Murder at Teatime Read Online Free PDF Page A

Kitty turned to open the gate.
    “Wes didn’t poison Jesse. He loved that dog like he loves his own children.”

3
    They entered the herb garden via a path of crushed pink granite that led to an open area in front of the barn. Two men were seated in lawn chairs in the open area facing the garden. One of them rose to approach them. He was a tall, impressive-looking man with wire-rimmed glasses, a thick red mustache, and a stiff military bearing. He was casually dressed in a golf sweater.
    “Frank Thornhill,” he said, introducing himself. He turned to Kitty: “Kitty, we’re delighted that you and Stan are willing to share your famous guest with us for the evening. We’re sorry he couldn’t be here.”
    Kitty explained about Stan’s show.
    “I’ve been an admirer of yours ever since I first saw you on the screen,” continued Thornhill, turning back to Charlotte. “It was in 1942. I waited in the cold for hours. Rumor had it that you’d be making a personal appearance, but you never showed up. Now I’m finally meeting you in person.”
    “I hope you’re not disappointed,” she said, flashing him the coquettish smile that she reserved for gentlemen admirers of a certain age.
    “On the contrary, you are even more beautiful in person than you are on the screen—if that’s possible.”
    Charlotte smiled again.
    Taking her commandingly by the elbow, he led her toward the cluster of chairs. “I was twenty-five, as I recall, and, I confess, smitten,” he went on, puffing on the pipe he held in one hand. “I can even remember the name of the picture—it was The Scarlet Lady. ”
    Charlotte groaned. “That’s one I’ve tried to forget. It was one of those ghastly costume dramas,” she explained to Kitty. “People only went to it to see what I wore—it was my clotheshorse period.”
    “That may be,” said Thornhill with a little nod. “But if I may be impertinent, what a horse!”
    Charlotte laughed the deep, husky laugh for which she was famous. “I’ll have to keep that in mind for my epitaph,” she said. “Now it’s my turn to compliment you. I had the pleasure of climbing the Ledges yesterday.”
    A shadow crossed Thornhill’s face. Of course , Charlotte thought. He would have been told that it was she who’d discovered Jesse.
    “They are very beautiful,” she told him.
    He beamed, displaying a mouth full of large teeth yellowed to the shade of old ivory. “Thank you. My grandfather was a banker who was devoted to two things: his bank and his wildflowers, especially his trailing arbutus. I spent a lot of time with him as a boy and I decided then that some day I’d have a wildflower garden, too, although I still don’t have any trailing arbutus.”
    “The mayflower,” said Charlotte.
    “Yes. The sweetest fragrance of all. They’re on the protected list now, you know. I’m afraid I’m at least partly to blame. I’ve picked far too many in my day, including more than a few from my grandfather’s garden.”
    They had reached the chairs, where a fat man was seated facing away from them, puffing on a big cigar.
    “This is my dear friend Felix Mayer,” said Thornhill, thumping him soundly on the shoulder. “Felix has been my book dealer and general book factotum for nearly thirty years. The greatest book dealer in the country.”
    Felix turned around. “The world , my dear Herr Professor,” he corrected in a thick German accent. “The world.”
    “I beg your pardon, Felix. The world, by all means.” Thornhill thumped his shoulder again. “Three hundred pounds of pure culture.”
    “I beg to correct you again, my dear Herr Professor,” said Felix, raising a perfectly manicured forefinger. “Two hundred and eighty-nine pounds, but”—he chuckled—“I agree that it is all culture.”
    He was a fat, pink, roly-poly man with a shiny bald forehead and steeply arched eyebrows that were suspended high above his lively hazel eyes. He wore a white suit, a black and white striped