by Fiona Grace
Suddenly, Lacey was determined. She might have promised Superintendent Turner she wouldn’t get involved, but the stakes were too high. She was going to stick her nose in the case after all. She was going to solve the murder.
Lacey went straight to the counter and pulled out her notebook and pen. She started writing down everything she knew about Greg Ford and a timeline of his movements in Wilfordshire.
The first thing that struck her was how quickly the duplicitous man moved. He’d arrived in Wilfordshire the morning after her post on the archaeological society’s forum. He’d attempted to steal the scepter at the very first opportunity, and brazenly, considering there were two people and a dog on site, even if all of them were absorbed with their own activities—meditating, gardening, sleeping. He’d had a crowbar and a mask, as if he’d always been planning on striking. And he’d booked a room at the Lodge in order to stay close and keep an ear to the ground. It all struck Lacey as the planning of an organized criminal.
Then there was the day of his death. He’d been equally quick that day, zipping around with Lacey barely five minutes on his tail by the looks of things. He’d managed to commit an attempted burglary at the store and then get to the Lodge in time for lunch. It wasn’t an impossible feat—Lacey herself had made the journey, about five minutes behind him—but it certainly showed some forethought.
“So he made it back to the Lodge for lunch,” she said. “Possibly in an attempt to establish an alibi for the attempted theft?”
And then what? He’d been killed in the short space of time it had taken her to return to her store, talk to the cops, and come back to the Lodge to challenge him again. Whoever had wanted him dead must’ve been pretty determined. They might well have acted almost immediately after his attempt to escape out the back dining room exit. In fact, they seemed just as fast as Greg himself was.
Lacey pondered it all, trying to fit all the pieces together in her mind.
Suddenly, she remembered how she’d overhead Greg talking—no, bragging—to the man on the table over. Something to do with long-lost Jacobite gold?
What if the guest he’d been bragging to was the killer? Perhaps he’d killed him to get his gold?
She decided her first step was to go to the Lodge to question the staff there about the man dining on the table next to Greg. She’d leave just as soon as Gina arrived.
Speak of the devil, in came Gina. She had Boudica weaving around at her feet, and Naomi, Shirley, Frankie, and Chester in tow.
Great, Lacey thought. She’d really hoped she’d have a bit more time before her family descended.
Shirley looked utterly thrilled this morning. She was clearly still on a high from the cancelled dinner. Naomi, on the other hand, looked weary. Her mind was clearly more on the dead man found at the inn they were staying at. Frankie seemed oblivious to all the drama, and Lacey was glad they’d managed to keep him out of it all so far.
Chester ran over to greet her as they all bustled inside chatting loudly.
“Morning, Aunty Lacey!” Frankie shouted, ruffling Chester’s fur.
“We thought you might prefer to have breakfast here,” Shirley said.
“Actually, I just have to step out,” Lacey said.
Shirley’s face dropped. “Now, Lacey. You left before lunch. Then dinner was cancelled. We absolutely must have breakfast. When else will we get the time to catch up before the wedding?”
Lacey felt bad for blowing them off. But if she didn’t act now, there would be no wedding to go to!
Frankie gazed up at her from where he was ruffling Chester’s fur. “Gina said she’d cover,” he added, hopefully.
His big puppy dog eyes made Lacey feel even worse.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just have some really important last-minute preparations to go through at the Lodge. I can’t put it off.”
Frankie pouted, looking downcast.
“But I’m sure Gina can entertain you until I’m back?” Lacey added. “Maybe you could do some gardening together?”
“Great idea, boss,” Gina said, giving her a knowing look. She probably assumed Lacey was rushing off to make arrangements for the secret wedding Plan B, and Lacey wasn’t about to tell her what she was really up to. “Want to help me in the greenhouse, Frankie?”
He brightened and gave her a nod.
“Thank you,” Lacey mouthed to Gina.
Her friend nodded, took hold of the little boy’s hand, and headed out to the garden. When they were gone, Lacey looked over at Naomi and Shirley. “Help yourself to teas and coffees. And if you get hungry, Tom’s just over the road. He’d be very happy to bake you some fresh croissants.”
Naomi and Shirley both looked pleased with the compromise.
Satisfied that her family would be taken care of, Lacey hurried for the door, with Chester her trusty sidekick at her side, and a fire of determination burning in her belly to solve the case and save her wedding burning.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Hey, Ash,” Lacey called across the Drawing Room to the mustachioed mixologist. “Can I ask you something?”
The Lodge’s cocktail maker extraordinaire put down the glass he’d been polishing. “Fire away. This is about the murder, right? Totally crazy. The cops have been questioning everyone.”
Lacey walked over to the wooden bar, Chester trotting along beside her. When she reached it, she leaned her arms on the dark mahogany wood.
“Before he died, I overheard the victim talking to someone over lunch,” she explained. “I’m hoping to track that diner down.”
Ash reached under the bar and brought out a binder. He flicked it open to reveal a diagram of the seating plan of the dining room. “Where were they sitting?”
“Greg, the victim, was here,” Lacey said, pointing at the table by the kitchen doors. “The other diner was sitting on the next table over.” She tapped the sketch to indicate the correct table.
“Table ten,” Ash said. He flipped the page over to the corresponding list of bookings. “It was booked under Moyles.” Then, with a tone of recognition, he added, “I wonder if it was Marcus?”
Lacey raised an eyebrow. “Marcus Moyles? That was his name?”
“Yeah,” Ash said. “If it’s the same Moyles who comes in here regularly, I mean.”
“Describe him.”
“Brown hair. Freckles. Fifty-odd.”
Lacey nodded. The description matched the man she’d seen Greg bragging to about the gold over lunch. “That sounds like him. He’s not a guest at the Lodge?”
Ash shook his head. “No. He’s a local. Lives in Wollenton Green. But he comes in here all the time because, well, obviously I make the best cocktails.” He grinned cheekily.
“Wollenton Green?” Lacey muttered, her chest sinking. That was the next town over. And since she’d been expressly forbidden from leaving Wilfordshire, that meant she couldn’t go and interrogate her prime suspect. If Marcus Moyles had been a guest at the Lodge, she would’ve been able to question him here, but since he was outside of Wilfordshire he was totally out of her reach.
She looked back at Ash. “What are the chances he comes in tonight?”
“Pretty high,” Ash replied. “He’s quite the boozer.” He mimed glugging a drink.
“He’s an alcoholic?” Lacey questioned. Not that it made him any more guilty, but people could act irrationally when under the influence, and small fights could easily escalate into big ones.
Ash shrugged. “I’m not a doctor. I just make the cocktails. And let’s just say he likes a lot of cocktails…”
“Will you give me a call if he comes in again tonight?” Lacey asked, filled with disappointment. It was cutting it fine, but even if she had to wait until the evening to question Marcus Moyles it still increased her chances of being able to go ahead with her original wedding plans.
“Sure,” Ash said. “But why are you so interested in him?” Then he gasped and drew his brows in together. He lowered his voice to a whisper. �
�You don’t think he’s the killer, do you?”
Lacey paused as she considered just how much she should be involving Ash in the case. “I have a theory I want to test,” she said.
Ash drew back. He looked troubled, so far from the cocky young man Lacey knew him to be. She shouldn’t have told him anything.
“Just call me if he comes back. Please?” She handed him her business card so he’d have her number close at hand. Time in this case was very much of the essence.
Ash took it, scanning it with his eyes. “I—I, yeah. Sure. Of course.” His gaze snapped up to hers. “But Lacey. Am I in danger or anything? Like, shouldn’t I be calling the police if I see him instead of you?”
“Unless you happen to have a pocket full of antique gold, my guess is he won’t be interested in you,” Lacey said. “Beyond fixing him his martinis, of course.”
Ash paused for a moment, then nodded. He seemed placated enough with that answer. He pocketed the business card and went back to polishing his glass.
“Come on, Chester,” Lacey said. “Let’s go.”
Her dog followed her as she walked back across the dining room and headed through the corridor of the Lodge toward the exit. The atmosphere inside the inn felt a million miles away from its usual vibe. There was a heavy somberness in the air, so thick Lacey could almost feel it against her skin. It was as if Greg Ford’s murder had made a dark rain cloud form over the inn.
As Lacey retraced her steps back through the Lodge and into the foyer, the name Marcus Moyles repeated over and over in her head. Could he be her guy? He was the only person right now with a motive for murder.
Her footsteps sounded on the slate tiles as she walked to the automatic glass doors. They swished open for her, and she stepped out into the bracing cold day.
She trotted down the external steps of the inn, Chester at her side, deliberating over whether she should just go to Wollenton Green anyway and question Marcus Moyles. It was risky. She could be spotted and thrown in a cell for her troubles. But what other option did she have? If he didn’t come to the dining room to drink tonight, she’d fail anyway.
She reached the gravel lot and began walking toward her car. But as she went, she spotted a black car now parked beside her champagne Volvo that had not been there before. She recognized the tinted windows right away. The car was Superintendent Turner’s…
Lacey felt a spike of anxiety. What was he doing here? Had he followed her?
She drew closer, her view widening, and spotted the detective leaning against his car, arms crossed, an expectant look in his eyes. His gaze was fixed on her. His unimpressed expression grew even stronger the closer she got.
Lacey swallowed, under no doubt now that he was waiting for her. Which meant he was keeping a close eye on her. But why? He’d made it clear she wasn’t a suspect, so why was he watching her like a hawk?
Superintendent Turner pushed off the car as she reached him. “Lacey. I thought I might find you here. You came here to investigate the murder, I presume?”
“No,” Lacey fibbed. “I’m just trying to make arrangements in case we have to postpone or change my wedding plans tomorrow. Which I’m guessing by the fact you’re standing here and not interrogating your prime suspect is becoming a very real possibility…”
Superintendent Turner said nothing. Instead, a small smirk tugged at the side of his mouth.
“Speaking of your wedding—” he began.
Hope leapt in Lacey’s chest. Had he had a change of heart? Would he give her permission to leave Wilfordshire after all?
“—did my invite get lost in the post?” he finished.
Lacey’s chest sank, her hope dashed. He was mocking her. Rubbing it in. “You were expecting an invite? Really?”
Suddenly, Superintendent Turner’s face cracked into laughter. “I’m joking!” he cried. “I know I’m not invited. Goodness, you should see your face!”
Lacey folded her arms. She was not impressed. “Can I get to my car, please?” she said. If Turner was going to go ahead with ruining her wedding, at the very least he could not force her to waste her time with awkward conversation as well.
“Of course,” Turner said, stepping aside. “But aren’t you just itching to tell me what you found?”
Lacey paused. She turned back and frowned at him. “What?”
“Inside,” Turner said, jerking his head toward the inn. “You’re here following a lead, aren’t you? So? Don’t you want to tell me what you found? You normally do.”
Lacey narrowed her eyes. She was far from being in the right frame of mind for his taunts. “You’re not usually open to my suggestions.”
“You’re not usually so coy about giving them to me.”
Touché.
“I overheard Greg talking to another diner,” Lacey admitted. “Shortly before he died.”
Superintendent Turner looked interested. “Go on?”
“He was bragging about having found Jacobite gold. I thought that maybe he picked the wrong guy to brag about it to. Someone who saw it as an opportunity to steal.”
“A burglary gone wrong scenario,” Superintendent Turner offered.
Lacey shrugged. “It’s a motive, isn’t it? People have killed for less.”
A spark in Superintendent Turner’s eyes told Lacey she was onto something. He began nodding slowly, his eyes darting back and forth as he processed something internally.
“Yes,” he said, meeting her gaze again. “Yes, it does.” He sounded animated. “Did you get a name for this guy?”
Lacey could hardly believe this. Superintendent Karl Turner was actually listening to her for once. He was actually asking for her help. Just imagine how much they could’ve achieved had he listened to her all those other times in the past?
“Marcus Moyles,” she said. “He’s a regular. Lives in Wollenton Green.”
Superintendent Turner jotted it down in his notebook. “That is helpful,” he said, dotting the sentence with a flourish. He clicked the pen lid. “Very helpful indeed.”
Lacey blinked at this newer, more chipper Superintendent Turner. For the first time, she could actually picture him as a younger man, a sharp, intelligent, eager detective. She wondered when he’d gotten so jaded. Why it had all gone awry for him along the way. And, more interestingly, how he seemed to be pulling it all back together once again. Maybe there was hope after all to fix her broken family…
“Aren’t you going to ask?” Karl said suddenly, snapping her from her reverie.
“Ask what?”
“Ask why your statement is so helpful.”
Lacey’s inner sleuth was obviously desperate to know what she’d stumbled upon here. Superintendent Turner had clearly found a piece of evidence that her own theory matched up with. But she’d never expected him to actually voluntarily share it with her. She felt pride stirring in her chest.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” she stammered, surprised.
“We have evidence,” Superintendent Turner said, “that Greg Ford’s hotel room door was tampered with.” He smacked his notebook on his hand with triumph. “And this might very well tell us why.”
Lacey paused as she absorbed the new piece of the puzzle. “His door was tampered with?” she echoed.
Superintendent Turner wiggled his brows. “Clear signs of an attempted break-in. We’re pursuing a theft theory. This help builds up a clearer picture.”
Lacey was astonished. Not just because she’d finally seemed to have won Superintendent Turner over, but because she was hopeful again that perhaps this case might be solved in time for her wedding to go ahead.
“So what now?” she asked the detective. “Interview Marcus Moyles?”
Superintendent Turner tucked his notebook back away in the breast pocket of his beige trench coat. “That’s right.” He fixed his eyes on Lacey, and used a tone of warning. “I interview Marcus Moyles. Me and Lewis. Not YOU. And definitely not Fido.”
From where he was waiting beside her, Chester let
out a low, grumpy whine. Lacey’s earlier moment of happiness ebbed away. Turner was still determined to keep her at arm’s length, even if he had conceded she was useful to the case.
“Do you understand?” he added. “I’ll be taking it from here. You go back to your store and do whatever it is you do. Sell some antiques.”
Lacey twisted her lips in consideration. She was only investigating because of the threat to her wedding. But if she’d successfully pointed the detectives in the direction of the prime suspect, maybe if she butted out and let him do his job now, everything would be okay in the end after all.
Karl Turner leaned against the cruiser again, waiting expectantly for her confirmation.
Lacey nodded. “Fine. I’ll leave it.”
“Thank you,” he said, visibly exhaling his relief.
Lacey headed for the car.
“Oh, and Lacey?” Karl called to her from behind.
She looked back. “Yes?”
“You can take your monk back.”
“My monk?”
“Brother Benedict. We’ve finished questioning him. Released an hour ago.”
Lacey’s mouth fell open. “You mean… you thought he was a suspect?” So much for keeping out of Superintendent Turner’s cases, it seemed like the moment she turned her back he went and didn’t something stupid like questioning a monk!
“Of course we did. He might be a holy man now, but one look into his background tells a different story. Petty crime. Drugs. It’s all there. All the hallmarks of a future killer.”
Lacey remembered what Abbot Weeks had told her about Brother Benedict when they’d first met. He’d been an at-risk youth, the very type the monastery was aiming to help. But he was quite clearly reformed. He’d taken a vow of pacifism.