A few hours later, Parker told all of them to go home. He had a date with his wife and her parents that he couldn’t get out of. Her father was the MP over the home office. He needed the man’s influence even if he couldn’t stand him.
Chapter 21—Scotland Yard—London’s office
Georgette hung her coat on the coat hook, then dropped into her chair, yawning.
“Rough night?” Farmer asked while Deacon said, “Stop that or you’ll have all of us yawning all day.”
Georgette stuck her tongue out at Deacon while turning to answer Farmer. “The whole day kind of stunk. Hinckley needed me to help out on a secondary crime scene for Parker’s case. If I could have thought of a reason, I’d have told him I was sick but I didn’t think he’d believe me.
“I’m surprised Parker would let you work with his team. You know how jealous he is of London. That includes his team.”
“He isn’t the greatest DCI I’ve ever worked with. He doesn’t give his team any direction nor does he check on what his team is doing.”
She told him about the jewelry in the cream jars. “I was totally stumped on what to do with all that make-up. The bottles didn’t look big enough to hold anything, but there must have been five thousand pounds of jewelry hidden in those bottles.”
She shook her head. “That’s not the worst though.”
“What’s worse than working with Parker?”
“I ended up having dinner with him, his wife and her parents.”
Farmer shuddered. “That must have been awful.” He mimicked a teenage girl’s voice.
Georgette threw her gloves at him.
Deacon grinned. “I assume you didn’t start out to have dinner with them.”
“No. I was having dinner with my old roommate, Judy Van Dam. Judy’s sister, Janet, is married to Parker. We had just ordered when they all walked in. Their parents insisted that we join them. Parker was not happy.”
She shrugged. “I wasn’t happy either. On the way home, Judy told me that she thinks Parker emotionally abuses Janet. She didn’t say much during dinner—three sentences to be exact and she looked at her husband, almost like she needed permission from him to speak.”
Her hands clinched into fists. “Every time she said something he didn’t like he’d clear his throat and she’d huddle. I wanted to jump over the table, slap her and throttle him.”
Tolliver pushed open the door just in time to hear her comment. “That sounds a bit extreme, but if you’re talking about Parker, I’ll help you.”
London followed Tolliver in. He turned to look at Tolliver. “When did my team get so blood thirsty?”
Georgette told them about working as part of Parker’s team.
“Did you find anything?” London asked, almost as if he wasn’t really interested. Farmer and Tolliver exchanged glances.
“Sadly, yes. Zufelt, who is a good forensics man said Parker found a paint knife with Tabitha’s name engraved on it. They also found a big puddle of half dried blood.”
London frowned. “Half dried blood. Had that been where Duval had been stabbed, the blood would have been completely dry.”
Georgette grinned. “Duval was strangled.
“That’s what Zufelt said. The lab is trying to match the type and the DNA. It looks like we may have two murders.” Georgette shuddered.
“Tabitha might have been the third one if she hadn’t called the police and they arrived so quickly.”
Tolliver looked at London. “Do you think Tabitha might be in danger?”
London looked grim. “I wish she could finish her paintings at Ghost Haven. She’d be safer there.”
Chapter 22—Tabitha’s flat
Two more paintings. Just two more paintings. Tabitha’s mind kept going over the thought as if was her life’s mantra. She took a step back from the Sugar Plum fairy’s elaborate skirt then looked at the enlarged photo clipped to the canvas.
“This just isn’t coming together.” Tabitha said to herself. Carefully she mixed a little more white into the pinky-red glob of paint on her palette.
The doorbell rang.She jumped leaving a long streak of pink on the elaborate background.
Frowning, she grabbed a rag and wiped off the streak, then she hurried to answer the door.
“I thought I told the concierge not to let anyone up, that I needed to work tonight. I’ll never get these paintings done in time.”
Whoever was at the door began pounding on the panel.
Without looking through the peephole, Tabitha jerked the door open. “What do--”
A smile crossed her face. “Courtney, what are you doing back here and why are you pounding on the door?”
Courtney dropped her suitcase on the floor, grabbing her friend in a huge hug. “I came because you’re still in trouble and I forgot my key. Duh!”
“It’s so good to see you, but I thought Ghost Haven is full up.”
“It is but Debbie and Hargraves assured me that they could handle things for a few days.”
Tabitha’s grin nearly split her face. “How long can you stay? I don’t want to miss up your inheritance after all the work you’ve put into Ghost Haven.”
Tabitha was referring to the stipulations in the will of Courtney’s very late and very much unlamented uncle, Robert Matthews.
“I have six days before I have to go back. Mr. Harris didn’t count the days I was here last time. I could stay longer since I haven’t left Ghost Haven since the will was read except for those days where you helped me pack up all my stuff but Mr. Harris told me that wouldn’t count because even my uncle wouldn’t expect me stay without any clothes.” She giggled.
Tabitha gave her another hug. “Maybe all this mess will go away before you have to leave. I’m thinking of sending the rest of my canvas’ and paint stuff to Ghost Haven so I can paint in peace, but Parker would have a fit.”
Courtney twisted her hands, a nervous habit she had. “I was talking to Debbie and Hargraves. We were wondering why Parker had it in for you.”
“Mark seems to think it’s because I went around him to London when he arrested you. I guess from what Peter and Mark both said that Parker is green with envy at London’s success.”
Courtney nodded. “I guess that’s true but why now? Has he just been waiting for something to happen so he could get even? It just doesn’t make any sense.”
“Let’s forget about it for tonight. Come see my picture. Maybe you can tell me what’s wrong with it.” Tabitha grabbed Courtney’s hand, pulling her toward the studio.
Courtney stood in front of the painting. “I love the Nutcracker. Maybe we could go see it while I’m here.”
When Tabitha didn’t act too excited, she added, “It might give you some inspiration.”
Courtney walked around looking at the painting from all angles. “Maybe it’s because she doesn’t have any face or arms. It’s weird with those white spaces.”
Tabitha scratched her head. “Maybe. I don’t know though. The skirt just isn’t right and painting something like that shouldn’t be a problem especially after six different skirts and tutus.”
Courtney pulled a face. “Maybe that’s why. You’ve done so many costumes. Maybe you’re just tired of them.”
“Maybe nothing. I’m so tired of ballerinas that I could choke.”
“Better not say that in front of Parker.” Courtney cautioned. “He would probably think you were serious.”
Giving a dramatic sigh, Tabitha said, “You’re not much help.”
“Why don’t you take a break and de-stress. Let’s go out to eat at a nice restaurant, my treat.” Courtney looked at her watch. “I’ll bet we could get a reservation at La Pierre’s.”
Tabitha grinned a devilish grin. “With your name or mine, of course we can. I’ll call while you unpack.”
An hour later, Marcelle, the maître de showed them to a table for two in their favorite corner. “Mamselles, it is so good to see you. It has been much too long.”
He
turned to Tabitha. “I am so sorry to hear about your painting. Is diabolical.”
“Thank you, Marcelle. Your restaurant is like a breath of fresh air.”
“Neither of you wants wine?” He knew that they didn’t drink, but he couldn’t resist asking.
“I have a craving for a virgin grasshopper.” Tabitha smile was wide. “Although all the sugar will probably make me jump like one.”
“You can make one for me also.” Courtney added.
He snapped his fingers for their wait person. “Tinley will be your server.”
He looked at the handsome, dark haired waiter who immediately pulled out his pad.
Tabitha picked up her huge menu. One could depend on a full three or four course meal with Marcelle. “I would like those Cucumber Slices Provencal. They were to die for.”
Courtney said, “I’d like the Herbed Walnut and Citrus Tapenade.” She looked at Tabitha. “Let’s try the Fireside Popovers with Brie.”
Tabitha wrinkled her nose. “I’m not fond of Brie, but I’m willing to try them.”
“You wish a little time to decide on the rest of the menu?”
“I’ll have your Chicken Alfredo.” Courtney said. “I’ve been dying for it for days. Mrs. Mere’s Alfredo is wonderful, but yours,” she looked up at Marcelle, “Yours is what is served in heaven.”
Marcelle looked delighted. He bowed. “You, mamselle, compliment like a French woman and I do not say that lightly.”
Tabitha laughed. “I’d like the Coquilles St-Jacques, the Veloute de Chataignes, and for dessert. She paused her eyes closed. “For dessert I would like Tourtiere Landaise.”
“Excellent choices, mamselle.” He bowed again.
“I would like your house salad and the Tourtiere Landaise for dessert.”
While they were waiting for the dinner, Tabitha looked around, then waved at two women seated across the restaurant.
Tabitha started blinking really fast.
“What’s wrong?” Courtney watched as tears ran down her face.
Tabitha reached in her purse for her mirror. “I’ve got something in my eye.” She pulled out a tissue and using the corner of the tissue and the mirror, finally got the eyelash out of her eye. Carefully she wiped the mascara that had run down her cheek.
“That didn’t help my make-up at all. I am now all lopsided.” She put the mirror away in its holder. Something crinkled in her purse.
“What is it?” Courtney leaned forward watching Tabitha’s surprised expression.
Tabitha pulled a long white envelope from her purse. “Georgette asked London to give this to me the day I met with Lady Brittanie. I totally forgot I had it.”
“What is it? It looks official.”
Tabitha used her table knife to cut the heavy envelope. She pulled out three typewritten pages.
“What is it?” Courtney got up and came around the table to read over Tabitha’s shoulder.
“It’s the autopsy report.” Tabitha scanned page one and handed it to Courtney who went back to her seat.
When she finished the second page she handed it to Courtney who said, “There’s nothing here that we didn’t already know.”
Tabitha looked up from the third page. “Yes, there is.”
“What?” Courtney looked down at the pages she held.
“You wanted to know why Duval was killed now—what triggered everything, right?”
“I still want to know.”
“Duval was six weeks pregnant.” Tabitha looked like she was going to be sick.
Courtney nodded. “Of course, that makes perfect sense. She would want her lover to leave his wife for her.”
“She’d start putting pressure on him.” She paused while their waiter put their food in front of them.
Tabitha continued. “All the dancers who Duval talked to said she bragged about how famous he was, how rich, how married.”
Courtney looked at Tabitha in awe. “She signed her own death warrant.
Chapter 23—Scotland Yard
Tabitha was touching up the skirt in her painting with Courtney critiquing each stroke.
Courtney stepped back looking at the skirt from her model’s perspective. “Is there any way you can make the skirt filmier—maybe a darker color first, then using a very dry brush, drag the lighter color over it. That tulle in the picture is heavily layered. That’s how they get that effect. Each layer is darker as it gets closer to the dancer’s body.”
Tabitha picked up a fan brush, lightly dipped it in a pale pink, wiped most of the pain from the bristles. Barely making contact with the canvas, she pulled the brush down one of the darker sections.
When she had finished the section of deep pink, she stepped back. After staring at the section for a few seconds, she turned to Courtney. “What do you think?”
Courtney looked from the picture in her hand to the paining. “I think you’ve got it.”
Tabitha set down her palette and grabbed her friend in a huge hug. “You are a genius. Thank you.”
Tabitha bent to pick up her brush, when someone pounded on the door. She jumped, dropping the fan brush on the paint stained linoleum.
“Who the devil is that?” She snarled as Courtney turned toward the front door.
“Open up. Police.” The voice was loud, demanding, authoritative.
Before she opened the door, Courtney said loudly. “Please hold your identification up to the peephole.
When she saw the warrant card and badge, she opened the door. Smiling she said, “Sorry to be so careful, but we live alone.”
The man was large, red-faced, pudgy. “Sorry for scaring you, miss. I need to take Tabitha Black down to the station to answer questions on a murder investigation.”
“Please come in. I’ll get her.”
At that moment, Tabitha walked into the living room, her palette in one hand and the fan brush in the other. Her clothes were a paint stained smock, paint smudged jeans, and paint smeared sneakers. There was a streak of deep burgundy across her nose, a touch of black on her temple, and pale pink in her eyebrows.
“What is it?” Her tone was less than friendly.
He touched his helmet. “I am to escort you down to Scotland Yard. Chief Detective Inspector Parker needs to question you on another murder.”
Frowning, Tabitha scratched her neck, leaving a smear of pink. “Another murder? What other murder?”
“I’m sorry miss. I was just told to bring you.”
When Tabitha looked like she was going to explode, the red surging up her face, Courtney said, “It’s not his fault. He’s just doing his job.”
“I know.” She hissed, sounding like a dozen angry snakes. “But I’m never going to get that darned painting finished at this rate.”
Courtney smiled at the officer. “Would you mind if she changed clothes. Otherwise she’ll get paint all over your car.”
“Go ahead but be quick about it. Parker is already in a bad mood.”
Courtney gave Tabitha a little shove. “Go change. I’ll call Mark.”
An hour later, Tabitha followed Officer Tingey. Mark had instructed her to keep her mouth closed until either he or Peter could get there.
That’s going to make Parker happy. She thought as she entered Scotland Yard through the back door.
As Tingey opened the door for her, she had to pause to let a Detective Constable exit the building. He stopped in shock.
“Miss Black. I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Detective Constable Deacon. We worked together on London’s sister’s kidnapping case.”
“Of course, I remember you. You’re the expert marksman.”
He blushed. “Not really. Why are you here? Is there something I can do for you?”
Tingey took her arm. “Parker will get angry if we’re much later.”
She smiled a crooked smile at Deacon. “Duty calls. Parker wants to talk to me. I don’t know why but I’m stuck with it.
“Good luck, miss.” He touched his temple respectfully
.
She was taken down the back halls, an area she’d never been before, to an interrogation room that was an ugly industrial green, with a table bolted to the floor and three uncomfortable chairs. It smelled of vomit, fear and something else she couldn’t identify.
Tingey motioned for her to sit down. “Parker should be down soon.”
“Thank you.” Tabitha kept her voice and face neutral.
I hope Mark or Peter get here before Parker does. I’m likely to try to knock the smirk off his face if they don’t. He’s likely to strangle me, if I remain mute like they said. No matter what, it’s going to get ugly.
She dragged her mind away from Parker and the interrogation and began mentally to outline the second and last picture she was supposed to finish for Cabot. It was to be a picture of the gigantic Nutcracker carrying Clara with the mice king in the background.
The background for the dancers was Clara’s bedroom, but the bed and dresser were barely there. The simple pale blue wall would set off the Nutcracker’s tall black fur hat and his red jacket and white pants. Clara’s elegant long-sleeved white nightgown should stand out against the blue although she might have to find a way to make the white stand out against his white pants. The mouse king in the background would be black. The mouse king would have a gold crown, a white collar and a colored tie.
The door slamming against the wall startled her out of her reverie. Parker strode into the room, shoved an evidence bag containing a paint knife in her face and demanded, “Don’t deny this is yours. What’s it doing in Jess Duval’s flat?”
He turned the knife so it showed her name on the handle.
She stared at the knife, dumbstruck. “That’s not mine,” she said before she remembered that she was standing mute.
He shook the bag. “Of course it is. It has your name on it?”
Her mind seemed to freeze. She blurted out. “Does it have my fingerprints on it?”
“It has your name on it.” He moved the bag so her name showed.
“It isn’t mine. I’ve never seen that one before.” Her denial came too quick for Parker. His
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