The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

Catherine. This was an undeniable fact. Margie had been distraught and difficult all week. And, it was Margie who had given the warning on the night the body had been found. No one had paid much attention when she had fairly screamed it out during the bazaar supper but it was worth remembering now. Margie was emotionally unstable—the kind of girl who, when she was younger, must have run away from home; and who now in adolescence might do anything spectacular and theatrical in order to draw attention to herself. It was most likely Margie who had come snooping about the night before last. But murder. No. It wasn’t possible.
    Fredericka now shifted her gaze to the yellow pad and the list of names that she had written down. She could go on adding to it forever, of course, since anyone in the village had opportunity and Catherine Clay was not loved. No, it would not be difficult to find motives. She picked up the pencil and wrote Chris? It could be guilt or some secret knowledge or just plain fear, that had so changed him in these last few days. What motive could he have had unless Catherine had something on him? Something to do with her dope supply perhaps? But how in tunket could he get poison into vitamin capsules? No, it was more likely that Chris knew something that he was afraid to tell. She stared down at the block of paper before her. Yellow. “Yellow jessamine,” Peter had said. Surely that was a flower of some sort. And wasn’t that the kind of thing that one would find in the Farm laboratory? That meant—but did it? She’d have to ask Peter about this. Anyone could have gone into the lab when the place was deserted as it often was with Margie gallivanting about town and Philippine and Roger more often than not off after wild herbs. And it probably would take less skill than practice to get the poison into the capsules. Peter hadn’t said anything about yellow jessamine being a likely product of the Farm lab. But perhaps it had been too obvious to mention. Perhaps he had wanted her to think this bright thought for herself.
    It was at this moment that Thane Carey arrived. He walked in the front door quietly and without knocking. Fredericka tried to slip the telltale yellow pad under the open copy of the Publisher’s Weekly without being too obvious about it. Peter had given her specific instructions. She was not to let Thane Carey know that she had had advance information. Peter had said, moreover, that he wanted her position as Watson to be a secret one for the time being. Understandable. But Fredericka knew herself to lack one of the spy-catcher’s most essential qualities. She was not a born actor. Fortunately, on this occasion, Chief Carey did not give her a severe test. His suspicions and thoughts were elsewhere.
    “Good morning,” Fredericka greeted him. She swung around to turn her back on the desk.
    “Good morning,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this but we all got the habit with Lucy Hartwell who, for some reason, didn’t like knocking.”
    “It’s quite all right. I’m getting used to it now,” Fredericka answered, trying not to show the relief she felt at his lack of interest in what she had been doing.
    “I won’t keep you long. May I call you Fredericka, since everyone else does? It—well, it makes me feel less like the chief of police, and I’m afraid I’ve got to be just that, at any rate for the time being.” He coughed a little self-consciously.
    “Of course, do, Thane. But—but what do you mean?”
    “Catherine Clay was murdered,” he announced quietly.
    And, as he spoke, it was not difficult for Fredericka to look startled. Foreknowledge had not erased the grim fact. The fear and horror remained. She said nothing, but there was no need, and, after a moment, Thane went on to tell her about the poisoned capsules, the manner of death and all the other details which she had already learned from Peter. When he had summarized the facts, he stopped for a moment and then said a little sharply; “You’ve still got that box?”
    “Yes. It’s right here.” Fredericka opened the drawer a little apprehensively and, to her relief, found the box. She handed it to Thane.
    “This object itself isn’t much use to me. But there are so many puzzling things about it,” he said as if to himself.
    “Did you find any fingerprints before you gave it to me?” Fredericka asked.
    “Only Catherine Clay’s. My man picked it up with a handkerchief most