Free 5 Murder by Syllabub by Kathleen Delaney Page B

and Cora Lee had opened another bottle of wine. Another pot had been brewed, which Noah finished off. At least, I thought he had. I rummaged through my sundries case, looking for the Tylenol.
    A glass sat on a lovely small chest that held towels and washcloths. I filled it and downed two of the pills. I probably wouldn’t have had that last glass of wine if Lt. McMann hadn’t been so rude. He’d refused to acknowledge my existence or Aunt Mary’s for over an hour, even though she was the one who had seen the light. We hadn’t known the victim but we ’d been there, we’d seen the body and probably had something to contribute. Rude. The man had been rude to all of us, Noah included. Dan was incensed when I told him. I swallowed the pills and thought about that phone call. He’d been prepared to drop everything and head east. It took me a while to convince him neither Aunt Mary nor I was in danger. Besides, from the little I’d seen of McMann, I was certain he wouldn’t want the chief of police from a small town in California horning in on his case. Elizabeth was probably safer without that extra strain. What I did tell him was that I missed him, and I did. I promised to call him often—a promise I intended to keep—and that I would try not to “stick my nose in where it didn’t belong.” His words. I wasn’t so sure about that one.
    While I waited for the pills to numb my headache, my eyes wandered. Bathrooms didn’t look like this in the eighteenth century, I was sure. Did they even have bathrooms back then? I didn’t think so. Chamber pots. That’s what they used. I sent up a small “thank you” for modern facilities, especially for the soaking tub with its handheld showerhead and delicately embroidered shower curtain. I looked closer. All kinds of flowers, interspersed with small, brightly colored birds, appeared on a crisp white background. Charming. The bathroom walls were painted a soft yellow. The door, all of the trim around the window, and the high baseboards were white. So were the towels and the fluffy bath rug. The bird prints that hung above the chest were obviously old. So was the wood-framed mirror above the sink. A delightful blending of new and old. How did Elizabeth pull it off? According to Aunt Mary, she hadn’t been interested in decorating, cooking or anything domestic when they were in college. Causes were what held her interest, what aroused her passion. Causes and history. However, someone had put quite a little history into doing both the bathroom and bedroom.
    I washed my face. That felt better. Teeth next. My mouth felt, and tasted, like cotton wool. Old cotton wool. Were my eyes bloodshot? Of course not. If they looked a little tired, well, it had been quite a day. All those questions the police asked. Over and over. They hadn’t found the syllabub. No one asked to look in the refrigerator and none of us suggested it. I fluffed my hair out a little. Not too bad. Should I shower? I yawned. Coffee then shower.
    I walked back into the bedroom. What time was it? I hadn’t heard movement. No doors opening. No footsteps. I needed coffee. There wasn’t a pot or a hot plate up here, at least not in this room. There was the canopy bed and a small table beside it. A secretary sat on the wall opposite the door, its top down , displaying little cubbyholes for letters, envelopes and things. An armless Windsor chair sat in front of it. A highboy took up the space between the two windows. It looked old. I walked over for a better look. I’d seen pictures of highboys like this. Were those drawer pulls original? They didn’t look like any I’d seen at Lowe’s. I pulled on one. The drawer slid open easily. What was it you were supposed to look for to see if it was old? No nails. I examined the corners. There weren’t any. Was this piece a true antique? I stood back to take a better look. The bottom had three deep drawers. The top half seemed only to rest on the bottom. It was narrower,