Chapter 6 The Detective's Afternoon Tea

# Chapter 6: The Detective's Afternoon Tea

Three days after Ernest Blackwood's gruesome death, the mansion felt both emptier and more liberated. Nina had spent those days in a carefully choreographed performance of grief—accepting condolences from Ernest's business associates, speaking solemnly to reporters about her "devastating loss," and meeting with funeral directors to plan a service befitting a man of Ernest's stature.

Vanessa had seamlessly stepped into the role of the reconciled sister-in-law, explaining to curious society members that she and Ernest had been working on repairing their relationship in recent months. Her presence beside Nina presented a united family front that discouraged too many probing questions.

The official story—that a transport of hunting dogs had somehow escaped and made their way to Ernest's hospital room in a tragic accident—had been met with skepticism by some but accepted as a bizarre twist of fate by most. The hospital's security footage showing only static during the crucial minutes had been attributed to an electrical surge that affected several systems that night.

Nina was arranging lilies in the foyer, preparing for another day of receiving mourners, when Vanessa approached with a concerned expression.

"Detective James Mercer is here to see you," she said quietly. "He's with the Major Crimes Division."

Nina's hand paused momentarily before continuing to adjust a bloom. "Did he say what this is about?"

"Just that he has some follow-up questions about Ernest's death. He's very... insistent."

Nina nodded, setting down the flowers. "Show him to the garden terrace. I'll be there shortly."

As Vanessa left to escort the detective, Nina quickly assessed her appearance in the hallway mirror. She wore a tasteful black dress, her hair pulled back in a modest chignon, her makeup subtle but sufficient to hide the fact that she hadn't shed a single genuine tear over Ernest's death. She pinched her cheeks slightly to bring color to them and practiced a solemn, grieving expression.

When she stepped onto the terrace, Detective Mercer rose from his seat—tall and broad-shouldered with sharp hazel eyes that seemed to catch every detail. He was younger than she had expected, perhaps mid-thirties, with dark hair and a face that would have been conventionally handsome if not for the intensity of his gaze.

"Mrs. Blackwood," he said, extending his hand. "Thank you for seeing me. I'm Detective James Mercer."

"Of course," Nina replied, her handshake appropriately limp. "Though I'm not sure how I can help. I've already given my statement to the officers at the hospital."

"Yes, I've reviewed that," Mercer said, returning to his seat as Nina sat across from him. "But there are always details that emerge in subsequent conversations. The mind processes trauma in layers."

Nina noted his careful choice of words—not "grief" but "trauma." This detective was precise.

"Would you care for some tea?" she offered. "My housekeeper was just preparing some."

"That would be nice, thank you."

Nina signaled to Vanessa, who had remained by the terrace doors, and she disappeared inside to relay the request.

"Detective Mercer," Nina began, "I want to be helpful, but I'm not sure what else I can tell you. I wasn't at the hospital when the... incident occurred."

"No, you had returned home," Mercer confirmed, consulting a small notebook. "After visiting your husband briefly. Can you walk me through that evening again? Starting from when you arrived home from... where was it you had been earlier that day?"

"I hadn't been out," Nina corrected gently. "Ernest and I were both home all day. He had been working in his study, and I was preparing for a charity gala we were supposed to host the following evening."

"The one that was canceled due to his death," Mercer noted.

"Yes. Obviously."

The detective nodded, making a note. "And then what happened?"

Nina recounted the official version of events—Ernest going to the basement for cleaning supplies after she accidentally spilled wine, his medical distress, the emergency call, the trip to the hospital.

"And you have no idea why those particular dogs were being transported near the hospital that night?" Mercer asked.

"None at all," Nina replied. "As I told the officers, those dogs are usually kept at our country estate. Ernest used them for hunting. I rarely saw them."

"Yet three of those same dogs were found here at the mansion when officers arrived to inform you of your husband's death," Mercer observed. "Quite a coincidence."

Nina had prepared for this. "Ernest's sister Vanessa had brought them from the country estate earlier that day. She thought seeing them might lift his spirits once he recovered. Ernest loved those dogs."

The terrace doors opened, and the housekeeper appeared with a tea service. She set it down on the table between them and departed silently.

"May I?" Nina asked, reaching for the teapot.

"Please," Mercer replied, watching her movements carefully.

Nina poured two cups of steaming tea, adding a splash of milk to hers. "How do you take yours, Detective?"

"Just plain, thank you."

As she handed him his cup, Nina's sleeve pulled back slightly, revealing a dark bruise on her wrist. She saw Mercer's eyes flick to it momentarily before returning to her face.

"Mrs. Blackwood," he said after taking a sip of tea, "were you aware of a livestream that occurred the night of your husband's... medical emergency?"

Nina allowed a look of confusion to cross her face. "A livestream? I don't understand."

"A video broadcast online," Mercer clarified. "From your basement. It showed your husband in apparent distress. It had quite a large audience before it was taken down."

Nina set down her teacup with a slight tremor in her hand. "That's... disturbing. No, I had no idea. Who would do such a thing?"

"That's what we're trying to determine," Mercer said, studying her reaction. "The stream originated from your home network."

"Detective, I am barely competent with basic email," Nina said with a self-deprecating smile. "I wouldn't have the first idea how to set up a livestream. Ernest handled all of our technology needs."

Mercer nodded, taking another sip of his tea. "The stream included audio of what sounded like your husband discussing... plans to harm someone. A woman."

Nina's hand flew to her throat in a gesture of shock. "What? That's impossible."

"Several viewers recorded portions of the broadcast," Mercer continued. "The audio quality isn't perfect, but he clearly discusses arranging an accident involving a staircase."

Nina stared at the detective, allowing tears to well in her eyes. She had practiced this moment in the mirror. "Are you suggesting... that Ernest wanted to hurt me?"

"I'm not suggesting anything at this point, Mrs. Blackwood. I'm gathering information." Mercer leaned forward slightly. "Were you and your husband having problems?"

Nina looked down at her tea, then deliberately pulled her sleeve back to fully reveal the bruise on her wrist. "Ernest was... complicated. He could be very charming, very generous. But he had expectations about how his wife should behave."

She glanced up to see Mercer's eyes fixed on the bruise. "Did your husband do that to you?"

"It was an accident," Nina said quickly, then paused, as if catching herself in a habitual lie. "At least, that's what I told myself."

She pulled the neckline of her dress slightly aside to reveal another bruise on her collarbone—a fresh one she had carefully created that morning by pressing a rounded pen cap against her skin until it left a mark.

"Mrs. Blackwood," Mercer said softly, "was your husband abusive?"

Nina allowed a single tear to fall. "Detective, Ernest is dead. What purpose would it serve to speak ill of him now?"

"It might help explain certain... inconsistencies in this case."

Nina dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. "Such as?"

"Such as why a man with no history of heart problems suddenly had cardiac distress. Or why security cameras failed at precisely the moment the dogs entered his room. Or why those same dogs, trained to obey their master, would suddenly attack him."

Nina took a shaky breath. "Are you implying that someone deliberately set those dogs on Ernest? That's horrific."

"It's one possibility we're considering," Mercer acknowledged, watching her closely.

Nina stood and walked to the edge of the terrace, wrapping her arms around herself as if for comfort. "I don't know what to tell you, Detective. My husband is dead. I'm still processing that reality. The idea that someone might have wanted to harm him..." She trailed off, shaking her head.

"Mrs. Blackwood," Mercer said, rising to join her at the terrace railing, "is there anything else you think I should know? Anything about your husband's business dealings, personal relationships, enemies he might have had?"

Nina turned to face him, their positions now closer than the formal seating arrangement had allowed. "Ernest was a powerful man, Detective. Powerful men accumulate both friends and enemies. But I was just his wife. He didn't discuss business with me."

As she spoke, Nina noticed Mercer blinking rapidly, his hand moving to his temple as if to ward off sudden pain.

"Detective? Are you alright?"

"Yes, just a... sudden headache," he said, his words slightly slower than before. He reached for the terrace railing to steady himself.

"Please, sit down," Nina urged, guiding him back to his chair. "Would you like some water instead of tea? Sometimes caffeine can trigger migraines."

"Thank you, yes," Mercer said, lowering himself carefully into the chair. "I don't usually... experience this."

Nina went inside and returned with a glass of water, into which she had discreetly added another small dose of the mild hallucinogen she had mixed into his tea earlier. It was a substance she had found in Ernest's private cabinet—likely intended for his own nefarious purposes, now repurposed for hers.

"Here," she said, handing him the water. "Perhaps some fresh air would help as well. Shall we walk in the garden?"

Mercer drank deeply, then nodded. "Yes, that might... clear my head."

Nina helped him up, noting with satisfaction that his movements were becoming less coordinated. She led him down the terrace steps into the formal garden, her arm linked supportively with his.

"You mentioned inconsistencies in the case," she said as they walked slowly between manicured hedges. "What else troubles you about Ernest's death?"

Mercer seemed to struggle to organize his thoughts. "There was... an anonymous tip. Before the incident. Someone called the station suggesting we look into Ernest Blackwood's business practices. Mentioned possible connections to... three other deaths."

Nina's heart raced, but she kept her expression concerned. "Three deaths? What deaths?"

"Wealthy individuals," Mercer said, his speech slightly slurred now. "All ruled natural causes or accidents. But the caller suggested... pattern."

They had reached a stone bench beneath a flowering magnolia tree. Nina guided Mercer to sit down, noting how the dappled sunlight through the branches cast strange patterns that would further disorient his drug-affected perception.

"That sounds like someone trying to cause trouble with anonymous accusations," Nina said soothingly. "Surely there's no evidence connecting Ernest to other deaths."

"Not yet," Mercer admitted, his eyes struggling to focus on her face. "But I found... similarities. Financial gains. Insurance policies. Your husband benefited each time."

Nina allowed alarm to show on her face. "Are you saying you think my husband was some kind of... serial killer?"

"Not saying that. Just... investigating," Mercer's hand moved to his temple again. "I'm sorry, I'm not feeling well at all."

"It's the heat perhaps," Nina suggested. "Let me help you back inside where it's cooler."

As she helped him to his feet, Nina deliberately positioned herself so that when he stood, unsteady on his feet, he would see the bruise on her collarbone again. His eyes fixed on it momentarily, his law enforcement instincts fighting through the fog of the hallucinogen.

"Did he hurt you often?" Mercer asked suddenly, his voice clearer for a moment.

Nina hesitated, then gave a small nod. "He was careful. Nothing that would show in public. Nothing I could prove."

"You could have reported—"

"To whom?" Nina interrupted, her voice carrying genuine emotion for the first time. "Ernest owned half the city council. He played golf with the police commissioner. Who would have believed me?"

Mercer's expression darkened, and Nina could see that despite his compromised state, this information had registered deeply. Good. She needed him to see her as a victim, not a suspect.

"Mrs. Blackwood," he said as they slowly made their way back toward the house, "if you ever felt in danger, why didn't you leave?"

"I tried once," Nina said softly. "He found me within hours. He made it very clear what would happen if I ever attempted it again."

This was a calculated risk—admitting a potential motive for wanting Ernest dead—but Nina had decided it was better to acknowledge the obvious than pretend their marriage had been perfect.

By the time they reached the terrace again, Mercer was visibly struggling to maintain his professional composure. He nearly stumbled on the steps, and Nina steadied him with a hand on his arm.

"Detective, you're clearly unwell," she said with concern. "Let me call you a car."

"No, I drove here," he mumbled, reaching for his pocket as if for car keys.

"You're in no condition to drive," Nina insisted. "Please, I insist on calling you a car service. It would be irresponsible of me to let you leave like this."

After a brief argument, Mercer reluctantly agreed, and Nina called for a private car to take him back to the police station. As they waited in the cool foyer of the mansion, Mercer made one last attempt at clarity.

"Mrs. Blackwood," he said, his voice stronger with effort, "I will need to continue this investigation. There are too many questions surrounding your husband's death."

Nina nodded solemnly. "I understand, Detective. I want answers too. But I hope you'll consider that sometimes... sometimes justice comes in unexpected ways."

Mercer's eyes narrowed slightly at this statement, but before he could respond, the car arrived. Nina walked him to the door, supporting his arm as if he were an elderly relative rather than a fit detective in his thirties.

"Thank you for the tea," he said as he stepped outside, seeming to regain some of his faculties in the fresh air. "I'll be in touch."

"I'll be here," Nina replied with a small smile. "Take care, Detective Mercer."

As the car pulled away, Vanessa emerged from the shadows of the hallway. "That was risky," she observed. "Drugging a police detective."

"It was a calculated risk," Nina replied, closing the door. "The dose was mild—just enough to make him doubt his own perceptions and seem less credible if he reports his suspicions too aggressively."

"And the bruises? Those were a nice touch."

Nina glanced down at her wrist. "People see what they expect to see. The detective came here looking for a victim and an abuser. I simply confirmed his narrative."

"He'll be back," Vanessa warned. "And next time, he'll be more prepared."

"I'm counting on it," Nina said with a small smile. "Detective Mercer is... intriguing. And potentially useful."

Vanessa raised an eyebrow. "Useful how?"

"Every good story needs a witness," Nina explained. "Someone objective who can testify to the character of the players. Detective Mercer, with his strong sense of justice and his sympathy for apparent victims of powerful men, is perfect for that role."

"You're playing a dangerous game," Vanessa cautioned.

Nina's smile turned cold. "I've been playing dangerous games since the moment I married Ernest. The difference is, now I'm writing the rules."

She moved to the window, watching the car carrying Detective Mercer disappear down the long driveway. In his notebook, she had glimpsed the notation he'd made earlier: "3rd wealthy death—pattern?" The detective was already connecting dots that could lead back to Ernest's other crimes.

Perfect. Let him uncover Ernest's past sins. Each revelation would only strengthen the narrative that Ernest Blackwood had been a monster who finally met a fitting end, and that his widow was nothing more than another of his intended victims who had miraculously escaped his plans.

The grandfather clock chimed three times, signaling the afternoon's progression. Nina turned from the window with renewed purpose. Ernest's funeral was tomorrow, and she had a black widow's outfit to prepare.