by Sara Rosett
Grace smiled widely. “Great. So where do we start?” Without waiting for an answer she said, “We should question the suspects. That’s always what Poirot and Miss Marple do.”
“I think we should start slowly.” I picked up the welcome packet from the nightstand. “Let’s read everyone’s bio and see if anything stands out.” Simon had been hiding behind a fake identity and Holly had hidden her background. Maybe someone else was putting up a front.
Clearly Grace wasn’t as excited about reading as she was about grilling suspects, but she took the section of papers I handed her and settled down on the floor, legs crossed. She fanned the pages on the rug.
“You can have the other chair.” I sat down by the fireplace.
“I always do my schoolwork like this,” she said, her eyelids flickering as she scanned the lines on the pages. “I like the floor. I’m starting with the dead guy. The books always say if you understand why the victim was killed then you’ll know who the murderer is.”
“That’s probably true, but Toby was a high-powered businessman. He probably had lots of enemies.” I didn’t quite believe Monique’s assertion that no one disliked Toby enough to kill him.
“Well, then someone who had a connection to him,” Grace said.
I turned my attention to the first bio, Monique Clay. As his wife, she certainly had a connection to Toby. I had to admit that Grace was right. Except for Monique, none of the other guests had an obvious connection to Toby. Why would someone kill him? And why kill him here at Parkview? And how did the person get into the room?
I shook off my wandering thoughts and focused on the bio of Monique. What little I knew about her came from the headlines of grocery store tabloids. Her family ran an international pharmaceutical business, and Monique had spent her late teen years jetting from one exotic destination to another, the tabloids snapping pictures of her bad behavior. A totaled car on the roads of Monaco and an arrest for driving under the influence in Hollywood were the most notable events. Then she and Toby had a whirlwind romance, which meant more tabloid fodder, especially since she was cast in the role of the “other woman” who had broken up Toby’s decade old marriage.
Where was Toby’s ex-wife? I reached for a pen and made a note in the margin. If anyone had motive, it was surely her.
Monique’s bio in the packet didn’t mention any of those topics in the tabloids, only that she and Toby lived in London, and that she was “the host of the popular chat show Fashionista.” It looked as if she’d thought of the request for a bio as another publicity opportunity.
“I didn’t know Monique was on a chat show,” I said.
Grace looked up. “She was, but it was canceled.”
“Did you watch it?” I asked, curious.
“Yeah, I watched the first episode online with some of the girls at school, but it was boring.”
I pulled my laptop toward me and searched for the show’s name. The most recent news stories announced that Monique’s venture into entertainment media had bombed. “Can this stilted and perfectly coiffed mannequin be the train wreck we all love to hate?” asked one reviewer. “Skip it,” was the verdict of another, saying the show should be called What Not To Watch.
I shook my head. Monique certainly wasn’t my favorite person at the house party, but surely reviewers didn’t have to be so snarky and cruel.
An article further down the list, an entertainment industry source, had the headline, “Monique’s Bottom Line Feels The Hit as Fashionista Bombs.” I clicked on it and read that Monique had created her own production company to produce the show. “Rumors are circulating,” the article concluded, “that business-savvy husband Toby has pulled his financial support from the venture but says to be on the lookout for Monique’s next project.”
I wondered if that next project was her signature fragrance. I switched to the next bio, Simon Page.
I skimmed the page, but the details were extremely brief and most of it, I now knew, was fabricated. I went on to Jo and Jay Funderburg. They lived in Miami. Jo listed travel as her favorite hobby, while Jay had put down baseball, which certainly held true with what I’d seen of him during the weekend. I frowned at Jo’s name, remembering last night before dinner when she asked to speak to Sir Harold alone. And she had hovered outside the library today and asked for him. Maybe the discovery of Toby’s body had caused their meeting to be postponed, and she was hoping to talk to him this afternoon? Why did she want to talk to Sir Harold privately anyway?
Even though Holly had an alibi, there was still the question of whether or not the murderer had intended to kill Sir Harold. Of all the guests, Jo had sought out Sir Harold more frequently than anyone else, even more than Michael, who shared his interest in butterflies. You’d think a researcher with access to the owner of one of the premier collections of butterflies in Britain would have a few more questions for Sir Harold.
“You have the bio for Michael?” I asked Grace after flipping through my remaining pages.
“Michael Jaffery? Yes, right here.”
“What does it say?”
She skimmed the text. “Not much. Basically just that he’s from Essex and is writing a book.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm. What?”
“I don’t know. He takes a lot of photos, but not of butterflies.”
Grace said, “Maybe he likes photography, too?”
“Possibly, but he takes the photos on his phone and says they are for his mom.”
Grace moved his sheet to a different pile. “He goes into the suspicious pile.”
“Okay, anyone else in that pile?”
“No,” Grace said with a sigh. “Everyone else is completely ordinary-sounding. Amanda is a chef—I wish we could try some of her desserts, they sound absolutely brill—at a hotel in London. Beth’s bio is all about her wedding. I don’t think she works. It doesn’t say.”
“Her wedding is pretty much all she talks about.”
“And Torrie works at a community center and likes to run marathons.” She tapped her phone. “I checked all the names online and didn’t see anything unusual.”
“That’s a good idea.” I typed Jo’s name into the search engine on my laptop. The list of results included several images of people, one of which was Jo. I clicked on the image.
“What about you?” Grace asked. “Anyone suspicious?”
“Nothing concrete—” I broke off and looked closer at the webpage, which was a list of employees at Consortium Hotels Group, an exclusive hotel chain. The smiling dark-haired woman was Jo, but her name was listed as Jo Atal, not Jo Funderburg. And her title was Chief of Global Development.
Chapter 16
“SHE’S GOING IN THE SUSPICIOUS pile.” Grace peered over my shoulder at the laptop. “That’s not the name on her bio.”
“No, it’s not, but sometimes women use a different name in business. It might be her maiden name, and she simply kept using it for business after she married,” I said, but my thoughts were racing. Toby’s business had branched out from online gambling into many other areas. Was he involved in the hospitality business? Were he and Jo competitors? Would his death benefit Jo in some way?
“Still…it’s something that stands out,” Grace said. “You said that’s what we were looking for.”
“I did.” I handed her the paper, and she stacked it on the one with Michael’s name.
“Anyone else?”
I glanced back through the bios, and fingered Monique’s paper. It sounded as though Monique was better off with Toby alive, if he’d been supporting her business ventures. I wondered what would happen now that he was dead. How was his company structured? Did he have a board of directors who would take over the management? They might be a lot less financially supportive of Monique’s business ideas.
I flipped to the next page, which was Audrey’s bio. I didn’t know enough about her to make a decision on whether or not she had any motive to kill Toby or even any connection to him. She seemed to be
genuinely interested in reenacting a Regency house party. I pondered for a moment, trying to picture her sneaking—somehow—into the Mahogany bedroom and killing Toby. Nope, I just couldn’t see it. I didn’t think she was anything other than what she appeared to be. Besides, where would she get all those gorgeous historically accurate dresses that fit her exactly, if she wasn’t a true Janeite and Regency fan girl?
I felt the same way about Jay, and a quick Internet search backed up his claim that he worked in Internet technology as a computer programmer. His Facebook page showed that his interest in baseball wasn’t feigned.
“Nope, I think that’s all.”
“So what should we do next? Search the room next door?”
“No. There will be no breaking and entering. The room is sealed with police tape.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s not?”
“No, Ella brought my shoes back while you were on the phone, and she told me that her next job was to clear it out. She looked a little spooked actually.”
“Did she?” I headed for the door.
The crime scene tape was gone, and the door to the Mahogany bedroom was propped open. A rolling cart with cleaning supplies and stacks of towels was parked beside the open door. Ella came out of the door, a trashcan in one hand and a mop in the other. “Oh, Kate.” She stopped short. “I mean Miss Sharp.” She bobbed a curtsey, quickly shifting into her role.
“What’s happening? I thought this room was closed.”
Ella glanced quickly up and down the hallway. “It was. We had orders not to go near it, but then a little while ago Mrs. King told me the police had given permission for Mrs. Clay’s things to be removed and the room to be cleaned.” She lowered her voice. “I think Mrs. Clay pulled some strings to get all her clothes and stuff back. Her clothes are extremely important to her.”
“I guess Monique got through to the head honcho then.”
Ella frowned. “I don’t understand.”
I waved a hand. “Not important. And I’m keeping you from your work. Go ahead.”
Ella slid the mop into a holder on the side of the cart, then dumped the contents of the trashcan into a larger bag attached to the cart.
“I’m surprised the police didn’t take that,” I said, nodding to the cascade of makeup smeared tissues, a couple of gum wrappers, an empty mint box, and the welcome packet with the guest bios as they fell into the trash container on the cleaning cart.
“They must not have thought it was important.” Ella shrugged. “They took practically everything else. Towels, sheets, even some pillows. None of Mrs. Clay’s clothes, though, thank goodness.”
I nodded. I would hate to think what sort of scene Monique would make if some poor policeman decided one of Monique’s designer items should go in an evidence bag.
Grace, who had been hovering at the edge of the door asked, “Can I look around?” In an undertone, she said to me, “To examine the crime scene.”
Ella glanced at me. “I suppose it would be okay. I mean, I’m in here, and they didn’t say no one else could come in.”
“We’ll be quick.” Grace darted around the cart.
I didn’t want to admit it to Grace, but I did want to see the room again. The bed had been stripped of sheets, and the doors of the tall mahogany wardrobe that stood on one side of the room gaped open, the interior empty.
Grace wandered around the room. I was glad to see her hands were shoved into her pockets. The scents of furniture polish and cleaning fluids filled the room. Every surface had been wiped clean and rubbed until it reflected what little light filtered in on the dim afternoon. The room had a connected bath. I peeked in and surveyed the clean counters and sparkling tile—Ella had done a good job.
When I returned to the room, Grace was walking around the perimeter, tapping the walls with a knuckle. “Searching for a hidden door?”
“Or compartment. Someone could hide in there until after the body was discovered then blend in with everyone.”
“I suppose that might have been possible,” I allowed, thinking of the chaotic scene when all the guests had pushed into the room. “Find anything?”
“No. And I checked the wardrobe, too. No false back.”
“So that eliminates the possibility of Narnia, as well.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“No, I’m not. It was a good idea, but I think if there was another way into the room the police would have noticed.” I moved to the glass doors to the balcony, the one that was closest to my balcony, and examined the small hook and eye that held it closed. I noticed there was a tiny gap between the two doors. I supposed it would be possible to work a hairpin into the gap and force the hook out of its metal ring.
I turned and scanned the room. The only personal thing left was a paperback on the nightstand on Monique’s side of the bed. I was surprised to see the title was Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I opened the cover. Monique’s name, written in script that resembled bubbles, was on the inside cover, and there was a bookmark about halfway through the pages. It seemed an odd reading choice for Monique. The latest unapologetically trashy beach read would have seemed more her style, but then again, I hadn’t expected her to talk about buying stock so knowledgeably either.
“There’s not one single thing here,” Grace said, disappointment in her voice as she gazed around the room.
“Come on, we should go. We don’t want to get Ella in trouble.”
Thunder rumbled as we walked down the hall. “Okay. Where to?” Grace asked. “We could question that Jo lady with the different last names.”
I gave her a warning look. “Don’t mention that to anyone. If Jo,” I paused, considering how to phrase my words, “did have something to do with Toby’s death, and she knows you’ve figured out that she’s not who she says she is…”
Grace swallowed. “Right. Not a smart thing to blab about. I won’t say anything else.”
“Good,” I said, but inside I was conflicted. What if we had uncovered a vital piece of information that endangered Grace just because she knew it? The police wouldn’t be able to return to Parkview until the storm broke and the river went down, which could be later tonight or even tomorrow.
“Don’t look so worried,” Grace said. “I can keep a secret. Truly, I can. I went all term without telling—” she stopped abruptly. “See, I can keep a secret.”
“Good,” I said, but I still felt uneasy.
“So where to?”
“I think we should pay a visit to the east wing and talk to the bridal party.”
Grace frowned and lowered her voice. “But none of them are in the suspicious category.”
“No, but they might have seen something.”
Chapter 17
I TAPPED ON THE DOOR of the Versailles bedroom in the east wing, where Beth, Amanda, and Torrie shared a room.
“It’s open, Torrie,” called out a voice, which I recognized as Amanda’s.
I opened the door an inch. “It’s not Torrie. It’s Kate. May I come in?”
Amanda looked up from a cardboard box that was open on the bed in front of her, a startled expression on her face. “Ah—sure.”
“Sorry to bother you. I just have a quick question… ” My words trailed off as I stepped inside the doors, and the grandeur of the room overpowered me. Gilt-bordered mirrors covered every inch of wall space in the huge room, reflecting the crystal chandeliers and the long windows that overlooked the rain-drenched courtyard. Despite the gloomy day, the room was bright. Moving from the hallway to the room, felt like moving from a tunnel into daylight. I’d heard about the Versailles bedroom, but never seen it. It was too unique for any of the filming we’d done for the Jane Austen documentary, and the lighting with all the mirrors would have been a nightmare, but it was incredible.
“Whoa,” muttered Grace at my elbow.
“Overpowering, isn’t it?” Amanda asked. She shoved a cream-colored belt into a cardboard box. “There. All cleaned up.” She cam
e across the room to us, her heels clicking on the parquet floor. “Come in and admire. It still amazes me when I walk in. Down here is the best place to see the whole thing.” She pointed to the far end of the room. Three beds along with several other pieces of furniture ranged around the room, but it was so large, the space didn’t feel crowded.
“Beatrice told us it was renovated over two hundred years ago. The mirrors and all the swanky stuff were added after one of the old baronets visited Versailles and saw the Hall of Mirrors.”
“Just had to have one of his own,” I said with a grin.
“Something like that. It’s a shame the tour was canceled. Beatrice said she had some other great stories about the room, but was saving them for the tour. Maybe she’ll do it tomorrow before we have to leave.”
Torrie came in the door, carrying an insulated carafe and a plate stacked with delicate cakes and sandwiches. “Score!” She held up the plate. “High tea for everyone. Hi, Kate. Want to join us…or me, actually. Beth is at the spa, probably having her body wrapped in some horrible smelling goo, and Amanda’s job has made her immune to sweets.”
“It’s sad, but true,” Amanda said. “Dessert completely loses its appeal when it’s your job.”
“I think it looks scrumptious,” Grace said.
“This is Grace,” I said. “She’s staying here until the rain stops.”
“Come on over, Grace.” Torrie put the plate on a little table by the windows, then turned over a couple of teacups that were already laid out. “We’ll have a rainy day tea party. Want some, Kate?”
“Perhaps just a little one.” It had been a long time since lunch and dinner was several hours away. I selected a triangular sandwich. Grace went for several of the cakes.
Amanda poured tea for herself. “You said something about a question, Kate?”
“Yes. I was wondering about last night. Did you hear or see anything in the west wing?” I waved at the two pairs of tall glass doors that opened onto the balcony. “Since you’re directly across from the Mahogany bedroom, I thought you might have noticed something.”