by Brenda Joyce
This was a very serious office indeed, Claire thought, wondering if it was off-limits. But they were partners now, so he should not have anything to hide.
Claire walked in, glancing at one shelf of books. Medieval history tomes faced her. She smiled. Clearly he was a Renaissance man.
She walked over to his desk, and the first and only thing she saw was the photograph. Her smile vanished.
It was black-and-white. Clearly the young man was an officer, for he wore a belted uniform and beret. In fact, as Claire picked it up, she saw wings over the man’s left breast pocket, as well as half a dozen medals. And the officer resembled Ian.
Almost exactly. Like twins, or like a father and son. He was smiling at the camera, a reckless gleam in his eyes. And those were Ian’s eyes, Ian’s nose and chin, and one but not two of Ian’s dimples.
Chills crept over Claire. This explained why it was so personal for Ian Marshall. The officer had to be his father.
And clearly, this was a dated photograph. Claire squinted at it, but there was no way she could tell if the uniform was American or not. She wasn’t certain why it mattered, but a gut feeling told her that it did.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to ferret out Eddy,” a voice said from behind her.
Claire whirled. Ian stood in the doorway, leaning against the wall. His eyes were on her intently.
Claire held up the photo, then the question she was about to ask died.
Ian was taking a long look at her legs.
She flushed, even though this had been her silly plan all along.
“You could lift that photo a bit higher,” Ian said a touch roughly.
Claire realized what he meant, and she felt her color heighten. She dropped her hand to her side, and the T-shirt fell an inch or so. “You could have knocked.”
“My office. My T-shirt. You could have changed.”
“I was just about to jump in the shower.”
“This does look like the bathroom,” Ian agreed.
Claire walked over to him, not quite steadily. “I was snooping. Guilty as charged. But not with malicious intent. Is there a reduced penalty for good intent? I am sorry,” she added.
“Are you?”
Claire bit her lower lip, because how could she be sorry? She had just found Ian’s personal connection with World War II. “You win. I’ll go to jail,” she said.
“Not funny. I happen to know you don’t have a malicious bone in your body, Claire,” he said. “I also know you’re dying to ask who that man is. That is Eddy Marshall.”
He took the photo from her hand and put it back on his desk. Then he walked over to a bookcase and handed her another photo, also in a frame.
Claire blinked and her heart jumped. She took everything in almost at once. She was looking at the same handsome young man, only now he was with two other men, everyone wearing beaten-up bomber jackets and standing arm in arm, grinning, in front of some kind of old, open-air, single-seat plane with a big propeller and a round nose. Clearly they were pilots, and now she could see the RAF insignia on the plane.
And there was an RAF pilot whose body was found in a pond not far from Elgin Hall, his throat slit. Ian had told her so.
“Who is Eddy Marshall? Your father? He was in the RAF?”
He went to her and took the photo from her hands. He stared down at it grimly. “No. Eddy Marshall was my uncle—my father’s oldest brother.”
“And?” She held her breath.
“And he was Elgin’s first victim,” Ian said. “His first victim, but clearly not his last.”
CHAPTER 6
He was the pilot Elgin had murdered. This helped to explain so much. “When was this taken?” Claire whispered finally.
“The summer of 1940.” Ian put the framed photo back on the bookshelf. “Eddy quit his job and took off for France to join l’Armée de l’Air so he could fight the Germans in April or May of 1939. He went over with two or three other American boys.”
Claire stared back at him. Her mind was racing. “How did it happen?” she asked.
“He never got a chance to fight in France; the country fell before he could complete his training,” Ian continued. “He somehow got to Britain, claimed he was a Canadian, and joined a Canadian squadron of the RAF. By July of 1940 he was fighting Germans, all right. He was the first American to down a Gerry—an ME-110. Before he died, he had ten kills on his record, and he was wing commander of an Eagle squadron. He was a hero, Claire.” Ian was harsh and grim. “An all-American hero.”
“And?”
“Elgin murdered him. Eddy was on to the bastard, and Elgin murdered him in late December 1940. In fact, it was Christmas Eve.”
Claire stared, her heart skipping a dozen beats. “This is why you are burning to get Elgin.”
“I am determined—not burning—to get Elgin because I believe in justice, and thus far, Elgin has eluded all justice. I am determined to get Elgin because his is the most heinous of the cases I have on my desk.”
Claire only half believed him. Her mind made rapid calculations, and all the while, she tried to remain skeptical and logical. “How did Eddy uncover Elgin? I mean, no one else did.”
Ian sighed. “Eddy’s job before he took off for France was with the FBI.”
Claire’s eyes widened.
Ian shrugged. “My baby sister is a fed right now. It sort of runs in the family.”
Claire stared. “Are you an agent?” She didn’t know anything about the FBI, but it might explain the gun he carried. Claire felt certain that the average Nazi hunter was no Indiana Jones.
He did smile. “Are you kidding? You know what I do and where I work. Besides, federal agents make squat. If that was my income, I couldn’t live like this.”
Claire knew he was telling the truth. “So what are you saying? Eddy had some training and he stumbled onto Elgin by sheer chance?”
“Yes and no. Eddy was in love with Elgin’s cousin, Rachel Greene.” He gazed at Claire. “That was how he met Lionel Elgin. So my guess is that he stumbled onto Elgin’s activities by chance, but after meeting him through Rachel.”
“How did they meet?” Claire asked after a moment. “Eddy and Rachel, I mean.”
“I know what you meant. I don’t know how Eddy and Rachel met. The family myth is he crash-landed right at her feet.” Ian smiled then. “Which makes a cute story, but I doubt it’s true. However, they were newlyweds when he was murdered.”
Claire had to shiver again. “Poor Rachel,” she heard herself whisper. “Poor Eddy.”
“Yeah,” Ian said flatly. Claire took one last look at the handsome, carefree young fighter pilot in the photos on the bookshelf. An idea occurred to her. “Is there any way to know if the same person killed all three—Eddy and George Suttill and David?”
“Special Branch believes to this day that the same killer did in Eddy, the intelligence officers, Suttill, and David. It’s the assumption they, the SFPD, and the FBI are working on. The bad news is that the killer is a pro. He didn’t leave any evidence behind with either Suttill or David, just the deed itself.”
“Well,” Claire said, “the plot thickens.”
“You need to pack. And change.” He started for the door. “Unless you intend to get arrested for indecent exposure.”
Claire followed him out, smiling and satisfied. “Do you think this is indecent? I kinda thought it was sexy.”
He ignored her, heading into his own bathroom. Claire stared after him, glad he’d returned—until an image of the reckless and handsome Eddy Marshall came to mind. His resemblance with Ian was eerie. So, being in the FBI ran in the family? There was something about that statement, or the way Ian had made it, that gave her pause. She could smell a rat. He was holding out on her again, she felt certain of it.
And she was still wondering why he didn’t have any photographs of his father anywhere, when the rest of his home was like a family museum.
Claire went to get dressed.
&nbs
p; They arrived in London just before seven, managed Immigration, and killed two hours over breakfast, bleary-eyed, waiting for their short flight to Cardiff. There they rented a car, a small hatchback Fiat. The map proved deceptive. Wales was a region filled with hills, mountains, rivers, and lakes, and the route north had not been direct, although the scenery had become more and more breathtaking the farther they went. By the time they reached the small town of Ruthin, outside of which Lady Elgin now lived, it was early evening.
The town was set on a ridge in the southern end of the Vale of Clwyd, surrounded by lush, wooded hills. They had alternated the driving, with Ian doing his manly best to do most of it, and now he parked on St. Peter’s Square, just a stone’s throw from the old church of the very same name. Two-story buildings, mostly of stone, with timbered fronts, lined the square. Claire felt as if she had walked back in time; having been to England before, she knew that, in many ways, she had.
Claire and Ian stepped out of the Fiat. She looked around with rising excitement. St. Peter’s Church was on her right, surrounded by many old buildings, including a cloister. The town hall, clearly marked, was just across the square. She was standing in front of the big brick Castle Hotel. Another inn was next to it, the Myddleton Arms, where she and Ian were staying. Numerous shops lined the square, and to her far left was a fairly new and sprawling castle—Claire guessed it had been built in the last hundred years—which was also a hotel. The outer walls were obviously older and a part of the original ruins.
Claire smiled at Ian. “What a sweet village.”
“It’s cute.” He didn’t smile, hefting both her carry-on and his.
“I can carry my own bag,” Claire said, coming around the car to his side.
“Forget it, Scarlet,” he said.
She was briefly insulted. “I have nothing in common with Scarlett O’Hara,” she said.
He started walking toward the Myddleton Arms. “Who’s talking Gone with the Wind? I was referring to your nails.”
Claire glanced down at her fingernails, which were a brilliant crimson, matching her toenails. She usually wore red nail polish to the evening functions she attended so often, and it had become a habit. She couldn’t even recall her last manicure, but obviously, she’d had one. “Are you one of those guys who hates red nail polish?”
He shrugged. “It’s sort of sexy.”
Claire smiled at his back.
There was hardly any traffic, and far more tourists than Claire had expected. Many of the tourists were visibly American, lumbering about in shorts and sneakers even at this hour. As they navigated their way across the square, her gaze took in the hills surrounding the town again. “Ever see The Sound of Music?”
“Fifty years ago,” he said, snorting.
“Party pooper,” she returned.
He gave her a look. “Are we having a good time yet?”
“You’re a great companion,” she said frankly. “What is it, Pavlov’s training? I mean, the minute you sit down in a plane, you fall asleep. Don’t eat, don’t drink, don’t snore, don’t use the john, just sleep. It’s really fun traveling with you.”
“That’s what you’re supposed to do on night flights to Europe, Claire,” he said, pushing open the front door to the inn with his shoulder. “And I read on the flight to Cardiff.”
“The conversation was scintillating,” she said.
“You remind my of my second baby sister. She had an identity crisis when she was twelve, and it’s still going on.”
She made a face at him, and he caught her in the act. He raised one eyebrow. She grinned. “I’d rather fly with Sleeping Beauty than Garrulous George, anyway,” she said.
“Garrulous George?” He looked up for God. “Heaven help anyone involved with you.”
It felt like a compliment and Claire felt somewhat pleased as they checked in.
However, there was a problem.
“What do you mean, you have only one room? We called last night from JFK and explained that we needed two rooms, and a gentleman assured me that he had the extra room.” Ian was trying to keep his tone contained but not doing a good job. Claire could see that he was pissed.
“I’m so sorry, sir. I don’t know how there could be such a mix-up. But the town is full. We’re full. I could ring up a few inns, though, and see what we’ve got.” She smiled helpfully at him.
Ian did not soften. “I’d like to see the manager,” he said flatly. His eyes were cold.
Claire broke in. “Ian, if they don’t have another room, they don’t have it. It’s okay. It’s only one night. I promise not to be witty. And I won’t wear your T-shirt to bed,” she added slyly.
He turned to look at her. “We are not sharing a room.”
Claire’s smile faded. His eyes were black with resolve. “What, do I have cooties or something?” She should not be disappointed, but she was.
“You know that is not why.” He ground his jaw.
“BO?”
“Claire, cut it out. This is serious.”
“Warts?” she asked, wide-eyed.
He started to sigh and laughed instead, and the girl behind the desk giggled. She said, “Sir, we do have a cot. I can give you a cot. Will that be any help at all?”
Ian turned away.
“Bring on the cot,” Claire said with gusto. But she was nervous, all the same. Not that anything was going to happen, which of course it was not.
After they had settled in, there was a knock and a bellboy appeared, holding a silver ice bucket. In it was a bottle of champagne. There was no cot in sight. “Compliments of management, sir, miss,” he said with a freckled grin.
Claire watched as Ian let him deposit the tray on the small table by the window. Ian thanked him and the boy left.
“Now we have a perfect excuse to eat in,” Claire said.
He glanced at her, then lifted the bottle. “Amazing. Veuve Clicquot in this place. Good stuff.”
“Open it,” Claire said. “And it’s not good, it’s excellent, my dear.”
He faced her, his hands on his hips. “Let’s talk, Claire.”
She became still. “About Elgin?”
“No. I do believe that, for the moment, we have exhausted that subject.”
Claire wished she could think of something silly or witty to say. She couldn’t. So she waited, with no small amount of dread.
“For some odd reason, we’re partners now. And believe me, it is odd, and I can’t seem to recall just how this happened.”
Claire nodded a bit guiltily. “I pressured you. Because of my dad and William.”
“That’s hardly a rational explanation.”
“Maybe you should open the champagne.”
“Are you listening?”
“I am all ears.”
“I want to talk about this goddamned chemistry that’s between us.”
Claire blinked. The word “chemistry” seemed to hang in the air. “Okay,” she said, and her voice sounded like a squeak.
“Why are you acting so surprised? It’s obvious you are attracted to me, and it’s a natural thing. I mean, David just died—”
“Hold on!” Claire was on her feet. “Who said I’m attracted to you, buster? And what does David have to do with anything?” The pulse in her temples was hurting her now.
“You didn’t let me finish,” he said softly. “And why are you getting that hurt look in your eyes?”
She folded her arms tightly across her chest. “Well, rejection isn’t the most pleasant of life experiences.”
He stared. “Claire, we have to be sensible now.”
“Of course.” She was an idiot, she told herself, to even think about him. Damn it! Why couldn’t she have kept her eyes in her head just a few times?
“Look, I think you’re rebounding after David’s death, and—”
“You are not a shrink, and don’t go analyzing me.”
That shut him up.
“Please open the champagne,” she said. She picked up
her carry-on and purse and stalked into the bathroom. It was immature, but she slammed the door, then locked it. She had the urge to cry.
Now she hoped they would bring up the cot. She said through the door, “You are so arrogant, Marshall! I’ll bet you think that reception girl was in love with you, too!”
“Actually, no, I don’t, and you didn’t even let me finish” was his calm reply from the other side of the door.
“Well, I know you hate having me for a partner, but get this: you’re stuck with me now!” Claire turned on the shower while stripping off her black pants and white knit top. A thong and triangle bra, both white and lacy, followed.
“Believe me, Claire, I know you are sticking to me like glue. Krazy Glue, remember?”
“No, now it’s worse. Like a tick to a dog. Like a bloodsucking tick! I hope you’re opening that champagne, because I am in desperate need of a drink.”
“I am.”
She stepped into the shower, and the pain of his rejection brought a sick feeling to her chest. She heard the cork popping as she scrubbed herself and then quickly washed her hair. But truly, what did she expect? A torrid love affair while they were chasing Elgin? That wasn’t even her style, and maybe he was right. Maybe she was on the rebound after David’s death.
Claire stepped out of the shower, shivering, as it was very cool in Wales at night. “By the way, I am not rebounding because of David,” she said through the door, toweling off and jumping into a pair of jeans. “I was going to ask him for a divorce.” She pulled on a T-shirt; unfortunately, it was his. “Our relationship died years ago. I can’t even remember the last time we had sex.” She opened the door, wrapping a towel around her head.
He stared. “That’s nice to know,” he said, and he was flushing. He held out a flute of champagne.
Claire snatched it and downed half in one gulp. “Like that?”
“Impressive. Is this a contest?”
“Maybe. Let’s see who gets drunk first.” She would win, hands down.
His mouth quirked. “Claire, you never let me finish. Okay, so maybe this isn’t about rebounding for you. I’m not rebounding from anyone, remember?”