Wicked Deeds

“Rufus Griswold,” Poe said. “Rufus Griswold, too, is long from the world we both once knew. But what people see as the legend of me is largely through that man’s words. Yes, I could overdo. I was temperamental. I had an ego. I was prone to dive into alcohol. But I wasn’t a perpetual drunk! And I did join the temperance league, and I wouldn’t have gone against Sarah Elmira...”

“You think that Rufus Griswold murdered you?” Vickie demanded.

“Only on the page, my dear. Only on the page. I was somehow murdered. And while my thoughts on that pompous bastard with a total lack of imagination regarding coherent verbiage are dark, I don’t believe he murdered me. Did someone cause my death—other than myself, as sometimes assumed? Yes. But...even in death, I can’t find the truth. That’s why I feel that I must hound you and your lawman until the two of you find out what happened to Franklin Verne. If I can’t find justice for myself, I will strive to see that the words and opinions that cast ill on memories of me do not fall upon him as well. He mustn’t be maligned. For him, the truth of this matter will be known!”

* * *

There would never be anything nice about an autopsy.

The morgue was, however, as clean as one could imagine. The scent of decay was well washed in that of disinfectant. Stainless steel seemed to glint against tile, and while the dead lay silently upon their gurneys, the living moved among them with purpose and determination.

Franklin Verne was not the only corpse awaiting the tender mercies of the medical examiner.

At the moment, he was, however, the one who apparently commanded the most attention.

Photographers were still at work when Carl Morris and Griffin arrived; the body of the man had been stripped and cleaned and the first incisions had begun. Dr. Myron Hatfield spoke as he worked; he didn’t take notes by hand but rather had a microphone hanging above the body, recording. He acknowledged the arrival of Morris and Griffin, noting the time as well. He urged them forward, lifting a lock of Franklin Verne’s hair. “At this point, I am directing the detective and agent to notice the hematoma rising on the left side of the forehead. Such bruising does not appear to have formed as the result of any fall, but rather it appears to be the result of a strike by a hard, blunt object. Bruising is also beginning to appear around the mouth, specific points of such bruising appearing as if perhaps fingers and a thumb pressed the mouth open. Previous to the body being stripped and washed, the smell of wine was abundant upon the corpse and clothing, indicative of a great deal of wine being poured on the face and spilling over.”

Hatfield went on with his observations; then the typical Y incision had to be made. He continued to comment on the state of his subject.

Franklin Verne may have cleaned up his life, but he had done damage, and such damage Hatfield noted.

The heart was enlarged.

The liver bore witness to overindulgence.

But what cruel injury Franklin Verne had done himself in life had been on the mend. There was nothing visible that would have immediately taken his life. Samples were taken from the stomach, of the hair, and so on; they would be sent for analysis. An as-yet-unknown poison might have been the actual cause of death, but if so, that substance would be revealed with time.

The man’s heart had given out, perhaps due to the damage of an imbibed or otherwise ingested substance, perhaps due to the brutal strike on the head, or a combination thereof.

Finally, Hatfield fell silent. He looked down at the man he studied, his expression sad. He asked his assistant to please care for the body.

Then he turned off the microphone and stepped away with Griffin and Morris.

“So...no definitive cause of death?” Morris asked him.

“Well, there will be. As of right now...no. We’ll wait for the test results.”

“But what do you think?” Griffin asked him.

“What do I think?” Dr. Hatfield turned and looked at Griffin, studying him up and down for a moment. “Damn it, I don’t want to say anything official yet. If I were to suggest something, it could become rumor, and too many people take rumor as truth. Then you learn something different from forensic tests—and you have to explain what is proved far too many times. But between us? I think that some person or persons unknown set up Mr. Verne. I think that he was struck on the head with some blunt object. He was somehow spirited down to the cellar of that club, and wine and other substances were forced into him. Will I say this yet for the record? No. Yes, the man might have fallen, gotten up, stumbled in—and drank a ton of wine or whatever. His wife might have pinched his face. He might have pinched his own face shaving. I will not go on record yet. But neither would I have you waste your time assuming this to be the man’s own downfall or an accident. I suggest you begin your hunt for a killer now, gentlemen. And I believe, as in all such cases, the sooner one suspects the worse and seeks the truth, the better. Mrs. Monica Verne is no fool—her husband was murdered.”

* * *

Vickie waited outside the morgue for Griffin. She could have gone in; she chose not to do so. For one, Poe didn’t want to go in. She explained to him that there was a reception area that was corpse-free at most times, but he wasn’t interested.

For a ghost, he was pretty squeamish.

“Thankfully,” he told her, “there is something about the body and the tragedy of the decay that befalls us all. Rot is not, nor never has been appealing, as well I should know, since I have a talent for description of all that is foul and ghoulish in the extreme. That one can find the words to create the tremendous discomfort and fear to be found in such sadness does not mean that one enjoys...rot!”

And so they stood outside on the sidewalk.

At length, Griffin appeared, exiting the building with Detective Carl Morris. Morris noted her first, pointing her out to Griffin.

Griffin surely saw Poe at her side, but he barely batted an eye.

Griffin was skilled at seeing the dead—and not appearing as though anything strange was going on.

“Why, Vickie!” Morris said, smiling as he approached her. “There is a cool and comfortable vestibule, though I had thought—since you are about to enter the academy—you might have chosen to join us within.”

Vickie didn’t reply to his words but rather smiled and asked, “Did you learn anything?”

“Well, we learned that our illustrious ME believes that the man was murdered. He’s waiting on test results to discover just what caused the death,” Griffin offered. He kept from looking at Poe. “He was apparently struck on the head with a hard, blunt object.”

“And forced to drink,” Morris added. “Only tests will explain exactly what caused the damage to his organs,” he added, “and they’ll let us know what they discover.”

“He was somehow brought downstairs to the wine cellar of the restaurant—as we, of course, suspected. There—or perhaps to get him there—he was struck on the head. A good, hard blow. It might have rendered him temporarily unconscious. Wine—and possibly other substances—were forced into him. We saw the bruises on the cheeks that suggest his mouth was forced open. As far as poison or some other deadly substance being forced into him, yes, the tests will tell,” Griffin said.

“Dear God—too much like my own wretched demise!” Poe said. He looked at Griffin, a strange expression on his face. His words had been dark, but there was almost a smile on his face. He was testing and teasing Griffin—and her!

Griffin didn’t react.

The ghost was completely aware that Griffin saw him.

And aware, too, that Morris did not.

Beyond a doubt, something of the mischief maker had certainly remained with the soul of the man.

“Well, Franklin Verne was dearly beloved by many—and therefore had hidden enemies somewhere,” Morris said. “I’m going to the office. We’ll be speaking with Monica Verne and looking into Franklin Verne’s known associates. And you?” he asked Griffin.

“I think we’ll return to the restaurant,” Griffin said.

“It’s closed until tomorrow,” Morris said. “I’m studying the architect’s old layout for the building, trying to decide if there was any other way in. I may be sending crime-scene techs back in.”

“Of course. I’d like to look around now, if you don’t mind,” Griffin said.

“Not at all. I don’t give a damn who solves this—I just want it solved,” Morris assured him.

“My sentiments exactly, sir,” Griffin said.

Morris made a saluting movement with his hat. “We’ll keep in close contact,” he said, and then he left.

Griffin turned immediately to their ghost once Morris was out of earshot. “Mr. Poe. A pleasure,” he said. “I am a tremendous fan of your work.”

“Intelligent lad,” Poe informed Vickie. “FBI!” he continued. “Such an institution did not exist in my day. People were not fond of the federal government being in their business, you know.”

“Nor are they today,” Griffin assured him, “but then, there are times when the abilities of a far-reaching body to coordinate with offices everywhere is often beneficial. The world is easily traveled these days—the worst criminals can quickly hop from state to state.”

“Yes, yes, of course, I have been observing. Enough about the rest of the world. Let’s move back to dear Mr. Franklin Verne. You must prove that he didn’t go to that cellar and drink himself silly. You do have a plan, of course?”

“I do, yes,” Griffin told him.

“I shall help in any way I can.”

“Help would be most greatly appreciated. So to begin, what is your concern here? Do you know anything of what happened?”

“Do I know the killer?” Poe asked Griffin.

“Yes.”

“Don’t be daft, man!” Poe said, irritated. “If I knew, do you not think I’d have shared such information by now?”

Vickie hid her smile. Griffin looked downward for a minute.

The ghost had gotten him.

He looked up. “We are heading back to the restaurant.”

“Fine. I shall, when appropriate, tell you what I know of the people there.”

“You do know them, then?” Vickie asked him.

“Know them? Ah, to know one infers that there has been an actual volley of information, affection and ideas. Know? I know what one can from observation of people,” Poe said. He seemed to puff up a bit. “After all, they are part of a Poe society. Naturally, I find the members intriguing, and, of course—with all humility—I cannot help but admire their taste in the subject matter they choose to honor!”

“With all humility!” Griffin said to Vickie, but he was smiling, and she knew that he was fascinated—delighted that they had actually been able to meet the ghost of the poet and author.

“Touché!” Poe said softly. “Well, then, if you’ll excuse me, I have a bit of detective work I’d like to be doing on my own. I trust that you two will be avidly pursuing leads, and when we meet again, an exchange of information will help build the bridge to the truth!”

Poe turned and walked away. They seemed to see him...

And then they did not.

He had moved on.

“Where to now?” Vickie asked Griffin.

“Back to the scene of the crime,” he told her. “Where’s the car?”

Vickie led the way. Griffin was thoughtful. He glanced at her as they reached the car, and he smiled again.

“You’re driving? I’m driving?”

“Whichever. Here, you drive. You know Baltimore better than I do—and the way to the Black Bird.” Vickie tossed him the keys; he caught them deftly. They got in. For a moment, he paused.

“Poe!” he said.

She smiled. It wasn’t that often that she saw Griffin impressed.

“Poe,” she agreed. She hesitated. “It’s great—and it’s sad, too, really.”

“What’s sad?” Griffin asked, pulling out onto the street.

“Well, he had a hard life. His parents died. His foster mother loved him, but died. He argued with his foster father, who didn’t support him through college. He fell in love and the girl’s father hid his letters. He fell in love again, and his bride died. And then, as far as his own death went...no one really knows. And now...he’s still running around, haunting Baltimore,” Vickie said.

“Many times, life can be sad. And sometimes, it’s as they say—life is what we make it. Poe was incredibly talented. He did have an ego the size of Texas. He argued with people. He was a drunk.”

“Not as bad as his biographers might have made him out to be, Griffin!”

“Hey, I agree he was talented, and I think it’s great he’s helping on this,” Griffin told her. “But there was something dark about him—he did provoke a lot of his enemies. And there you go—there’s your next project. A book on Poe—in his defense.”

Vickie thought about that. “I’m not so sure I can do the research the way it should be done while I’m in the academy. But...yeah! You’re right.” She laughed. “And now I have insight.” She fell silent, hoping that they were able to find the truth—and that in doing so, they might, in a way, help the long-dead author as well.

Griffin pulled into the parking lot for the Black Bird.

“Showtime!” he said softly.

“Showtime?”

“Well, I would bet that we’re going to discover that Franklin Verne was killed by someone who knew him well.” His expression was grim as he looked toward the restaurant. “I believe he was killed by a friend, the worst kind of betrayal. And perhaps...”

“Perhaps it was the same with Edgar Allan Poe as well.”

4

The officer nodded to Vickie and Griffin and opened the door for them to enter. The restaurant was closed that day out of respect for Franklin Verne, and because it was an active crime scene.

While the restaurant was shut, Gary and Alice Frampton and Lacey Shaw from the gift shop had still come in.

Gary, a man of about fifty with salt-and-pepper hair, a medium build and an easygoing manner, was sitting at a table near the bar, frowning as he read the paper.

Alice was drying glasses behind the bar, inspecting them for spots.

Lacey was opening boxes. They were filled with little bobblehead statues of Poe and little ravens.

The same as the little raven Franklin Verne had been holding when he’d died.

But of course, no one knew that but the crime-scene technicians, the ME, Detective Carl Morris—and whomever he had shared with at the BPD—and Griffin and Vickie. Lacey Shaw certainly had no way of knowing that Franklin Verne had been holding one of the little bird models.

Unless, of course, she had killed him.

Lacey, along with Alice and Gary, looked up and ceased their activities when Griffin and Vickie arrived.

“Hey!” Alice said, seeming relieved that they were there.

“Hey, how are you all doing?” Griffin asked.

“Handling the situation the best we can,” Gary said, his mouth a grim, glum line as he finished speaking.

“Sad, sad, so sad!” Lacey said. Then she pointed to the TV screens above the bar and groaned. “Have you seen this yet?” A reporter was interviewing Monica Verne.

Alice hit a button on a remote control; the volume increased. Monica was an excellent subject for the TV news. She was bereft, and she was passionate, promising that she’d pay for any information leading to the truth behind her husband’s death, and vowing that she would get to the bottom of the situation. Her husband’s murder would not go without justice.

The reporter suggested that there had been no murder, that Franklin Verne might have fallen back into his old ways.

That brought another flurry of passionate denial from Monica. So much so that the reporter turned red and took a step back.

The bar phone rang shrilly, making everyone there jump.

“Don’t answer it!” Gary Frampton groaned. “It’s another kook.” He looked at Griffin and Vickie and sighed as if with great exhaustion. “We reopen tomorrow. Staying closed today as the police asked, but we’re already booked solid for tomorrow, from the first seating until midnight. I don’t get it. I wanted Franklin Verne’s patronage—I sure as hell never wanted him to die here! Now the phone rings off the hook already! And half the calls are from mediums, certain that they can contact Franklin Verne and that when they do, they’ll solve the mystery of his murder.”

“Mediums. Nice,” Vickie murmured, gazing at the phone. “Shall I?” she asked them.

“Please!” Alice said.

She answered the bar’s landline. “The Black Bird, may I help you?”

“No,” came the answer. “But I can help you!”

“I don’t think I need any help at the moment,” Vickie said. “The restaurant is booked for tomorrow. Perhaps you’d like to make a reservation for a future date?”

“I’m Liza Harcourt!” the voice said indignantly.

“And Liza Harcourt, you are...?”

Lacey, Alice and Gary moaned before the woman could answer Vickie.

“I’m the head of the Blackbird Society!” the woman said indignantly. “And I can come over right now and we can set up a séance. I will channel my spirit guide, and will take us all to the night and point us all in the right direction of the murderer!”

“Ms. Harcourt,” Vickie said, looking out at the others, “I’m so sorry. The police have closed the restaurant for the day and while the crime-scene tape stays up, the restaurant is closed to everyone except for law enforcement and the owner.”

The woman went off with such virulence that Vickie held the receiver away from her ear.

“You can hang up on her if you want,” Lacey suggested.

Alice looked at Vickie wide-eyed and shuddered.

Vickie let the tirade go on. When it seemed that the woman was forced to pause for breath, she quickly cut in. “The restaurant will reopen tomorrow. At that time, you’re welcome to speak with the owner about a séance.”

Gary Frampton let out a grunt of disgust.

“Well, excuse me! And who, exactly, are you—answering the Black Bird’s phone?” Liza Harcourt demanded.

Vickie hesitated. She was tempted to tell the woman that if she had psychic power, she should figure it out herself.

“I’m with law enforcement,” she said simply. That, of course, could be taken many ways, but it wasn’t a lie. “Good afternoon, Ms. Harcourt,” she said. And then she hung up the receiver.

“Hmm,” Griffin murmured, watching her. He looked at Gary Frampton. “And just who is this woman, Liza Harcourt?”

“As she said, she’s the head of a society—the one based here, in and through the Black Bird,” he added with a sigh. “I love books—and I love Poe, as you can see by the restaurant, I imagine. So, of course, I’m a member myself. I encouraged the creation of the society—at the very beginning, it was all that guaranteed me I’d have a customer now and then.”

“And she’s really harmless,” Lacey said. “A snob—but harmless.”

“She’s very wealthy,” Alice explained. “She really is a snob—elite, you know. Above all the rest of us. She doesn’t like me at all.”

“Why?” Vickie asked her.

“Probably because I’m not an aged and dried-up old bat!” Alice said.

“No,” Gary said softly, looking at his daughter with pride. “You’re beautiful, my dear—the spitting image of your mother, just as lovely!” His smile was poignant; Alice’s mother was apparently deceased. Gary cleared his throat.

“Liza! She’s filthy rich and...well, it was her husband’s money. But she’s managed to convince herself that she was the one born into privilege,” Lacey said.

“She considers herself an expert on Poe and his work. Oh, and, of course, she thinks she’s a wonderful poet herself. She did a reading one night—dreadful! But,” Gary added ruefully, “she filled the place. She is loud, cantankerous and full of herself. Still, she can be a great deal of fun and very supportive of the society, Poe—and my restaurant.”

“And that’s why we’re all nice to her!” Alice said, glancing over at Lacey and shaking her head.

“And she’s a medium?” Vickie asked.

Lacey laughed at that. “She’s a medium now? I mean, she’s come in here with a crystal ball and a Ouija board, but to the best of my knowledge, she’s never awakened anything but a few dust motes! Still, she believes that she has special communications with Poe.”

“I guess she thinks that she can contact Franklin Verne, too,” Alice said. She sighed softly. “She’s...okay. Really. You just need a lot of energy when she’s around.”

“And she knew Franklin Verne?”

“Quite well, yes,” Gary said, glancing over at his daughter and Lacey. “They both...had a lot of money. They gave to a lot of the same local charities. She always told me that she could get Franklin Verne in here.”

“Do you think that she did?” Griffin asked seriously.

“Do I think that she got him in here?” Gary asked. He seemed perplexed, and then his eyes widened. “Oh! I see. Do I think that she lured him here, that she plied him with wine...? Well, she’s a little bit of a thing. If she did lure him, she’d have had to have lured him, you know what I mean?”

“She didn’t carry him down any stairs,” Lacey said flatly. “She’s ninety pounds, tops.”

“Were they friends or acquaintances?” Griffin asked.

Gary stood and stretched. He sighed deeply, putting his hands on his hips, then he looked steadily at Griffin. “We were all acquaintances. Over time, through festivals and readings and what have you—book signings—we all knew Franklin Verne. Liza had been talking to him about coming to a meeting here, and she could be a very good friend—I’m sure that she intended for him to endorse the restaurant.”

“We didn’t know him nearly so well,” Alice said. “In passing, he might recognize us, and he might smile or wave. He wasn’t going to insist we come for Sunday coffee, or anything like that.”

Lacey had a distant look in her eyes. She was holding one of the ravens she had unpacked and looking thoughtfully toward one of the walls. “He was all right,” she said softly. “I talked to him now and then. Of course, I carried his new books in the gift shop. But I would actually talk to him now and then. Sometimes he’d call me—just to make sure that I wasn’t having any trouble getting his work from the distributor or the publisher. Of course, no one had trouble getting his work. He was very popular.”

“Like Poe,” Alice murmured.

“Poe did gain a great deal more popularity in death,” Gary said.

“As will Franklin Verne!” Alice said softly. “Sad, huh?”

“Who do you think would have hurt him?” Griffin asked. “I mean, I realize that Liza was the one who knew him, but you were all in or involved with the society. Any ideas at all?”

No one had a chance to answer him; they heard a hard pounding on the outside door, past the hostess station.

“What the hell? I have a huge sign out there!” Gary said.

“I’ll go,” Vickie volunteered. “It’s a bolt?”

“Yes, several, actually, no alarm on. Just twist the bolts. We are not open!” Gary said.

Vickie hurried to the door, leaving Griffin with the others.

There were three bolts on the door—not easily opened. But she didn’t believe that Franklin Verne and his murderer had entered by the front, anyway.

She unlocked and opened the door. And she stared into the face of Jon Skye, their young waiter from the night before.

“Hey!” he said, obviously very surprised to see her there. “Um...what are you doing here? I got a call this morning... I saw the news. But I figured that Gary and Alice were here, and I felt that I had to help and...why the hell are you here?” he asked.

“Griffin is with the FBI,” Vickie explained quickly.

“Oh. Oh, the FBI! But...I’m so confused. So, he didn’t just die. He didn’t sneak in to do a suicide thing, huh? He was murdered. Like his wife says? Still, I don’t get it. Oh, but yeah, Franklin Verne was so well-known. It’s national news—worldwide news, really. Is that it?”

“Actually, we don’t know anything yet,” Vickie said. “Any such death has to be investigated, and Monica Verne is very good friends with Griffin’s director,” she explained. She was still blocking the door. She hesitated, and then stepped aside. He’d come to lend support to Gary and Alice, much, she assumed, as Lacey had done.

Or because he was curious. But Vickie decided she’d let the others sort that out.

“Thanks,” Jon told her, entering. He nodded and strode ahead of her into the bar area.

The group there all greeted him. Alice seemed to perk up, glad to see Jon.

Griffin nodded at Vickie. Apparently, it had been the right thing to do, letting him in.

“I came by to see if I could help in some way,” Jon said.

“Sure, thanks. We’re all just sitting here a little shell-shocked. Appreciate you coming,” Gary said.

“It’s terrible about Franklin Verne,” Jon said. He looked over at Griffin. He shook his head. “I do understand that any unexplained death has to be explained. But...FBI? Does this all mean that Franklin Verne was murdered? That he didn’t just sneak in to give it all up, go on a binge—and die?”

Griffin didn’t answer the question but rather voiced one in return. “Do you know of anyone jealous of him? Someone who would want to hurt him—for any reason?” he asked.

Gary, Lacey, Jon and Alice all looked at one another. Then they all looked at Griffin and shook their heads in unison—almost as if it had been rehearsed.

“Whoever it was—if there was a whoever,” Alice said, “they hid what they were feeling. I mean, at least as far as we know.”

“But you will want to talk to Liza,” Lacey said.

“Yes, he’ll need to talk to Liza, of course,” Gary said.

“Dad, what, you think she’ll rouse the truth with a séance?” Alice asked sarcastically.

“She knew him,” Gary said, ignoring his daughter. “She can do her ridiculous séance. Who knows—maybe she’ll come up with something.”

“Oh, it will be great,” Alice murmured darkly.

“Liza is going to do a séance?” Jon asked. “I mean, they may want to talk with Alistair Malcolm and Brent Whaley, too. I’d say the three of them are the core of the Blackbird Society,” he said. “Others come...but not with the same passion and continuity. And Alistair and Brent were also friends with Franklin Verne,” he said, looking earnestly at Griffin.

“Thank you,” Griffin said.

“Yes! Special Agent Pryce will need to speak with Brent Whaley and Alistair Malcolm as well,” Lacey said, sudden energy in her voice. “Whaley is a writer! Part of the Poe society, but a writer, too. I mean, he actually writes for a living. He does a mystery series about a Baltimore detective. And, like Liza, he knew Franklin Verne! I’m sure Brent considers himself to be a friend of Franklin Verne—or, at least, he did,” she added awkwardly. “In fact, he and Liza have been known to get a bit snippy when discussing him. And Alistair is about the only one who can put little Ms. Liza Harcourt in her place. He owns an amazing collection of Poe memorabilia. Liza is quite jealous of it. There’s no way out of it—Alistair is very knowledgeable and he writes as well. He’s had some articles published and is always working on a book.”

“Thank you. I look forward to meeting these people,” Griffin told them. He looked at Gary then. “How do you think that Franklin Verne came to be down in your wine cellar?”

The man sighed deeply, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I know that we have an alarm system. You’d have to have the code for the front door or the delivery entry.”

“How many people have the alarm code?” Griffin asked.

“You know, we’ve been through all of this with the police already,” Lacey said, sounding somewhat aggravated.

“We’re chatting here,” Griffin said softly. “When you haven’t found the answers, you keep going. And sometimes you find them because you just keep talking, and someone suddenly says something that helps that they didn’t even know that they knew,” he told her, his voice deceptively gentle.

Lacey sniffed. “I have the code, of course.”

“And we have the code, too—of course,” Alice said, coming to stand by her father.

“And who else?” Griffin persisted.

“No one else should,” Lacey said, looking at her employer.

“Hey, I don’t have it!” Jon said.

Gary winced.

Griffin and Vickie both looked at him, waiting.

He sighed.

“All right—Liza Harcourt has it.”

“And?” Lacey prompted.

“And Alistair Malcolm and Brent Whaley,” Gary finished, grimacing. “Liza left something here one night—her cell phone, I think it was. Anyway, she was with Brent and Alistair at the time. So, I’m assuming they all have the code. I thought about changing it, but...they are the people who first made this place the place to go. They’re good, smart people—even if they are eccentric and dramatic. I don’t believe that any of them lured Franklin Verne to his death in my cellar!”

“Oh! You don’t believe evil of anyone. Not to mention that you left the code written on a Post-it on your desk,” Alice said sweetly. “Love you, Dad, but you do know that you’re far too trusting!”

“If you’ll excuse us,” Griffin said, “Vickie and I are going to take a look down at the wine cellar again. Mr. Frampton, not to worry. We’ll be very careful.”

“I’m not at all worried,” Gary Frampton said. “We haven’t been down there. The police have tape across the doorway. They said they might return. I understood clearly that any of us cutting, moving or ignoring that tape in any way would be considered hampering the investigation. We have not been near it.”

“Thank you. I’m working in accord with Carl Morris,” Griffin told him. “We appreciate your consideration.”

“The police and the crime-scene people were down there for ages and ages,” Lacey said. “I can’t imagine what you think you’ll find.”

Griffin smiled. “Neither can I. But then, that’s the challenge, isn’t it?” he asked politely. He continued to gaze at them all for a moment with a very pleasant expression. “We will, however, find out exactly what happened,” he said softly. “We do sincerely thank you for your cooperation.”