrote her a brief letter telling her of my feelings regarding our former relationship. It seemed better and more forceful to explain myself that way. I saw no need to mention it since I had nothing to do with her death." He continued coolly, "Besides, I wasn't asked if I'd talked to her before she was killed, but I'm sure others like yourself, Judge, talked to her."

"Yes, but I did tell the authorities that we'd spoken during dinner. That's the difference. And it was only when the State Police came onto the scene that you confessed a prior relationship to the murdered woman."

"I did, however, inform the sheriff that Hillman and I occasionally corresponded because it seemed pertinent to this workshop even though no one asked me if I knew him beforehand."

She agreed the investigation had been handled in a slipshod manner. "The authorities might seem unconcerned, but I can't say the same about myself. We're in the last few days of the workshop, so I'd advise us all to be vigilant." Looking around the room at the diners placidly eating, she continued, "I wouldn't mind making an announcement to that effect."

The Major frowned a little and said, "I can only speak for myself, but I believe more talk about the crimes would only serve to put a damper on our last sessions here. Haven't we had enough trouble without stirring it up again?"

"I agree," said Sarah fervently. "Let's just forget it and try to enjoy ourselves for the remainder of the time." She tilted her head plaintively and said to Baby, "Don't scare us anymore. O.K., Judge?"

They were being served their dessert, a strawberry fool, when the door to the porch swung open so violently it slammed back against the wall, rattling the glass panes. Rafe stood for a moment in the doorway, gazing slowly and deliberately around the room with a slight smile on his face. His eyes looked glazed and slightly bloodshot.

Baby felt dismay--he had obviously been drinking. She looked at Diane, who had a pained look on her face. Rafe walked with the careful step of one who was working hard to keep his balance and stopped at Diane's table. He motioned to her with his head, and she rose and without a word walked ahead of him toward the porch. Rafe was stumbling now and in his haste, he jostled George Childress's shoulder; the graduate student stifled a curse. Rafe pulled the door closed behind him. The room grew quiet and then over-noisy as the group sensed the oddity of the incident.

"What was all that about?" Carla Easterling asked with a puzzled look, but no one replied to her query. Sarah and the major resumed their conversation about where the best strawberries were grown, while Baby gave Moss a look that said, "Wait."

Joe DeAngelo and Sarah Husbands finished their dessert and excused themselves, walking into the library to join some of the participants who were settling in to watch TV or play cards. Carla Easterling and Edmond Ormond rose from the table and spoke together for a few moments until they both headed in opposite directions. Others continued to converse at the tables, but no one ventured outside. Baby sighed. From her vantage point she could see through the glass double doors onto the porch. Diane and Rafe were engaged in conversation, Rafe grasping her shoulders with a kind of urgency. Diane shrugged him off, shaking her head and then walking away from him farther along the porch. He followed.

"Trouble in paradise?" Moss, too, had observed the exchange on the porch.

Baby spooned up the last of the strawberries and cream and blotted her mouth with the paper napkin. "For Diane it was play; for Rafe it's the real thing. Too bad for Rafe," she clucked. "I keep having a bad feeling about Diane, though."

Moss turned to her with a questioning frown. "You don't think she might have--"

Baby waved away the suggestion. "I mean she may be in danger."

"Why do you say that?" Moss asked.

"I don't like the idea that Diane is connected to Hillman and his publisher. If Hillman was killed because of his intention to publish a sad story about the culprit's troubled youth resulting in a murder, then why wouldn't Diane, herself, with possible knowledge of the book also be a target? Yes, I admit I feel uneasy about her safety." Baby preceded Moss through the doors to the porch where Diane and Rafe were still having a conversation. They had, however, moved down to the end where the porch turned at right angles toward the kitchen and were speaking quietly now.

"Why wouldn't the bad guy have bumped her off before now?"

"That's a good question. I believe it's because all Diane's spare time was spent with Rafe. If she went out supposedly alone at night, in fact she was engaged in a clandestine meeting with Rafe. It served as protection. Now, if she's broken up with him, which I presume she has, he won't be her shadow and protection."

"Can't you go to the sheriff?" Moss said in a low voice.

Baby snorted. "With what? My best speculations? Sheriff Stringfellow is disgruntled enough about my investigative efforts. He'd never go along with the idea of trying to protect a potential victim."

"But you're not giving up?" Moss gave her an indulgent smile.

"Heck, no! I'll not let that desperado take another life if I can possibly prevent it. I'll be back in a minute. There's something I need to say to the both of them." She walked toward the two people at the far end of the porch with a deliberately heavy tread. They looked up, Diane with a kind of relief, Rafe with bleary-eyed hostility at the interruption.

"Yes, Judge?" Diane asked.

"I really wanted to ask a favor of Rafe." She turned to the man, who was trying to pull himself together, half-hiking himself onto the porch rail. "I believe Diane is in real danger, and I'm hoping you will be able to guard her whenever possible." The two of them looked at her in astonishment.

After a slight pause, Rafe gave Baby an odd little smile and said, "Why, yeah, I will, ma'am, but what kind of danger?"

"I can't say for sure from whom at the moment, but all will be clear in a couple of days. Just keep an eye on her, if you will." She then turned to Diane. "And please, my dear, don't go wandering alone outside, especially at night. Also, keep your door locked at all times, and stay within range of groups of people. That's my best advice, and I hope sincerely that you heed it."

"I will, Judge, I promise, but can't you say what this is all about?" Diane asked, puzzlement in her voice.

"I really can't. I'll know more, I expect, when the special delivery comes in from New York tomorrow. Even after that–well, just be on your guard." She gave the woman a sober look, patting her shoulder. She then smiled reassuringly at them both. "I don't intend for this situation to go on for long, of course, but I needed to warn you, Diane, in the meantime." She turned back to join Moss, who had remained near the dining room doors, alertly watching the tableau at the end of the porch.

"What's going on?" he asked softly, when she had seated herself in one of the springy metal chairs. Diane and Rafe had moved around the corner to the back side of the porch.

"Just trying to stave off another murder." She told him of her warning to Diane.

"You continue to amaze me," Moss said. "So Rafe is definitely off your list?"

"At this point, I have no evidence one way or the other, but if he saw her as a threat to his own peace and safety, I feel certain he would have known before he came here and bumped her off along with Hillman. So I must conclude Diane's in real danger."

Chapter 28

Baby knew that she couldn't expect any mail delivery until around 11:00, so she went with tamped-down expectation to the morning session, concentrating on the poetry that was being read. Diane conducted the meeting with her usual composure, but she looked tired and wan as if she might not have slept well. Rafe, himself, seemed chastened, though he never was very chatty in the group, so perhaps that was simply reading too much into the situation. Near the end of their two hours, Baby's cell phone vibrated in the pocket of her jeans skirt, and she rose with an apology, grabbed her notebook and pen and headed out to the back porch through the kitchen, which at this hour was a hive of activity. She answered as she walked, having seen that it was the archivist and took a seat at the picnic table.

"Judge, I didn't think it would take long to verify who the descendants of Cudworth Myers are, and I was right. Old Colonel Myers, now deceased, had two daughters, one of which lives here still, Mrs. Ann Day. She's married to a local banker and has one son in Lexington. I can't tell you for sure where her sister is, but Mrs. Day will be your contact person. She's very interested in her antecedents, is a member of the DAR, for instance, and volunteers at an historic home in our county."

She gave Baby the number of Mrs. Day, which Baby jotted down, thanking the woman for her prompt research.

"May I ask," the archivist queried, "if you're investigating something that would be of interest to our community?"

"Oh, yes. I intend to rectify an ancient wrong if it's within my persuasive powers to do so. Now I don't think I can go into any more detail at this time, but I'm sure Mrs. Day will enlighten you if this works out the way I hope it will."

"That sounds intriguing! I'll be looking forward to hearing more about this in the future."

Baby thanked her again and rang off. She checked her watch and finding it was 10:47, with only a few minutes left of the meeting time decided to go to the front office and see if the mail had arrived. She was eager to get her hands on Hill's synopsis. Walking through the long porch, she passed the dining room door and saw that the novels group was still in session, too, so she went down the steps and set off around the house. The sun was fairly high in a cloudless sky, but its light and heat felt comforting to her.

Entering the front door, she saw Estelle at the computer, entering something from a ledger on the desk. She uttered a surprised exclamation as she saw Baby in front of her. "Well, Judge, where in the world did you come from? I thought your meetings weren't over yet."

"No, I got a phone call and had to leave, so I walked around the house outside. I wondered if the mail has come yet. I'm expecting something from New York."

"Not yet, but it should be here shortly. I hope it's not delayed. We're in the hinterlands, you know, and sometimes it takes a while for mail from out of state to reach us."

"Oh, dear. This is supposed to be an overnight delivery."

"I expect that's special delivery, so surely it will be here some time today."

"There's something else I wanted to ask you to do for me," Baby said with a smile. She knew the woman had a low tolerance for complications. "It's not much really. Maybe one of your students could do it. I need to have those old letters in the file cabinet and some newspaper reports I had sent to me of the old Bolen murder carefully copied. As a matter of fact, I found another of Thomas Bolen's letters tucked in an old book in the library. I'll get all the additional information for you to copy, too. And, oddly enough, while recently poking around in the bell tower, Dr. Cunningham and I noticed a hidey hole, where I pulled out an old leather case and lo and behold! there was a letter to David Myers, the convicted horse trainer, from Angelica Bolen, which indicates a love affair with plans to run away." She'd decided to be up front about where the letter was found, even though she'd kept quiet until now about having it in her possession.

Estelle frowned, looking a bit perturbed at this admission. "I'm surprised you haven't turned in these items before now, Judge." Then she sighed and nodded. "But that's all right. I'm sure you had your reasons. I'll get one of the secretaries to copy everything you want. May I ask what this is in aid of?"

"I'm independently investigating that murder of long ago as well as the contemporary ones. I think I may have enough circumstantial evidence to cast doubt on David Myers' conviction. But I'll need copies of everything here pertaining to the Bolens' marital relationship as well as the newspaper reports which detail the arrest and trial."

Estelle didn't speak for a long moment, her astonishment obvious. Then she said with a kind of admiration in her voice. "You really are something, Judge, how you can concentrate on so many dire things at the same time."

"And I might point out, too, Estelle, that these old letters need to go to a paper conservator. They've held up remarkably well only because of the heavy rag content of the paper, but time and climate will take its toll–has already to a certain extent."

"Yes, I'll see to that. Thank you, Judge. I'll be interested to hear how your researches turn out. Who will you go to with your findings?"

"It will have to be the governor, who then can exonerate the man if he believes my research warrants it. That's my hope. At this time, I plan to talk to one of the descendants of the brother of David Myers. She lives in the next county and will be interested, I'm sure, in clearing the name of someone even peripherally related to her."

Instead of going into the dining room, where the scraping of chairs indicated the session breaking up, Baby thanked Estelle and stepped again outside onto the porch to await the postman. And just in the nick of time, she thought, as the vehicle drove up and stopped at the roadside mailbox. She hurried down the short drive and holding up her hand alerted the postman to wait for her.

"Is there a special delivery in that mail for Judge Godbold or possibly Diane Marvel?" she asked.

"Special delivery won't be in this mail. What kind of letter or package do you expect?"

"It's supposed to have been an overnight delivery of a large envelope from New York."

The man shook his head. "It hadn't come in from the district P.O. early this morning or you would have gotten it by now. Don't worry, though; there are two more deliveries and it'll come to you at some point today." He touched the bill of his cap and sped off down the road.

How disappointing! She picked up the small sheaf of letters and trudged back to the house where she took the mail into Estelle and then went up to her room to make a phone call. She greeted several of her fellow participants absentmindedly and, reaching her room, shut the door behind her. She considered herself a patient person, if circumstances dictated, but time was moving on and suddenly she felt thwarted by too many things out of her control. How reliable, really, was the so-called "overnight" mail service?

She sat down in her less-than-comfortable chair, pulling out the paper where she'd jotted information from the archivist and punched in Ann Day's number. Promptly, a woman's rather fruity voice answered.

"Mrs. Day?" Baby inquired in her own deep and reassuring tones. When the woman assented, Baby went on to explain her mission. After she'd given the gist of the situation to Mrs. Day, she said, somewhat apologetically, that she hoped she hadn't presumed too much in digging into what was really a family affair and maybe should best be left to the realm of history.

"Judge, I can't tell you how thrilled I am that you're looking into this matter. That we had a murderer in our family, who actually was hanged, was a terrible blot on our escutcheon, so to speak. I will support your endeavor to the fullest. If there's any expense to this, please let me know and I'll cover it."

"I don't think that will be necessary," Baby replied. "I'm delighted to help if I can."

"What will you do next?"

She explained her plan, which included persuading the governor of the state to intervene. Mrs. Day gasped. "Judge, I must tell you that my husband is an old school fellow of the governor. I think I can assure you he will at least read the petition. This is marvelous!"

After repeated exclamations of appreciation by Mrs. Day, Baby reminded the woman nothing was guaranteed and that the matter would not be officially decided for probably many months. She advised her not to get her hopes up, but certainly to get in touch with the governor and alert him to the material that soon would be arriving for his perusal.

She disconnected from the call and rummaged in the top of the wardrobe for the rotting leather case that contained the old letter. From a folder on the chest of drawers, she retrieved he microfilmed copies of the newspaper articles. She'd get those and the other letter in the library to Estelle immediately.

Her mind reverted to the crimes at hand. Only two more days to go and the group would be disbanding. This all had to work out!

Chapter 29

The afternoon session wound up with half of the group reading a work they had been asked to prepare. The remainder would read theirs the next day but for now, Baby had to read her poem, which consisted of her observations of people in antique malls and her speculations on their memories and objectives. There was plenty of time for comments on the works since they weren't trying to get in all nine poems. Even so, it was nearly four o'clock before Diane could dismiss them. On the following day, the only thing on the agenda were readings of favorite poets chosen by the ;participants for both sessions. On Friday morning they would hear Diane read from one of her own second-rate books rather than Martina's works, Baby surmised, followed by an afternoon program with Mary Mosby Smith reading from one of her novels. A closing banquet was planned for Friday evening.

Every time during the day when the thought of the expected package from New York crossed her mind Baby fought off panic, forcing herself to attend to the readings. Would the delivery arrive as expected? So as soon as she could, she managed to work her way from the library and into the dining room where the assembled fiction writers were talking among themselves, their session also officially ended. With only a nod at Moss, who noticed her appearance in the room, Baby went into the office, at first dismayed to see no one there. Obviously, Estelle had gone home for the day. Then glancing at the desk, she sighted a large brown envelope, which she could see had her name on the front. Thank heavens it had arrived! She took it in hand and left to go up to her own room, her mind busily occupied in planning how to effect the conclusion of this case. She knew that her suspicions would be confirmed by the information in this envelope. Harold Hillman had arranged to be close to the man he'd been pursuing as the subject for his book, which must have been a sickening surprise for this man. And another murder had been the result. As she hurried to her room, she met a few of her fellow participants on the stairs whom she blindly greeted and moved on. No time to waste in amenities.

She went again to the chair by the window and sitting down unfastened the envelope where she drew out ten sheets of double-spaced typewritten information titled "Synopsis of ESCAPING DEMONS: The Story of Robert Brinkley." Surely this synopsis would clinch the matter, she prayed, scanning the words written by Hillman that explained his project. The story about the supposed brutality of the father toward the mother, the two young boys growing up in a disfunctional household, finally a gun in the hands of the older boy who shoots well and fatally the father, and then his arrest and incarceration.

Now Baby read more carefully as Hillman went into some detail on the escape of the young man from his own background. After his release from what was really a kind of reform school at the age of twenty-one, the Brinkley boy decides he cannot have his record pursue him through life. He has a very different plan in mind, so somehow, he takes on the identity of a deceased man near his own age, acquires his social security number, applies for admission to a prestigious school of music, where with a scholarship based on both need and talent he can pursue his interest in keyboard that he'd managed to hone at the reform school, and eventually becomes proficient in the organ as Blair Babcock.

Baby nodded to herself. Just as she supposed, her dark horse candidate was confirmed by the story Hillman had ferreted out from the bare bones he'd found in one of the true crime magazines. She had assumed that someone's life would be altered irrevocably if such a book were published by a well known author whose books were heavily publicized though TV ads and some mysterious connection at the New York Times. Hillman seemed particularly adept at that kind of promotion of his work.

Brinkley, or Babcock as he now called himself, had made a good life for himself, working in first a community college and later at a university, and playing the organ at the cathedral church in Lexington. His fears that all this would be swept from him by revealing his true identity drove him to commit the first murder of Vicki Duggan, his social worker from that terrible time. But it had been his contact with Hillman and having him turn up at the writers workshop at the very last minute that must have unhinged him completely. Baby had her ideas on how all that had transpired, but for now she had to decide the best way to get Babcock to admit to the murders.

First, though, it was imperative that the authorities be on hand to prevent the culprit from leaving the workshop prematurely. Up to now, she'd been covertly watching to see that no one she'd suspected skipped out before the official dinner tomorrow evening. If that had happened, she'd planned to get the sheriff to intercede on some pretext to intercept and hold the person for questioning. There'd been enough slip-ups on the part of the Sheriff's Department as well as the State Police that Baby could suggest any number of reasons to hold either Babcock, DeAngelo, or Rafe Barlow. Now that she was certain, she dialed the Sheriff's Office and asked to speak to Stringfellow.

When he came on the line she explained how close she was to solving the crimes. She stood up from her chair and began pacing the room as she spoke. When she finished giving him the most pertinent information, she waited for his comment. He didn't speak for a moment.

"Sheriff?" she asked. Had the connection been broken?

But then she heard a deep sigh. "What do you want me to do, Judge?"

"Give me a man right now to watch the premises. He can sit in the patrol car, for all I care. Just so he knows that no one can leave without first checking with you or me. No one will think anything but that you're being extra cautious. And then there's the dinner Friday night. I think you should be included. I plan to ask the director to have you as one of the guests of honor since you've been, shall we say, an integral part of our workshop."

"I don't mind," the sheriff drawled, "if I do attend. But should we plan on an arrest then?"

"Oh, yes, indeed. I'll let the dinner and awards and speeches conclude before I take the chair. At that time, I'll begin to explain how the murders came about and why. I think when all that begins to emerge publicly, our man will be unable to stay on an even keel. He's obviously a person of limited emotional resources, who can't take much pressure."

"But, Judge," Stringfellow asked, "even if he's the one who Hillman was going to expose, how can you be sure he committed the murders?"

"I can't, of course, be absolutely sure except for circumstantial evidence. For instance, the first murder took place after midnight when the house was closed up. Now, we know that some people went in and out after hours but that first night we can assume no one knew the routine of the boy coming around at ten to lock up. That had not been explained to us until the following day. So it was likely that Vicki's killer was someone staying in the house. Likewise, the tampering with the stair rail probably was done after everyone was in bed asleep, again suggesting one with a room upstairs rather than in the cabins."

"Well, still, all that could'a been arranged by someone staying in the cabins."

"Ah, yes, but it would have been harder. And that first night, Mittens the cat was still in the house. He'd always rush out if anyone opened the door after closing time and stay out all night, given the opportunity."

The sheriff gave his reluctant laugh. "That's the darndest evidence I've ever heard for blaming a murder on someone."

Baby stood up straighter, even though she was on the phone. "Naturally, that's only what I would consider corroborating evidence, not likely to be used in court. In addition, Babcock or Brinkley has very strong hands. He may be physically weak, but those hands are a dead givaway, and could strangle a woman caught off guard without any problem. As for his getting Hillman corralled and up the stairs in the bell tower, I think he may have had a knife to his jugular. You found some of the men, including Babcock, had pen knives in their possession when you had them or their rooms searched, didn't you?"

"Well, yeah, we did, but most men carry them. Don't prove nothin' one way or t'other."

"And there was the situation of the open bell tower door. It is extremely hard to push open with rusty hinges and an uneven floor. Two men could have gotten it open, but a weaker man, which Babcock alone of the ones that had reasons to kill Hillman definitely was, could not get it closed after hanging Hillman. I have no doubt that either the major or Rafe Barlow could have pulled the door to. Again, not significant in itself, but it leads one to certain conclusions."

"Or the man might have been in a hurry to leave when that dratted bell started ringing."

"Agreed. So we can only hope that my presenting the evidence of Hillman's exposè will rattle Babcock to the extent that he gives himself away."

"I'll be on hand, Judge, with my deputies stationed at the doors during the dinner and the meeting. I hope you're right and we can wrap up this case. It will be a feather in your cap."

"I'm not looking for kudos, Sheriff. If this works out as I'm hoping, you can take all the credit for apprehending him. I'm just supplying you with pretty lean evidence, but evidence that makes sense for both murders. If he doesn't cave during this meeting, you can take him in and grill him–or get that serious young lady, Gail Bryant, to handle it. I suspect she can break him."

At that, the phone call was concluded, and Baby proceeded to call Estelle and inform her about the sheriff's presence being required Friday evening for an important announcement she would make following the dinner and program.

"You're not going to ruin what had already been a disastrous workshop, are you, Judge?"

"Estelle, how can you ruin something by getting the truth out? Don't you think everyone would feel better knowing this whole terrible situation will finally be resolved?"

"It will? How?"

"Let's just leave it that when you're finished, I want you to introduce me as the concluding speaker for the evening. Will you do that?"

Estelle sounded suspicious but agreed to Baby's plans and Baby closed the conversation with her assurance, "You'll just have to trust me." She heard a faint sniff on the other end.

Chapter 30

"What are you going to do until Friday evening?" Moss asked Baby, a worried frown on his normally bland features. The two were stretched out in the Adirondack chairs on the front porch after breakfast. Mittens had followed them outside and now jumped up in Moss's lap. "I'm concerned that your man will get wise to your preparations. Do you think he'll suspect something's up?"

"I doubt it. He should be lulled into complacency by now, what with the police seeming to give up. I'll just be alert. Of course, the police are already stationed at Toll House," she assured him, gesturing toward a patrol car parked in front of the house, "so no one will be cutting out early unless I know about it. And we're not exactly within walking distance of an airport or train station. Even the bus service is only available in town. I did check that to be certain, but I assume from the lack of traffic nothing goes down this road anymore except locals."

Moss gave Baby an approving look as he absently petted the cat. "I'm glad, at least, you're not playing a lone hand and have brought the sheriff in on the 'kill', no pun intended."

Baby chuckled. "I think Stringfellow can do his duty once I get Babcock, as he calls himself, to cave. If he staunchly maintains his innocence, then the authorities will have to use other means to get him in custody. The sheriff's prepared for that, too."

"And you're in his group, too. To think you have to go through two more days with the man virtually right beside you. You're quite sure he's the one? After all, you had boiled the list down to three and then eliminated Rafe. But that still leaves not just Babcock but the major. How did you decide for sure?"

Baby pondered the question for a long moment and then slowly replied, "I have no concrete evidence, as you well know, so I'm basing my conclusions on motive. Sure, Joe DeAngelo might be upset to see an old flame turn up at Toll House. He assumed she'd gotten over the little fling they had in New York. He immediately wrote her a letter, as we know, which made clear his intentions and his view of their relationship. Was Vicki the sort to use blackmail? I doubt it very much. It wouldn't get Joe back and that's all Vicki wanted. A spinster's hope, perhaps, that it wasn't too late for her to find love. When she got the letter, no doubt she was upset but that would have put paid to whatever happened between them.

"As for Hillman and his suppressing the information of Diane's plagiarism, if Joe had somehow discovered copies of his sister's poems and subsequently happened to read Diane's poetry–a very remote possibility, considering his lack of interest in literature, per se–I hardly think he would have been so incensed to have hung Hillman in retribution."

"Yes," Moss agreed, "I think that does sound pretty weak as a motive for murder. And he might have killed Diane a bit earlier in the workshop, if he meant to destroy those who had hurt his sister."

"Exactly. Diane seems to have been quite safe, walking about the grounds at all hours. So if we leave out the purloined poems as a reason for murder, then we must consider who had a connection to just Vicki and Hillman, and who might become unhinged if Hillman continued to operate as a writer." She gave Moss a bright look.

"Yes, although you can't prove your case, you have a good circumstantial one. I'm concerned, though, about how little evidence you will be confronting Babcock with. Isn't there any way to trick him into an admission?"

Baby nodded. "I've thought of that, and I have an idea which might work. I'm keeping my own counsel for the time being since I don't know if I can pull it off." She glanced at the cat happily purring. "You should take him home with you."

"Funny you should say that. I've decided to ask Estelle if Mittens belongs to anyone or if he's just a stray that stays here. I think he needs a friend."

"He's definitely attached himself to you. What would Daisy say if you brought Mittens home?" Moss's wife was known to be a fastidious, house-proud woman.

"Actually, we had a cat that lived to be eighteen years old, and Daisy loved her. I admit she was a bit more presentable than Mittens with his big feet, but Mittens is lovable too." Moss checked his watch and, shifting in his chair, spilled Mittens onto the porch floor. "Come on. It's almost time for the sessions to begin. Let me help you." He lifted himself from the depths of his chair and offered a hand to Baby, who scooted to the edge of the wooden seat and then heaved herself to a standing position.

"Any regrets about coming to this workshop, what with murder on the menu?" Baby asked Moss as they walked into the empty parlor.

"Not a bit since I didn't happen to be one of the victims. But not to be facetious, it's been terribly exciting, and I think it's going to get even more interesting. What about the other mystery, the one surrounding that lovely lady?" he asked, pointing to the portrait of Angelica. "Have you gotten any further in rectifying the supposedly wrongful conviction of David Myers?"

"I'm working on that, too. I've spoken with one of his brother's descendants living in the next county, who just happens to know the governor of the state. I think that connection will help me in presenting my case. I plan to submit my evidence in the hope he'll posthumously exonerate him."

"Excellent! That would really be something to be proud of." They began to climb the stairs toward their rooms.

As Baby went into her room, instead of gathering up her writing materials, she took out her phone and punched in the number for Information. "Clarksville Police Department," she requested. What was the name of that detective she'd worked with a couple of years ago? Anderson? No, Peterson, Carl Peterson. If he was there, so much the better, but any detective would do.

Chapter 31

In spite of Moss's concern about Baby being in such close proximity to Babcock, she herself was unfazed. Years of experience in dissembling her emotions, a requisite for a sitting judge, served her well, and with Blair Babcock in mind she could only hope that she presented a benign and unreadable face to the group. Babcock's real name was Jason Brinkley, she'd learned from Hillman's outline of his story, but she knew better than to think of him with that name. A slip of the tongue at this stage of the game would be disastrous, and with all that was on her mind, she had to be as careful as possible.

She observed with interest Rafe and Diane as the morning session wore on. With Baby's request that Rafe keep a close, protective eye on Diane, he seemed to have settled into acquiescence to what she assumed was now their new relationship. He even accompanied Diane upstairs to her room after she dismissed the group, and Baby heard him say he'd pick her up for lunch. Diane glanced at Baby who was opening her door nearby and shrugged with raised eyebrows as if to ask, "Is this really necessary?" Baby nodded approvingly at her and went on into her room to review her notes for this most peculiar case. Diane's safety was still of concern, of course. The killer had no way of knowing that Diane was ignorant of Hillman's information submitted to her husband. Babcock had murdered Vicki in an immediate reaction to the danger she posed. How much did he know about Diane's personal life? She used her maiden name, and she never mentioned her husband on her C.V. in their workshop materials. To Baby's knowledge, neither his name nor his profession had been mentioned during the poetry sessions as well.

Another nagging concern was that Babcock might try to leave the workshop. Oh, he'd be stopped, as she'd told Moss, by the sheriff's man, but how to keep him at Toll House without spilling the beans until she was ready? And all her ducks wouldn't be in a row until tomorrow evening. She sighed. She hoped if such an eventuality happened, Sheriff Stringfellow would cooperate as he promised and tell Babcock he needed to stick around for some additional instructions or information from the authorities. That was nowhere near the truth; she was banking on Babcock crumbling as her story unfolded and she sprung her surprise.

Baby read Hillman's synopsis again, amazed at how much information he'd gleaned. The detective he'd hired not only found the man, but also had somehow discovered how Babcock came up with a new name and background. While completing what amounted to jail time, Babcock read obituaries from different newspapers available at the facility until he found someone of the right age and background. He then assumed the dead person's identity after he was released and went to live in Kentucky.

He could have been found out if references had been thoroughly checked, but they weren't, and so he was admitted to a college for undergraduate work in music. His ability got him a partial scholarship, which in conjunction with a grant based on need enabled him to complete a Master of Fine Arts degree. Everything clicked for him, and after all the trouble he went to in disguising his background, obtaining an education and subsequently finding agreeable work, he had obviously decided he was not going to let a social worker and a hack writer destroy all he'd created. Baby clucked her tongue disapprovingly as she read. This was not the first time she'd seen at first hand how stupid, evil actions brought ruination when honesty might have prevailed–most likely would have–and he'd have been able to have worked things out. She was eager to hear more about the original murder that set the wheels in motion, but that wouldn't be possible until tomorrow evening.

She had just joined Moss, Sarah Husbands, Lila Stouck, Diane and Rafe, when Blair Babcock plunked down his tray with chicken croissant, fruit salad, and a brownie beside her. She glanced at Moss across the table, who was opening staring at the suspect, and gave him a studied look. He smiled at Babcock and continued eating. At that moment, Sarah Husbands was congratulating herself for having stimulated the extra protection she'd observed outside Toll House.

"I asked the sheriff, if you recall, for round-the clock protection, and it looks like my pleas finally fell on fertile ground. I feel better knowing we're not all alone here at Toll House."

"Are you still worried about being killed, my dear?" Lila asked, contentedly munching her salad.

"What a horrible thing to say," Sarah replied, gold jewelry twinkling as she trembled with indignation. "I won't feel safe until I'm home, thank you. And I believe any of us have a perfect right to be nervous."

"It seems to me," Lila continued, "that the deputy is going at it the wrong way. My roommate Terri and I went to the drugstore in town after the morning session and he stopped us at the drive to take our names both coming and going. I thought the idea was to keep intruders out."

Oh, dear, thought Baby, and she answered quickly, "I suppose they want to make sure nothing happens to any of us, that no one runs into trouble even off the premises."

"We shouldn't let down our defenses," Rafe offered. "The killer hasn't been caught yet, remember?"

"Maybe we should get off the subject," Diane suggested. "What are your plans for the rest of the summer, Judge?" She smiled at Baby encouragingly. "Any more writing on the agenda?"

Baby shrugged and gave the table at large a deprecating grin. "I don't write, I jot things down as they occur to me. Writing poetry sounds a bit too grand for my style." Her words were greeted by a chorus of nay-sayers. She held up her hand. "I'm not fishing for compliments. I knew before I came that I'm pretty mediocre, but that doesn't stop me from enjoying the process. I'll not ever be published, I know, and that's OK, too."

"I feel just like that, Judge," Rafe contributed. "It's enough for me to have the satisfaction of getting down on paper what's important to me." He looked down at his plate briefly and then, glancing at Diane, said in a low voice, "I expect I'll have a lot to write about when I get home."

The others echoed his sentiments, and people began to leave the table. Baby noticed that Babcock had not spoken during the meal except for brief responses. He didn't seem particularly nervous, however, and she reminded herself that he spoke little in the sessions as well. After he left the table, she and Moss lingered over their coffee and watched the room slowly empty.

"I wish this evening was the closing dinner and program," Moss said. "It's agony waiting for the end of all this." He looked at Baby. "You seem remarkably calm. Are you so assured things will go your way?"

"No," she admitted with a little laugh, "I just don't see the value in speculating about practical matters. It will either work out the way I hope or it won't. God help us if it doesn't, but I've made my preparations, and I'll soon know if my ace in the hole is going to be possible. If not, well, I'll do my best without it."

"So mysterious! Say, I want to go to town after our meeting this afternoon to that little antique shop we noticed the other day and maybe pick up something for Daisy. Would you like to go along?"

"I would. I don't need anything myself, but if I see something interesting, I might get it for Sister." She was anticipating a call from Lieutenant Peterson, but with the convenience of her cell phone, she'd be free to go off on a little jaunt.

"Does Jo like antiques?"

"Only oriental art objects. But no matter if I find anything or not, it might be a nice diversion from all this waiting."

They agreed to meet at the close of the sessions.

As Baby was freshening up in preparation for the trip to town, she was relieved to get the call she was expecting. For some reason, she was reluctant to explain further to Moss. Perhaps it was a kind of superstition, that revealing her hopes would quash them. In any case, her heart was in her throat as she answered until Lieutenant Peterson told her it was a go.

"Great!" she exclaimed excitedly. "Call me when you arrive at Toll House and I'll meet you at the front door. I expect the banquet will be in full fling until about 7:30. Can you arrange to be here near that time?"

He assured her there'd be no problem, and after getting explicit directions to Toll House from Baby, rang off. Now we shall see, she thought, again pensive. Much was at stake.

At the foot of the drive Moss stopped the car to be checked out with the deputy on guard duty. It was not Doug Crutcher, but he seemed to recognize Baby in the passenger seat anyway and gave her a brief salute.

"I've got all the names of those that have left the premises, ma'am," he reported.

"Fine job, Deputy," she responded with a smile. "This is Dr. Cartwright. We'll be back probably within an hour or so."

"Was it your plan, Baby," Moss asked, trundling off at a leisurely pace, "to have someone watching the gate, so to speak?"

"Uh-huh," she said absently. She doubted that Babcock would run off at this point, but having a patrol car stationed nearby wouldn't hurt. "I just hope I've thought of everything," she muttered to herself while Moss just smiled and shook his head.

Chapter 32

The last full day of the workshop went according to schedule, first with Diane reading a number of poems from her latest book to the entire assembly during the morning session. Baby listened attentively and decided she knew enough about poetry to agree that a certain spark was missing from Diane's own work that was present in Martina DeAngelo's. Much better for Diane to end the deception herself before someone else might discover her misdeeds. She also considered how remarkable it was that Diane had quit the Rafe connection along with the other subterfuge. Very interesting crisis of conscience, but she'd seen that sort of thing before. Sometimes a totally clean slate seemed the only way to begin again. At the conclusion of Diane's program, Baby clapped enthusiastically along with the rest of the participants. The reading had been a welcome diversion from anxious thoughts about this evening and the success of her plan.

Then just after lunch, Edmond Ormond caused a bit of a stir when he requested to leave prior to the evening's festivities, saying he needed to get back to Louisville to prepare for a family outing the next morning. Baby felt some consternation in letting him leave, believing it would open the door for others, including Blair Babcock, who also was within driving distance, to take off. So she pulled out the stops and asked the sheriff to attend the afternoon session and ask that no one leave because of some information about the investigation that would be disclosed that evening. With a disgusted look, Ormond ungraciously accepted the sheriff's orders, unofficial though they were. Baby had hoped that the voice of authority would quell any movement toward the door, and she'd been correct.

"Thanks, Sheriff," she said, shaking his hand at the front door. "You were a lifesaver. We wouldn't have been able to stop the exodus if anyone had been permitted to leave early."

He touched the brim of his Stetson with a knuckle. "That's all right, Judge. Glad to help. I'll be back this evening."

The program for the afternoon consisted of Mary Mosby Smith reading an excerpt of her latest novel, An Arranged Marriage, an amusing tale of efforts to add some sparkle to a twenty-year-old marriage. The group seemed to enjoy the light-heartedness of the reading and to respond to the author's lively presentation. At the conclusion, Baby looked at her watch and measured the time until the evening festivities would commence. She decided to pack up what she could in anticipation of leaving bright and early tomorrow morning. She knew several participants who lived nearby planned to take off after the banquet. One person wouldn't go home at all, she hoped.

The closing banquet began at 6:30. Baby had dressed with care, glad that she'd brought along her pale blue silk suit; her jewelry was freshwater pearls set in silver. She gave one last glance at herself in the mirror and nodded approval. "Not bad," she told herself, "for an old woman." In the dining room, everyone, including Sheriff Stringfellow, seemed to be present. Baby looked around anxiously, but she needn't have worried. Blair Babcock sat at his accustomed table with Edmond Ormond and a couple of the women poets. Estelle had taken a seat at Baby's table and was positively glowing, no doubt from relief, Baby assumed.

The cook and her helpers had arranged for a true feast to mark the occasion with a signed-up choice of either steak or chicken for the entree, accompanied by a medley of steamed vegetables from the garden, parsley potatoes, home baked rolls, and for dessert, peach cobbler and ice cream. Baby ate her share, promising herself a diet when she returned home. She suddenly felt cooly confident about what was to follow the meal after a day of repressed anxiety. Somehow, she knew it had to work out, it simply had to.

She was scraping the last of her dessert from the dish when Estelle turned things over to Diane, who proceeded to give out gag gifts that were supposed to represent something of either the personality or the writing style of the participants in the poetry group. Baby received a pair of glasses attached to a large nose that more than hinted of her propensity to "nose around" the place, as Diane explained. Rafe got a set of baby barbells, and Blair Babcock a book of mazes, indicating his sometimes baffling poetry. An ironic choice, Baby decided, considering that his whole persona was bathed in mystery. After the poets received their prizes, Mary Mosby Smith, having had advice from some of her writers, presented similar silly gifts to the fiction group. Among the prizes, Moss got a kitty collar for Mittens, the major a huge cardboard medal for bravery, and Delancy Hart pocketed a package of pipe cleaners.

In the midst of such drollery, Baby's phone vibrated in the pocket of her jacket, just when she was starting to get worried. She excused herself from the table and went into the front room, checking to see if it was the lieutenant announcing their imminent arrival. It was. She answered the call and then waited on the porch while the unmarked car checked in with the deputy in the drive. The sheriff had already alerted his man to expect Peterson, so the car was quickly flagged to the front of Toll House.

Baby greeted the detective and was introduced to his companion. She ushered them into the front parlor where the continuing merriment from the banquet filtered in and lightly punctuated her instructions to wait there until she sent for them. After seeing them settled in chairs she went back into the dining room and took her seat. The program was close to ending, and as Estelle began nervously to explain about turning things over to the judge, Baby rose and stood quietly until the cheerful murmurs ceased.

"Because we've been through much together during this workshop, I wanted to explain where the investigation is at this point. Sheriff Stringfellow has graciously consented to give me the floor, but I may call on his expertise concerning certain matters of law." A euphemistic way of saying "arrest," she thought. "First of all, we know who committed the murders and . . ." she held up her hand to quiet the group, who had erupted in an buzz of conversation, with her words ". . .and I will reveal not only his name but his motive in killing the unfortunate Vicki Duggan and then Harold Hillman. I can tell you that I've had some ideas about the culprit from the time of the first murder.

"When I found Vicki's body early that morning, I noticed that Mittens the cat was in the room. This alerted me to the fact that if someone had come in after hours–and any of these old door locks would be a cinch to crack open–Mittens would have been very quick to slip outside. No cat really likes to be confined during the night, given the opportunity; I concluded no one had come in from outside to do murder. To get a little unpleasantly technical, I also concluded that a man with strong hands was the guilty party. Manual strangulation, even if the victim is taken by surprise, is too difficult for any but the strongest woman, and we have no female body builders among us." Slight laughs skittered around the room but quickly abated.

"The second murder was a bit trickier in placing blame since it was committed outside and could have been arranged by a man staying either in the house or in a cabin. That door to the bell tower is hard to open and close, and I noticed that when we arrived on the scene, it was open. Now, that indicated most likely a very hurried exit. If the murderer needed to rush back to his room in the house, he could hardly take the time to close the bell tower door. On the other hand, any from the cabins would not be under such a time pressure to travel the path to his cabin and might take the time to shut the door.

"Then," she continued, looking around the room, but keeping her eyes from Babcock's, for she wanted no one to suspect whom she was describing–not yet, "then there was the strange business of the broken stair rail that targeted me in particular. By that time, for those staying in the house, I was known as the first one up in the morning and the first one to go downstairs. I'd been snooping around making inquiries from the sheriff, suggesting possible motives, and looking for clues by that time, so my involvement was no doubt unwelcome. An accident that would put me out of action, probably in the hospital, was indicated. But with the lucky interference of Edmond," she smiled at Ormond, who dipped his head in acknowledgment, "I was saved from a terrible fall. The sabotaging work was obviously done at night, further implicating a resident in the house.

"The trick in deciding which among you was the guilty party seemed to rest on who knew both Vicki Duggan and Hillman, and there were several who fit that description. I needed to know additional information about Vicki and her life, and I also had to find the reason for Hillman being considered so dangerous to someone's well being that he had to be killed. As for Vicki and why she met her doom that first evening here, the story goes back many years to a trial in Clarksville, Tennessee, where Vicki had to testify about a troubled family." Here, Baby looked in the direction of Babcock, who was studying his plate with a tightened jaw, his hand fiddling with his fork. "A young man was accused of murdering his father and after confessing, was sent for five years to a reformatory. Were there mitigating circumstances? Undoubtedly. But the whole story is yet to be told. And who was going to tell it? Harold Hillman, who'd read about the murder in a magazine that specialized in lurid crimes. He'd tracked down the young man using a private eye, and was preparing to reveal all in a book, naming names. This exposure would be a disaster to the man, who had built his life on a lie."

"On more than one lie," said a voice from the doorway into the parlor. The company turned as one to see a young man standing quite still, staring at one of their number.

Blair Babcock stood up, overturning his chair, and cried, "Randy!"

Baby addressed the group. "I'd like you to meet Randy Brinkley, the brother of the man we know as Blair Babcock. Behind him is Lieutenant Peterson of the Clarksville Police Department."

The man named Randy Brinkley turned to Baby and said apologetically. "I'm sorry, Judge, for butting in, but I just couldn't keep still any longer, not after all those years of living my own lie, telling myself I'd done what I had to do."

"You're not butting in, Mr. Brinkley. Tell us what you did sixteen years ago." Baby sat down herself, but she noticed Sheriff Stringfellow had moved to the french doors and deputy Crutcher revealed himself to be just inside the library doorway.

"I testified that my brother, Jason, killed our father for killing our mother and that Jason was just protecting himself and me. That wasn't the way it happened, but I was fearful for my own life at Jason's hands and had to tell the authorities a lie." He continued to stare at his brother, who with a blank expression on his face didn't move. "Jason and Mom were always fighting, it seemed. He stole money from her and even sold some of the silver she'd inherited to get drug money. Our father was a binge drinker, and he'd strike out at all of us when he got loaded." He looked at Baby. "We were pretty messed up as a family. I can't deny it. That's how Ms. Duggan came on the scene. She was nice, and tried to help our family, but I didn't see that it made any difference."

He continued to address Baby. "I was just a kid of twelve when I came home from school one afternoon and found our mother dead on the family room floor. Jason said he and Mom had an argument and when he pushed her away, she fell backward and cracked her head on the brick hearth. I ran upstairs to my room, scared to death. Jason came after me, telling me he'd fix it up, but I'd have to go along with his story or else he'd kill me too. I believed him." Randy Brinkley swallowed and took a deep breath. "Sorry, Judge, this is hard. I've never talked about it before."

"Take your time. Tell us what Jason did next." The room was deadly quiet without any of the usual coughs or casual movements.

"He got his shotgun and waited for Dad to come home. I saw him go downstairs with it, but I didn't follow him. I didn't have to wait long before I heard the car drive in and the back door open. The blast was terrifying." He put a trembling hand to his face and then looked again at his brother. "I played along, telling the police what Randy told me to say, that Dad had killed Mom, and Jason had been scared enough to shoot him down. The judge and jury may have had doubts, but they couldn't prove otherwise, not with my testimony. Since then that miserable business has been a recurring nightmare in my life."

Baby stood up again and addressed Lt. Peterson, "Find a place for him to sit down. I think he's told us enough about his brother." Then she turned to Brinkley, who was still standing. His neighbor, Edmond Ormond, had righted his chair behind him. "It would have been all too much for you, wouldn't it, to have the truth come out about your past. Vicki Duggan recognized you immediately when we all gathered on the front porch for orientation. I noticed her exclamation and fixed look on one of three men opposite her. Later, the two of you had a little private conversation. I don't know, of course, if you decided to kill her at that time or later. You made arrangements to meet her secretly to discuss things sometime after midnight when you were reasonably sure everyone would be sleeping. Perhaps she indicated then something that would jeopardize your tenuous security. In any case, with your pianist's strong hands and fingers, I'm sure a woman's neck presented no problem for you."

Brinkley had now turned chalk white and stumbling against his chair sat down heavily. His neighbors to either side were leaning slightly away from him.

"Hillman was more of a challenge to eliminate. You concocted a bizarre scheme to hang him after forcing him to the top of the tower with, what? Your pen knife, I suspect. An innocuous weapon but adequate when held against the jugular. The fact that Hillman rang the bell in his death throes, may have surprised you, and you had to rush back upstairs to show yourself as just having been awakened." Baby looked at Stringfellow. "Sheriff, I've said all I need to say. Now it's up to you."

Jason Brinkley softly cursed his brother and then stood up again, looking desperately around the room as if for an escape, but all the exits were covered. The sheriff motioned to Doug Crutcher, who stepped over to Brinkley with the arrest warrant. He was handcuffed and read his rights while the assembled group looked on with morbid fascination. Baby watched as the man was led out of the room. But at the doorway, he stopped and looked directly at Baby, saying, "I wish you'd fallen over the stairs, lady."

The deputy pushed him through the doorway while Baby looked on despondently. "I like to think we did well to get to the bottom of our mystery, but what a waste, what a waste," she murmured to no one in particular.

.

Chapter 33

"Why so glum?" Moss asked Baby. They were standing outside in the back car parking area Saturday morning getting ready to depart for home. "You should feel elated, proud, that you put to rest an ancient crime, got the perpetrator of two brutal murders arrested, and found out the truth about his initial offense. There's a nice symmetry about your work."

"Thanks for the kudos," Baby said, "but it gives me little sense of accomplishment, other than the 150-year-old murder being set to rights, or at least I hope it will. Even that's not a sure thing, and the poor boy was hanged besides, so it's hard to feel elated about that. As far as the Brinkley case, that entire scenario is sickening and sad. A family decimated, a young lad put in foster care while his brother, a promising musician, is discovered to be a vicious criminal. What's to glory in? I can't see it. Yet I know Jason Brinkley deserves the maximum penalty. Right now, I expect Tennessee will be chomping at the bit to have him extradited there for trial. Kentucky will have the first shot, though. And well it should."

"So then? It was justice served though delayed in two of the crimes and that's good. You can't make over circumstances and character. That was all decreed from the beginning. You've been the instrument, we can say, of divine justice." Moss patted Baby's arm. "Don't knock it."

Baby laughed and gave her friend a hug. "Thanks for being my Watson. You've been a great sounding board."

Moss raised his eyebrows speculatively. "Say, that's an idea! Maybe I'll write a story about what happened."

"By all means, you do that," Baby said with a smile before she slipped into the driver's seat of the old car. She started the motor, which gave out its reassuring throb, turned the car around, and drove slowly down the drive, gazing at the multi-levels of Toll House, a crazy quilt of a house, a crazy adventure in poetry and murder.

<http://jeanneirelan.com/>
