Veronica spoke hesitantly. “Have you any proof of his crimes against you?”
Mrs. Eden nodded wearily. “The evidence lies in my late husband’s papers, but the villain has them in his own keeping. He has taken great pains to discredit me, and no lawyer will go against him. So you see, my plight is desperate. He means to sell my house and force me into utter penury. I will soon have nothing left.”
Veronica held her response, for at that moment Bradberry appeared through the door, pushing a tea tray in front of him. He came to a halt beside Veronica. “Perhaps you will serve, miss, as Madam is not well.”
Veronica inclined her head to indicate that she would. “That will be all, thank you,” she said firmly.
Bradberry departed, and Veronica poured tea for herself and her hostess. “Here,” she said as she handed the cup and saucer to the invalid. “Perhaps this will help restore you somewhat.”
Mrs. Eden accepted the tea gratefully and began to sip at it. Veronica took her own cup and began to drink. The tea was strong—stronger, in fact, than she normally liked—but as she was so thirsty, she drank down the first cup and quickly poured herself a second.
There was a plate of sandwiches, and Veronica selected one and placed it on a small dish, which she then proffered to Mrs. Eden. Her hostess waved it limply away. “The tea is enough for now.”
Veronica nodded. “Please continue when you feel you can.” She picked up the sandwich, but it seemed heavy. Veronica frowned. She felt so sleepy all of a sudden. She was rather tired, she thought. Maybe more tea would revive her.
The cup never reached her mouth, for Veronica could no longer fight off the waves of exhaustion that engulfed her. The plate with its sandwich slipped to the floor as Veronica fell soundly asleep.
TWENTY-TWO
I smiled as I finished the second chapter. Poor Veronica. I wondered idly how many times during the course of the series she had been drugged or hit on the head. She got tied up a few times, too, as I recalled. Being a feisty girl detective had the occasional drawback.
I turned the page.
From somewhere far distant Veronica heard a gentle voice. It seemed to be calling her name. “Ronnie, oh dear Ronnie, please do wake up. Can you hear me at all?”
Veronica wanted to answer that she could hear, but an overwhelming darkness surrounded her. She tried to open her eyes. The eyelids refused to obey. They felt heavy and lifeless. She struggled, determined to open them, and at last her eyelids moved.
Where was she? Veronica had no idea of her location or what was wrong with her. Why did she feel like every part of her body was too heavy to move?
“I hear y-you,” she managed to croak. Her throat was dry, painfully so. “W-w-water, p-please.”
A gentle hand slid behind her head and lifted it slightly. Her eyelids closed again, but she felt light pressure against her lips.
“Here’s the water, dearest, open your mouth just a little for me.”
Veronica knew that voice, knew that it belonged to someone who meant her no harm. But who was this ministering angel?
She managed a few sips of water, and her throat felt better. Next she felt a damp cloth on her forehead, and she welcomed the cooling effect. She began to revive, but with agonizing slowness.
“Where am I?” she whispered. She forced her eyelids open, and in the dim light she began to recognize the familiar outlines of her own room. “I’m home?”
“Yes, dearest, you are,” the voice responded tenderly. “You are safe where you belong, with your dear guardian and your devoted friends. It’s me, darling, Lucy.”
“Lucy?” Veronica felt stronger, knowing that her best chum Lucy was with her. Perhaps Lucy could explain what had happened to her, why her memory was curiously blank.
After more water and cool compresses, and more of Lucy’s devoted attentions, Veronica was able to sit up. Her mind cleared a little of the fog, and she felt a sense of urgency. There was danger somewhere, but where?
And for whom?
My phone rang, and I set the book aside. I suppressed a groan when I saw the number. Kanesha must have done some checking into the e-mail I sent her.
Her first words confirmed it. “Thanks again for the e-mail. At least now I know why that book might be valuable, to somebody anyway.”
“You’re welcome.” I decided to venture a question. “Have you found Mrs. Taylor’s copy yet?”
“No, not so far. I don’t think it’s in the house. They’ve searched it pretty thoroughly.” She paused. “Do you think she might have put it in a safe-deposit box?”
“It’s possible,” I replied. “But somehow I don’t think she would have. Most book collectors in my experience like to have the books easily at hand so they can look at them whenever they want. Remember James Delacorte and his collection? He had books far more valuable than Mrs. Taylor’s copy of Spellwood Mansion, and his were on display in the house.”
Thinking about Mr. Delacorte always saddened me. His untimely end came about in part because of his collection. Had the same thing happened to Mrs. Taylor?
“Yes, I recall.” Kanesha’s tone was dry. “I’m going to have to check on a safe-deposit box, though. Have to rule that out.”
I decided to venture another question, since Kanesha seemed to be in a forthcoming mood—or what passed for one with her. “Do you have any other potential motives?”
“Not yet, but it’s early on. We have a lot more fact-gathering to do. Thanks again for that e-mail. If I have any other questions, I’ll let you know.”
I barely had time to say “Of course” before she ended the call. I’d had no chance to voice my suspicions of Gordon Betts, but perhaps that was just as well. Kanesha’s tolerance of my interference would extend only so far.
Why had I focused solely on Gordon Betts? That thought struck me suddenly. I couldn’t in all fairness concentrate only on him simply because of my antipathy to his combative, self-centered personality. Della Duffy could as easily have been interested in Mrs. Taylor’s copy of Spellwood Mansion. She hadn’t been that much more pleasant, frankly, than Gordon Betts even after I made allowance for her phobia of cats. She and Carrie Taylor obviously knew each other. I ought to find out more about her.
I recalled what Melba told me about the message from Mrs. Taylor. Even though there had apparently been a man at the door when she ended the call to Melba, that didn’t mean the man was her final visitor last night. Another person could have come along later, so I couldn’t rule out a woman as the killer.
An Internet search might yield information. I wondered, though, how common the name Della Duffy might be. I picked up the laptop and typed the name, enclosed in quotation marks, into the search engine.
There were many pages of results. I skimmed the list on the first page, and two of them looked promising. The rest appeared to be obituaries. I checked the links connected to social media, but the pictures didn’t match the woman I’d met.