Chapter 6

Maggie knew she would remember that still, long day with a kind of sharp reality for the rest of her life. After those first moments when she had felt so ill and shocked, everything seemed weirdly natural. After one event occurred, another was bound to follow, and then another, all of them quite in the logical order of things. Even her meeting with Patrick Riley, so trivial at the time, but later so significant, seemed as natural, as unsurprising, as anything could be.

Maggie spent a long, painful afternoon with Andrea. She knew that, under her frozen surface, Andrea was grateful for her presence. They carefully avoided the sub rosa subject that neither wanted to verbalize. Relieved when Andrea finally took a sedative and went to bed, Maggie tiptoed out of her room and hurried down the stairs. She saw no one, although she heard voices behind the closed door of the library.

She took deep breaths of the mist-laden air as she hurried along the path to the guest cottage.

So, this was murder. It happened to people one knew, and it did indescribable and horrible things to them. Frightened them first, perhaps. Fear of murder itself came first-simple, primitive fear of the unleashing of the beast. And then, on its heels, came more civilized fear, fear of the law, and a scramble for safety.

She turned through the opening in the hedge and glanced backward. The house lay white and stately amid its gardens as it had lain for generations. But it was no longer tranquil-it was charged now with violence. With murder. Yet it remained dignified and stately and would cling, as Andrea would cling and had clung all those years, to its protective ritual.

Andrea. Did she kill Duncan? Was that why she was so stricken and gray? Or was it because she knew that Bradford had killed him? Or was it something else?

Maggie did not see the man till she was almost upon him. She gasped involuntarily, though as a rule she wasn't skittish. He sat on the small porch of the cottage, hunched up with his coat collar turned up, furiously scribbling on a pad of paper. He jumped up when he heard her breathless little cry and whirled to face her.

"My name's Riley, Patrick Riley," he said.

"Pat to my friends. May I use your typewriter?"

His eyes were extremely clear and blue and lively. His face was agreeably irregular in feature. His mouth looked as if he laughed a lot. His chin said he endured insolence from no man. His bushy fair hair showed no sign of graying. His hands were unexpectedly fine and beautiful.

Hard on the surface, Maggie thought. Actually, he's probably quite sensitive. Typical Irish. What's he doing here?

Aloud, she said, "Why?"

"Can't write fast enough to get this story off tonight. I've been waiting for you. They told me you're a writer. I'm a reporter, with a Dallas paper. I'm here on vacation. I didn't expect a murder story to break."

Maggie opened the door and admitted him to the small living room. "The typewriter's there. There's a stack of paper beside it."

He fell upon the typewriter like a dog on a bone, and immediately became altogether preoccupied with his story. She watched him for a while, amazed at his speed and fluency and utter lack of hesitancy.

She left him to his endeavors and lighted the fire already laid in the tiny fireplace. She sat quietly, letting the crackling of the fire soothe her. For the first time, the experiences she had noted and stored away in the nooks and crannies of her brain began to arrange themselves and march in some sort of order through her conscious thoughts. The dark, morbid parade frightened her. She was relieved when Pat Riley spoke.

"I've got your name. Mary Hart," he said suddenly, over the sound of the clicking keys. "Is that right?"

"Margaret," she said. "Maggie."

The clicking stopped. He looked at her, frowning. "Maggie. Maggie Hart," he repeated thoughtfully. "You aren't the Maggie Hart who writes murder stories!"

"Yes," Maggie said cautiously. "I am that Maggie Hart."

An expression of unequivocal incredulity crossed his face. "But you.. . . "

"If you say that I don't look as if I write murder stories, you can't use my typewriter," Maggie said tersely.

"I suppose you're all tangled up in this mess," he said speculatively.

"Yes," said Maggie, sober again. "And no," she added, looking at the fire.

"Don't commit yourself," Pat said dryly. "Don't say anything reckless."

"But I mean just that," said Maggie. "I'm a guest here. A friend of Andrea Howe's. Her sorority sister, actually. She was a senior, president of the sorority I pledged as a freshman. I didn't murder Duncan Crane. And I don't care about the rest of the people here, except that I wish I'd never met them."

"But you do care a lot about Andrea Howe?" he said gently.

"Yes," Maggie replied gravely. "I care very much about Andrea Howe."

"I've got all the dope, you know," he said softly. "It wasn't hard to get. Everybody around here knows about the Howes. The thing I can't understand is, why she shot Duncan. It ought to have been Emma."

"What.. . ? " Maggie's fingers dug into the wicker arms of the chair. Her eyes strove intently to plumb the clear blue eyes above the typewriter.

"I said it ought to have been Emma. She's the girl who's making the trouble."

"But it wasn't.. .Andrea couldn't.. . . "

"Oh, yes, she could," Pat said wearily. "People can do the strangest things. Andrea could murder. But I don't see why she would murder Duncan and let Emma go scot-free."

"Emma has a motive," Maggie said in a low voice.

"Yes, she's got a motive. Get rid of a husband who was a millstone around her neck. Bradford Howe has the same motive, in a way. With Duncan dead, he's got a clear shot at

Emma. And, he's what the people around here call a Red Howe-impulsive, reckless, bred to a tradition of.. .violence."

"But Bradford was asleep upstairs."

He interrupted her. "Oh, yes, so he says. And you were approaching the house from the terrace. Tyson Smithfield had gone down after the mail. Miss Andrea was writing letters upstairs. And Emma was walking in the woods. Not a damn alibi among you. The way the house and grounds are laid out, neither you nor Tyson nor Emma were visible to each other. Anyone could have escaped readily from the window and turned up a moment later from the hall, all innocent and aboveboard. I know all that. Who was behind the curtain?"

"A stranger?" she said in a small voice.

"Stranger, nothing," he said with scorn. "The dogs would have had hysterics. It was one of you. But who?"

"I don't know. I don't know!" she blurted, her voice uneven. She stood abruptly and began to pace, and tried to steady herself.

"Don't look like that," he said, alarmed by her distraught expression. "Don't cry. Don't.. . . "

He took her in his arms and she thought for a moment he was going to kiss her.

"I am not crying," she said. "It wasn't Andrea. I know it wasn't!"

"You mean that you don't want it to be Andrea," he said kindly. "Well.. . . " He looked at his watch. "Shit!" He turned back to the typewriter and shuffled his papers together. "Tell you what, I can do something. Not for you exactly.. .just for.. .oh, because. I'll let part of my story wait until tomorrow, if you want the chance to try to prove your Andrea didn't murder him."

Maggie frowned, perplexed.

"It's simple," he said quickly. "You write murder mysteries. I've read one or two of them. They aren't bad. Well, here's your chance to try a real murder mystery."

"But I don't want.. . . "

He checked her with a wave of the hand. "Yes, you do," he said. "In fact, you've got to. You see, your Andrea is in a spot. You know that ring she wears.. . . "

"When did you see it?"

"Does it matter?" he said impatiently. "Reporters see everything. The point is the ring."

"But it's an amethyst," Maggie said defensively.

"Yes," he agreed grimly. "It's an amethyst. And George saw a red stone. On the right hand, the hand holding the revolver. And Andrea wears her ring on her right hand."

"But, her ring is an amethyst," Maggie repeated.

"A little while ago, I asked George the name of a flowering vine in the garden. He said, and I quote, 'That red flower, sir? That's wisteria.'"

He paused. Maggie felt a cold hand clutch her heart and squeeze it.

"The particular flower I asked about is purple," he said slowly. "The color of a dark amethyst."

"But he would have recognized Andrea's ring," Maggie objected.

"Maybe," he said. "And maybe he wishes he'd never said a word about the red ring in the first place. He was scared when he first mentioned it, probably. Hadn't had a chance to think it over."

"But George.. .George would confess to murder rather than.. . "

"No," Pat Riley said gravely. "He wouldn't. That theory sounds all right. But it doesn't happen that way. People don't murder, or confess to having murdered, for somebody else. When it's a deliberate, planned murder, and not a crazy drunken brawl when anything can happen, there's a motive. A strong, profound, deeply personal and selfish motive. And don't you forget it. I've got to hurry. Shall I send my story about the wisteria?"

"Don't," Maggie said, choking back a sob. "Not yet."

"Thanks for the typewriter. Get your wits together and go to work. After all, you ought to know something of murder. I'll see you at breakfast. Tyson Smithfield is putting me up in one of the guest rooms on the third floor."