Killer Words Read online

  The American ambassador got up and rang the bell again. When the servant who had brought the tea moments earlier returned, the ambassador instructed him to bring champagne.

  Ribbentrop clapped like a schoolboy and stood smiling, blind to the emotional turmoil he was creating.

  The servant returned with a tray of glasses and several bottles of champagne.

  The ambassador picked up a corkscrew and prepared to plunge it into the bottle, but Ribbentrop interrupted him. “Perhaps you will permit me.”

  Kennedy frowned, but he quickly conceded and handed over the corkscrew.

  Ribbentrop placed the corkscrew on the tray. He picked up a different bottle from the tray and held it up. “Most people do not know the proper way to open champagne. You must first remove the foil. Like so.” He ripped the foil from the top of the bottle and placed it on the tray. “Next, you remove the wire cage.” He held up the bottle for everyone to see the wire that held the cork in place and then unwound and removed it. “Lastly, is the cork. Many people erroneously believe that a corkscrew is needed, but you risk getting bits of the cork into the bottle. The best way is simply to grasp the cork with one hand and hold it and then twist the bottle.” He demonstrated, and after a few moments a slight pop was heard. He held up the cork for all to see. Smiling broadly, he bowed.

  The ambassador smiled with his teeth clenched and mumbled, “Arrogant little—”

  Ribbentrop turned to the ambassador. “Excuse me, did you say something?”

  Ambassador Kennedy waved his hand. “No. Carry on.”

  Ribbentrop poured champagne into a fluted glass. “Next, you must pour just a small amount into the glass. It’s important to pour slow and steady and then stop to allow the bubbles to settle before continuing.”

  “Dear God, I didn’t think anyone could make champagne boring,” Covington whispered.

  When all of the glasses were poured, John Cairncross stood. “Since you poured, the least I can do is serve.” He took a glass in each hand and distributed them. When he came to Oliver Martin, he tripped and spilled the champagne. “I’m terribly sorry. Here, why don’t you take mine? I haven’t touched it.”

  Martin accepted the glass. “Thank you.”

  “Now, if everyone is served,” Ribbentrop said, “I would like to propose a toast.” He stood straight, held his glass high in the air. “To the Führer. To Germany and her allies.” He smiled and sipped his champagne.

  Lady Clara placed her untouched glass on the coffee table. She noted that she was not the only person who didn’t drink. None of the young people present drank. Lady Astor, a teetotaler, touched her lips to the glass out of politeness but didn’t drink and then placed the glass on the table.

  “Allies?” Geoffrey Fordham-Baker said. “I didn’t realize Germany had any allies. Can I quote you?” Well on his way to inebriation, he sat up straight and pulled a pen and a notebook from his pocket. “For the record?”

  Geoffrey Fordham-Baker was an editor at the Times newspaper and was always on the hunt for a story. As the fourth son of the 2nd Viscount of Lampton, he traveled in circles that would normally have been closed to members of the press. He was short, fat, and bald, and his face was red from overindulging on wine with dinner, port after dinner, and now champagne. He was the only party member who hadn’t dressed for dinner, and his dark tweed suit was worn and rumpled. Yet, for all his faults, Lady Nancy Astor liked him, and he was a frequent guest for her weekend parties at Cliveden, her country estate, and was considered a member of her tight-knit friends, who were referred to as the Cliveden Set.

  The German foreign minister bristled. “Britain would do well to reconsider their position. Those who oppose Germany . . . well, let’s just say, they don’t do well.”

  Lady Astor rose. “I believe if we could sit down and talk like rational adults, we could come to a resolution that would be mutually beneficial to all parties.”

  “Agreed,” Ambassador Kennedy said. “God knows England isn’t ready for another war, and I have it on good authority that the United States will remain neutral. Britain won’t be able to rely on the U.S. to bail them out again.”

  Billy Cavendish looked as though he would explode. Kick coaxed him toward a corner of the room and whispered soothing words to him.

  “If it comes to war, Mr. Ambassador, I can assure you that England will be ready,” Lady Clara said. “We won’t stand idly by while Germany runs roughshod across Europe. We don’t like bullies who prey on weaker nations.”

  John Cairncross stood and applauded. “Well said.”

  Joachim von Ribbentrop gave her a snide smirk. “You would rather see your fine British countryside overrun with communists and Jews?”

  “As opposed to Nazis?” Lady Clara said. “Yes.”

  Marguerite stood by her friend’s side. “Absolutely.”

  Ambassador Kennedy laughed. “Young people. So much energy and enthusiasm.”

  Billy Cavendish stepped forward. “We are young, Ambassador, but that doesn’t mean we’re wrong. It’s the young who will step in and clean up the mess created by antiquated, prejudiced minds. And, when it comes time to fight, and the time will come, it’s the young who’ll do it. We’re the ones conscripted into service. We’re the ones that will defend this great empire and all of her citizens to our dying day.”

  Kick gasped. Lady Clara turned and saw the blood rush from her face. However, after a moment she pulled herself together and moved to stand by Billy’s side.

  “This is better than the flick I was planning to see,” John Cairncross said, flopping into a chair and grinning at his friend. Donald Maclean scooted to the edge of his seat and glanced from one side of the room to the other, as though waiting for the next ball to be served at Wimbledon.

  “You young people don’t understand,” Phillip Kerr said. “The Treaty of Versailles was unfair. If we can come to an agreement that will help Germany regain her strength, then there will be no need for war.”

  “Exactly, appeasement is what we need. That will keep everyone safe.” Lady Astor nodded and turned to walk away, followed by the ambassadors, Kerr, and the editor.

  “Why?” Oliver Martin asked.

  Phillip Kerr turned. “What?”

  “Why? Why should we appease Germany? They lost the war.”

  Marguerite gave Martin an encouraging nod and moved to his side.

  Joseph Kennedy fumed. “Now listen here. You don’t have any idea—”

  Peter Covington moved forward. “Ollie’s right. If Germany felt the terms were unfair, then they shouldn’t have signed the treaty, but it’s the law. Governments create laws to ensure the safety of their people. We all must abide by those laws.” He shook his head. “I’m just a dumb policeman, but I have sworn an oath to defend the law, not to appease those who break it.”

  Lady Clara gazed at Peter with pride. She stood taller and held her head higher.

  On one side of the room stood the older crowd, on the other, the young. In the middle of the divide sat John Cairncross and Donald Maclean. For a few moments, the air crackled with tension. The stalemate was broken when Cairncross leaped from his chair and shouted, “All hail Britannia.”

  Joseph Kennedy glanced at his daughter and then turned and escorted the older set out of the room.

  The door closed, and the tension released. Kick and Billy went out onto the balcony.

  Detective Covington hung his head and moved to a quiet corner of the room, but Lady Clara followed him. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m sorry. I was determined to keep my bloody mouth closed and not say or do anything to embarrass you, but—”

  Lady Clara lifted his head and gazed into his eyes. “But what? That was bloody brilliant, and I’ve never been prouder of you.”

  “Really?” His eyes searched her face, and seeing the truth in her eyes, he flushed. “Bloody Cavendish beat me to the balcony this time.”

  Lady Clara smiled. “I know another way out. Come with me.” She
grabbed his arm and pulled him from the room.

  Marguerite stood near Oliver Martin, but when she was forced to repeat herself for the third time she turned to walk away.

  He grabbed her arm to stop her. “I’m sorry. I’ve been abominably rude. It’s just that . . .” He gazed to where Donald Maclean and John Cairncross were sitting. “I feel sure I recognize them, but I can’t remember where.”

  She smiled. “Perhaps you’ve arrested them.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I find it helps me remember if I don’t force myself. Think about something else. Get your mind off of them and you’ll remember. Tell me about your work. How long have you been a policeman?”

  “Only a few months. I was a student at Cambridge until my dad had a heart attack.” He hesitated. “Bad ticker. It runs in the family. First my grandad and my uncle and then my dad. When my dad died, I came home and got a job. You know, to help out.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your dad. What were you studying?”

  “Physics. I wanted . . .” He turned back and stared at the two men.

  “You’ve remembered. I told you it would work.”

  “Yes, I’ve remembered.” He frowned. “Please excuse me. I need to go. I need to . . . Can you tell Peter I had to go? I have . . . I don’t know what to do, but I have to tell someone.” He gulped his drink and then hurried from the room.

  From the hallway, there was a large crash.

  Everyone rushed to see what had happened. Oliver Martin lay on the floor by the front door. He clutched his chest.

  Marguerite screamed, “Someone call for a doctor!”

  The servant who brought the champagne earlier picked up the telephone and dialed.

  Peter Covington rushed to his friend.

  Oliver Martin lay still on the floor with one hand clutching his heart and the other balled in a fist by his side.

  Covington felt for a pulse.

  Lady Clara stood over his shoulder. “Is he . . . ?”

  Covington shook his head. “He’s dead.”

  Chapter 7

  The next morning, my bed shook so violently I thought we must have been having an earthquake. I jolted awake only to find Nana Jo holding up a newspaper.

  “Sam, wake up. It happened.”

  “What?”

  “John Cloverton was murdered, and according to the newspaper, Stinky Pitt killed him.”

  As though doused with cold water, I was shocked awake. I sat up and stared. “You can’t be serious.”

  Nana Jo tossed the newspaper at me. “Read that. I’m going to get dressed, and then I’ll tell the girls to meet us at Frank’s for lunch.”

  I didn’t register what she’d said until she left the room. It was too early in the morning, and I hadn’t had coffee yet. My brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders. However, the second problem was resolved when Nana Jo returned with a cup of coffee and placed it on my nightstand.

  “Bless you,” I mumbled.

  According to the River Bend Tribune, John Cloverton was arrested by Detective Bradley Pitt on Monday night and was taken to the police station. The police claimed that Cloverton was fingerprinted and arrested. He posted a five-hundred-dollar bond a few hours later and was released. However, Mildred Cloverton claimed that when her husband failed to come home she grew concerned and went to the police station, where she was told he had already been released. She stayed at the station for several hours demanding to talk to the chief of police. Eventually, when she returned home, she found her husband dead on the floor. There was no information about the cause of death, but then it was pretty early for that.

  The newspaper included a brief summary of the allegations that John Cloverton had made against the mayor and the chief of police, along with the encounter with Detective Pitt at The Avenue. They included the photo of Detective Pitt standing over John Cloverton after he punched him along with a photo that looked like a selfie of his black eye. Either Cloverton had sent the photo as a follow-up or Mildred had paused her mourning long enough to send it.

  I read the article again and finished my coffee.

  Nana Jo opened my door. “You’re not dressed yet? You’d better get a move on.”

  I glanced at the time. “What’s the big hurry? The store doesn’t open for two hours.”

  “We’ve got to go down to the police station to see Stinky Pitt before we open the store.”

  “Why?”

  She looked at me as though I’d suddenly started speaking a foreign language. “Because we’re going to need to hear his side of the story if you’re going to figure out who killed John Cloverton.”

  “Wait, what? Why do I have to figure out who killed Cloverton? That’s the police’s job.” She started to talk, but I held up a hand to stop her. “Look, in the past, we’ve helped solve some murders because Detective Pitt was . . . well, he can be a bit shortsighted. However, he won’t be the one working on this case. So, why don’t we leave this one to the professionals?”

  “First, we don’t know that whoever the North Harbor police assigned to the case is any better than Stinky Pitt. Second, it doesn’t sound like the police intend to look any further than Stinky Pitt. He’s going to be the fall guy for this murder.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” I said.

  “John Cloverton has only been dead a few hours, and they’ve already arrested Stinky for the murder. Now, what does that tell you?”

  I frowned. She was right.

  “So much for innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Well, maybe he is guilty. Maybe they have clear and compelling evidence that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that he did it.” I knew before the words left my mouth that they weren’t true.

  “Then, we’ll find that out when we speak to him.” She sighed. “Look, I know Stinky Pitt isn’t the brightest bulb in the pack. The sharpest knife in the drawer. Or the swiftest gazelle in the herd. But that doesn’t mean he should be used as a scapegoat for a murder he didn’t commit.” She put a hand on her hip and gave me the stern look that said she meant business. “I taught him math in grade school, and I know what he’s capable of doing and what he isn’t, and I’m not going to leave him to fend for himself when he needs help. Now stop arguing. Get up and get dressed.” She turned her steely gaze to the poodles and commanded, “Come on, let’s go potty outside.”

  Normally, Snickers takes a few minutes, as she goes through her stretching routine, but not even she opposed Nana Jo. Today, she skipped her routine, climbed out of her bed, and hurried along.

  “Smart dog,” I murmured as I got out of bed.

  I didn’t dawdle in the shower and made quick work of getting clean and dressed. In less than thirty minutes, I was heading downstairs to the car.

  The drive to the jail and courthouse was quick. North Harbor was too small and too poor to have its own police station, courthouse, and fire department. Instead, there was one station that served the county and the buildings were combined. The county police station and courthouse were attached and comprised a sprawling complex located on an area that sat on a small street in between North and South Harbor.

  When you entered the courthouse there were security cameras and metal detectors. I couldn’t approach those metal detectors without thinking about the first time Nana Jo and I came here after Stinky Pitt had arrested Dawson for murder. Before we approached the detector, I stopped and turned to Nana Jo. “You didn’t—”

  “I’m not packing heat if that’s what you’re wondering.” She placed her purse on the conveyor belt and walked through the device without a blip or beep. No guns were drawn, which was a major improvement.

  I released a sigh and followed her example.

  We picked up our bags and approached the door we knew led to the police station. Inside, we gave our names to the desk sergeant and told him we were here to see Detective Pitt, and we were instructed to take a seat.

  After a few minutes, I was surprised to see my sister, Jenna Ruther
ford, coming through the doors. “What are you doing here?”

  She frowned and pointed to Nana Jo. “I got a call this morning ordering me to come.”

  I turned to my grandmother, who shrugged. “Well, Stinky Pitt is going to need a good attorney to get him out of this mess.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that Detective Pitt might not want me to defend him? Maybe he wants to get his own attorney.” Jenna’s tone indicated she hadn’t had enough of her morning caffeine, but she wasn’t a coffee drinker and required a strong cup of tea before she was capable of civility.

  Nana Jo reached in her purse and pulled out a square packet, which I recognized as an English Breakfast tea bag. “Here, you can get some hot water in the break room.”

  Jenna stared at the tea bag. I could see the corners of her lips twitch. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a cup in that suitcase?”

  Nana Jo gave her a look that would have withered someone with less spunk, but my sister wasn’t called the pit bull for nothing. Still, Jenna held up her hands in surrender and walked to the front desk. She pulled out her wallet and showed her identification, which got her buzzed inside the gate. In less than five minutes, she returned with a Styrofoam cup with the stringed tab hanging over the top and a spiral of smoke drifting up through the plastic lid. She blew on the liquid through the small opening. After a few sips, my sister mellowed like an addict getting a hit of their drug of choice. I watched as her shoulders dropped a quarter of an inch and her eyebrows went down a fraction. Her lips, which moments earlier were set in a straight line, were now softer, with the indication that an upward curve was possible. She leaned back in her chair, and a sigh escaped.

  Nana Jo nodded. “Good. She’s got her caffeine. Now maybe we can stop thinking about personal needs and focus on helping our friend.”

  Jenna raised a brow. “Friend? Are we still talking about Stinky Pitt? The man who has tried to arrest Sam, you, Dawson, Harold—”

  “You’ve made your point,” Nana Jo said. “And yes, we’re still talking about Stinky Pitt.”