Free Everyone's Dead But Us by Mark Richard Zubro Page B

going to be able to send wireless messages with it.
    I asked Morgan, “Do you know if anybody had a wireless one?”
    “Not that I know of.” I told him about Sherebury’s not being able to connect to the Internet.
    Morgan said, “Tough luck.”
    I said, “We need to look through these things to see if there is anything that would give a clue to the murderer.”
    Morgan said, “You don’t have the right to do that.”
    “Nor do you have the right to stop us. It’s like the old cliché when the amateur sleuth breaks into the house without a search warrant, and the owner demands a warrant, and the sleuth replies, ‘The police need one, but I don’t, I’m not the police.’ Do you want to try to stop me? And, if you do, whatever for? Was he your employer? A friend of yours?”
    Morgan said, “The family that employs me is going to want this handled delicately.”
    “Good for them. As soon as they get here, they can take over. Right now, we’re here. So let’s get this done. Even if you expect this all to be taken care of with a total cover-up, you must be curious about what the hell happened.”
    Deplonte said, “I’m bored.” I wasn’t sure if it was Scott’s calm or Morgan’s bodyguard presence or my pity for those less fortunate than I, but I didn’t pound his face into the nearest wall. Would have felt good, though.
    In one room we found weapons. There were three shotguns, an AK-47, two revolvers, and three Walther PPKs. They were neatly displayed in a gun cabinet, which was unlocked. All the ammunition needed was in the bottom drawers of the same cabinet. Tudor had enough rounds to hold off a small army.
    I said, “Was he afraid of something?”
    “Not that I know of,” Morgan said. “Maybe he was a collector.”
    “With enough ammunition to hold off a siege?” Scott asked.
    Morgan said, “He could have a bazooka. Having firearms on this island is not a crime.”
    “Did he have a bazooka?” Scott asked.
    Morgan said, “Not that I know of.”
    I said, “There’s no spot in the cabinet that looks like a gun is missing.” I opened the cabinet and sniffed each of the weapons. I said, “None of them smell like they’ve been fired recently.” The three of them watched me load one of the guns and jam it into the belt of my jeans. Morgan made no move to stop me or assist me. Deplonte looked like a poster boy for bored—sighing, rolling his eyes, yawning. Or was all this an elaborate show for covering his nervousness? Scott took a small-caliber weapon as well.
    We didn’t find a will or a note that said, Fred is the killer. We saw absolutely no sign of Derek Harris, the lover.
    Morgan said, “Any guesses on the whereabouts of the lover?”
    “He’s dead or he’s the killer,” Scott said.
    There were other possibilities, but I suspected his grim analysis was all too accurate.
    Henry Tudor’s valet entered while we were going through the desk. The valet was a man in his thirties. He was slender and athletic. I wondered if he was more than a valet. His arms were wrapped in bandages. He was carrying the Picasso from the castle. I doubted if the value had been increased by the water damage. He was obviously no longer on guard for flare-ups at the castle.
    I said, “No more problems at the castle?”
    He said, “No.” He came closer to us and said, “You can’t be looking through Mr. Tudor’s things.”
    I said, “We’ve got to find out who killed him.”
    “How would going through his things help that? These aren’t your things.”
    “You don’t care who killed him?” I asked.
    The valet looked to Morgan and Deplonte. “Of course I do,” said the valet.
    “How long had Harris and Tudor been together?” Scott asked.
    Another look to the guard and his royal buddy. “I don’t know,” the valet said.
    “Were they happy together?”
    He did the glance-at-them thing again. “I don’t have to answer these questions.”
    Scott asked, “What is so horrible about answering