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Authors: Barbara Burnett Smith
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murdered. He probably deserved killing, but I didn’t do it.”
“I believe you. Who was it?”
“Andrew Lynch.”
I could feel my eyes strain outward. “Houston’s . . . protégé . . . assistant, whatever he was? That Andrew Lynch?”
“That’s the one.”
I leaned back against a telephone pole. This was a shocker. Andrew Lynch was dead. I looked up at Bruce. “You said the back of his . . . uh, you said that you found what you think killed him. What was it?”
“A big brass candlestick.”
“A brass—” I had to take in air. “About this big?” I held my hands about two feet apart, and Bruce nodded. “And the base had brass leaves? And two more sections on up the candlestick?”
Again he nodded. “How’d you know?”
“And really heavy?”
“Yes. Now tell me how you know?”
I had to stop the whirling of my brain. “I think,” I said, “I think that Andrew was killed with my candlestick from the conservatory.”
Despite early morning death, Beth and I had power walked for over thirty minutes. I wanted to tell her what Bruce had said, but I held back at first, not wanting to make the morning as frightening for her as it was for me. Then, because of the intensity of the workout, I couldn’t talk anyway.
By the time we got back to the Manse, I felt frightened and violated—more so because it appeared likely that my candlestick had been used to kill Andrew. I wanted to go back to bed. That’s what I do when I’m stressed—I sleep. Unfortunately, sleep was not an option. I had promised to make myself available during the day, greeting guests and acting as hostess.
Beth was energized and she practically flew up the back stairs to shower. I detoured to the living room, hoping against hope that the candlesticks were still on the sofa table. They weren’t. Neither one, which seemed a little odd. One of them should have been there.
I checked the conservatory, which had been turned into a tearoom, with dozens of small white tables and white wooden chairs. Each table had teal cloth napkins, with a beaded napkin ring of clear glass beads interspersed with sparkling peach beads. The conservatory had never looked so charming.
Unfortunately, the fireplace had never looked so bare. The mantel had nothing on it. Not two candlesticks, not even one. The tourmaline necklace wasn’t there, either, but I thought I remembered that it was going to be shown in a booth in the tent.
It was disconcerting not to find the candlesticks, but not surprising. What I couldn’t figure out was why both of them were missing. That made no sense. It also meant that not only had Andrew been in my home last night, but so had the murder weapon, and probably the murderer. While Andrew hadn’t been a completely upstanding business person, I couldn’t see him trying to steal two decorator items. And why? I personally never liked them all that much. They were okay, and they were part of the legacy of the house, but certainly not easily hidden. They were two feet long, and they were heavy. You couldn’t hide them under a coat, which, of course, no one had been wearing last night, given the Austin weather.
A part of me wanted to tell the police that the murder weapon had come from my house, but I wasn’t supposed to know about the murder weapon. If I said anything it would put Bruce in a bad light. It might even make him a suspect.
I yawned and went up to my room and showered. I was dressed and starting to put on my makeup when Beth raced in.
“I called Judy with the Ovarian Cancer Organization; she’s on the phone now. She wants to fax me the guest list, but your fax doesn’t work. The rubber is all messed up.”
“Sinatra ate it. Why don’t you talk to Granger? I’ll bet the station has a fax number.”
“Thanks.” She was halfway out the door when I stopped her.
“Why don’t you let me handle that, since you have so much more to do for the booth?”
“Uh . . .” She paused. “No problem. I’ll
“I believe you. Who was it?”
“Andrew Lynch.”
I could feel my eyes strain outward. “Houston’s . . . protégé . . . assistant, whatever he was? That Andrew Lynch?”
“That’s the one.”
I leaned back against a telephone pole. This was a shocker. Andrew Lynch was dead. I looked up at Bruce. “You said the back of his . . . uh, you said that you found what you think killed him. What was it?”
“A big brass candlestick.”
“A brass—” I had to take in air. “About this big?” I held my hands about two feet apart, and Bruce nodded. “And the base had brass leaves? And two more sections on up the candlestick?”
Again he nodded. “How’d you know?”
“And really heavy?”
“Yes. Now tell me how you know?”
I had to stop the whirling of my brain. “I think,” I said, “I think that Andrew was killed with my candlestick from the conservatory.”
Despite early morning death, Beth and I had power walked for over thirty minutes. I wanted to tell her what Bruce had said, but I held back at first, not wanting to make the morning as frightening for her as it was for me. Then, because of the intensity of the workout, I couldn’t talk anyway.
By the time we got back to the Manse, I felt frightened and violated—more so because it appeared likely that my candlestick had been used to kill Andrew. I wanted to go back to bed. That’s what I do when I’m stressed—I sleep. Unfortunately, sleep was not an option. I had promised to make myself available during the day, greeting guests and acting as hostess.
Beth was energized and she practically flew up the back stairs to shower. I detoured to the living room, hoping against hope that the candlesticks were still on the sofa table. They weren’t. Neither one, which seemed a little odd. One of them should have been there.
I checked the conservatory, which had been turned into a tearoom, with dozens of small white tables and white wooden chairs. Each table had teal cloth napkins, with a beaded napkin ring of clear glass beads interspersed with sparkling peach beads. The conservatory had never looked so charming.
Unfortunately, the fireplace had never looked so bare. The mantel had nothing on it. Not two candlesticks, not even one. The tourmaline necklace wasn’t there, either, but I thought I remembered that it was going to be shown in a booth in the tent.
It was disconcerting not to find the candlesticks, but not surprising. What I couldn’t figure out was why both of them were missing. That made no sense. It also meant that not only had Andrew been in my home last night, but so had the murder weapon, and probably the murderer. While Andrew hadn’t been a completely upstanding business person, I couldn’t see him trying to steal two decorator items. And why? I personally never liked them all that much. They were okay, and they were part of the legacy of the house, but certainly not easily hidden. They were two feet long, and they were heavy. You couldn’t hide them under a coat, which, of course, no one had been wearing last night, given the Austin weather.
A part of me wanted to tell the police that the murder weapon had come from my house, but I wasn’t supposed to know about the murder weapon. If I said anything it would put Bruce in a bad light. It might even make him a suspect.
I yawned and went up to my room and showered. I was dressed and starting to put on my makeup when Beth raced in.
“I called Judy with the Ovarian Cancer Organization; she’s on the phone now. She wants to fax me the guest list, but your fax doesn’t work. The rubber is all messed up.”
“Sinatra ate it. Why don’t you talk to Granger? I’ll bet the station has a fax number.”
“Thanks.” She was halfway out the door when I stopped her.
“Why don’t you let me handle that, since you have so much more to do for the booth?”
“Uh . . .” She paused. “No problem. I’ll
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