Murder at Wisteria Pines

Prologue

I often have been asked to tell how I came to know the Colonel. Though tempted at times to tell the tale, I have been constrained—not only by personal obligations and trusts that I hold dear, but by certain sinister and unseen forces that are abroad in this world. I learned starkly enough, in that first peculiar case, not to disdain them. I only can hope to illustrate why in this narrative.

In the years that have passed since the case at issue, many a strange and terrible drama has played itself out with the Colonel at center stage. I’ve written about some of his more exotic and perplexing adventures; you may even have seen one or two of those accounts, for they continue to be published (often accompanied by lurid and wholly inaccurate illustrations) in periodicals and in collections of curious literature.

Still, it has been crucial that the details of our first dreadful case together be kept in strictest confidence.

At 4:23 this afternoon, all that changed.

And so it is with a private pleasure—and with no small sense of relief—that I finally am able, on this sullen evening in the heart of August, to sit down at my rather cluttered desk (I fear the Colonel has rubbed off on me), clear a place, and begin this account. But first some caveats are in order.

They begin with an admission: I’m embarrassed to say that I can’t recall the exact day on which I met the Colonel. I’ve searched all my records, I’ve cross-referenced dates, I’ve closely questioned friends and acquaintances from that period, but to no avail. I even have pressed the Colonel on it—which, of course, only served further to cloud the issue.

I know that it was in the early spring, easily reckoned by the Mardi Gras that figured prominently in the events that followed. I know that it was at least thirteen years ago in Greenhill, Georgia, one of the many small rural towns that dot the forested hills and lush green valleys of the South. That part is a photograph in my memory. And though dates and times are always of great curiosity to the historically minded, perhaps where I met the Colonel is, in the end, more important than when I met him, because the American South is the well-spring of his being; it is his haunt, it is his heritage.

The region is a culture apart. Like the Colonel, it is an enigma to some, a paradox of refinement and rudeness, of openness and insularity, of progress and provincialism. Against this backdrop, against this rich and variegated tapestry, my long and close acquaintance with the Colonel began. It is within the comfort of its now familiar folds that I live still and set forth this disquieting tale—a tale about the Colonel, indeed, but perhaps as much about his beloved land.

In what some may consider a misguided effort, I have done what I could here and there to capture that sense of setting through small glimpses of the iridescence and spirit that make the place what it uniquely is, including attempts to approximate, within the limitations of written prose, some of the mesmerizing and diverse dialects and conventions of speech.

I do not use the word spirit lightly; the rhythms and patterns and shadings of speech are inseparable from the spirituality that pervades the culture and its people—not one of whom ever could be relegated to some anonymous and generalized stereotype.

I can only pity, then, anyone so dull as to think my attempts at recreating such profound impressions is to stereotype, or to demean in any way the singular character and personality of each treasured individual who has touched and enriched my life. My effort, on the contrary, is to honor and revere their priceless individuality.

I’ve also taken the liberty of converting the value of dollar amounts to their approximate equivalents at the time of publication. There’s no way to be very exact with it, but inflation changes things constantly and I want you, the reader, to have a workable estimation without doing the math.

Finally, I’m obligated to say that it has been necessary to create fictitious names for the players in this drama, just as I have in the other tales surrounding the Colonel. In any investigation, too many lives are innocently turned inside-out, their most intimate personal secrets and trusts exposed to scrutiny under which any person, so laid bare, simply would wilt. Since there is no way to identify the culpable without possibly identifying the innocent by association, the only available course is to identify none by actual name. In the instant case, any such actual identification still could imperil or impair lives, even with the unexpected news that arrived today and made it possible for me to begin this chronicle at all.

With those caveats and not one more I set forth the strange story of the double murders at Wisteria Pines.

Raymond Hilary

[Not dated. —Ed.]

I

In Which I Meet the Colonel

A beautiful sort of sadness hangs on the South, like Spanish moss on a cypress tree. It’s a land of memories, permanently haunted by the silent spectres of midnight balls and riverboat rides. It’s a land of secrets; there’s a sighing in the trees some days like the sibilance of whispers, like the hushed gossip of gingham-gowned ladies behind cardboard fans.

At the earliest hints of spring, the afternoons begin to stretch out with lengthening shadows across golden landscapes, languorous and expectant. There’s a waiting there. There’s a promise of things to come.

It was just such a day when I met the Colonel.

Cool afternoon shadows dappled the brick walks outside my modest book store. The small town of Greenhill, Georgia was quiet. The filigreed hands of the town hall clock seemed frozen at four minutes to four. Business, as usual, was bad.

A breeze rustled the needles of the pines and the still-bare arms of the elms and the pecan trees on the town square, a soothing murmur that hinted of rain to come, but did little to sooth me as I leaned idly in the doorway—frustrated, bored, biting hard on the pipe that I never could seem to keep lit. I had begun to wonder if I really was meant for a pipe at all. And I had begun to feel certain that I decidedly was not meant to be the proprietor of a book store.

I was alone in the store. (I recall vividly that I had let Miss Maitland off early that day, at 2:00, so she could attend a friend’s funeral. But Miss Maitland has recently attended her own funeral, so she is of no material help in narrowing the focus on when this all took place.) I decided that I may as well close up early. I collected my things and turned off the lights. I was just locking the door, and was so absorbed in my own dim thoughts that I didn’t become aware of the steady clip-clop of horse hooves and the muted jingle of tack until it had drawn quite close to me and stopped.

Hello! You there. Hold on, boy!

I was thus startled up from my dark reverie by a voice that was at once both cheerful and commanding. On turning to look I was confronted by an apparition so strange and, frankly, so comical, that I was hard put to keep from laughing. At the curb was a black horse-drawn buggy, a relic of days I knew only from books. I’m being charitable in saying the thing was horse-drawn, because what was in harness was actually a decrepit, swaybacked mare whose tail was busy swatting at imaginary flies.

Climbing down from the seat was yet another anachronism. The man was dressed in a vested suit the color of honeyed cream, with a wide plantation hat perched low over scowling, bushy white eyebrows. The old boy had piercing coal-black eyes, bright pink cheeks, and long white curls that settled carelessly on the back of his starched collar. A dark cigar jutted like a menace from the middle of a massive white mustache. He took a cherry wood walking stick with a carved ivory handle from beneath the seat, twirled it, and struck such a pompous pose that I stood there dumbfounded, my hands still holding the key in the lock.

Beaudry’s the name; Cornelius Astor-Beaudry, of the landed gentry. And if you are a merchant of rare books, I am sorely in need of your services. Better close your mouth, boy; there are flies about this time of year. He gestured with his walking stick toward the door and cocked a dramatic eyebrow.

I closed my mouth and opened the door. He allowed me to hold it for him, doffing his hat as he marched in with all the air of a conquering emperor.

I thank you for opening your establishment; I am in your debt, Mr.— Ah, I didn’t get your name, son.

Hilary, sir. Raymond Hilary.

Hilary, eh? Good name, Hilary. And English, by your accent.

Yes; I’m from East Grinstead, originally. Sussex.

Well, how you came to be displaced is a story for another day, Mr. Hilary—

Raymond.

For now, though, I am in need of a book on poisons.

Poisons?

Precisely. I’m looking for a copy of a book I had years ago. Haven’t seen one in a coon’s age, but I’m in desperate want of it now, or at least something very much like it. You do carry rare and out-of-print books? Your ad said you did. You didn’t lie in your ad, did you son?

Well, yes, I— I mean no, of course not. I did not lie. And yes, I carry them; it’s sort of a hobby of mine—though I don’t get much call for them. They’re upstairs in back. Here, I’ll show you.

He half bowed and gestured for me to lead the way.

And as a matter of fact, I said over my shoulder as we made our way through the little maze of aisles, I do have a few strange titles in the pathology section. I got them at the estate sale of a doctor who died a few months ago over in Barrow County.

I led him up the creaking spiral staircase of wrought-iron and worn oak to the mezzanine of the store in back. One long wall showed the rich leather bindings of old and rare books that I had been collecting for years. Most of my trade came from the bestseller list items and the paperback racks in the front of the store, but these were my treasures; I was secretly glad that few people ever browsed here and that even fewer ever bought. But something about the old boy made me equally glad that I had such a collection, and made me hope that I could help him.

The medical section is here on these shelves, and pathology, pathology, let me see— I’m afraid it’s up high there on the— Mr. Beaudry! You’d better be careful!

He had rolled the ladder over impatiently and had gone up it as though a fire drill had been called—while I stood there helpless.

Will you stop yelling at me, boy. And stop calling me ‘Mr. Beaudry.’ Folks just call me ‘Colonel.’ Now make yourself useful and steady that ladder while I look here. Hmmmm. Roll me over to the left, there, son. That’s it; hold it. Let’s see, now. Oh, damn! Hang on; hold me steady there a minute.

He wrapped one arm through a rung and dug a pair of tortoise shell half-height reading glasses out of his inside coat pocket. Precariously, with several false starts, he slipped them onto his nose.

That’s better. Now, let me see— It’s a small book I’m looking for, out of print. Red binding. What’s this? Hmmm. The legend’s worn off the spine. Could this be— Hah! Hah!

You found it?

He fairly slid down the ladder clutching a small red-orange clothbound volume that was somewhat worse for wear. But his eyes were large and sparkling behind his glasses, and his mustache twitched at the corners in what must have been satisfaction.

Would you look at this, boy! You have it! Not the same edition, but it certainly will do. I wouldn’t have hardly hoped, but here it is. Hah! Oh, yes, son, I am decidedly in your debt. Ahhhh, how much? He peered at me pointedly over his glasses. And don’t try to stiff me.

I took the book and flipped it open. Its title page was dated 1912, from a long-gone publishing firm that had been at 8 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden, London, with an American address in Brooklyn, New York. The title was A Manual of Toxicology, and below that followed a windy subtitle set up in the inverted pyramid fashion that was all the rage in typography in those days:

"A Concise Presentation of the Prin-

cipal Facts Relating to Poisons,

With Detailed Directions for

the Treatment of Poison-

ing. Also a Table of

Doses of the Prin-

cipal and many

New Remedies"

Its author had equal billing with the subtitle; his name had a string of degrees behind it that stretched across the title page, and his credits crawled on for a paragraph:

Professor of Toxicology and Physiology in the Departments of Medicine, Dentistry and Pharmacy of Marquette University. Formerly, President of the Board of Pharmacy of the State of New York, and Examiner in Toxicology in same; Honorary Member of the Brooklyn (N.Y.) Medical Society; Life Member of the American Medical Association, the American Pharmaceutical Association, the American Microscopical Society, the American Association for the Advancement of Science; Etc.

I wondered what the Etc. could possibly have represented; what was left? This was the seventh edition, heralded as being Revised and Profusely Illustrated.

Well, Mr.— Well, Colonel, this little manual couldn’t have much value to anybody. Certainly not to me. Why don’t you take it as a gift.

The old boy puffed himself up so I thought he might explode.

I won’t hear of it!

I couldn’t help but laugh then. Really, Colonel, it’s nothing but a curiosity to me. I got it in a wholesale purchase for a song. I’d never sell it, anyway, and it seems to mean that much to you that I’ll feel put out if you don’t accept it as a gift. Please.

The old boy squinted one eye and regarded me thoughtfully through the smoke of his cigar. When’s the last time you had a decent meal, boy?

Pardon me?

You heard me; when’s the last time you had home cooking that wasn’t your own? You’re as thin as a promise.

I was quite taken aback. And I admit that I couldn’t remember. I had been eating over Formica cafe counter tops for so long I had begun to believe it normal. It wasn’t that I couldn’t cook for myself, and sometimes did. It was just that I mainly was too lazy to bother. So I found myself struggling with the absence of an answer.

That’s what I thought, said the Colonel. All right; I’ll take your gift, Hilary, on one condition: that you avail yourself of some Southern hospitality and allow me to repay you with a little supper. I believe that Roosevelt will have a passable roast prepared: God gave us the cow, but without instructions; it took Roosevelt to figure out what was meant to be done with one. And the evening should be fine for some burnt wine and cigars.

Oh, I really couldn’t impose. I—

I. Beg. Yoah. Pahdon! said the old boy grandly. If you are implying that the Colonel’s house cannot support a guest for the evening without being imposed upon, then, Sir: my honor is besmirched!

I—

Besides, boy, he added confidentially, placing an arm across my shoulders and strolling us toward the door, I have a few rare books myself, and some that just might be of some keen interest to you. You were closing up anyway, weren’t you?

Those who have never met the Colonel might be hard pressed to understand how he could leap from one emotion to another without the vaguest hint of transition, and even harder pressed to grasp just how enormously difficult it is to tell him no. I not only felt engulfed by the old boy’s engaging presence, but, in fact, the idea of a home-cooked meal was almost too good to pass up. And so I gave in. All right, then, Colonel; you’ve talked me into it. I’ll accept your offer with gracious thanks.

Good! Good! he exclaimed, and slapped me jovially on the back. Gather up your things and git-gones, then, Raymond, and let’s roll!

I made sure all the lights were off in the store and collected, again, my hat, my wallet, and my pipe paraphernalia. As we made our way out through the tinkling door to the sidewalk, I voiced something that I’m afraid had been gnawing quietly but furiously at the edges of my thoughts while I had been contemplating the prospects of dinner. Would— Well, this is nothing, but would you mind indulging my curiosity about one thing, Colonel?

Certainly, son, certainly! What is it you’d like to know?

That book: why is it so important to you? I said, locking the door and turning around. I mean, what in the world would anyone need something like that for?

This ol’ thing? He peered at it, turning it back and forth. He looked up the street first one way and back the other, then leaned his head toward me conspiratorially and explained quietly, as though to a child: Why, for murder, son. For a little murder.

He winked affectedly, then laughed so heartily at my confounded expression that I soon found that I was smiling rather uncertainly myself.

II

In Which the Colonel Gets a Call

and I Find My Calling

I locked the store and, with some misgivings, climbed up beside the Colonel in his calèche.

Wait till you taste Roosevelt’s pecan pie. Nothing like it in seven states. Giddyap, there, Elizah! Know anything about our Civil War, son? Of course, I never saw anything ‘civil’ about it myself, thank you. Why, did you know that that hooligan Sherman marched right down this very road almost a hundred and fifteen years ago to the day? Damned if he didn’t.

As we rolled away in the long shadows of the afternoon, the Colonel sailed forth into a windy and detailed account of the local Civil War campaigns, pointing here and there with his cigar, supported by a background chorus of crickets and katydids. I believe that the versions of the battles I got were a good deal more colorful than the original events, and that his geography was more a product of drama than of actual historical accuracy. But in a very few minutes it seemed as though we had been fast friends for all the days of our lives. That’s just the way the Colonel was.

We traveled timelessly through the dusty back roads that crisscross the farms and forests of the area, and, at length, in the least remains of daylight, arrived at an opened gate of ornate iron bars flanked by tall stone pillars. On one of the pillars was a brass plate that bore, in Florentine script, the legend Faded Glory.

We turned in on a long old-brick drive: uncountable shadings and colors of red and brown interlocked rectangles that wound invitingly up through a dense stand of dark pines. When we emerged from the tunnel of the overhanging trees, there rose before me a great white mansion of such splendor that I began to regard the Colonel in a much different light.

The house—if anything so pedestrian can be used to describe it—had been turned a burning bronze by the setting sun, and deep purple shadows rested in the angles of its gables, eaves, and trim.

In the center lawn, bounded by the circling drive, an ageless magnolia tree spread its ponderous arms in a protective sort of welcome, its white budding flowers bright even in the gathering dusk. The evening air was thick with its fragrance.

The pony’s hooves clopped loudly on the brick, announcing our arrival. As we pulled up at the entrance walkway the porch chandelier came on and the front door was opened by a small balding black man in a dove-grey waistcoat, his face a deep and disapproving scowl.

’Bout time you decided to drag your decrepit old bones back on home. How am I supposed to serve a decent meal when you go off tom-cattin’ and gallivantin’ at all hours!

Why, Roosevelt! said the Colonel, climbing down out of the calèche, I do believe I owe you an apology. It was widow Dickerson’s doing! She was so gushingly grateful for the recovery of her grandmother’s brooch that I thought I might not escape with my honor intact. I was damned near too late to get the book I needed by the time I had extricated myself. But all is not lost, my good man! Not only did I pluck my prize of a reference book, but our table is about to be graced by an emissary of the Crown! Allow me to introduce the estimable Raymond Hilary, Esquire, late of the British Isles.

He bowed grandly and gestured toward me with his cane in an attitude of great pomp and presentation as I climbed clumsily down from the calèche. It caused me a good deal of embarrassment. Just ‘Raymond,’ I waved affably.

Roosevelt rolled his eyes toward the sky. Pleased t’ meet you, he said to me succinctly. Now supper’ll be served in five minutes to whoever has managed to make it to the table and to nobody else. And with that, he turned back into the house, muttering, I thought, something about stray cats.

You are fortunate, indeed, son, said the Colonel in a stage whisper. We have found Roosevelt in a rare good humor. I suggest we get inside and eat while he and the good Lord are still willing.

And did we eat! For me, it was a feast, almost a spiritual experience. As we ate, the Colonel managed to pry from me nearly my entire life’s history, including my tortured story of ending up rather stranded in America after my painful misadventure sightseeing in the Tetons. I learned a grand total of nothing about him.

The old boy was evidently well off. That much was plain. And Roosevelt clearly ran a tight ship. The house was richly appointed and impeccably kept. But beyond that, I knew no more about the Colonel at the end of supper than when I first had seen him outside my shop. And I frankly was growing more curious by the moment.

When the dinner had been cleared by a lovely but taciturn maid named Martha, and we had finished coffee, the Colonel suggested that we ensconce ourselves on the veranda—his words—for a smoke and brandy, which he persisted in calling burnt wine. We had just risen to that end when the swinging butler’s door opened and Roosevelt stuck his head in, lips pressed together in manifest disapproval.

Cap’n Devaney’s on the phone. I’ll tell him you is indisposed and can’t be disturbed.

He disappeared behind the closing door.

Roosevelt! shouted the Colonel.

The door stopped halfway in its closing, and I heard a somewhat muffled, Oh, Lordy, here we go again. The door swung slowly open and Roosevelt backed into the room, then turned and stood staring pointedly at the ceiling, mouth pursed, hands folded resentfully on his waistcoat as though he were awaiting sentence.

Roosevelt, you’re too late; Devaney called earlier today while you were out shopping, and I took the call—which is what sent me off on one of my little errands this afternoon. I’m sure that he’s merely calling now to confirm our appointment here at 8:00.

Then in that case, I’ll tell him you is dead.

If you would be kind enough to show Mr. Hilary into the study, I’ll take the call in the vestibule, Roosevelt. He turned to me. If you’ll excuse me, son.

Of course, I said. I discovered that I was twisting mindlessly at the tablecloth. I stopped. The Colonel went to take his call, leaving me at Roosevelt’s mercy. Roosevelt crooked a finger at me, turned without a word, and ushered me into a room across the foyer. When I caught up he was already beginning to pour a cognac for me from a decanter, but stopped, put the decanter down and turned on me.

You see now, don’t you, he said, wagging a finger—as though we were in mid-conversation, "he don’t listen! He don’t learn!