Sara looked back at Puck. “How is Nadine different?”
“I think she’s afraid.”
“Of what?” Kate asked, but no one answered. “If someone did kill Mr. Howland... Why? Who? Think Nadine knows something?”
All three women looked at Jack.
“I think you guys should leave. Go home.” He looked at Puck. “You need to go with them.”
Puck sat down on a stool. “Whoever killed Sean is here. In this house. If you leave, they’ll know why.”
“I think she’s right,” Sara said. “I don’t believe in coincidence in book plots or in life. I don’t know why Mr. Howland was killed, but I truly believe it has something to do with Sean’s death.”
“And Diana’s,” Kate said. “She could be, uh, hidden somewhere.”
“I think—” Jack began, but stopped when they heard voices. “The police are here. Are we agreed on this? You’re all going to leave?”
“No,” Sara said. “We’re a threesome, remember?”
“Maybe I should tell the police that I found the—” Puck began.
“NO!” they shouted at her.
“You know nothing,” Jack said. “Understand me? I don’t want to see you with a plastic bag over your head.”
“Or shot and poisoned and strangled,” Sara said.
Puck looked shocked.
“Agreed?” Sara said.
Puck nodded.
There was a single knock and Clive opened the door. “They want everyone downstairs.” He gave a quick glance at Puck. “You too, I guess.” He shut the door.
Jack shook his head. “What could you possibly know, right?”
The way he said it made Puck give her funny little laugh. At the sound, they went down the stairs feeling somewhat better.
It was late and they were all tired, but they sat in the small drawing room and waited patiently to be called by the police for questioning. Bella went in first. She was frowning when she entered the room and when she left ten minutes later, she was glowering. She refused to look at anyone, including Sara.
Nadine and Teddy, their disagreement seemingly put aside, went next.
Sara, who was a morning person, leaned against Jack and fell asleep. He put his arm around her and she slept against his chest. He offered his other side to Kate but she declined.
When Nadine and Teddy came out, they were crying harder. The others expected to be called, but the young police officer said the inspector only wanted to see Sara and everyone else could go to bed.
“I’d rather go in with her,” Jack said.
“No, just her.” It was said in the tone of an order.
With sighs of relief, Byon, Clive and Willa left. Puck sat down beside Kate. She wasn’t leaving.
Jack woke Sara up and told her the officer wanted to speak to her.
“Me? Think he knows?” she whispered to Jack.
“Hope not. Bella already wants to kill us. I don’t want to add to it. Yet.”
Sara nodded in agreement and went into the room where the interrogations were being held. The officer was older, had a mustache, and was sitting behind a desk. He looked tired and bored, but his eyes perked up when he saw Sara.
“So you’re the famous writer. That’s interesting because I’ve always wanted to write.”
Sara stifled a scream. No! No! Not this. Not questions about writing. Or, more accurately, one question: How’d’ya-write-your-first-book-where-do-you-get-your-ideas?
As she took a seat, she managed to smile without showing too many teeth.
“I’m about to retire.” His tone was much too bright for the circumstances and the time. What was it? About 2:00 a.m.? It wouldn’t be long before she’d have been up for twenty-four hours.
“I think I’d like to write a few murder mysteries. Seems like a good occupation. And lucrative. My wife would like that.”
Sara thought about telling the truth, that most writers can’t support themselves. She’d been lucky to have started in the glorious 80s. “What about Mr. Howland?”
“Suicide,” he said. “Depressed. Couldn’t even drive his own cars and he loved those! He was a good man. Back when those two ran away, Mr. Howland was a haven of sanity. He—”
Sara leaned forward. “You were here? On the night they disappeared?”
“It was my first case,” he said proudly. “I was young then, and I remember it all.”
Sleepiness left her. “I want to hear every word about that night.”
He took his time before speaking. “I heard you were thinking of writing about our little mystery. Of course it wouldn’t be ethical of me to tell the things I saw that night, now would it?”
I have been drawn into the bowels of hell, Sara thought. He was a true devil: a would-be writer. They all believed there was a “Great Secret” to writing. Learn it and the world was theirs.
She was too worn out to be nice. “What can I do to help you?” she said, which was code for “What’s your price?” She crossed her fingers for luck. Please, please, please let him be a money wanna-be. Those were easy. Turn them over to an agent. The ones who made her crazy wanted to relentlessly question her until she finally divulged “The Secret.”
“I think I’ll need an agent,” he said.
Sara genuinely smiled. “You got it. I’ll connect you. Now tell me.”
He smiled back. A bargain had been reached. “My boss hated the earl, Bertram. Don’t know why.”
“Probably lost money on one of his horses,” Sara said.
“Good guess. His report said it was a couple of runaway lovers. No foul play, no mystery.”
“But you were more astute.” If it took flattery to get him to tell, she’d write a twenty-thousand-word treatise on the beauty of his ’stache.
“Don’t mean to brag, but I was. Nicky...?” He was testing her to see if she knew the characters involved.
“The heir apparent.” She passed.
“Now, he was a real character. Wasn’t much liked in the village. He laughed at us, along with that music guy.”
“Byon.”
“Yeah, him.” He paused. “Although I do like his music. Anyway, in the book I started, I thought I might—”
She broke in before he told her his entire plot. “You liked Mr. Howland. What about his daughter?”
The officer gave a one-sided grin. “She used to race cars with the boys of the village. That girl could downshift smooth as melted butter. We used to say Mr. Howland made her heart out of a carburetor with stainless steel valves.”
“I bet Nadine was upset that night,” Sara said.
“Catatonic. Staring into space. Never said a word. I think she thought something bad had happened because she ran out to the chapel to pray. If you plan to write about this, you ought to ask her questions.”
“As one writer to another,” Sara said, “I thank you for that tip.”
The man smiled so widely she saw the fillings in his back teeth.
“What about Nicky?”
“He was a mess.”
“Upset? Crying? Angry? What?”
“No. He was bruised. A black eye. A real beaut. And his hands were red and raw.”
Sara blinked. No one had so much as hinted at this. “Did anyone ask him why?”
“Back then, you didn’t question an earl’s son. If he’d said he hurt himself picking a daisy, he would have been believed.”
“Everyone seems to forget that titles were given to the most violent, ruthless—Sorry. Did Nicky give a reason?”
“He said he’d fallen and that was it. I wasn’t allowed to ask questions of him. It was considered disrespectful.”
“What about the others?” she asked.
“They were all very quiet, like they were guilty of something. I asked a few questions but I was told to l
eave off, that they were sad at missing their friends.”
“But you didn’t believe that.”
“No. I think every one of them was up to no good.” He narrowed his eyes. “Did something happen that made you want to come here and investigate?”
“No,” she said honestly. “I helped Bella restore this place and it’s closed this month so I came to visit. And the mystery was just to keep the little gray cells going.” She hoped he caught the reference to Hercule Poirot.
“You helped restore Oxley Manor? That means money.”
Oh Lord, Sara thought. She’d put her foot in it. She took a breath. “Yes.”
“So there is money to be made in writing books.”
Back when there were bookstores and before people only read 140 letters at a time, she thought but didn’t say. “If your book is good, yes, it can make money.”
“So maybe you’ll give me some writing tips. You know, as one author to another.”
Sara knew the session was over. Would-be writers were obsessive creatures. They could think of nothing else. She stifled a yawn. “I’m not a young person,” she said tiredly—and could almost hear Jack say, “Don’t play the age card.”
“I need to rest.”
“Of course.” When she stood up, he pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “My private email is on the back.”
She wasn’t surprised to see it was “bestseller2846.” Poor man. He had it bad. “So what about Mr. Howland?”
“Like I said, suicide. But we’ll have to wait for an official verdict. No one is to leave before I release you.”
Hope we don’t have to wait until after my agent gets you a movie deal, Sara thought but just smiled. She left the room, closing the door behind her. Jack and Kate and Puck were waiting for her.
“Well?” Jack asked.
“Wants to write a book.”
Jack and Kate groaned, but Puck looked askance. No one explained.
“Bed!” Sara said, and they all went upstairs.
Fifteen
The next morning, Sara was awakened by Bella bursting into her room.
“This!” Bella’s voice was a controlled screech. She tossed a newspaper onto Sara, who could hardly be seen under the big down comforter.
Reluctantly, Sara rolled over and picked up the paper. It was one of the English tabloids that opened like a book. Usually, Sara loved them. They had the meanest, nastiest, most rotten gossip anyone had ever read. If it were printed in the US, there would be protestors with placards. But the British press was different.
She had to clear her eyes to be able to see—then wished she’d kept them closed. Murder at Oxley Manor? the headline read. Her mind couldn’t quite comprehend what she was reading. Wonder what size font that is. Sixty-eight? Or is it bigger?
Bella was looming over her. Her face was one giant sneer. “You have done this.” She barely spoke above a whisper, but it was scary.
“I’m sorry,” Sara said. “But it wasn’t me who said we thought Mr. Howland was murdered.” At Bella’s expression, Sara thought, Uh-oh. Wrong choice of words.
Bella stepped backward and dropped down onto a little gold chair. “Do you know how hard I worked to get this place? My mother left me nothing. My father’s wife made sure I was given nothing. I got out of school and I was alone. Penniless.”
Sara was listening with wide eyes. In all their years of emails and visits, Bella had told her next to nothing about her life. But then, Sara hadn’t shared the worst parts of her past either. Privacy was one of the things she liked best about their friendship. But as a lover of stories, she wanted to hear.
“I was in love,” Bella said. “I was to be married, but when he found out that Oxley Manor wasn’t to be mine, that I wouldn’t get even a dower cottage, he left me.”
Sara bit her tongue to keep from saying the cliché about how he wasn’t worth having. But she didn’t want to interrupt the story.
“Bertram,” Bella said. “He...” She took a breath. “Do you know what it’s like to suddenly have no one? No family? Nothing?”
“Yes,” Sara said. “I do.”
Bella ignored Sara’s confession. Standing up, she pointed at the paper. “You caused this scandal. This must stop! I will not have everything I’ve worked for destroyed.” She left the room, slamming the door behind her.
Sara read the article. It was worse than she’d imagined. And it was all about her. It said that:
The “famous” author—who no one admits having heard of—Sara Medlar, is stirring up trouble. Is it just so she can revive her dead career?
It said that Sara had been discarded by the publishing world and now needed international publicity to put her books back on the market:
Will she make the suicide of this poor, depressed man into a murder? You’re not Miss Marple, Sara, so put away your magnifying glass.
Sara flopped back on the bed, engulfed by the covers. When she heard the door open, she didn’t bother to see who it was. If it was a gunman, she’d welcome him.
Jack sat on one side of the bed, Kate on the other.
“Looks like you saw it,” he said.
Sara put a pillow over her face. “Kill me now. Please.”
“Killing is what got us into this problem,” Jack said. “Who told them that we think it’s a murder?”
“How would I know?” Sara removed the pillow. “I got bawled out by Bella.”
“Wait until she finds out there’s a skeleton in her conservation area,” Kate said.
“She wanted everything in there protected from invasion and that’s what she got,” he said.
“Are you making jokes?” Kate asked.
“Trying to. Doesn’t seem to be working. So what’s our plan for today?”
“Go home,” Sara said. “Home to Florida. I miss my iguanas and the Bird of Paradise flowers and—”
“Ha!” Jack stretched out on top of the comforter beside her. “We aren’t allowed to leave, remember?”
Kate lay down on the other side. “Yes, let’s do go home. We’ll send Bella a note, using your most expensive stationery. ‘Dear Bella, there’s a skeleton in a hole in your backyard. He was probably murdered by one of your guests, so for your own safety, send them away. Best always, Sara.’ How does that sound?”
“Good,” Jack said. “Everyone will like that. Especially whoever did away with Mr. Howland for whatever reason they did it. But they’ll probably figure out that Puck found the bones. Too bad. Not our problem.”
“If we warned Bella, she wouldn’t tell,” Sara said tentatively.
Jack snorted. “Like we thought nobody would tell some reporter—who we never saw—about you and murder and all the other lies in that paper? Isn’t there a saying about only one person being able to keep a secret? Two people know and the world does.”
“Probably,” Sara mumbled. “Maybe I should go home and write a book with that theme. One person knows a lie, then she tells her bestie, then...” She shrugged.
Jack threw a leg off the bed. “Okay, I’ve had all the wallowing I can take. Besides, no one felt sorry for me on the Morris case when that reporter cut me to ribbons.”
“You slept with her!” Kate and Sara said in unison.
“Yeah, well,” Jack said. “She still—”
“This isn’t about you,” Kate said. “We need to figure this out, but we don’t know how. We—”
“Nicky had been beaten up,” Sara said as she sat up.
Kate and Jack looked at her. “Who? Why? When?” they asked.
“The night of the party,” Sara said. “Someone beat up Nicky.”
“The cop tell you this?” Jack asked.
Sara nodded. “For a price. I’m to turn him over to my agent.” She leaned back against the headboard, hugging a pillow to her. “Each perso
n who was there knows something. Even if they don’t realize that they know it.”
Kate leaned back. “Something they don’t want to tell.”
Jack took the other side of the headboard. “Okay, Miss Plotter, what do we do to make them talk?”
“Ask for the one fact that no one else knows,” Sara said. “Make them feel important. After breakfast, we’ll—”
“It’s ten thirty,” Kate said. “Breakfast was hours ago.”
Sara was surprised. She wasn’t a person who slept much. “Who have you seen?”
“Everyone except Willa.” Jack paused. “They make fun of her. Especially Clive. He says she’s just what he thought she’d become.”
“He’s probably glad he didn’t get her to buy him a country estate.” Kate sounded bitter.
“Watch out or he’ll go after you,” Jack said.
“Right,” Sara said. “Considering that you’re an heiress, that is a possibility.”
Kate looked puzzled. “I’m not an—” She broke off when the meaning hit her. When Sara died, Kate would probably inherit. “I’m not going to think about that,” she muttered.
“All right,” Sara said. “We want to find out what really happened the night Diana and Sean ran away. Not lies but the truth. I want you two to go to each person and ask for one thing they know. Something no one else knows. Stroke their egos. Jack, you get Nadine, Byon and Teddy. Kate, take Clive and Puck.”
“Teddy wasn’t even born then, so what does she know?” Jack asked.
“Probably a lot,” Sara said. “Coax it out of her. I have faith that you can do it.”
“And what are you going to do?” Kate asked.
“Take a twenty-minute shower and get someone to give me a ride into the village. I want to know what Willa is up to. Jack, find out why Nadine went to the chapel that night. She said she was praying but I don’t believe that. And I want you two to text me everything you find out. We’ll meet at the King James pub at one.”
Jack made some remarks about the “boss lady” being alive and well. He was grumpy at the idea of his task, while Kate was smiling. Like her aunt, she liked the mystery and intrigue. They left, closing the door behind them.
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