Peggy said, “If I were to murder Stella Lynn by making her drink poisoned whiskey, I’d have to ensure she drinks it while I don’t. So, I’d poison my own bottle, then visit Stella to swap it with hers. “Well, Stella might have just had some whiskey, or she might have half a bottle left, or a full one. She’s going out for a date, so she won’t want to drink too much, and I wouldn’t either because you can’t get drunk.” “So what would you do?” Nelson asked, his eyes still cautious. “Well,” Peggy said, “I’d find a way to break her whiskey bottle, giving me an excuse to go out and get another one to replace it, and I’d make sure Stella drinks that new bottle alone.” “Continue,” the sheriff said. “Well, if you drop the bottle on the living room carpet or the kitchen floor covered with linoleum, it won’t break, and your murder plan would fail. There’s only one place you can drop the bottle—the bathroom tiles. “A man would have a lot of trouble with this plan—getting Stella’s bottle, taking it to the bathroom, dropping it on the floor, and doing all this without arousing suspicion. But for a woman, it’s a piece of cake. “She could barge in while Stella is getting dressed, and Stella might say, ‘I’m getting ready for a date, but come in and chat with me.’ This woman would have countless opportunities to take the whiskey into the bathroom, pour a glass, drop the bottle, and say, ‘Oh, dear Stella, I’ve broken your whiskey. Keep getting dressed, I’ll go downstairs, get another bottle, and clean this up.'” “So, this woman goes to get the whiskey—that bottle of poisoned whiskey that’s been resealed. She brings it back, still in the box, hands it to Stella, saying, ‘Hey, Stella, keep dressing, I’ll clean up this mess in the bathroom.'” “So, she starts picking up the broken glass, and Stella picks up the new whiskey bottle. After all, it’s Stella, she’ll open it straight away, pour herself a large glass, and drink it down.” There was silence for a few seconds, then Sheriff Favell slowly nodded, glancing at Nelson. Nelson almost defensively said, “That’s a good theory, but what about the evidence?” “Evidence,” Peggy said with wide, innocent eyes, “Oh, there’s plenty. I searched the bathroom floor carefully for any glass shards that might not have been cleaned up. You know, cleaning up broken glass is very difficult, and sure enough, there were still some small fragments left.” Nelson took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said, “we saw them.” “And of course, there’s the broken bottle in the backyard trash can. You know, she had to wipe off the whiskey, and the killer’s hands would be sticky, leaving clear fingerprints on the broken bottle.” “Where’s the bottle?” Sheriff Favell asked. Nelson looked away. “Well, it’s with Mr. Nelson,” Peggy said immediately. “He has all the evidence. I think if Mr. Nelson has his men thoroughly search this area, at nearby grocery stores, restaurants, or any other places where she could have gotten the whiskey, looking for anyone who bought whiskey but didn’t leave the packaging, they could identify the woman. Of course, there are also those fingerprints.” “Whose fingerprints?” Sheriff Favell asked Nelson.
Peggy answered the question: “Before we can confirm, we need Mr. Nelson to finish those details, but it can only be Mrs. Bushnell’s fingerprints. You see, we’ve already confirmed that a woman killed Stella. We know that Bill Everett, through Francis’s arrangement, attempted to inform the insurance company, and his only contact was Francis, whose contact was Stella. Francis was the only one who dared not take that butterfly; if she did, Bill would know she was jealous of Stella and used this opportunity to kill Stella rather than selling those jewels to the insurance company. She wrote an anonymous letter to tell me that Kimberley and Stella would meet at the Royal Grouse Club, and then she put poison in his darkroom to frame him.”
“How did she know I would suggest meeting at the Royal Grouse Club?” Kimberley asked.
“She knew it was the most natural place. Stella had told her she had a date, and Francis must have guessed you’d suggest the Royal Grouse Club. If you suggested somewhere else, Francis would have tipped me off, but you didn’t.” Sheriff Favel stood up. “Alright,” he said, “those news reporters outside are making a racket, wanting to come in and take some photos. I’m not concerned about the details, so—” he paused, looking at Peggy, then at Don Kimberley: “So, this case has been brilliantly resolved, and credit goes to the police department.” Sheriff Favel continued, “I’m sorry, Kimberley, because of this case, we wrongly detained you.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” Kimberley said. Sheriff Favel left the room. Peggy stood up.
“Oh,” she said, “Mr. Nelson, we don’t want to stay here while you talk to those reporters. You can handle it; I’ll give you that broken whiskey bottle with the fingerprints on it. Of course, you know, Mr. Halsey, the company president, is very eager for the insurance company to receive good press.”
“Of course, of course, I understand,” Nelson said, “We appreciate everyone’s cooperation.”
“I guess I can leave now?” Kimberley asked.
Nelson nodded, “Hell, of course, or should I roll out the red carpet for you?” Don Kimberley looked at Peggy Castle as if seeing her for the first time.
“Come on, beauty,” he said, “let’s go, let Nelson do his thing. You’re too beautiful to get mixed up in such a dirty affair.”
“Oh, my goodness!” Peggy exclaimed. “Wait, I’ll go tell my Uncle Benedick what you just said!”
