The Bed Body (Gerald Bunting Book 1) Read online

“This is no small thing, madam.” Gerald finished his water, which took longer than anticipated. “This is quite the secret to hold close all these years. But, now, your shaky hands tell me there is more to the story. You lie when you say you remembered this after the fact.”

  She nodded. “They occasionally met to fight about money. Jimmy gave her an allowance, but she was always asking for more money. I thought it was just another one of those times. They were always at each other’s throats. Nothing had ever happened before.”

  “You suspect Mauve laced her husband’s dinner with the pills and cleaned up the evidence so that, the next morning, the housekeeper would claim Mr. Harper had dined alone?”

  “Exactly. She was a spiteful woman. I knew Jimmy planned to leave me an inheritance, but she didn’t. Not yet, anyway.” She sniffed. “He was a good man.”

  “You feared retribution from Mrs. Harper?”

  “I suppose I did. I don’t care much anymore now that so much time has passed. If something was going to happen, surely, it would’ve happened by—”

  “Now…” Gerald said, “a different murder has transpired.” His stomach rumbled. “I apologize for asking, but would a small snack be possible? We had an early flight.”

  Ms. Sprecher returned with a plate of fudge. Officer Marrow whispered, “Ask her if those have nuts.”

  The detective gave a small nod. “I shall do this, yes, to your asking.” He turned back to the witness. “Ms. Sprecher, I don’t wish to alarm you, but there has been another murder in Mauve Harper’s family.”

  “No,” she gasped. Marrow shrugged and grabbed a piece of fudge.

  “Before we go further, the constable here would like to know if there are nuts in the fudge.”

  “Yes, it’s a family recipe.”

  Gerald slapped the piece of fudge out of Marrow’s hand. “Do you wish to get the bone box shove? You foolish fool!”

  “Get on with it, then,” Officer Marrow hissed. “I want a pretzel.”

  “Mauve Harper’s mother was found dead on Monday.”

  “How terrible!”

  “Mrs. Harper’s sister is beside herself with grief. The woman was old, but that doesn’t make things any easier.”

  “Do you think Mauve killed her?”

  “At this stage, we’re not sure of anything, but we’ll know soon enough. The body is being examined. The results of several tests are pending. Is there anything else you’d wish to say before we take our leave of Berlin, and the constable has his reaction?”

  Marrow cleared his throat repeatedly, checking his reflection in a teaspoon.

  Ms. Sprecher’s demeanor darkened. “Mr. Bunting, are you insinuating I have something to do with this?”

  “I never insinuate.” Gerald grinned. “If you were, somehow, involved, know that you’ve only helped Mauve Harper. She’ll be leaving soon for warmer climes, financially comfortable and unattached—not a bad pair. America will make a good home for an artist, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” she replied. “Will that be all, Mr. Bunting?”

  A minute later, the doors slid shut on the elevator.

  “What did you say to her at the end?” Officer Marrow asked. “She turned white!”

  “The inconvenient things.”

  “Have you gotten all you came for?”

  “All, save the pretzel to splits.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Officer Andrews waved to the bartender. “A pint.” He took a seat by Marrow. “How was the trip?”

  “Insufferable. Hopeless. A complete waste of money.”

  “You always said you wanted to see Germany.”

  “Not with him. Not for work, Marcus. He wouldn’t translate a thing. For all I know, he went around, introducing me as his little British organ monkey.”

  “Gerald’s a professional. I’m sure he didn’t do anything like that.”

  “He could’ve swindled us into paying for a visit with his sister, for all we know.”

  “So, you didn’t learn anything from the mistress?”

  “He’s playing things close to the vest. He told me, ‘I shall share the swirling sponge bits of this thing’”—Marrow tapped his temple—“’when I know yet more than I have been seeing.’”

  “Ah, one of the impressionable jokes,” Gerald said, rubbing his nose. “You are knowing me all the best, Constable.”

  “I was just sharing the results of our European holiday,” Marrow muttered. “To be honest, from where I’m sitting, it feels a little useless.”

  “Well, rise and find the new seating place. I, the Gerald Bunting, sifted the many tidbits from the Berlin tripping—many.”

  Officer Marrow laughed. “Marcus, you should see him put away potato dumplings. I think he’s got a wooden leg.” Gerald flinched. “Well, have you?”

  “… Impossibly.”

  “Let’s face it, Bunting. We’ve hit the end of the road. You had a decent run, but a case without a body and no clues to speak of—what good does it do to stick around?” Marrow dropped his voice. “Don’t worry. We won’t tell the newspapers. At least, not for a while. We’ll give you a head start back to Bude.”

  “But what of the evidenced bottle, ‘itty-bitty’ though it was?”

  “It’s clean. No traces, no evidence. Mauve probably did pick it up off the side of the road.”

  Gerald’s beard rustled against his scarves. “I see this thing you point to. It shall be difficult, doubled, but I spotted this the long way off. What of the neighbor, mad crazy?”

  “Oh, we called her up. Completely bananas.”

  “I will be thinking of something.”

  “Do you know how hard it is to get a murder conviction without a body?” Marrow asked.

  “I care nothing of the conviction. I, Gerald, seek only truths and the unpopular haunts with tasty eats.”

  “It’s nothing personal,” Officer Andrews said. “It’s just a rotten case. If you’re ever back in town, please do stop by. We’ll treat you to lunch.”

  The detective nodded, patting his hat. “My mother, she had a triteness—a saying. ‘It is dark, yes, on the new moon nights, but dawn shall still keep the appointment.’ Fare you well.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mrs. Stephens had been pulling weeds for half an hour. A botched dye job had turned her hair more salt than pepper. She straightened sharply when she spied a man in two overcoats standing by the fence.

  Gerald coughed into his sleeve. “With all mannerly kindnesses, excuse my disruptive. It is only the great detective, Bunting.”

  “I’ve heard o’ you. Read about it in the papers.” Gerald grinned. “And to think—here! Not in the town, I mean. Just beside me. You always think it’ll be someone else’s neighbor, some rundown trashy place with broken windows and an overgrown hedge.”

  “Yes, the bushy hedge—always, the indication.”

  Mrs. Stephens rushed to the fence. “If you ask me, it’s one o’ the daughters who’ve gone and done it. They’re always puttin’ up fights. Poor old mother caught in the middle, driven up a wall, I’m sure. Their Mildred was haggard near the end. Could barely stand. Could barely walk—had to be carried, that’s what I heard. I’ve not seen her in months, myself.”

  Gerald sniffed a rose. “Yes, pities.”

  Mrs. Stephens began sweeping the walk. “So, what do you want? Come to accuse me of something? I didn’t do it. Hardly spoke a word to Mildred since her husband died. She’s a recluse. One of those loners who shut themselves up in houses. Probably drugs. I wish it weren’t true, but I can’t see any way past it. That husband of hers—the daughter, I mean. Q….”

  “Quentin.”

  “A nuisance,” she spat. “Never picks up the garden anymore. Look at it! You’d think this was a slum. They planted that ivy to keep me from looking through the fence, but I wait for a full moon and use the old ladder.”

  Bunting nodded. “Disgracing. I tell them so.”

  “Hardly what a gard
en should look like ‘round here. Gardens have got grass, ain’t they? And flowers. If that ivy creeps this way, that’ll be the end of it. I’ll take a trowel to it. I’ve already written the council. They say they’ll look into it. I’ll be sure they do. I’m not goin’ to live in a house next to a garden like that forever. I’ll move and find a better place in the country where there aren’t murderers, snuffin’ out the shut-ins.”

  “The country—so wonderous, yes. Everything, the garden.”

  Mrs. Stephens scowled. “Quentin. Weird man. Strange habits. Jiggles doorknobs. Lord knows why. I jiggled mine to see if there was anything to it—nothing a screwdriver couldn’t fix. Why, just the other day, when he was pullin’ Mildred out on one of those bed things—you know, the ones that’ve got wheels—”

  “Yes, the wheeling bed.” Gerald’s eyebrows slipped beneath his tilted hat. “More, madam?”

  “He was singing, clear as I’m talking to you.”

  “We all are known to kill the timing, Mrs. Stephens.”

  “‘There'll Always Be an England,’ sure as anything. I heard him, alright. But you don’t believe me. None of ‘em do, I’m afraid. My own son’s tried to get me put away. Sent some Russians to take me to Moscow, as I live and breathe. I told them I wouldn’t go. Food’s miserable, I’ve heard. No, I’ll stay right here until I die. Or out in the country if things get much worse in that garden. Yes, you can bet on that. Then, I’ll be able to relax with a roof that’s not leaking.”

  Bunting smiled. “For you, madam, this and more I am wishing.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Evening was falling. Dorothy Sutton sat alone beside an empty bottle. “Had to go to the store. No, no,” she muttered. “He won’t believe that. I found it in a box—a favor from some wedding.” She paused. “I could hide the bottle—that’s it. Hide it somewhere. The garden? Mother’s room? No, just the cabinets. He’ll never see it. He’s never cooked a day in his life.”

  The door knocker rattled.

  Mrs. Sutton peered out the window. “Curse these policemen,” she thought, tidying the couch pillows. “Never letting us have a moment’s reset. Had all day to come, but they’ve got to interrupt me when I’ve got my feet up, waiting for Quentin.”

  A short, muffled-up man stood on her doorstep. “Mr. Bunton,” she said. “Good evening. Where are the other two?”

  “They have the occupations.”

  The pair retired to their usual seats in the living room, Mrs. Sutton in the armchair, Gerald on the couch.

  “Mrs. Sutton, the developmental news has reached this house?”

  She nodded. “I couldn’t believe it—Mother burned up without a second thought. Someone saw it in the paper and gave me a call. We gave up our subscription a year ago. Not much more than advertisements these days. My friends seem to know more about the case than I do.”

  Mrs. Sutton’s bleary eyes struggled to focus on the detective. “And, after all Father did for Mr. Thatch, something like this would happen. He didn’t even call! Not me, anyway. Mauve hasn’t called either. I almost went to see her today, but I got caught up with an errand.”

  She nudged the bottle. It fell off the armrest and shattered. “Oops.”

  “No”—Mrs. Sutton waved Gerald back to his seat—“I’ll get it later.”

  “This Thatch,” Bunting continued, “he has the poor eyes?”

  “They’re dreadful. He couldn’t tell the difference between a cat and a rabbit without his glasses on. He’s very clumsy without them.”

  Gerald brushed a piece of broken glass off his shoe. “And Father? He was known to the embalmers?”

  “The parlor was about to go under—not recently, back in the war. Plenty of bodies were piling up other places, but not around here. We were all struggling, but Father had savings. He gave Mr. Thatch some money to tide them over. Father wasn’t stingy, though. He bought lots of bonds.”

  “Patriots.”

  Mrs. Sutton closed her eyes. “I just need a moment, Mr. Bunting. I had a big lunch, and I’ve been too busy to get in one of my naps.”

  “A nap, of course. And husband Quentin will soon punch clocks?”

  “Soon, surely,” she mumbled. “Sun’s gone down, hasn’t it?”

  “I do not desire further, you, to disturb, but may I take final looks—” She nodded. “Thanks much, drunk woman.”

  He edged up the stairs, avoiding the fifth and seventh—a recently-acquired superstition. Mildred Wembley’s bedroom had been left practically untouched. The bed had been made, but the antique bottles were still arranged on the vanity. Satisfied, Bunting crept down the staircase. Mrs. Sutton was still resting peacefully in her chair.

  Gerald found the kitchen quiet and clean. The curtains billowed softly around an open window. He shut and latched it. “Chills, ye go!” he muttered.

  The detective noticed a scrap of paper under the table. He retrieved the unmarked envelope, tearing it open.

  The letter read, “You’re next.”

  Gerald heard humming.

  ***

  “What are you doin’ back here?” Mr. Sutton threw his coat on the floor. His wife stirred. “And you’ve got her drunk again!” He grabbed the shotgun above the mantle.

  Bunting retreated into the hall. “Man, you have things wrongly. She was much in this state, empty bottled. I linger only for your visits.”

  Sutton took a step. “If you don’t get out of my house, I’ll—”

  “There are dangers.” He held out the note. “This was found.”

  Mr. Sutton took the note.

  “Let us avoid misunderstanding,” Bunting’s beard shifted uneasily, “I did not—I have the finding gifts. I decide not what they say.”

  Sutton grabbed the gun over the mantle and checked the back garden. “No one out there. I’m not having this sort of thing. The police have got to be on to something by now. I’m tired of waiting for answers.”

  Gerald nodded. “Yes, I feel tenseness also. We all fatigue. The constables, they hit the brick end and found it dead as the skunk who crosses the lane.”

  “Where’d the note come from?”

  “It fell just as the adventuresome fruit under the tables. The window, I found it jarring.”

  “Jarring?”

  “Uh… open—the least, tiny bit.”

  Mr. Sutton ran to the living room. “Dorothy, wake up.” He rubbed his wife’s shoulder. She giggled, stretching her legs. “Dorothy, we’re going to a hotel. Stay with her while I grab some things, would you?”

  Bunting bowed. “I would lay my livings down like the new pressed suit—carefully, deliberately, and with some receipts.”

  “Good, take this,” Sutton said, handing him the shotgun. “And some shells.” Ammunition trickled into the detective’s outstretched hand.

  As he waited, Gerald circled the room with the gun resting in the crook of his arm. He whirled around to face a large mirror several times, whispering, “You, criminals, unhanding Sutton, or the lead shall fly till you are full with it!”

  Mr. Sutton returned with a large suitcase. He gently slapped his wife’s cheek. “Dorothy, we need to leave. We’re going to a hotel now.” He lifted her out of the chair and carried her to the door.

  Bunting followed. “One thing, if I may, Sutton—before you burrow places?” He laid the gun on the couch.

  “Be quick about it.”

  “Harold.” Gerald smiled.

  “Slower.”

  “Harold, Jr.—the funeral keeper? You know this Thatch man, yes?”

  “Sure,” Sutton said. “Saw him just the other day, the morning after Dorothy’s mother died.”

  Gerald clapped. “And how was he found?”

  “I don’t know. It was just a quick look. He came in and left.”

  “No bits? No remarkable nothings?”

  Mr. Sutton spun around, reaching for the doorknob. “He complimented my haircut.”

  Bunting sighed. “Yes, the fine cutting—I would have it also done if n
ot for expensing hats.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Mrs. Wilkins, hospitableness heals the wounding.” Gerald Bunting sipped his tea. “You have good sense of these things. The table, a jewel’s setting. The tea… prepared.” He returned his cup to its saucer. “I like it, yes, the cool tea.”

  “You’ll have to excuse that. The burner’s been giving me trouble.”

  “It is the treat, none the least.”

  “You’re too kind, Mr. Bunting. What awful news, Mildred being cremated before the autopsy. A dreadful business”—Mrs. Wilkins shuddered—“cutting open a body like that. But I suppose it helps clear things up—”

  “Information, yes, the rich currency. You have the lovely house home—like the rolling hill hotel.”

  She smiled. “I’ve lived here forty years if you can believe it.”

  “Forty! What a numbering!” Gerald grabbed a piece of hard candy. “May you be confidential?” He rolled the confection around his mouth, sucking on it periodically.

  “Can I keep a secret, you mean?” The detective nodded. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Mrs. Sutton—Dorothy, the sloshy neighbor. She had the terror spooking. The stranger intimidates.”

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Bunting.”

  “The note, it sails through windows.” He choked on the candy. “But I see it. I retrieve the thing as if I, Gerald, was the dog Spaniel. It sat like the hand seeking to be shaken. It wishes to have its finding.”

  “You must have a very good eye.”

  “Ah”—Gerald tapped his head—“even if the grayed eyes should be falcon-clawed, this will be remaining.”

  “Your hat?”

  “No! The squishing membranes, thoughts, feelings, suspicioning—little words, phrasings. The fevered, sickish man who goes to dances also.”

  “Inconsistencies. I see. Yes, that makes sense.”

  Bunting sucked loudly on what remained of his hard candy. “But I arrive to speak of this sudden Sutton spooking. The threat note flew into the home last evening. Did you hear garden mutters? Broken pots, the squashed cat?”

  Mrs. Wilkins thought for a moment. “Nothing, no. I didn’t go into the garden yesterday.”