Marie was roundly welcomed back by Bindy, Helena, another kitchen worker and Mrs. Lipton. Two grooms, Mike and Walt, stood up and made mock bows to her. Mike pretended to tip his hat. “Welcome back, Miss Lafayette. You’ve fed us well even on your day off.”
Walt put his hand over his heart. “You’ve made our lives worth livin’ again. Maybe the Old Girl isn’t as hard as she seems. You must never leave this place.”
“Here, here!” cried someone.
Mrs. Lipton put an arm around Marie’s shoulder. “She’s working very hard for you. And I’m glad you appreciate it.”
Marie smiled because it was lovely to be appreciated. Someday even Louisa might show her gratitude. And then again, maybe not.
Would Marie really care?
She had yet to meet the niece and nephew, though she had seen Megan Stafford lounging by the swimming pool. The woman had worn a large sun hat, large sunglasses and a tiny bikini.
Marie wondered why Reynard said the niece’s appearance might give her a jolt. To Marie, who’d never worn a bikini in her life, the only surprising thing about the woman was the skimpiness of her swimwear.
That night Reynard again took Marie to The Secret Heiress. She didn’t want her uncle prodding her to hurry up and win Louisa’s trust so she took the initiative and started by quizzing him.
“All right,” she said, “how was your conversation this morning with Miss Fairchild?”
Reynard sipped at his schooner of beer. “Interesting,” he said with an innocent expression. “How was yours this morning with Andrew Preston?”
She gasped in angry disbelief. “How do you know about that?”
He shrugged and gave her a resigned smile. “In a small community like this? I told you, love, the main recreation’s gossip. One of the hands from Whittleson’s, Sandy Sanford, spent his day off in Scone and saw you go into a tearoom together. Then leave and drive off with him in his car. Oh, you’ll keep few secrets here.”
She glowered at him. “I see. I now live in a goldfish bowl.”
“Indeed. And be careful of this Preston. All he wants is a quick roll in the hay.”
Marie narrowed her eyes. “You told me he wasn’t getting involved with any women.”
Reynard lit a cigarette, and stared at her through the spiraling smoke. “That’s what he said. And he won’t. Get involved with anybody the public might recognize, that is. But a girl such as yourself? Out of the limelight? Susceptible to his charms? Perhaps if he thought he could discreetly dally with you. He fancies you, it’s clear.”
“I don’t dally, discreetly or otherwise,” Marie shot back. “And I asked you what you and Louisa talked about.”
“She wants me to keep an eye on Andrew Preston and the fabulous Miss Darci Parnell, that’s all. She wonders what they’re up to.”
“And you agreed?” Marie demanded.
“I told her I wasn’t an insider at Lochlain. But I’d keep my eyes open and my ears as sharp as I could.”
Marie gave a sigh of disgust. “Your eyes are always sharp.”
He tapped one of his hearing aids. “Well, the hearing isn’t, duck. And it’s getting worse.”
“I think you’ve learned to compensate. You seldom seem to miss what people say.”
“Under the right circumstances. Not in a crowd, not with background noise, not when people talk low.”
“So—will you tell her that he met me in Scone?”
“She probably already knows. And what’s your version, love? Did the two of you plan it after he swept you up in his arms to protect you from the kiddy snake?”
“I planned nothing,” Marie said emphatically. “Good grief, does everybody know my business? I walked out of a thrift shop, and there he was. He offered to take me to tea, and I accepted. I was going to the grocery store, and so was he. He gave me a lift, then drove me back to the bus stop.”
“Do you think he followed you to Scone?” Reynard asked mildly.
“Why would he? He’s an important man. I’m nobody.”
“A very lovely little nobody.” Reynard tapped his fingers against his cheek contemplatively. He took another drag, then exhaled slowly. “Did he volunteer to drive you back to Fairchild Acres?”
“Yes, he did,” she retorted. “And I told him no. That I didn’t think Louisa would like it, and that he and I shouldn’t mingle.”
Reynard smiled. “Wise. You know, Andrew seems a decent chap, but he’s only human. And not just any human. He’s one with powerful enemies. Extremely powerful.”
Marie sat straighter in her chair and stared at him. This was the second conversation of the day about enemies. Andrew had mentioned Tyler had enemies, too. “Exactly what do you mean by that?”
Reynard raised his brows speculatively. “There are people who may try to hurt him. Him and those around him. I’m only saying it’s a possibility. I mean, there has been arson and murder at Lochlain. And there are rumors about Jacko Bullock and his associates. That for all his bright smiles and quick jokes, he’s got a dark side.”
“How so?”
“Ties to organized crime,” Reynard said offhandedly. “Don’t know if it’s true. But there are some very tough people out there who want the racing world here to stay just the way it is. They’d much rather see Jacko as president. Andrew would be their worst nightmare.”
She looked at him skeptically. “That’s rather a cloak-and-dagger statement, Rennie.”
“Ah,” he said, “in the racing world, these are cloak-and-dagger times. Do you know how the Internet affects betting? Do you know about offshore betting and money transfer by wire? The opportunities to launder money? Irresistible, my dear. Irresistible.”
“And that’s a reform Andrew Preston wants to make?” she murmured. “To stop the money laundering?”
“Exactly. He’d do his damnedest. Which would make certain people unhappy. Even violently unhappy, if you get my drift.”
He patted his side with the bandaged ribs. “Everybody knows the fire was arson. Most likely set to get at the Prestons. Tyler was getting death threats about his best horse, y’know. Anonymous.”
Marie straightened in her chair, her body tensing. She remembered, too, that Tyler had gotten threats before the fire.
“Somebody may very well have it in for the Prestons. Andrew’s going to be a magnet for trouble. Keep your distance.”
“Rennie,” Marie challenged, “aren’t you being a tad melodramatic?”
“No. Realistic. During this election, keep away from him. Will he be interested in you when it’s over? That might be a different matter. Another glass of wine, love?”
“Thanks, but no,” she murmured. “It’s been a long day. I think I’d just like to go back.”
“Righto,” he said. “Don’t want you all tired out. I’m sure the old girl intends to keep you on your toes. But you won’t have to worry about Preston for a while. His campaign schedule’s tight. His campaign manager’s doing her job. Fabulously, of course.”
“It’s no concern of mine,” Marie said, trying to sound airy about it.
But inside, she felt a sickening turmoil. This afternoon she’d seen a newspaper photo of Darci Parnell. She was fabulous, beautiful, perfectly coiffed and made up, and exquisitely dressed.
Marie couldn’t believe there wasn’t chemistry between such a woman and Andrew. They looked like a perfect match. They were Thoroughbreds themselves. She said, “I suppose she’ll be spending all her time with Andrew. That’s her job, isn’t it?”
Reynard gave her a sly smile and arched one brow. “Curious, are you? Well, she’s definitely interested in Mr. Preston. Mr. Tyler Preston, not Andrew.”
“You’re certain of that?” she demanded.
“I have two good eyes in my head and a knack for using them. I could see it from the minute she got here. My mum used to say I had the gift of foresight.” He yawned and tapped out his cigarette. He drained his beer. “And now my foresight foresees me in bed.”
He gav
e her a knowing smile. “And do remember, m’dear. It’s safer to have a rich old granny who’s fond of you than a rich lover. Lovers are far more fickle than grannies.”
Maybe not more fickle than my granny, Marie thought bleakly—if that’s who she is.
Reynard dropped her off at the gate shortly after 10:00 p.m. When she reached her bungalow she changed into her sleeping uniform, which was how she thought of her pajamas, read a chapter in the horse breeding book and turned out the light. But she couldn’t stop thinking.
There was Rennie’s startling news that beautiful Darci Parnell was interested in Tyler Preston, not Andrew. That had somehow comforted her. And yet Reynard had warned her emphatically against Andrew.
There was too much intrigue in Hunter Valley. Once again she was ready to tell Rennie she wished she’d never set out on this Quixotic journey, that she wanted to go home and be herself. Louisa’s great-niece and great-nephew seemed settled in, and from the little Marie had heard, their visit was going well. If Louisa liked them, she would write them into her will as her heirs.
Marie thought it wrong to meddle with their relationship. She’d made no claim on Louisa’s affections or her fortune. Even if she had the right to do so, she’d feel compromised if she did. She’d insinuated herself into Louisa’s household, and she didn’t like herself for it.
As for Andrew, Reynard was right. If he felt anything at all for her, it was only physical, a passing lust, a testosterone hiccup.
She’d made the mistake of going out with a few well-to-do men when she first worked at the Scepter. They’d thought she’d be easy because she was only a waitress. And Andrew, although he seemed sincere, would be the same. She must face the fact.
The next morning at Fairchild Acres began badly.
“I have unfortunate news,” Mrs. Lipton announced to Bindy, Helena and Marie. “Cook has phoned from Sydney. She won’t be returning. She says her doctor insists she take on a less demanding job.”
Marie’s heart plummeted.
Mrs. Lipton looked at her sympathetically. “I’m sorry, my dear. You’ve being doing your work and Cook’s, too, and I’m afraid you’ll have to keep it up until I can find a replacement for her. You’ll have to keep on doing extra duty. I know it’s hard. But can you?”
Marie swallowed hard. She hated to make a commitment. But Mrs. Lipton looked both apologetic and desperate. Marie swallowed again. “I—I’m not sure. But I can try, ma’am.”
“You’re a treasure,” Mrs. Lipton said, looking infinitely relieved. “I can’t believe how that woman played out her sick leave and insurance benefits. I think she planned it this way all along, the conniving thing.”
“She always was a sly one,” Bindy put in. “She used to nip at the cooking wine, too. I seen her. I’ll bet it was her liver, not her knee, that ailed her.”
Mrs. Lipton gave her a look that bespoke of long suffering. Bindy was inclined to inject as much drama as she could into life.
The older woman sighed, “And suddenly, with no notice at all, Millie announced late last night that she was leaving. She may already be gone.”
“Millie? The upstairs maid?” asked Marie. Millie had been a curvy, doe-eyed girl who’d seemed a bit too elegant to be a housemaid. Her makeup was always flawless, her hair perfectly done, and she seldom talked, only listened.
“Yes,” Mrs. Lipton said with a trace of disgust. “Just up and announced she’d be going. That leaves me with two positions to fill. At least Miss will be going to the U.K., and the guests will be going back to Sydney as soon as they can. Otherwise, how could we cope?”
“Millie told me once she’d been a skimpy,” Bindy offered, “a barmaid who didn’t wear hardly anything at all. She said it was much more peaceful here, but boring, and it didn’t pay nearly the same. I bet she’ll be back in a bar before you know it.”
“Bindy, please be quiet,” pleaded Mrs. Lipton. “I have a headache.”
Later in the morning, Marie finally got her first clear look at Megan and Patrick Stafford when she went out to pick fresh parsley.
She saw Louisa inspecting the flower gardens arm in arm with her great-niece and great-nephew. They looked like a friendly trio, but not quite a cozy one. The nephew was tall and square-jawed with perfectly barbered hair and conservative sports clothes—a stockbroker, said Mrs. Lipton.
The niece, too, was tall, and dressed in what must be designer clothing, flowing silken black slacks and an exotically patterned tunic. But as Marie passed them, she glanced from Megan’s clothes to her face. She got the jolt Reynard had predicted.
Megan Stafford had hair the same sunny blond as Marie’s—and remarkably similar features. Her eyes were almost the same unusual green, perhaps only a shade darker with the irises ringed by a hint of hazel.
She looked at Marie, and Marie looked at her and realized that they were both startled, though neither spoke. Patrick, who was talking, didn’t seem to notice, and Louisa, who gazed up at him with judgmental interest, acted as if Marie wasn’t even there.
Marie passed on, her stomach tightening.
Another coincidence? The young woman who might be related to her had almost identical coloring. She, too, looked remarkably like the young Louisa in the photographs.
Marie marched on to the kitchen to start her breakfast shift. Megan Stafford, she’d been told, had a law degree and worked for a collective of art galleries. No wonder she wore such eye-catching clothes.
What, Marie wondered, if they were part of her family? What would she ever talk about with a lawyer and a stockbroker? Nothing: she was from a different world, the common world, and she didn’t belong in theirs. Of course, Louisa had ignored Marie. Her attention had focused solely on her sophisticated guests. On her kind of people.
It’s time to leave. It’s a terrible thing to do to Mrs. Lipton, but Louisa’s going to England, and the Staffords are leaving as soon as possible. That will give her some breathing space. I should go while the getting is good. It’s time. I’ll tell Rennie that I have to go by week’s end. I’ll make an excuse that there are complications about Mama’s estate.
But that night at The Secret Heiress, Reynard counseled her not to be impulsive. He leaned closer, lowering his eyelids as if imparting a secret. “Why should you leave? You have as much right to claim kinship as those two. More right—you’re her direct descendent. So you saw the Stafford woman up close? You saw the resemblance between the two of you? And both of you to the Louisa of yore?”
“I don’t care,” Marie retorted. “I don’t like this, and I don’t much like Louisa, and she doesn’t much like me. If I claim I’m her granddaughter, she’ll despise me. She’ll think I’m a sneak and a fraud, and I couldn’t deny it. So why should I stay?”
“Because she hasn’t fired you,” he said with a crooked smile. “Why hasn’t she? Maybe she doesn’t want you to go. Why? Maybe she’s watching you, just as you’re watching her. Oh, she’s a mysterious one, all right.”
“Why would she pay any attention to me?”
“Maybe she’s noticed the resemblance, too. Who knows? And besides, love, what’ll you do if you quit? Your job’s filled for the next couple months. Classes have started without you. And your place is rented to somebody else. You’ve got to stay long enough to set aside some money, at least.”
He had her there. He certainly did.
For the next day Louisa had planned a special parting feast for her young relatives. They would stay a day or two longer— Sydney was still blockaded. But Louisa, who would take tonight’s flight to London from Melbourne, had told them to stay as long as they needed.
The day of her departure, cooking was a full-time job in the Fairchild kitchen. Louisa had requested a feast for supper, and Helena and Marie would work all day to make it.
As evening approached, Marie was dashing into the dining room with the crystal decanter of wine, when she saw a police car gliding up the front drive. She heard someone knock loudly at the front door. She slipped into
the dining room and set the decanter on the buffet.
A man was saying something to Mrs. Lipton. Marie peered furtively from the doorway and saw the housekeeper, her expression reluctant, lead two policemen into the library.
Then Louisa came stalking in the front door to the kitchen from the direction of the stables, wearing her riding costume. Mrs. Lipton met her.
“Miss,” called Mrs. Lipton in a low voice, “Officer Hastings wishes to speak to you. He and another officer are in the library.” Louisa thrust her riding helmet into Mrs. Lipton’s hands and strode into the library, Mrs. Lipton scurrying behind her protectively.
“What in hell do you want now?” Louisa demanded, and then the doors crashed shut again.
Marie nearly cringed in nervousness. Mrs. Lipton had told her that the police had already come to question Louisa once. Why were they back again? She waited, listening hard, but she only heard her own pulses pounding in her ears.
Then, moments later, she heard a cry of outrage and distress, and sounds suspiciously like a scuffle, then Louisa’s tearful voice crying out for help. In alarm, Marie ran farther into the hall, stopping near the library’s entrance.
The door burst open and Mrs. Lipton ran out, looking frantic, and the door slammed shut behind her. She hurried to one of the doors that led to the swimming pool and pulled it open.
“Megan! Megan!” she cried. “Come quick! It’s Miss Fairchild!
Megan’s voice was faint, but clear. “What is it?”
“They’re arresting her!”
“Arresting Louisa? What for?”
“Murder!”
Arresting Louisa Fairchild? For murder? Marie’s heart raced in disbelief.
But it was true. A few moments later, the two men in uniform hustled an angry, sputtering Louisa out the front door. She was pale, her footsteps tottering. Handcuffs glinted on her thin and fragile wrists.
Chapter Eight
Tears glistened in Mrs. Lipton’s eyes. “That gun they found? That killed Sam Whittleson? They think it’s Louisa’s—the same one she used to shoot at him last year. And it wasn’t in the cabinet. It’s gone. So th-they arrested her.”
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