‘She’s not mean. She’s just … It’s just the way she is. She doesn’t think.’ Without meeting his eyes, Flora told Marshall about Celeste’s actions on the night of the murder. She busied herself straightening out the bed, plumping cushions and smoothing the collection of throws. When she finished, she risked a quick glance in his direction. He was staring at her, his expression unreadable.
‘She’s really sorry,’ Flora said. Although even as she said it, she thought: Is she sorry? Had she actually apologised?
Marshall continued to stare. A tiny movement in his bottom lip suggested that he might be biting it.
Oh well. In for a penny, and all that.
‘There’s more,’ Flora said, and she launched into an account of Celeste’s favour, how she needed them to ship her things over to Calais as soon as possible. This time, Marshall reacted. His reaction was not good.
‘Is she crazy? She messes with the evidence at a murder scene – a murder scene! – and then refuses to say anything about it, leaving you to do it for her, and then she has the gall, the audacity, to ask you for a favour? This woman – has she ever sought professional help?’
Flora had started across the room towards him, but now she flopped into the chair, suddenly too tired to argue.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘She probably is crazy, just like you say. But she’s also my friend, and she seems to be in trouble.’ She looked at him, wondering if the helplessness she felt actually showed on her face. ‘What am I supposed to do, Marshall? Tell me that?’
He didn’t answer straight away. He went outside, and she heard water splashing in the sink. The sun had gone down completely now and her legs felt cold, but she didn’t have the energy to get up and grab a blanket.
‘Okay,’ he said, striding back into the yurt with purpose. ‘Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll stay here for one more day, just to tidy up loose ends with Nick so we don’t land Shakers with a bad rep. And then we’ll take your friend’s stuff to Calais. But for double what she offered to pay you, because we’ll both be going. I’m not leaving you alone here with a murderer on the loose. And I’m not letting you out of my sight from now on. Do you understand?’
She nodded, feeling like a little girl getting instructions from her teacher. Or her father.
‘There’s more.’ He knelt down in front of her chair. She leaned forward.
‘Go on,’ she said. Her voice cracked a bit on the second word.
‘Once we’ve done the Channel run, I don’t want to hear the name Celeste, or see her annoying face, for a long, long time. I’ve had just about enough of her and her crazy film crew.’
Flora nodded again, but she didn’t speak. How could she promise that? Celeste was her friend, her oldest friend. In fact, as she’d lost touch with most of her other friends when her mum got sick, Flora would be more accurate saying that Celeste was her only friend. Turn her back on her, not see her again? It just wasn’t going to happen.
***
On their fourth day at Hanley Manor, the weather finally broke. It had been too good to be true, Flora said as she and Marshall ran through the trees to the main house. They’d found a couple of plastic bags to hold over their heads, neither having brought a raincoat or umbrella from home.
‘Call this a summer?’ Marshall shouted. He cursed as he stepped in a puddle and water sloshed up the front of his jeans.
‘Yes, I do,’ answered Flora, laughing. ‘This is exactly what we Brits mean by summer.’
The rain was having a cleansing effect on her, cathartic even. She stopped for a moment and dropped her arms, tipping back her head to let the thick droplets splash onto her face. It felt clean and pure and new.
‘You’re crazy,’ Marshall called. He’d also stopped, was waiting for her under the shelter of an enormous oak. ‘And you’re getting soaked.’
‘That’s the idea,’ she said, twirling around in the clearing. ‘Totally and completely soaked.’
Of course, she regretted it when they reached the house and she realised she’d have to sit through breakfast with damp clothes and dripping hair. Sidney brought her a towel, and she took it from him with a reassuring smile. His face seemed even more strained today, and she thought about how Jack had said he’d need to question the old man about the note.
‘Did you find it yet?’ she whispered when he bent to fill up her tea cup. He shook his head.
Celeste didn’t come down for breakfast, not even by the time they’d finished, and nor did Eduardo.
‘I wonder where she is,’ Flora said to Marshall. He shrugged, clearly not interested. Flora asked Raquel, who was just leaving. She had to repeat herself three times before Raquel seemed to understand what she was asking, but even then was only rewarded with another shrug.
‘I saw her earlier,’ Vincenzo said. His accent was pronounced, but his English was much better than Eduardo’s.
‘Oh, thanks.’ Flora turned to face him. He was handsome alright, more so close up – he had the kind of eyes that seemed lit from within, that seemed to focus on you intently. That, coupled with the chiselled jaw and high cheekbones, made him appear more Slavic than Italian. She could see why Raquel had latched onto him, and exactly how he would be a popular person to watch on the big screen. She said, ‘Did you see where she was going?’
‘She was in the garden, looking around. I came back from my run –’ he squared his shoulders at this, almost preening himself ‘– and see her. Very early, I think. She’s not usually up so early.’ He laughed, and Flora laughed with him, although she had no idea what she was laughing at.
‘He’s a bit full of himself,’ Marshall said when Vincenzo had gone.
‘He said he saw Celeste in the grounds, early. I wonder what she was doing out there in the rain.’
‘Probably looking for you, planning to tap you for another favour.’
Flora ignored him and headed up to Celeste’s room. She knocked on the door and waited. No answer. If she was completely honest, it had been a relief not to have to face Celeste at breakfast. Sooner or later, Flora was going to have to account for herself – her friend would be furious that she had told Jack about her covering up for Eduardo. Flora knew she was in the right, it had been the right thing to do, but still. She didn’t relish the thought of a confrontation.
Especially with Celeste.
She knocked again, then turned the handle. It opened. A sudden wave of nausea swept over Flora, and she clutched the handle tightly. What if Celeste was in her room after all? What if she was dead? Like Alberto … a crazed killer picking them off one by one while they were holed up in this crumbing old house, waiting for death. For their date with death. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in her throat, and she swallowed it back down and gave herself a little shake. Get a grip, she said silently. She pushed open the door and stepped inside. She knew at once that Celeste wasn’t there, alive or otherwise. The room had a feeling of complete emptiness. Just to be on the safe side, Flora quickly checked the bathroom and, feeling very silly, peeped under the bed. She was getting up from looking under the bed when Celeste entered the room.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
Flora jerked her head and swore, her heart doing a little jumping of its own. ‘You frightened the life out of me. Where have you been?’
‘Out.’ Celeste walked over to the bathroom, stepped inside for a moment, then came back holding a towel.
‘You look terrible,’ Flora said. Celeste’s hair was plastered to her head; her pale grey jumper was soaked through and clinging to her thin frame like silk. But it was her eyes that caught Flora’s attention – the dark circles underneath more pronounced than ever, her expression almost haunted. ‘Come over here and sit down,’ she instructed. ‘I’m going to ask Sidney for some tea. Have you eaten?’
‘Flora, Eduardo is missing.’ Celeste sat on the bed and crossed her legs. Her lower legs were bare and wet, the leather of her brown sandals almost black from the rain.
‘Missing? Wha
t do you mean?’
‘I mean missing! Not here, gone, run away or worse. What do you think I mean?’ Her anger was sudden, and Flora reeled back, then turned resolutely to the phone and dialled through to Sidney.
After ordering tea and toast, she returned to the bed and took up a position diagonal to Celeste. ‘I know why you’re mad at me,’ she said, ‘and I don’t blame you. But I had to do it. I had to get him off Marshall’s back.’
‘Jack came last night and questioned everyone again. He was furious with me, and so was Eduardo when he found out what I’d done. He said … he said it proved that I didn’t trust him. That I thought he was the killer.’
Flora wanted to say that Eduardo had a point, but she kept quiet. She felt she’d already said enough.
Celeste tapped her feet on the floor. ‘After Jack left, Eduardo and I had the most terrible row. He stormed out. I watched him from up here – I shouted to him but he didn’t come back.’ She looked at Flora, her eyes damp. ‘I haven’t seen him since.’
It occurred to Flora that this could be a ruse. She cared about her friend, she wanted to be a good friend to her, but she wasn’t stupid. Celeste was an actress. This could be a story she and Eduardo had concocted between them to get him … What? Out of the country? She thought about the Calais trip. Was Celeste planning to have Marshall and Flora smuggle her boyfriend into France to avoid a murder charge? Even as she thought it, she discounted the idea. It was ridiculous, after all: Eduardo hiding in a box in the back of the van. And perhaps Celeste wasn’t that good an actress. She certainly seemed distraught, and had been out since the early hours searching the grounds. Vincenzo had vouched for that.
Celeste was watching her. ‘I’m not angry with you for telling Jack. I’m glad you did it, you saved me the trouble. But he was rough on Eduardo, and I think he got scared. Flora, someone is trying to frame Eduardo, don’t you think? That’s why they used his sword.’
‘And trying to frame Marshall at the same time? It doesn’t make sense.’ She told Celeste about the fake note, about Marshall being found in the props room holding the scabbard.
‘He said he just saw it there and picked it up. He knew what it was, and he said that as soon as he picked it up he realised it might have the murderer’s fingerprints on it, but then it was too late. One of Jack’s men came in and found him.’
‘Do you believe him?’
Flora didn’t bother to answer. It was a stupid question. She walked over to the window and looked out across the rain-soaked gardens. The sky was grey, the hills were grey, even the tops of the trees on the estate looked grey. She opened the French doors just enough to let some air into the room. A loud thrumming noise caught her attention, and she leaned out, looking towards the driveway. It was Vincenzo’s motorbike, the engine turning over with a sound that was almost alive, like an animal. Vincenzo was sitting astride the bike, and Raquel was leaning on him, holding an umbrella over both of them. As Flora watched, the widow bent her head and let Vincenzo kiss her. He didn’t only kiss her lips – he kissed her forehead, and then her cheeks, as though kissing away her tears.
If she had any tears.
Flora stepped back inside, leaving the door ajar. She said, ‘Raquel isn’t exactly heartbroken about Alberto, is she?’
Celeste was sitting on the floor now, searching through a brown leather case, throwing items to either side indiscriminately. ‘What? Oh well, no, not really. But he was a pig. Why should she miss him?’
‘Because she was his wife,’ Flora said, mainly to herself. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘This is Eduardo’s bag,’ Celeste said, as though that explained everything.
‘He didn’t take it with him. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’
‘I was wondering,’ Celeste began, but then she stopped and sat back on her heels with a heavy sigh. ‘Oh, what’s the point.’
Flora waited. If her friend wanted to talk she would. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t. She’d always been that way.
‘I thought maybe Eduardo had found … something. That maybe that was why he took off without a word to me.’ Celeste started throwing things back into the case. ‘But I don’t think that’s really it.’
‘Like the photos?’ Flora said. ‘The ones Alberto had?’
‘Hm–m. Sure. But I don’t think that’s it,’ she said again. ‘I think he just got scared and is probably hiding out somewhere. Did you see anything on your way in this morning?’
‘We only walked through the woods, and we were hurrying because of the rain. Sorry.’
Celeste rested her head against the end of the bed and looked up at the ornate ceiling. ‘God, this place is a dump,’ she said. Flora followed her gaze and saw a damp patch forming in the plaster. A leak. You don’t know the half of it, she thought, but she kept her thoughts to herself. She’d promised Sidney, and it was a promise she didn’t intend to break.
‘Celeste, you know you said the other day that you thought Raquel might have killed Alberto? That she might have been acting the whole time? Did you really mean it?’
‘Well, why not? She’s going to be pretty rich now he’s gone. Or maybe Vinny did it. Maybe they planned it together.’ Celeste yawned, then sat up and stretched. ‘I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. The rain was dripping onto the balcony, it was so irritating.’
‘But what about the tiara?’ said Flora. ‘Do you think she took that herself? Like, stole it from herself?’
‘It wasn’t really hers, was it? It belongs to the Spanish government.’ Celeste laughed her sharp, humourless laugh. ‘We had such a job convincing the museum to let us bring it to England. The shit is really going to hit the fan now. Glad I won’t be around to see it,’ she added, yawning again. ‘Come on, Lively. We can’t sit here doing nothing all day. We need to find Eduardo.’ She stopped and looked at Flora. Her face took on an anxious expression, or perhaps puzzled. ‘You will help me, won’t you? I just know he’s out there somewhere.’
Flora shook her head. ‘Sorry, Celeste. I will come and look with you later, but not right now. There’s something I need to do first.’
‘This is important.’ The anger in her friend’s voice was unmistakable, but Flora stood her ground.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘But this is important too.’
***
She intercepted Sidney on his way up the main staircase. He was carrying a tray with Celeste’s teapot perched on it, along with a rack of wan-looking toast. ‘Sorry,’ he said, as soon as he spotted Flora. ‘I got waylaid.’ He waited until he drew level with her, then lowered his voice. ‘Rats,’ he whispered. Flora pulled a face.
‘Sidney, I have to tell you, I’m really freaked out that there are rats in this house.’
‘You’re okay in the Nook,’ he said, continuing up the stairs. Flora fell into step with him. ‘Lots of natural predators out there.’
‘Well, that makes me feel a whole lot better, thanks! What kinds of predators?’
But Sidney wasn’t listening. They reached the top and he rested the tray on the polished wooden banister. ‘Your friend gave me a grilling last night,’ he said, his voice still low and conspiratorial.
‘Jack? I suppose he wanted to see the evidence, make sure he really could clear Marshall completely.’
Sidney nodded. ‘He lost interest when I told him I couldn’t find it. I’m afraid it really did go out with the bins, Miss. I’m very sorry.’
‘That’s okay, you weren’t to know.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Can you describe it to me? Like, what kind of paper it was written on, what the writing looked like, that kind of thing? I don’t know how, but it might help.’
‘Ah, well, that’s the interesting thing. It wasn’t written on paper – it was written on a serviette. Not one of our napkins, you understand. I wouldn’t have thrown one of those away. No, this was a paper napkin, like one you’d get in a cafe or a cheap restaurant. I thought at the time that you must have just grabbed whatever came to hand. Do you not
have any notepaper in the Nook?’
‘I didn’t write it, Sidney,’ Flora reminded him.
‘Of course. Silly me. Getting old, Miss Lively. Or maybe it’s the stress of all this.’
She risked a quick pat on his arm, which was still balancing the tray on the banister. She glanced back along the corridor. Celeste would be wondering where her breakfast was.
‘And the writing?’ she prompted him. ‘Can you remember anything about that?’
He thought for a moment. ‘It was printed, all in capitals. Yes, I’m sure it was. And in blue pen.’ He smiled proudly. ‘Memory’s not deserting me after all.’
‘Thanks, Sidney. And thanks for trying to find the note. I suppose there’s still a chance it might turn up.’
‘You never know,’ he said doubtfully.
She said goodbye, then trotted down the stairs. She had a sudden hunch about Eduardo, and headed out to the van. It had all the attractions of a man-cave, after all, and hadn’t Marshall nursed his wounds in there himself the night of Alberto’s murder? But her hunch was wrong. The van was empty. She sat in the cab for a while with the radio on, thinking. She slid down low so anybody passing by wouldn’t notice her, but she could see over the top of the dashboard quite well. Just after the news came on, a taxi pulled up outside the main door. Flora lifted her head just a fraction. Gabriella got out of the taxi, paid the driver, then walked around the side of the house and out of sight. She’d been carrying a large holdall, thrown lightly over one shoulder. Maybe here to pick up some of her stuff, Flora thought. She wondered if there would be any filming today in the rain.
By the time she’d been back to the yurt to look for Marshall – who wasn’t there, and hadn’t left any kind of note to say where he might be – it was nearly midday. She entered the manor house via the boot room, noting the pile of anoraks in one corner. If she got roped into helping Celeste search the grounds later she would borrow one of those. The rain was still hammering down onto the sun-baked earth, and Flora quite liked the idea of an afternoon spent outdoors. Keeping an eye out for Marshall, she headed into the house. So much for not letting her out of his sight while there was a murderer on the loose, she thought.
A Date With Death: Cozy Private Investigator Series (Flora Lively Mysteries Book 2) Page 12