by Tara Lain
Chapter Fifteen
THE TALL, skinny house just a block from San Francisco’s famous Victorian “Painted Ladies” looked stately and historic in the midday sun—and a little shabby.
Blaise said, “Looks kind of rundown for this part of town.”
“Yes. I w-was just noticing that.”
“That’s surprising. This neighborhood’s really upscale. If they can’t afford to keep it up, they could get a boatload of cash for it.”
Llewellyn gazed out the window over Blaise’s shoulder. “Pr-probably don’t w-want to s-sell it.”
Blaise turned and stared at Llewellyn. “Are you thinking what I am?”
Llewellyn nodded. “Their s-sister wants to spend f-five million for a s-silly historic g-goose chase—”
“While they’re trying to keep Tara.”
“As G-God is their witness, they’ll never b-be hungry again.” Llewellyn clenched his fist and raised it toward the roof of the car.
Blaise shook his head as he laughed. “You’re great.”
The simple words made him suck air. If he heard that every day until he died, it wouldn’t ever get boring.
Blaise didn’t seem to notice Llewellyn’s reaction. He stared intently toward the house, where nothing was happening. Not a curtain moving. “So what’s next? We agreed we’d wait and see. We’re seeing.”
He’d barely gotten the words out when a gray American sedan pulled up in front of the house and double-parked. “M-must be p-police.”
“Yes. Nobody else would dare pull that stunt in San Francisco.” He leaned closer to the window. “That’s Holiday.”
“Y-yes.”
A woman in a suit got out of the driver’s side. “I didn’t see the lady cop in San Luis, did you?”
“N-no. Probably local.”
The two walked up to the front door and knocked. The door opened. It looked like a woman answered. The cops went inside, and the door closed.
Blaise slid down in his seat and rested his head back. “Guess we’re waiting.”
They did for about twenty minutes; then the door opened again and the two cops came out and drove away.
Blaise straightened up. For a minute they were silent, watching. “Do you think there’s any way we can boldly walk up to the door and knock? I suspect they’d call the cops in about two seconds, and then Holiday would put an end to our nefarious dealings like a flash.”
“They d-don’t know you.”
“What?”
“They probably know m-me because of Anne. But n-not you.”
“Whoa. Hell of an idea. But tell me why I’m there.”
“Sy-sympathy. About Anne.”
He took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll do it.” He glanced out the window, then grinned. He held up a finger. “I have a plan.” He hopped out of the car, looked both ways, and ran across the street. Instead of turning right toward the house, he went left. What the—oh. On the corner he stepped into a shop. A flower shop. Llewellyn smiled. Blaise came back out a couple of minutes later carrying a bouquet and, with a wink toward Llewellyn, marched up the sidewalk to the de Vere home.
HERE GOES. Polish up the charm.
Blaise knocked on the door. Nothing happened for seconds, and then a woman—dark-haired, attractive, probably in her early forties, and overweight—opened the door. “Yes?” She didn’t frown. He didn’t mean to sound egotistical, but people said it was hard to frown at him.
“Ms. de Vere?”
“Yes.” She looked gray and drawn, but not shocked enough to have just learned of her sister’s death a few minutes before. She must have gotten notification earlier and the police were just there for questioning.
Blaise smiled slightly. “I’m so sorry to bother you in this time of grief. I’m a friend of Anne’s. Maybe that’s overstating the case. I only met her a short time ago, but I felt like we bonded. It was such a shock to learn of her death. I’m in San Francisco on business, so I just wanted to stop by to express my sincerest sympathy and give you these.” He held out the elaborate bouquet.
“Well, aren’t you kind, Mr.—”
“Arthur. Blaise Arthur. I’m guessing you’re Ms. Jane de Vere.”
“Yes.”
“I know, uh—Miranda, is it?—is a twin.”
“Yes.” She glanced over her shoulder, and he held his breath. When she looked back at him, she said the magic words. “Would you like to come in?”
“I don’t want to intrude. I know what a difficult time this must be.”
“Unimaginable.” She stepped aside. “Please.”
He walked into a small but charming—or more accurately, once charming—entry.
“Come and meet my brother.”
Oh yeah. He followed her into a large old-fashioned living room with a musty smell. Sitting by the bay window, facing out toward the garden view, was a man in a wheelchair.
“Roscoe.”
He turned rather energetically. “Yes?”
“I want you to meet Mr. Arthur.” She looked at Blaise. “Blaise, am I right?”
“Yes.” He smiled and extended his hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. de Vere, despite the very sad circumstances.”
“Yes.” He frowned as he pumped Blaise’s hand with a firm handshake.
Jane extended a hand to a chair, and Blaise sat. “Roscoe, Mr. Arthur was a friend of Anne’s.”
Blaise nodded. “Yes, at Middlemark University. I met her when she was trying to persuade one of the university’s professors to research the possibility that your ancestor Edward was the writer of Shakespeare’s works.”
A nearly identical frown leaped onto both their faces.
Roscoe growled, “Are you a historian?”
“Oh no, not at all. Just a graduate student in the English department. I happened to be at a dinner where Anne met with the, uh, history department.”
Jane put a hand on his forearm. “We loved Anne dearly, but she was cracked on the subject of Shakespeare.”
“And ready to commit funds this family sorely needs to her ridiculous ideas.” Roscoe coughed.
Blaise tried to set his face in as harmless and noncommittal an expression as possible. “She said your father wanted the research to go ahead. That he’d left the money for that purpose.”
“Bull!”
Blaise must have looked startled, because Jane quickly said, “Anne was the only member of the family who was sympathetic to this frivolous project. I’m sure you understand, this kind of silliness is fine if you have money to burn, but we don’t, and Roscoe’s condition requires care.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Roscoe snarled, “And now this idiocy has gone and gotten her killed.”
Jane pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh dear.”
“Do you think the two things are related?” Blaise opened his eyes a bit wider in innocence.
“What else could explain it? She didn’t get herself murdered in San Francisco, did she?” Roscoe actually jerked the wheels on his chair, and he half spun, his heavily muscled forearms cording. Interesting that his legs appeared just as strong. “Hell, she was in that damned historian’s office. If that’s not a message, I don’t know what is.”
“I heard that Dr. Lewis didn’t want to take the case—or the money.”
Roscoe snorted loudly. “That’s what he says. Damned leeches preying on an addle-headed young woman.”
“She seemed so bright.”
“Sometimes brains are the last thing a person needs. Makes them unstable. Common sense. That’s what Anne should have had.” He wiped a hand across his eyes.
Jane rose. “I must put these in water.” She held the bouquet out toward Roscoe. “Aren’t they lovely? Mr. Arthur brought them to us.”
Roscoe nodded, but his face was still set in angry, aggressive lines. “Thank you.”
Blaise stood. “I should go. I don’t want to intrude. Do you know when there might be a funeral?”
“N-no. The police will tell us, I suppose.�
� Jane stared at the worn floral carpet.
“Of course. I’m so sorry.” He pulled a card from his pocket and a pen. “May I give you my email? Would you let me know when it will be held in case I can come?”
“Of course.”
He wrote the email address and handed it to her. “Thank you. I’m happy to have met you both. I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet Miranda. This must be so terrible for her.”
The muscles around Jane’s mouth tightened even further. Blaise looked over just in time to see Roscoe exchange a glance with her. She gave Blaise a steady stare, like she was practicing looking forthright. “Yes. She doesn’t choose to live with us, you see. I’m not even sure if she knows about Anne. I’ve tried to call her, but no answer. For identical twins, it’s surprising that they aren’t closer.”
“I’d love to meet her—”
“Sorry. She’s very private. If I gave you her information, she’d kill me.” She swallowed. “I mean, be upset with me.”
“Oh no, I totally understand. Thank you again for seeing me.” He walked to the door, waved at Jane as he left, and noticed immediately that Llewellyn must be lying down in the seat because the car looked empty. He trotted across the street, then slid in the front, grinning at Llewellyn’s rangy body squeezed into the seat well on the passenger side. Slowly he drove away. This time, the curtains did move.
A block up the street, Llewellyn sat partway up. “What happened?”
“Interesting. I met the sister Jane and the brother, Roscoe. Apparently Miranda doesn’t live there, or that’s what they claimed.”
“What are they like?”
Blaise turned right around the park. “Both of them were very upset that Anne wanted to spend the money on what they deemed a frivolous, ridiculous pursuit. The house clearly needs repair, and Roscoe’s in a wheelchair. Jane said he needed care and thus, it follows as the night the day, they need the money. That was the implication.”
Llewellyn pointed toward the next corner. “K-keep going, if you d-don’t mind. G-go by again.”
“Oh, okay.” He pulled up behind a line of cars waiting to turn right on the de Veres’ street.
“So what was J-Jane like?”
“She seemed sympathetic, though concerned for her brother. He was royally pissed.”
“I caught a g-glimpse of her. N-not too strong-looking.”
“No. She’s overweight and doesn’t move with any speed or vigor.”
“And the br-brother’s in a wheelchair. S-so no suspects th-there.”
“Probably so, but I will say this.” The car in front of him turned, leaving him next at the stop sign. He stared to the left for an opening in the traffic flow.
“Wh-what?”
Blaise made the turn. “Sorry. Focusing. What I noticed was that Roscoe looked damned robust for a person confined to a wheelchair. And his legs appear as strong as his arms. He probably has some other kind of injury, but—”
“Look.” Llewellyn slid into the seat well again.
Blaise glanced at Llewellyn, then across the street toward the de Vere house coming up on their left.
Jane de Vere stood on the top of the walkway in front of her house, wearing a light jacket. She faced back into the house, talking animatedly to her brother in his chair. She turned, walked down the stairs, and went left on the sidewalk. As she reached a half block away, Roscoe slowly stood from his chair and peered after her. He stood without a walker or even a cane. He wasn’t propped against the doorframe or leaning precariously in any direction. The man looked, in a word, healthy.
Blaise rushed by the house, not glancing in. If they noticed him, at least they’d think he didn’t see Roscoe. “Holy shit. I’d say that changes things. Wouldn’t you?”
“Y-yes. Yes, I would.”
“Should we tell Holiday?”
“H-he’d tell us t-to back off.”
“Yeah.” Blaise glanced at Llewellyn, who’d now settled in the shotgun seat. “Want some food before we drive home?”
“S-sure. We need a f-few more things to chew on.”
TWO HOURS later, after some grilled salmon, they powered down the freeway toward home. Llewellyn leaned back in his seat, fighting his drooping eyelids. He was so grateful not to have to do the driving. But he owed it to Blaise to at least stay awake.
Just as he was getting ready to turn on some loud music, Blaise said, “So how are you feeling about the whole Edward de Vere issue?”
“Interesting.”
Blaise glanced over at Llewellyn, then back at the heavy traffic pouring through Silicon Valley. “Interesting as in interested? Or interesting as in the Chinese curse, ‘May you live in interesting times’?”
Llewellyn laughed. “B-both.” He took a breath. “H-hard not t-to think that someone r-really believes it’s true.”
“You think?”
“The m-murderer probably d-didn’t want her to p-pay me. If I c-couldn’t prove it, she w-wouldn’t have had to p-pay me. Maybe the murderer b-believed de Vere is Shakespeare.”
“Yeah. I thought of that too. Of course, maybe they were just covering their bases in case it was true.”
“A lot of r-risk if not needed.”
“True.”
They rode silently for several minutes.
Blaise said. “It’s kind of exciting to think that you could have possibly proved de Vere is the one who actually wrote the greatest plays in history.”
Llewellyn sucked in air to cool the fire in his belly. “Y-yes. Yes, it is. But I th-think we should get this murder solved f-first.”
“First? But no one will pay you to take the de Vere case now.”
“The m-money’s irrelevant.”
“I guess that’s true. History’s mysteries are your job, right?” He glanced over with a little frown. “You really haven’t been all that interested in the million bucks since the beginning. That does strike awe in my pragmatic brain.”
“I-I wouldn’t m-mind it, but I have a nice life.”
“Nice?” Blaise made a snorting sound. “As in ‘She has a nice personality’? You know, the death of a blind date.”
Blaise had meant it as a joke—probably. But I’ve never heard such an effective condemnation of my whole life. He made an obligatory laughing sound, then stared out the window until his eyelids drooped.
“Llewellyn.”
“Wha-what?” His eyes flew open, expecting to see cats.
“Sorry to startle you. We’re almost at your house.”
“Oh. I-I’m so sorry. I didn’t m-mean to desert you.”
“Hey, you need the rest. I was happy to drive.” He guided the car to the curb, put it in park, and turned to Llewellyn. “Want to plan next steps, or shall I leave you to sleep?”
Funny how he could never get enough Blaise, but getting used to him? Not a wise idea. A miniwar went into firing mode in his brain.
Behind the Prius, a car door slammed.
He heard Blaise’s gasp first. His eyes were huge, and he stared in the rearview mirror. “Holy shit.”
Llewellyn turned and focused on the woman walking toward them on the sidewalk—the woman who looked exactly like Anne de Vere with blue hair.
Chapter Sixteen
LLEWELLYN’S HEART slammed against his chest. “Th-that must b-be—”
“Miranda.”
“Sh-she looks just like Anne.”
“I guess that’s the idea behind ‘identical.’” Blaise grinned, which softened the snark.
“Okay.” Llewellyn opened the passenger door and slid out, rising and staring at the woman across the roof of the car. “H-hello.”
“Hi. You must be Llewellyn Lewis. They told me you stuttered.”
“Wh-who are they?”
“Some guy at the university. Van something.”
“Van Pelt?”
“Guess so.” Blaise stepped out the driver’s side right in front of the woman. Her eyes widened. “Holy crap, you’re gorgeous. Who are you?”
He grinne
d. The devastating grin. “I’m Blaise Arthur. Your resemblance to your sister is positively scary.”
“Yeah, especially since she’s dead.”
Llewellyn half wanted to smack her and half wanted to laugh.
She put her hands on her hips, which were currently clothed in a short, tight denim skirt above bright argyle thigh-high socks that in turn resolved themselves into a pair of scuffed Doc Martens. “So you’re supposed to be able to tell me what the fuck happened to my sister.”
Llewellyn frowned. “I h-have no idea.”
“I don’t mean who killed her. Hell, if you knew that, we wouldn’t be standing here, right? But I want to know what led up to it, okay?”
Blaise said, “Why don’t you come inside.” He glanced up. “If Llewellyn doesn’t mind.”
He kind of did mind, but letting her in was the best way to learn whatever there was to know about this odd creature. Taking the lead, he strode up the walkway and climbed the porch. When he opened the door, of course, he was assailed by the feline attack.
“Meow.”
“Merwaowr.”
“Mew.”
With an apologetic look, he bent down to greet his furries. Marie Antoinette was solidly pissed. She stared at him from a regal distance, then turned and flicked her tail at him as she stalked into the living room.
“I’m s-sorry.”
“Hey, man, they’re great. I love cats.” Miranda knelt down and started petting Julius, while Emily regarded her uncertainly from a few paces away.
First appealing thing she’d said. He nodded. “M-me too.”
After more extravagant appreciation of the cats, they moved into the living room.
Blaise said, “Would you like something to drink?”
Llewellyn gave him a sideways look. Proprietary bastard—but it made him weirdly happy.
Miranda plopped on the couch and propped her boot on the coffee table. “What ya got?”
“Llewellyn has exceptional craft beer. I’m not sure what else.”
“Beer? I’m there.”