The Mystery of ‘the Dead-as-a-Doornail Author’ by John RC Potter

The Mystery of ‘the Dead-as-a-Doornail Author’
by John RC Potter

Cornelia Vanstone took great pride in herself in general, but particularly for the following three reasons: her prize-winning gingersnap cookies, a trim waistline despite being in her mid-seventies, and her success as the author of several romance novels, known for their titillating titles and historical settings. Although she had never married, it was not for the lack of interest; Cornelia had many suitors over the years and a few marriage proposals. However, Cornelia had decided early on that her professional life as an author was more important than the personal, and she was grateful her parents had left their only child an admirable inheritance. Cornelia’s success as an author had been the icing on the cake, and she now had sufficient funds to travel often and live opulently. Her most recent novel-in-progress (she liked to think of them as novels, not as mere books) lay on the expansive antique desk in front of her. Cornelia pursed her mouth in a faint smile as she read the title on the cover of the manuscript: The Ripped Bodice! All of Cornelia’s titles ended with an exclamation mark (to the dismay of her publishers, but the author had insisted after the success of her first novel and thus the exclamation mark was present on each title ever since). Cornelia was brought out of her reverie by the imposing grandfather clock striking the hour in the hallway outside the living room: with the two bongs the anticipatory realisation came to Cornelia that it was almost time for her first martini break of the afternoon. As she liked to say to friends, it was never too early for a martini! It was approximately 15 minutes before the hour, but the grandfather clock invariably lost time and Cornelia had given up on having it repaired again. As she carefully arranged her writing implements in front of her, Cornelia happened to look up at the gilded, ornate mirror that hung above her desk. It was just then in the reflection of the mirror that Cornelia saw the closed curtain on the French door move slightly, and with a sudden and inexplicable fear she knew there was someone behind it.

&&&

Alain Desvilles gave a heavy sigh as he manoeuvered his burgundy-coloured 1948 Buick Roadmaster along the winding road that led from Bayfield on Lake Huron to the town of Cornersville, to the northeast. He liked to think the car still had a very faint new-car odour about it despite being almost two years old. Alain had been the object of envy by many when he had purchased his Buick, which came with Dynaflow and its hydraulic transmission with torque converter. He was one of the few people in the area who owned a car that had automatic manual transmission. For the most part, only those who were well-heeled could afford such cars. Alain did not belong to that group of monied people, although after his parents had passed away during the war, he had been left with the family home and funds in the bank. No, Alain’s reason for purchasing an automatic transmission car was not a want, it was a need. Alain had been born with a condition medically known as ‘Amelia;’ he had no arms and could not have operated a standard transmission vehicle on the open roads. Thus, his Buick had been modified to allow Alain to drive with his feet; the controls to move the car into gear, and to accelerate and stop had been adapted to be operated from the steering wheel and not from the floor of the car. Truth be told, Alain rather prided himself on being a better driver with his two feet than most people were with their two hands. Due to his father’s attentive assistance Alain had learned to drive when young on the tractor and in his father’s pickup truck. Although those had been with standard transmission, the father and son had operated the vehicles in tandem and Alain had gained invaluable driving experience. It had been more than adequate and in fact sufficient experience for him to later get his driving licence.

Again, he signed heavily, thinking there had to be a better way to make a living than taking photos of the odd crime scene and the occasional suspicious corpse. Alain then reminded himself how fortunate he was to have a job, considering he had no arms. He had been an only child born to a couple who were already nearing middle age when their son was born. Esther and Herbert Desvilles had been told they would never have children. It had seemed a miracle, then, when Esther discovered in her 40th year that she was pregnant. Her doctor had told Esther it was a risk for a woman of her age to have a child. Nonetheless, she and her husband vowed that it was worth taking the chance despite any possible negative outcome. As it turned out, Esther sailed through her pregnancy without issues arising, and gave birth as if she had been doing it for years, with an ease reminiscent of their old and prodigious mother cat, Tinkerbell. Unfortunately, the baby was born deformed, without any arms. The nurse was crying when she placed the baby in Esther’s arms, and the doctor had a tear in his eye. Esther and Herbert decided then and there they had never seen a more perfect baby, and that the world would be his oyster. They knew their son would have to be a fighter and his journey through life would not be an easy one. However, the resolute couple vowed that their love, faith, and positivism would enable their son to have a decent, and hopefully fulfilling life.

Esther and Herbert never let Alain feel sorry for himself. When he was young sometimes other children made fun of Alain or stared at him and pointed. Occasionally it would make him cry or despondent but his parents always told him to believe in himself and reminded him about sticks and stones. Alain was brought out of his reverie, thinking back to his parents and the fact that he was now almost the same age as his mother when she gave birth to him, when he steered his car around a gentle bend in the road and glanced at a diminutive, white-haired elderly woman who was tending her garden in a farmyard. It was Annie Withers, who had been a close friend of his mother all her life and up until her death. Alain took his left foot off the steering wheel and gave a gentle tap-tap on the horn, then gave his foot a brief wave out the window. The old woman waved back, then raised her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the direct, harsh June sunshine. In the rearview mirror Alain could see Annie disappear from view as his car went over the crest of a hill. Seeing Annie brought back memories of Alain’s childhood. She had been his teacher in the one-room school on the concession road near his home, walking distance outside Bayfield. Like Alain’s mother, Annie had been one of his champions, who had always believed in him, and made him believe in himself.

Out of what many would have thought was an insurmountable obstacle – born without arms – Alain had overcome the odds. He had gone to public school, then high school, and graduated with academic success. However, Alain had decided against university because he already knew that he wanted to work and earn money. Alain had two passions: one was taking photos and the other was reading mysteries. He was so talented at picture-taking that when in his teens Alain had won awards in several competitions. His parents had installed a dark room in their home for their son. During high school due to taking photos for a variety of occasions, Alain was able to earn the funds he required to purchase mystery books for his steadily growing collection in the library he had created in the store room of his parent’s home. At times when he was low on funds, Alain would borrow mystery books from local libraries. When Alain finished high school, his parents assisted him in creating his photography office by converting the largely unused front parlour and having a door installed to the dark room that was beside it, a space that had previously been an over-sized cloak closet.

When he was a child and began reading mysteries (at that time, Sherlock Holmes was a favourite, but he later became enamoured of Rex Stout, Ellery Queen, Raymond Chandler, Dorothy Sayers, Ngaio Marsh, and his all-time favourite, Agatha Christie), Alain imagined himself as a sleuth and later fancied himself becoming a detective. However, being realistic he knew that it would be nearly impossible to achieve that goal. It was more practical to follow his love of photography as a profession, and to enjoy his mystery books and amateur sleuthing as a pastime. Nonetheless, Alain had gained the reputation for being a bit of a sleuth when he was young: for several years, the popular tri-county newspaper, The Huron Howler ran a mystery-solving competition in a special monthly issue and Alain had won a record 10 times. His photo had appeared in the paper for that distinction, and many of the newspaper’s readers were amazed that the winner had no arms. It later came to Alain’s ears that Bart Baxter, the curmudgeonly old foreman at the piano factory in Cornersville had quipped to his co-workers that Alain was “the armless armchair detective” and this joke had made its rounds for months in the community. Nonetheless, because he had a reputation for being adept at solving these newspaper mystery stories, Alain was considered a good problem solver with admirable deductive skills, and a top-notch photographer. That is how he ended up being hired to take pictures of crime scenes and the reason he was driving into Cornersville, now having reached the outskirts of the picturesque farming town.

Alain did not only take photos of crime scenes because otherwise he would not have much of an income; there were not that many crime scenes and murders in the tri-county area where his time and talent was occasionally required. Alain briefly took one foot off the steering wheel in order to scratch his nose and signed again. Why was he signing so much, Alain wondered? He should be excited at the prospect of taking photos of a crime scene, apparently a murder. Then it came to him: whenever he was in such a situation there were always people who may have heard of him but had never seen the armless photographer at work. They were always amazed and incredulous at how he was able to take such important photos. Moreover, and what further irked Alain, all too often strangers and new acquaintances mispronounced his name, and assumed he was from the province of Quebec or even France (which he was not) and that he spoke fluent French (which he did). One may as well be from Mars as from either Quebec or France, as far as many of the locals were concerned. Alain was considered a foreigner due to his French-sounding name and was viewed askance due to his unique physical appearance as a result of being what many considered an armless wonder. Over the years he had been called Allen (for those who at least tried to pronounce his name correctly) or Al (for those who did not want to bother), or even Elaine (for those with a sense of warped and misplaced humour). As well, to add insult to injury, a few times he had been asked by thick-headed dumbbell if he was a Frog (a pejorative reference to anyone of French descent).

Bart at the piano factory had said that under his breath one day when Alain had been drinking his coffee at The Koffee Klatsch, the most popular bakery and coffee shop in Cornersville; it was run by the stolid and solid Helga Hartlieb (an emigre from Germany to the town in the late 30s, but no one dared to make fun of her name or genealogy). Alain grinned at a memory of Helga and what she had said one day about him as he was leaving her establishment, as he had slipped off his loafer and adeptly turned the door handle with his upraised foot. Normally rather taciturn, the robust and busty Helga had stated in her still-heavily accented Germanic voice to a waitress who was lounging against the front counter, “Just think vat else he can do with them feets!” Alain was unsure whether or not Helga had intended for him to hear her rather ribald comment. He wondered if the woman was interested in him. It had happened before, women who were curious about being with a man without arms. Alain had occasionally dated over the years but did not want to marry because of a concern he would begat children born with his condition. His parents had said it was not, but in any case Alain’s interest in women was minimal. Glancing in the rearview mirror, Alain had to admit that the face that looked back at him was no slouch in the looks department: a full head of wavy black hair, a pencil-thin moustache, sea-blue eyes set far apart, quite large ears, and what he liked to think was a Grecian nose. Other than the fact that he had no arms, Alain thought the only other drawback was his large head seemed rather out of proportion with his short stature.

It occurred to Alain as he slowed down near the first stop sign from that direction into the town of Cornersville that after his photo-taking at the crime scene he could drop by the library on main street and see if there were any new mystery novels on the shelves. He preferred the library in Cornersville over the one in Bayfield because it was such a beautiful old brick building and with an extensive range of books on all subjects, whilst the library in the village was smaller and with more limited offerings. Alain was brought out of his mystery book reverie when he came to the stoplights at the main intersection of the town, and then headed first east for a few blocks and then made a left turn that would take him to his destination: he was to take photographs at a crime scene on Mansfield Mews, otherwise referred to by locals as ‘Rich Man’s Row’ because it was where the most affluent Cornersvillians lived: the young white-collared professionals and old-monied families of the town. Alain’s Buick crept up the street until it arrived at the address he had been given: at 100 Mansfield Mews he stopped his car completely and gave a low whistle when he saw the name plate on one of the stone pillars at the edge of the drive. It proclaimed ‘Mansfield Manor’ and was the property of one of the town’s best known residents, Cornelia Vanstone, a celebrated author of romance books.

Alain turned in the driveway and slowly drove to a parking place near the double garage. A police car was already there as well as a car he thought looked to be the coroner’s. Alain stopped the car, turning off the key with one bare foot and putting the car in the brake position with his other. Afterwards, he flipped open the car door inside handle with his left foot and pushed the door open. He then plopped his bare feet down on the floor of the car and snuggled first one foot and then the other into his slip-on loafers. Alain quickly and adeptly hopped out of the car and then went to the rear door on the driver’s side; he again took out his left foot out of the loafer and lifting it he opened the back door, balancing on his right leg. From years of practice, he grabbed his leather camera bag with his foot and then bowing over slightly, he slipped the bag over his head. Standing upright again, Alain turned toward the impressive and stately house, admiring it. Like most people in small towns and the countryside, Alain had left the keys in the car and the door unlocked from habit and the knowledge that there was no need for concern. There may well be the occasional murder in the tri-county area, but thefts were few and far between!

Walking up the winding flagstone path that led to the front door, the camera bag jostling against his side, Alain’s ever active and always inquiring mind was thinking ahead to what had happened at the author’s gracious home. As he came to the front door it opened and there stood one of the men from the Cornersville Police Force, Homer Thuddly. He sometimes saw Homer at The Koffee Klatsch and they had known each other from a few other cases in the past. “Hello Al,” Homer said in his deadpan and monotone voice. “The Chief Constable is waiting for you in the living room.” He stood aside and allowed Alain to come inside the wide and charming hallway, and then Homer opened the door and went in another room along the hall.

Alain made his way down the hall and then walked quietly and slowly into the elegant living room. Aside from the Chief Constable, Orville Hatsfield, there was another police officer in the room whom Alain did not recognise, and another man he knew to be the coroner from Exeter, who had responsibilities in the tri-county area and Alain had met previously. The Chief Constable turned toward Alain and nodded briefly, stating “Allen, this is a murder scene. In a few minutes we will need you to take crime scene photos of the deceased. The Coroner, Roy Denton, is just finishing his examination of the body. Not sure if you know Jake Perkins, he is a new officer on our force here in Cornersville.”

From where he was standing just inside the arched doorway into the expansive living room, Alain could see the Coroner crouching down on the far side of an obviously expensive floral chintz sofa. Although Alain could not see the body he knew the Coroner was examining it; he had not turned from his squatting position to acknowledge the photographer’s presence. Police Officer Perkins, however, turned from where he was standing near the Coroner and gave Alain a slight nod, with a wide-eyed look on his face. Alain assumed the Chief Constable had informed his new officer that the crime scene photographer had no arms, but nonetheless his incredulous stare spoke volumes. Alain looked over at the Chief Constable. “I assume the deceased is the author, Cornelia Vanstone,” he stated.

“Yep,” Hatsfield replied.

“What was the manner of death,” Alain asked.

“Apparently strangulation,” the other man responded in a low voice. “But there is an odd touch to this murder, which you will see soon when you take the crime scene photos.”

“Any witnesses?” Alain asked. “Any clues?”

“Three witnesses,” the Chief Constable responded flatly. “They are waiting in the dining room with Homer. I know you are an armchair detective, Allen, but as for clues, I am not at liberty to say.”

“Three witnesses!” Alain blurted out, “That is very interesting. Talk about an embarrassment of riches…er, witnesses.” The Chief Constable smirked at Alain’s unexpected attempt at humour, then rolled his eyes.

It was at that point the Coroner stood up and turned towards the other men. He nodded toward Alain, whom he knew from a few previous crime scenes, including the most recent being the year before when Widow Wiggins in Brucefield had died rather suspiciously: she had been found amongst the tomato plants in her large and well-tended garden with a bloody wound at her temple. It was later determined that the widow had a heart attack whilst gardening and her head had struck a large rock as she fell. Ever since that work assignment, Alain had an aversion to eating tomatoes. “Well, I have finished my examination,” the Coroner said. “Mr. Desvilles can now take the crime scene photos.”

Alain moved with a steady stride toward the sofa, anticipating what the deceased author would look like in death. Police Officer Perkins continued to stare at Alain as if he had sprouted a second head, obviously wondering how an armless photographer could take any pictures, let alone those required for a crime scene. When Alain walked around the sofa he could not help but be mesmerized by the panorama – what almost seemed to be a staged theatrical scene – before him. Cornelia Vanstone was obviously dead-as-a-doornail, lying on her back, dressed in one of her signature flowing and colourful caftan gowns. In the act of being strangled, her ornate necklace had burst its strand and the heavy pearls were around her head and upper body, rather like a pearly but imperfect halo. Her neck was pinched and contused from the strangulation, and her eyes were open wide and staring vacantly upwards: as if she were examining the ostentatious chandelier that hung from the ceiling above, in order to discern if any dust had collected on the crystal pendalogues that hung from it.

“Can I ask if she was strangled with her necklace?” Alain asked, turning toward the Chief Constable.

“Yes you can but no, it was by something else” came the answer. “Can you just get on with taking the crime scene photos?”

“Sure,” Alain said, his voice then becoming somewhat portentous. “But I now know what you meant, Chief Constable, about the odd touch.” Alain stared down at the body in general and at her face in particular: in the deceased author’s mouth the murderer had inserted a large gingersnap cookie!

&&&

Alain had taken the crime scene photos of the deceased author; not only Police Officer Perkins but all the others in the room had watched with either interest or amazement. Over many years Alain had perfected the art of taking pictures with his feet, on a specially adapted Kodak Duaflex camera that had a mirror fastened to above the flash bulb. After stepping out of his loafers, Alain – who never wore socks because otherwise he could not use his feet like his hands – then laid on his back and jostled his Kodak camera into position above him and adeptly and expertly had taken the photos, sometimes using his knees to steady or shift the camera. He had sometimes needed to roll into a sit-up position in order to change the angle of the shot, or to insert new bulbs. After finishing, Alain had sat on the floor and put all items back into his bulky leather camera bag, then stood up and announced he would develop the photos in his darkroom at home and bring them to the Chief Constable that evening.

Alain had then asked to speak to the Chief Constable for a moment in private. The two men walked out into the hall. “Orville, I have a favour to ask,” Alain stated with an intent look on his face.

“I think I know what you are going to ask,” the Chief Constable murmured. “What is it?”

“Can I be present when you interview the three witnesses,” Alain enquired earnestly. “As the crime scene photographer, I am connected with the case.” The Chief Constable raised his eyebrow as if to say, “I knew it” but instead intoned, “Listen, Allen, I know you are an armchair amateur detective but your presence is not needed nor wanted.”

“I will not say a word,” Alain promised. “I just want to hear what the witnesses have to say and then later if you want my input I will share it with you in your office.”

“But I need those photos as soon as possible,” the other man sighed.

“You will have them on or before this evening,” Alain stated.

The Chief Constable seemed to mull over the proposition and then gave a brief nod. “Okay, but you only listen, no talking.” Alain nodded his head in agreement.

“I have to speak briefly with the Coroner before he leaves. He will be accompanying the body to the hospital for further work by the medical examiner and an autopsy,” the Chief Constable informed the other man. “The library is at the front of the house, just inside the front door…that is where I will be questioning the three witnesses, one by one. Jake will be with me and bring them in individually. Homer will continue to stay in the dining room with them to ensure they do not talk to each other. You can sit in the corner and observe, got it?”

Alain gave the other man a solemn wink and then proceeded to the front of the house. The library door was ajar, so it was easy for Alain to use his shoulder to open the door fully. He slipped off a loafer and as he leaned over, with the other foot he grasped his camera bag and placed it in an inconspicuous place behind the door. Alain then did a brief tour of the well-appointed library, admiring the fine furniture, expensive lamps, beautiful paintings, and eye-catching array of objects on tables and in display cabinets. Standing in front of the most prominent bookcase he saw a range of books bearing the author’s name and various scintillating titles. Alain could then hear voices and knew the Chief Constable was making his way to the library. He wondered who the three witnesses were and how they had ended up being in the wrong place at the wrong time – unless one was the murderer!

Alain decided that the Chief Constable would no doubt sit at a large table in the centre of the room, near a fireplace that was almost identical to the one in the living room. The armchair detective then spotted a plush and comfortable-looking wing chair in a far corner that was behind the doorway and went and sat down with a sigh of relief because his feet were killing him – figuratively if not literally, he thought with a chuckle.

A moment later the Chief Constable walked into the library, followed by Officer Perkins who was beside a man that Alain instantly recognised as Bart Baxter, the wisecracking old foreman at the piano factory in the town. The Tri-County Organ Emporium (often referred to as TOE) was a well-known and long-established business in the town, that had celebrated its centenary the year before; it was one of the town’s largest employers and cranked out organs and pianos of various types that were shipped across Canada and even into the United States.

As Alain expected, the Chief Constable made a beeline for the large writing table in the middle of the spacious library and sat down in the padded antique chair that was drawn up to it. Officer Perkins pulled a straight-back chair from near the fireplace and placed it in front of the table and motioned for Bart to sit down. He then pulled another chair over to the table and just before sitting down at the end, he pulled a notebook and pen out of his back pocket. Alain observed from his corner that the officer would be taking the notes for the interviews. To this point in time, no one had seemed to notice Alain’s presence in the somewhat darkened corner of the room.

It was just then that Bart Baxter started to glance around the room and of a sudden spotted Alain in the wing chair in the far corner. He blurted out, “Jeez Louise, what is that little feller doing here?”

The Chief Constable cleared his throat. “Mr. Desvilles is the crime scene photographer,” he explained. “He is here for the interviews at my invitation but will not be part of the formal investigation.”

Bart stared across the room at Alain, a smirk on his weathered and oily face. “Well now, Elaine, you have come up in the world…from armchair detective to crime scene nosey parker!”

Alain decided to let the snarky comment pass. The Chief Constable said, “Mr. Baxter, I will have you know that Mr. Desvilles – Alain – has been involved previously in crime scenes for our police force and in the tri-county area.” Alain appreciated the Chief Constable’s supportive comment and had been impressed that he had been able to pronounce his name almost perfectly. “Now we will get on with the questioning.” He nodded at Officer Perkins, who raised his pen in expectation.

“Fine with me,” Bart muttered, “I ain’t got nothing to do with that woman getting herself done in.”

The Chief Constable cleared his throat again, then proceeded. “How did you happen to be at Miss Vanstone’s house today?”

Bart folded his arms over one another, shrugged and then said, “She called up the factory and made an appointment to tuned – her pianer, I mean.” He gave a pause while he took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Mind if I smoke?” The Chief Constable motioned for the man to go ahead and have a cigarette and pushed an ornate glass ashtray across the table. Bart lit a cigarette, breathing the smoke deep into his lungs with an air of satisfaction. Continuing, he said, “That there author, she has a real nice pianer in the sunroom at the back of her house, that she bought from our factory.” He took another deep drag on his cigarette, then turning and blowing smoke in Alain’s direction, he again faced the Chief Constable. “She has it checked and tuned every year round about this time.” Having finished his cigarette, Bart stubbed it out forcefully with one stubby finger of his right hand. From his corner Alain noticed how strong the man’s hands appeared to be.

“How well did you know Miss Vanstone?” the Chief Coroner asked, glancing across at Officer Perkins to ensure he was taking notes.

Bart raised his eyebrows, looking rather startled as he realized the implication of the question. “Well, we weren’t dance partners,” he retorted huffily, “if that be what you’re thinking!”

The Chief Constable stared impassively across the table at the other man. “According to what you said, Miss Vanstone had arranged for you to come tune her piano today. Is it always you who tunes her piano?”

The other man grimaced slightly. “Sometimes it’s me and sometimes it’s Jim Tapper from the piano factory,” he explained. “Luck of the draw that I ended up coming today when that there author decided to end up dead.”

“What time did you arrive and what did Miss Vanstone say to you?”

The other man lay his heavy hands on the table in front of him, then started to drum his fingers lightly. When the Chief Constable stared at Bart’s active fingers, the piano factory foreman stopped his tapping but kept his hands on the table. “I arrived around 2 this afternoon but I didn’t see her,” he explained. “I usually go to the side door because the first time I done come here way back I rang the front door bell and that snooty woman told me to use the servant’s entrance,” he snarled, his wet lips curled up at the corners. “But there weren’t no answer, so I done walked clear around the house and tapped on the sunroom door.”

“Did you see anyone else? Where there any cars in the driveway when you arrived?”

Bart pursed his mouth, then licked his thin lips. “Nope, didn’t see nobody and the only car in the driveway was hers, that there fancy black Cadillac she drives.”

“So, what did you do then?”

The other man appeared to reflect. “I thought maybe the author lady had fallen asleep or gone to a neighbour’s and would be back, so decided since I was at the back of the house that I’d go have a sit and a smoke in that gazebo she has there. Anyway, I was in no hurry to get back to work.” The man then rubbed his lower lip thoughtfully, continuing, “But I guess that I done fell asleep in that chaise lounge in the gazebo.” Bart then looked warily across at Officer Perkins as he was taking his notes in a cramped handwriting style.

The Chief Constable seemed to give some thought to what he had just heard, then stated, “Officer Perkins, please take Mr. Baxter back to the dining room. We will talk again with him later. Bring in the second witness,” he said, “You know which one.”

Officer Perkins and Bart Baxter started to leave the room but at the door the latter man darted a dark look at Alain where he sat in the corner. “If looks could kill,” Alain thought to himself. The Chief Constable turned toward Alain and stated, “He doesn’t seem to like you much.” Alain shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows, as if say he did not give a damn anyway. At that moment Officer Perkins returned with a man that Alain did not recognise.

The Chief Constable motioned for the man to sit down across from him at the table. Officer Perkins took his place at the table again and made ready to continue with his notes. The Chief Constable cleared his throat and proceeded. “Please state your name and the reason you were at Miss Vanstone’s home today.”

The other man was quite dapper and well-dressed in a double-breasted pinstripe suit, blood-red tie, and white shirt. Alain thought the middle-aged man quite looked like the actor William Powell who played Nick Charles in movies based on Dashiell Hammett’s mystery stories.

With trembling fingers, the man pulled a silver cigarette cause out of his breast pocket. “I hope you don’t mind if I smoke,” he said, his voice quavering. The Chief Constable indicated with a shake of his head that it was fine. The other man pulled what looked to Alain to be a cigarillo out of the case, and then from a side pocket of his suit produced an expensive silver lighter. He proceeded to light the cigarillo and breathed in deeply. With a cough he continued, “You have to understand this is quite a shock to me.” His voice faltered and died away.

“You did not answer my question,” the Chief Constable stated firmly.

“I already told you before who I am, when you first arrived,” the man exclaimed huffily.

“This is for the record. Please state your name and the reason you were at Miss Vanstone’s home today.”

The man took another puff of his cigarillo. “Of course, Chief Constable, understood.” He leaned back in his chair, crossed his leg over the other and placed his cigarillo in the ashtray, the tantalizing odour of it rising in the air along with the smoke, travelling across the room and teasing Alain’s nostrils where he was sitting.

The man then sat up straight, nervously adjusting his suit jacket and straightening his tie. “My name is Adrian Castle,” he stated. “I have been Cornelia Vanstone’s literary agent at Canadiana Publishing House in Toronto for many years.” The man took the still-lit cigarillo from the ashtray and began to smoke again. He then butted it out and continued. “I came up from Toronto late yesterday to see Miss Vanstone in order to discuss plans for her newest novel, that she is in the last stage of writing.” He paused and then again nervously rearranged the knot in his tie although it was already perfectly knotted and pinned.

The Chief Constable folded his hands together and set them on the table in front of him. “Have you been staying with Miss Vanstone at her home?”

“Oh, no!” the man blurted out. “I am staying at The Toddle Inn Motel just south of town.”

“Where’s your car?” the Chief Constable queried. “I did not see it in the driveway.”

The man again fiddled with his tie, then responded, “This afternoon on my way here, I left my car at the Imperial service station near the main intersection of Cornersville, for them to check the engine. It was giving me some trouble when I drove up from Toronto yesterday.” The man pulled out his cigarette case again but did not open it. “I walked here from the service station; it is not far.”

“Did Miss Vanstone know you were coming then?” the Chief Constable enquired.

“Of course! I already told you that she and I had plans to discuss her newest novel.”

“What time did you arrive and what did you see?”

The other man paused and then looked reflectively at the ceiling. “It was shortly after 2 PM as I recall.” He then set his cigarette case on the table in front of him but did not take out a cigarillo. Continuing, the man said, “I walked up the driveway and along the walkway, then rang the front doorbell, but no one came.”

“So, what did you do or see then?”

“I walked around the house to the living room because I thought perhaps the French doors would be open,” the man replied. “They were open, but the drapes were closed. I walked in through the open doors, pushing aside the drapes to do so. That is when I found Cornelia lying dead on the floor near the fireplace, next to the sofa.”

At that moment, the man put his head in his hands and leaned against the table. The Chief Constable then asked, “Were you having an intimate relationship with the author?”

The other man quickly drew his hands away from his face and shouted, “Of course not, we were only professionally acquainted!” The man stood up suddenly and clutching his stomach, spluttered, “I think I am going to be sick; I need to go to the bathroom!”

“Take Mr. Castle to the bathroom,” the Chief Constable instructed Officer Perkins, “and then bring in the third and last witness. We will have a second chat with Mr. Castle later too. He can have a glass of water in the dining room and compose himself after he is finished in the bathroom.”

Officer Perkins motioned for Castle to follow him and the two men quickly exited the library. The Chief Constable took a pipe out of an inside pocket of his uniform. He began to suck on it but did not light the pipe. Glancing over at Alain who was sitting quietly in the corner the man said, “This is one for Ripley, and I don’t mean the village,” he muttered, referring to a pleasant little hamlet to the north of the town. Alain shook his head in agreement. He was just about to say something to the other man but did not due to the entrance of Officer Perkins and an older woman whom Alain thought looked familiar but did not immediately recognise.

The grey-haired woman looked to be in her 60s, rather plump and quite tall, wringing her large hands. She was dressed in a floral dress that was belted at the waist with a leather belt. Where have I seen her before, Alain wondered. He waited for the Chief Constable to question this final witness. Officer Perkins motioned to the woman to sit down in the chair that had recently been vacated by Mr. Castle. He too then sat down and waited with his pen posed for the Chief Constable to begin his questioning. “We of course know each other,” Orville Hatsfield, stated to the woman. “However, for the record I will ask you to tell us your name and how you came to be at Miss Vanstone’s home today.”

“Of course, Orville,” the woman responded, then quickly continued, “I mean, Chief Constable.” The woman dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “My name is Mildred MacInnes, and I am a widow. My home is next door. Cornelia is – er, was – my neighbour.” The woman gave a rather dramatic gesture with her sinewy hands, then patted her tightly curled permanent and daintily raised the hanky to her nose. “I am just distraught by all this terrible business and what happened to dear Cornelia!” She gave a little sob and then proceeded. “I was in my garden doing some weeding when I noticed a man enter Cornelia’s gazebo.”

“Did you recognise him?” the Chief Constable asked.

“Not at first and not from that distance,” the woman responded, sniffing gently. “But later I found out it was Bart Baxter from the piano factory. I of course know Bart to see him. He is often at The Koffee Klatsch when I am in there with friends having lunch or a coffee.”

“What time did you come over to Miss Vanstone’s house?”

The woman pursed her lips and looked off into space, noticing Alain for the first time. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open slightly. At that moment Alain remembered the woman. She was one of the finalists each year in the Cornersville Cookie Competition (better known by its acronym, the CCC) that was held and judged in the town library. He had done the picture-taking for the event for the past few several years, when the winners would be announced, and their photos presented in the town newspaper. He recalled that Mrs. MacInnes had been one of the annual competitors. As always, she had placed 2^nd or 3^rd as he recalled, and Cornelia Vanstone had once again been the 1^st place winner in the annual event, held each May.

Realizing her mouth was gaping open like the proverbial fish out of water, the woman proceeded to sit up straighter and again began to dab her dry eyes with the hanky in her hand. “It was around 2 this afternoon when I came over,” she responded. From the vantage point of his armchair Alain slightly shook his head, thinking what a coincidence all had arrived at the murder scene at approximately the same time! The Chief Constable did his best to get the questioning back on track. “What did you do when you saw Mr. Baxter enter the gazebo?”

“I thought it might be a thief or a hobo,” the woman replied, “so I came over to find out.” She again dabbed at her eyes and sniffed once or twice, then with a heavy sigh she resumed her story. “As I came through the hedge that separates my property from Cornelia’s, I was about to walk to the gazebo when I noticed the French door was wide open. I assumed that Cornelia must be at home, so wanted to tell her about the man in her gazebo.”

“Yes,” the Chief Constable prompted, “please proceed.”

“Well, I went through the French doors and into Cornelia’s living room and saw a man kneeling beside her body.” She gave a few sobs before continuing. “It was clear that Cornelia was dead, obviously strangled by that man. Not only that, but to add insult to injury that fiend from the city had put a gingersnap cookie in dear Cornelia’s mouth after strangling her!” The woman’s face then took on a firm appearance. “I know that you will solve this case quickly, Orville, by avenging dear Cornelia’s death and putting that man behind bars!”

The Chief Constable ignored the reference to his first name. “Is there anything else you would like to add, Mrs. MacInnes?”

“No, dear,” the woman simpered, “Can I go home now?”

“No, not yet” the Chief Constable replied. “We are going to have a second interview with all three of the witnesses shortly, but right now Officer Perkins will take you back to the dining room where you can have a glass of water and a bit of a rest.”

“Thank you, Orville,” the woman responded. “By the way, please give my regards to your dear mother and tell her that I am still making my prune preserves from the recipe she gave to me years ago.” The woman then followed Officer Perkins out of the room, but not before taking a hasty glance in Alain’s direction.

The Chief Constable stood up and stretched, then walked over to where Alain was sitting in the wing chair. “Well, my armchair detective, do you think one of the witnesses murdered Miss Vanstone?” he asked with a slight smile.

“Yes, I do,” answered Alain.

“Why?” the Chief Constable asked.

The other man responded, “Because the murder left a clue, and that was a fateful mistake.” Alain sat back further in his chair, letting one of his loafers drop to the floor. He then proceeded to thoughtfully scratch his chin with his foot. A moment later he continued, “I will be going home now to develop the crime scene photos,” he informed the Chief Constable. What he did not tell the other man was that he fully intended to proceed with his plan to drop by the Cornersville library to see if the librarian had the newest Agatha Christie novel, ‘A Murder Is Announced.’ He was dying to read it!

The Chief Constable seemed to think twice before making a response to Alain’s statement, but finally curiosity got the better of him. He asked, “What clue and which witness?” Alain, who was still scratching the stubble on his chin with his foot then reached into his jacket pocket with that trained footsie and extracted a piece of paper. He informed the other man, “Near the end of your questioning of the three witnesses I wrote down a few things. For what it’s worth, you can read and consider what this armchair detective surmises about this murder, but don’t read it until I am gone.”

The Chief Constable nodded thoughtfully, the folded bit of paper in his hand, watching Alain as he walked barefoot to his nearby camera bag. The armless man then bent over slightly and with one foot raised the bag over his head until it was firmly in place. Alain then walked the short distance back to his slip-ons and nestled his feet into them. With a parting nod, Alain walked out the library door and could be heard leaving from the front door a moment later. Soon after that a car could be heard starting up and leaving the driveway of Mansfield Manor. It was only then that the Chief Constable opened the note and read what Alain had written.

The Clue: Gingersnap Cookie           
The Murderer: Mildred MacInnes

The Weapon: Leather Belt     
The Motive: Competitor’s Envy!

The Rationale: Miss Vanstone had won the competition over Mrs. MacInnes for the past 12 years…Mildred could not bear the thought of it becoming the Baker’s Dozen next year!

&&&

Alain Desvilles was a contented man as his big Buick departed the Cornersville town limits that afternoon and headed in a southwesterly direction towards his home outside Bayfield. With his bare feet on the steering wheel, Alain glanced at the intriguing cover jacket of the book that lay on the passenger’s seat beside him. The librarian at the town library, Miss Merriman, had squirreled away the new Christie in her desk rather than put it on the shelf because she knew that Alain, the armchair detective, would want to be the first to read it. Miss Merriman had blushed when Alain had blown her a kiss with a muscular foot raised, as he exited the library. The librarian knew she might be what some people would call an old maid, but the woman in her could not help speculating with a bit of a shiver down her spine all about Alain, and those truly talented feet of his!

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright John RC Potter 2023