“I’ll do the paperwork on Brenda’s phone right now. The murder weapon should pave the way for the search warrant.”

“We need to keep the pressure on these people. Let’s try to be there by early afternoon.”

47

Pepper Markley met Ray at the door of Gull House.

“I thought you might be gone by now,” he said.

“Things change incredibly fast. Jill has decreed that the memorial service will be up here. There will be hundreds of the right kind of people coming in from out of state and various foreign locations. Lots of hotel arrangements and catering need to be looked after. Suddenly, I’m a greatly respected, exceedingly competent queen of logistics and once again a highly paid employee of Wudbine Investments.”

Ray noted the playfully wicked smile that accompanied her sarcastic tone. “When is this going to happen?”

“Right after Labor Day. We need to get the summer people out of town first. Then there will be adequate lodging available at the proper kind of places and adequate airline seats for those who must fly commercial. I trust you will want a seat close to the family at the memorial service. I can arrange that, Sheriff.”

“Right now I’ll settle for a brief conversation with Elliott Wudbine.”

“He’s down at his cottage. I expect him within the next fifteen minutes. They have a planning meeting scheduled here at 2:00. All of the stakeholders have been asked to help orchestrate the memorial service. And I do love that term, stakeholders. Sounds like they’re intending to kill Dracula. But, hey, someone already got Drac.” She giggled at her own joke. “Forgive my digression. Would you like to wait for Mr. Wudbine in the great room? I’ve already got coffee set up there.”

“That will be fine,” responded Ray.

Pepper escorted him, offering coffee, and then disappearing. Ray carefully surveyed the room. Sunlight flooded in the massive windows that faced the water. The doors were open, allowing the sound of wind and waves to enter the room. It struck him that the space was even more dramatic than he remembered. He walked to the piano, opened the lid, and gently, one at a time, pushed a few keys. The sound reverberated through the room.

He closed the lid and moved to the upright string bass. He walked around the instrument, studying the wooden stand that securely held it vertically.

“Do you play, Sheriff?” asked Richard Grubbs, walking across the thick white carpet.

“I wish. There was a beat-up old bass in the band room when I was in high school. The teacher showed me a couple of jazz progressions that I had fun experimenting with. That’s as far as it went. But I heard that your daughter is an excellent jazz musician.”

“I don’t know if that’s true these days. I’m not sure she’s played much in recent years. But there was a time when she was quite remarkable.”

“The bass is set up for a left-hand musician. I don’t think I noticed that your daughter was a southpaw.”

“That’s an interesting story, Sheriff. When Jill was just an infant she showed a preference for using her left hand. For some reason that bothered my late wife enormously. She was constantly moving Jill’s spoon or rattle to her right hand. The whole thing became a bone of contention between the two of us. I thought the child should be allowed to do what she wanted to do. But eventually my wife won out.

“My wife, she was a violinist, a very accomplished one. I imagine that’s where Jill gets her musical side. It sure doesn’t come from me. She started Jill in Suzuki when she was about four. It was a really fine school. They allowed the kids to experiment with different instruments before they settled on one to play. Jill quickly moved toward the violin, which pleased her mother. But the instrument she picked up and insisted on playing was this beautiful little quarter-size violin, setup for the left hand. They tried to move her to a right-hand instrument, and she absolutely refused. So Jill and her mother reached a compromise of sorts. Jill would play the violin, which her mother desperately wanted her to do, but she would play on the left-hand instrument.

“By the time she got to junior high, she had moved on to the string bass, leaving the violin behind. And in high school she started playing jazz exclusively. Not a popular move on the home front.”

“When did you and Jill become estranged?”

“Long ago, when she was in college. Her mother died of cancer. For some reason, she seemed to hold me accountable. It’s something I still don’t understand. Probably never will.”

Their attention was drawn to the sound of voices as people flooded through the double doors into the room.

Sterling Shevlin joined their group. Ray noted Shevlin’s flushed complexion and the smell of alcohol.

“We’ve all been pressed into service again, haven’t we?”

“This will be an easy one for you, Sterling. No casting involved. They just want you to get things organized. Elliot wants this service to have a very professional look,” explained Grubbs.

“Revenge from the grave. Malcolm’s last laugh.”

“You will cooperate?”

“Oh, absolutely, Grubby. I can be as disingenuous as the best of them.”

“Who’s attending this meeting?” asked Ray.

“Usual suspects. Isn’t that what you police say?” Grubbs laughed at his joke. “Sterling, here, and our summer minister of music, Dick Fulton. Hope enough people are staying on so we can put together a little choir. I think I have to find an organist. First I heard about this whole thing was late yesterday, and now we’re hurrying to get everything in place in less than three weeks.”

“Who invited you?” Jill Wudbine asked, her question directed at Ray. Elliott Wudbine was at her side, looking abashed.

“Actually, dear, it’s good that he’s here. We’re going to need extra security for this event, and we’re going to need the Sheriff’s assistance in handling the traffic, too.”

Ray opened the folder and handed Elliott a search warrant. Elliott quickly scanned it and handed it back.

“Sheriff, can I hold you off on this for about an hour? As soon as this meeting is completed, I promise to be totally at your disposal. In the meantime, I’d like you to join us. We need to know what resources your agency can provide.”

Ray nodded his assent. He moved away from the group and quietly observed as the room filled, extra chairs being carried in by Pepper, Alyson Mickels, and Grubbs. Most of the faces were familiar to Ray: members of the family, including Verity; Wudbine employees; and members of the cast and crew of Murder at the Vicarage. There were a few others he had no memory of ever seeing before.

Elliott stood at a lectern. “Ladies and Gentlemen. Thank you being here on such short notice. As you no doubt have heard, the purpose of this meeting is to begin planning my father’s memorial service. We are looking toward the week after Labor Day. That gives us about three weeks. An enormous amount of work has to be accomplished in a very short time. And each of you will be called upon to play an important role in this event.

“The Mission Point Summer Colony was an important part of my father’s life. Many of his happiest days were spent on these beaches, in the colony, at his cottage, and, of course, on his beloved sailboat plying the waters of Lake Michigan. It is most appropriate that we celebrate his life here at Mission Point.”

Ray, sitting off to the side, watched the faces of the audience as Elliott continued his remarks. Ray’s phone vibrated, and he looked at the text message on the screen. B.W. Cause of death: Cranial Bleed, blunt force trauma to skull. Ray thought about the scene in the greenhouse; Elliott rattled on in the background.

Did she fall or was she pushed? If she was pushed, is the assailant here in the room?” Ray wondered as he looked around. Pepper Markley was sitting near him, carefully inspecting her manicure. Jill Wudbine was in a swivel chair, one brought in from an adjoining office. She was slowly rotating from side to side, her gaze fixed on the carpet just beyond her sandals. Alyson Mickels’ stared off through the window in the direction of Lake Michigan. Verity Wudbine-Merone was focused on her knitting. She would look up toward her son, then back at her needles.