Read Online Cat With a Fiddle (9781101578902) by Lydia Adamson - Free Book Online Page B

there’s a hitch with that theory—a great big one. And I wouldn’t be telling you about it if I didn’t think you had a brain.” He paused for a minute. “Or if I thought you’d killed Mr. Gryder.”
    I nodded my understanding.
    â€œThe hitch is that someone in the main house took Gryder’s room apart the night he was killed. We know what time he was murdered, but not what time the room was tossed. And if the search happened before the murder . . . You’re following me here, Alice, right?”
    Indeed I was. It sounded as though someone in the house might have been desperately looking for something in Will’s room. And when they didn’t find it, they went to his studio. However the scenario had unfolded there, that person probably ended up killing him.
    I looked deeply into Ford Donaldson’s strong face, realizing that he was no longer mocking or patronizing me. Not that I understood the man—far from it. Maybe he was a genuine New England eccentric, maybe he was a tortured soul, or maybe he just had a mean streak. But he would never have imparted information like this to me if he didn’t take me seriously.
    I stepped away from the car. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” I said.
    â€œSee you around, Alice.”

Chapter 8
    It was getting harder and harder to maintain the fantasy that we were all part of a merry house party. The remaining residents—Mat and Beth and Darcy and Miranda—talked to one another, ate together, listened to music, and sat together by the fire with their brandies. But each seemed to have some private grief or depression gnawing at him or her. Each would briefly emerge from a funk, be communal with the others, and then drop back into silence.
    Only one of our number seemed to have no worries: Lulu. She had spent the bulk of the evening snoring peacefully in my lap, having forgiven me completely for my attack on her mousing proficiency. In fact, I guess I had libeled Scottish Folds everywhere. Meanwhile, the field mice were expanding geometrically in the main house. Becoming bolder every day, they had now established residence in the library.
    I felt a little weighted down from Mrs. Wallace’s all-out
bouffe
—course after course after course of it. But the gloomier we were, the more she fed us. The centerpiece of tonight’s meal had been a glorious crown roast of pork with prunes, and I had eaten like a fool.
    Mathew Hazan was doing his part as peacemaker/master of ceremonies/hand-holder/what have you. Early in the day he had been sequestered behind closed doors with Darcy as she rehearsed a difficult Smetana piece she was to perform as guest soloist on an upcoming recording.
    Later in the afternoon I had come upon him and Miranda on the porch swing. She was asleep in his arms. There was a huge bottle of Tanqueray gin perched precariously on the railing, and a tumbler sweating with melting ice at her feet.
    Just before supper he had stood behind Beth’s chair delivering a vigorous back rub, she moaning with the pleasure of it. My muscles were tense, too. I had gone outside and walked around until dinner was called.
    Mathew Hazan was such a tireless, devoted, cultivated man. I wondered why I didn’t like him more.
    It seemed I wasn’t the only one who was a bit stupefied by the evening meal. All bundled in sweaters against the evening chill, the group members were sitting around listlessly sipping decaf or after-dinner drinks, someone halfheartedly picking up a magazine now and then but soon abandoning it. Mat was still doing duty as spiritual guardian and cheerer-upper. I watched him drop down on cushions to “visit” with one lady and then the next, speaking quietly, joking, reassuring. It was amazing how much time he spent ministering to the needs of these women, but I supposed that as their manager that was his job. Still, there was only so much he could do.
    Finally he said good night