Chesapeake Crimes: Invitation to Murder. Donna Andrews

Bellingsworth’s house.

      Most of the houses along the way were dark. Here and there a porch light shone or a light blazed in an upstairs window.

      Did anyone in the neighborhood have security cameras? Deplorable things, recording whatever went on in their view, stripping innocent passersby of their privacy. But even if one were trained on her now, Miss Grayling doubted she would be recognized in the darkness.

      Mrs. Bellingsworth’s Victorian house had many outcroppings and angles that cast even darker shadows. Not to mention overgrown shrubbery.

      Keeping her head low, Mrs. Grayling slipped into a small stand of head-high bushes in the side yard. From her hiding place, she could see the front and one side of the house.

      The first floor was dark, but several of the upper windows were lit.

      A squat shadow passed behind the largest one. Mrs. Bellingsworth’s bedroom, perhaps. Mrs. Bellingsworth used a wheelchair, of course. Undoubtedly the chairlift enabled her to get to the second floor. Perhaps she had another wheelchair waiting for her at the head of the stairs.

      Miss Grayling thought how satisfying it would be to shove the wheelchair, Mrs. Bellingsworth and all, down that elegant curved staircase. She might break her neck.

      But that wasn’t practical. Such a fall might be fatal, but then again, it might not. And if it were not, Mrs. Bellingsworth would be able to tell the authorities exactly who had pushed her. Much as Miss Grayling would like to confront the woman directly, the identity of the perpetrator of any attempt to silence the dreadful Mrs. Bellingsworth had to remain unknown.

      That, Miss Grayling realized, should not be a problem. Blackmailers had to be good at keeping their secrets. So the only connection between them would be the invitation to tea. She smiled into the dark. Such an ordinary activity for ladies of a certain age!

      Miss Grayling hurried across the lawn and hid next to the house in the shadow of a large bush. A soft clicking startled her. She looked around frantically.

      A meter. It had four small numbered dials. As she watched, the one on the right spun and the meter clicked again.

      Miss Grayling’s house had a meter like this. Not for water. Nor electricity. It metered gas.

      She remembered the fireplace in Mrs. Bellingsworth’s parlor, with the cheerful gas fire burning on artificial logs.

      Perhaps Mrs. Bellingsworth’s kitchen range used gas. Or her clothes dryer. Or water heater. She might even heat her house with gas.

      A broken gas line could be very dangerous, Miss Grayling knew. An accumulation of gas vapors could explode and set the house on fire, this house with a wooden frame, covered with wooden siding.

      Such a pity that Mrs. Bellingsworth had an upstairs bedroom.

      And she used a wheelchair.

      Would she be able to get out of bed, into the wheelchair, down the stairs on the lift, and into another wheelchair in time to escape a fire? Miss Grayling doubted it.

      And Mrs. Bellingsworth lived alone. She’d told Beatrice to “go home.”

      The night grew chillier. The rain tapered off, and a harsh wind picked up. Miss Grayling stood quietly, waiting for the rectangles of light cast on the lawn to flick out.

      When they did, Miss Grayling crept out of her sheltered spot. The bitter wind sent cold fingers down her neck. She pulled the scarf tighter as she climbed the steps to the back porch.

      She took out her set of skeleton keys, selected one that was similar to the lock on her own back door, and by the light of the small flashlight, inserted it into the lock. A little jiggling, a sharp slap on the doorjamb, and the door swung open with a deafening creak.

      Miss Grayling shut off her flashlight and stood still, half expecting a light to flash on, a neighbor to raise an alarm, a dog to bark.

      Nothing.

      She slipped inside Mrs. Bellingsworth’s kitchen, closed the door gently behind her, and turned the flashlight back on.

      A sturdy table stood in the middle of the kitchen. The sink was stone. The massive old kitchen range was indeed fueled by gas. She turned on one of the burners. It hissed as the gas fed into the ring.

      She turned off the gas and went through the swinging door into the dining room. Beyond that was the parlor where she’d met Mrs. Bellingsworth.

      The gas fireplace stood cold and dark along an outside wall. Unlike the kitchen appliances, it appeared to be a recent improvement. Shielding the flashlight’s beam with a cupped palm, Miss Grayling examined the fireplace.

      A remote control sat on the mantel. Curious, she pushed the button that said “on.”

      The whoosh of flames in the fireplace startled her, and she pushed the “off” button.

      The flames died down.

      How stupid of her to push buttons when she had no idea what might happen! Suppose it had been a remote for the TV and sound had come blasting out?

      Miss Grayling stood for several minutes, trying to calm her nerves. She was not thinking clearly.

      But she couldn’t let this opportunity pass.

      She turned the fireplace back on. Flickering flames cast dancing shadows on the walls.

      Was the mantel within Mrs. Bellingsworth’s reach when she sat in her wheelchair? Miss Grayling thought it must be. The fire had been burning when Miss Grayling left, after all, and Beatrice had gone home, so Mrs. Bellingsworth must have been able to turn it off.

      Leaving the fire burning, Miss Grayling put the remote back where she’d found it. Carefully leaving the pocket door open between the parlor and the dining room, she passed through the swinging door and into the kitchen.

      Back at the stove, she turned on the burner, waited to hear the hiss of gas, then blowing hard, extinguished the flame.

      Then she slipped out the back door and hurried away.

      Would the flames from the fireplace ignite the gas in the kitchen? Miss Grayling had no way of knowing for sure. She’d have to leave that to Providence.

      Some things were out of one’s control.

      Miss Grayling had reached her back porch when a sudden roar tore through the night.

      Bright flames lit up the sky.

      Smiling, she opened the door and hurried inside.

      She would make herself a cup of tea, perhaps with a bit of whiskey in it to calm her nerves.

      As she hung her raincoat on a hook just inside the door, the sound of screaming sirens filled the night.

      Yes, definitely a good bit of whiskey in that tea.

      * * * *

      Mrs. Bellingsworth’s memorial service was held at the Jesus Is Our Savior church.

      The man in charge of the ceremony—he had not introduced himself, so Miss Grayling did not know whether he was a minister, a funeral director, or perhaps a local handyman who happened to own a suit and had been pressed into service—gave a short, generic presentation that was undoubtedly intended, as the parlance was these days, “to celebrate the life” of Mrs. Bellingsworth.

      Miss Grayling saw very little to celebrate, but she was grateful that the ceremony was brief.

      The attendees, few in number, were ushered down the stairs into a basement room and seated at tables covered with white cloths, decorated with small flower arrangements in the center. A buffet table of sandwiches and cakes stood against the back wall.

      The offerings were not sumptuous, but if they had been prepared by the ample ladies in aprons who waited by the kitchen door, they would be filling and tasty.

      Miss Grayling held back so that she was not the first person in line. She selected a variety of sandwiches and