Come Hell or Highball by Maia Chance

but two minutes ago.”
    â€œWhose bag?”
    â€œThat is the predicament, madam. Miss Street and Mrs. Wright possess identical Hermès Frères weekend bags of fawn-colored calfskin. Both bags sat in the drive, amid the other items of luggage, in preparation for loading their motorcars. I happened to glance into one—its top had not been fastened—and I spied what appeared to be a flat, round metal canister, approximately the size of a dinner plate.”
    â€œSilver colored?”
    â€œYes, madam. With, I believe, markings of some sort stamped on the top.”
    â€œThat’s the reel! Which lady’s bag was it?”
    â€œI cannot say.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI regret to say that when your canine took the opportunity to employ my pant leg as a napkin, I was momentarily distracted. During the time it took for me to disentangle myself from Cedric’s jowls, both bags had been loaded into the motorcars.”
    Phooey.
    â€œThank you, Hibbers. One more thing—is it true what Inspector Digton said, that you vouched for the innocence of all the household staff?”
    â€œIndeed, madam.” He hovered.
    â€œIf you’re expecting some jingle,” I said, “I afraid I’m completely bust.”
    â€œJingle, madam? Good heavens, no.”
    Berta, Cedric, and I heaped into the Duesy. Before I pulled away, I gave Dune House one last glance.
    A small white face stared down from a high window. My heart lurched. Wait. It was only Auntie Arbuckle. She lifted her fingers to twiddle a farewell.
    â€œSpooky little critter,” I muttered, and peeled out of the driveway.

 
    11
    Berta and I motored halfway to New York and stopped at a roadside hash house for coffee and a bite to eat. If I claimed that such establishments were foreign to me, I’d be lying. Even in my Society Matron days, I’d now and again skulk into a cheap restaurant for a fry-up.
    Once coffee was coursing through our veins, we talked over Horace’s murder in low tones.
    â€œInspector Digton thinks it was me.” I forked up some fried egg.
    â€œGoodness!”
    â€œHe thinks that Horace jilted me for another woman—Eloise Wright, I guess—and I was driven to murderous madness. Let’s just hope he finds a better suspect soon.”
    â€œInspector Digton was ever so kind to me, ” Berta said. “I even promised to mail him my shortbread recipe. True, he is rather stupid. He does not know about the film reel, either.”
    Oh yes. Berta and I had both lied to the police. Mustn’t forget that.
    â€œI can’t help thinking it was Olive,” I said. “She’s gaga over Bruno Luciano, and now she’s a wealthy widow.”
    â€œShe is also at least a decade older than Mr. Luciano. Surely she has some sense of propriety.”
    â€œI wouldn’t count on it.”
    â€œThere was the key.”
    â€œWhat key?”
    â€œDid Inspector Digton not tell you? The killer may have lured Mr. Arbuckle to the kitchen by placing a pantry key somewhere in his reach. A key, you see, was discovered on his … person. It was even labeled ‘pantry.’ The killer knew he could not resist having access to all that forbidden food. All they needed to do was give him access to the key, and then lie in wait.”
    â€œThat’s awful!”
    â€œMr. Arbuckle made straight for my snickerdoodles, I could not help but notice.” Berta sipped her coffee.
    â€œDon’t look so smug.”
    â€œLeaving him the key is, perhaps, something only a wife would think up.”
    â€œA mistress would know about Horace’s weaknesses, too.”
    â€œMrs. Wright, you mean.”
    â€œYes.” I described Eloise’s whispered conference with Lem Fitzpatrick at the golf links. “She’s a sneak, mark my words. But, you know, everyone knew that the food was kept under lock and key. In fact, the way Olive was