Chapter 10
After leaving the jail, I started back toward home. Exhaustion tugged at every part of me, yet a nagging sensation told me I wouldn’t likely find any rest again until late into the night. Today’s developments had my mind running like an out-of-control racehorse.
On the other hand, Barney plodded along at his usual sedate pace, and long before the turn onto Ocean Avenue I’d made up my mind to put the remaining daylight hours to good use.
Clara’s protestations about the scarf and the footsteps she’d heard claimed the greater part of my speculations. Unless Lady Amelia had been an accessory, how could someone have gained access to her possessions in the house and then make his or her way outside without being noticed? I thought again of Anthony Dobbs. A man of his height and bulk, who moved with all the grace of an ox, could hardly have tiptoed through the house unseen. Come to think of it, in all likelihood I’d have seen him during my pursuit of Consuelo’s escaped cat, Muffy, which I’d chased into the library.
I’d probably have seen Clara or anyone else exiting the house before the murder as well. And that led me to suspect that the killer had entered the pavilion from somewhere on the grounds and not from inside the house. That meant the scarf had also already been outside somewhere, accessible to the murderer.
Poor Barney. I’m sure visions of fresh oats and cool water danced in his head, so I whispered a promise that he’d enjoy the very same treats during our stop at Marble House. In fact, when we arrived the groom’s youngest assistant, a teenaged boy named Howard, seemed only too happy to unhitch Barney and take good care of him for me.
My conscience soothed for the time being, I circled the house and headed straight for the pavilion. Late-afternoon shadows cloaked the structure in an early dusk, but I bent low, searching for . . .
Anything that had been overlooked thus far. At the request of the police—much to Aunt Alva’s dismay—the floor had not yet been scrubbed clean. The soiled tracks I’d seen that day, indistinct as they’d been then, had dried in the interim, been dragged around by the breezes, and now were nothing more than dusty traces of dirt and grass along the floor. Nothing that would suggest a shoe size or type. Still, I scoured the area beneath the tiled roof, looking for a scuff mark, a stain on the marble flooring, anything. Finding nothing new, I went to the railing where Jesse had deduced the murderer had jumped and then crashed through the foliage. I inspected the banister for scratches, dirt—anything. But again, I discovered nothing that hadn’t already been noted by the police.
With a sigh I turned to face back into the pavilion, and something in the opposite corner caught my eye.
I strode to it and only just managed not to snatch it up in my haste. No, I wanted to study it right where it was, as well as consider the rest of the pavilion one more time. The table that had been set up for the purpose of reading fortunes still occupied the same space. The linen tablecloth still stretched across it, and on top of that stood the vase of sunflowers and daisies, now looking tired and faded.
I glanced around at the other vases set on small tables around the pavilion, each spilling sprays of sunflowers and daisies that had appeared a good deal happier two days ago. Then I directed my discerning eye back to the corner and the tiny petals that had attracted my notice.
They were neither yellow nor white, nor any other color associated with sunflowers or daisies. They were a deep, dusky pink—creased, browning at the edges and dulling to a rusty hue, but pink nonetheless. Frowning, I made another circuit of the pavilion, this time keeping tight to the rail, bent at the waist so nothing would escape my notice. It wasn’t until I’d nearly returned to the first corner that another pair of similar petals met my scrutiny. They’d have been easily missed, wedged as they had obviously been by the breeze up against, and nearly under, the supporting strip that ran along the floor to hold the newel posts in place. In that very narrow gap, two more dusky petals clung. I wondered how many others there might have been that day. Would anyone have noticed them, or would they have disregarded them as merely part of the floral decorations?
A rational voice inside me suggested these petals might have simply blown in on the breeze. But a quick scan of the surrounding bushes and flowers revealed nothing of that specific color. The azalea bushes had long since lost their springtime blossoms. Besides, my memory conjured them as alternating red and white, not pink.
My guess was these petals belonged to the rose bushes closer to the house, particularly the smaller English tea roses on either side of the terrace steps. If so, any one of Aunt Alma’s guests might have tracked them in that day.