Mini Mystery
Lydia Marsh had been poisoned, and Detective Henry Beck was determined to find out why . . .
Lydia Marsh placed a plate of lemon wedge cookies in the center of the community room table. She followed this with four delicate china cups of coffee, one for each member of the Citizens’ Wildlife Protection Committee, except for herself.
She preferred tea, in her own special cup. But this morning, her tea had a faint bitter taste. She frowned, adding a spoon of sugar. She rarely used sugar. It wasn’t good for her figure. Not good at all.
Forty-five minutes later, the coroner explained to Detective Henry Beck, that Miss Marsh, founder of the Citizens’ Wildlife Protection Committee, had been poisoned.
Beck sighed. “Okay. Did you keep everyone here?”
The coroner nodded. “But it may not matter. We think the poison was in the tea. She brought that from home.”
Beck began his interviews with the committee people. Gradually, details emerged. They had gathered together to consider Eldridge Franklin’s plan for creating a wildlife preserve. Lydia Marsh, it was thought, planned to contribute.
Franklin, a welldressed man, seemed somber when Beck got to him. “What a true, true, shame.” He shook his head. “Lydia was particularly interested in my project and was concerned about the protection of wildlife.”
“So, her death was something of a setback?”
“I’ll say! She promised her financial support. We planned to call it the Lydia Marsh Sanctuary.”
“Did she make any provision for the project in her will?”
Franklin brightened, as though the idea hadn’t occurred to him before. “Well, I wouldn’t know what was in her will. Perhaps you could ask her nephews.”
Lydia had two nephews, Peter, a librarian at the university, and Warren, a financial advisor. Beck located Peter in a small office at the college where he handled historical documents.
Peter set his mouth in a firm line. “Could it have been Eldridge Franklin that poisoned her? He’s a con artist, officer. Nothing more than a thief.”
“Mr. Franklin represents a charity,” Beck observed.
Peter put his lips together and blew, creating a sound that suggested what he thought of Mr. Franklin, and his charity.
“Last I heard, she wanted to sell all her stock and turn the money over to him while I work here for peanuts. Just peanuts.”
Beck was puzzled. “How do you know what she had planned?”
“Warren told me. He’s her investment manager.”
Abrisk Warren Addison glanced at his watch while motioning Beck to a chair in his office. “I can give you five minutes. I need to make a call to the funeral home about arrangements.”
Beck sympathized. He asked the standard questions— enemies, people with a grudge.
“She was a sweetie,” Warren said. “Everyone loved her.”
“Are you and Peter her heirs?”
He shrugged. “I guess so. We’re her only relatives.”
Beck shifted topics. “What can you tell me about Eldridge Franklin?”
“I think he’s a fraud. He pretended to like everything Lydia liked just to impress her. I’m surprised that he didn’t drink tea along with her. But she couldn’t see through his pandering. “He shook his head. “Still, I don’t see how he would have gained by killing her.”
Later that day, the coroner poked his head into Beck’s office. “So, did you solve it yet?”
Beck’s mind had been churning all afternoon. “Yes,” he said with a grin. “I think someone said too much.”