Murder at Longbourn by Tracy Kiely Page B

to remember. “Maybe around eight-thirty? I’m really not sure. I know I was still passing around the hors d’oeuvres. I had justrefilled my tray in the kitchen and was returning to the dining room when they came back inside.”
    Detective Stewart noted something down before he continued. “Do you know what they were doing out there?”
    “They said they were looking at the snow.”
    The eyebrow went up again. “Looking out the window wasn’t sufficient?”
    It was an interesting point. I had been too busy making my rounds at the time, but now that I thought about it, it was strange. I don’t care how much of a kid you are at heart: adult women in evening gowns generally do not willingly go out in the middle of a snowstorm unless their car has broken down or they’ve partaken too much of the holiday spirit. As far as I could tell, neither Joan nor Polly had had too much to drink.
    One of the many uniformed officers who had descended on the inn quietly walked into the room. Avoiding my eyes, he went straight to Detective Stewart, leaned in close, and whispered in his ear. Detective Stewart whispered back and they both glanced at me. I tried to radiate innocence and stared at the contents of the evidence box while they continued their conversation. In one sealed bag lay the gun. In another, lay the unisex, right-handed glove worn by the killer. Hearing a noise in the foyer, I saw the medical examiner putting on his coat to leave. Behind him, two officers rolled the gurney bearing the body of Gerald Ramsey out of the dining room and toward the door. The words from Aunt Winnie’s invitation came back to me: “Many will come, but one won’t be going home.” I felt sick.
    The officer finally left and Detective Stewart shifted his attention back to me. “Sorry about the interruption. Let’s see, where were we?” He contemplated his notebook. “Oh, yes. How did Miss Ramsey act around her father?”
    I thought of how Polly and I had stood talking after she had come back inside. When Gerald called her over like an errant dog, there was no mistaking the look of hate on her face. But I felt funny about telling the detective what I’d seen. I was sure that most people who encountered Gerald Ramsey had, at one point or another, made a similar face. It seemed unfair to cast Polly in a guilty light over what I considered an honest and justified emotion. But, I reminded myself, someone in that room tonight had shot Gerald. I knew it wasn’t me and I knew it wasn’t Aunt Winnie. My main goal was to convince the police of that. As for the others—well, I’d just have to tell what I knew and let the police sort out the rest.
    Feeling like a parrot reciting my lines, I dutifully told Detective Stewart that I thought Polly resented her father’s dictatorial nature and that while I thought Lauren was firmly under Gerald’s control, she seemed unhappy. I did not, however, repeat Jackie’s unfounded assertion that she suspected Lauren of having an affair with Daniel. I told myself that it was because I didn’t want to spread vicious rumors, but I wouldn’t have wanted to be hooked up to a lie detector when I made that statement. The simple fact was, right or wrong, I liked Daniel.
    I had little information about Joan and Henry or Jackie and Linnet. I had even less about the acting troupe, unless augmentation was a crime. As for Peter, I could have told the detective stories that would have set his hair on end and no doubt resulted in Peter’s immediate incarceration, but as they had nothing to do with the night’s events, I restrained myself. However, Detective Stewart did seem oddly interested in the fact that Peter’s parents were in the hotel business.
    After an eternity of pregnant pauses, raised eyebrows, and seemingly random scribbling into his ever-present notebook, Detective Stewart stood up. “Well, thank you very much for your cooperation,Ms. Parker. I think I have everything I need for tonight. You can go now.