Death and Sensibility

by Elizabeth Blake

  “What’s goin’ on with all the coppers runnin’ around?” said Billy, handing her the bag of soup and crackers.

  “I can’t really say,” said Erin. Technically, it was the truth, as she had promised Hemming to remain silent.

  “Is that what all these questions are about?” asked Chef Moore.

  “The police have asked me not to divulge anything at this time.”

  “Strange, innit?” said Billy. “I mean—”

  “You have a lot of prep work,” the chef told him. “You’d best get back to it.”

  “Yes, Chef,” Billy said, scurrying back to his post.

  “I’ll get out of your hair. Thank you so much for the soup,” said Erin. “You and your team are doing brilliant work. Your trout almondine is a spiritual experience.”

  “Kind of you to say so,” Constance Moore said, pulling an enormous slab of pork ribs from the refrigerator.

  “Mind if I ask just one more thing?”

  “Fire away,” she said, hacking at the ribs with a meat cleaver. Her blows were skillful and perfectly aimed, and Erin couldn’t help thinking what a lethal killer the chef would make, as she sliced off ribs with surgical precision.

  “I was wondering if you—or any of your staff—saw anyone in the kitchen in the last twelve hours or so. I mean, someone who didn’t belong.”

  “I can’t say that I did,” she replied, setting aside the butchered meat before starting on another slab. “Who did you have in mind?”

  “Maybe one of the guests, or—”

  “Hang on a minute,” said Billy, putting down his knife. “I saw someone in ’ere last night. A woman, it was.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  “That’s easy enough. She was pure dead gorgeous—red lips, hair black as night. Looked like a model or somethin’. A bit on the skinny side, but—”

  “Did you speak with her?”

  “I asked her what she wanted, an’ she said she’d lost an earring, wondered if I mighta found it. Struck me as odd, but I was in no hurry for her to leave. She seemed antsy, though, an’ didn’t say much else.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Round about midnight.”

  “Look,” Chef Moore said to Erin, “not to be rude, but we have work to do.”

  “I promise this is the last question.”

  “And what is all this about?” the chef said, frowning.

  “Is it to do with all the coppers swarmin’ around?” asked Billy.

  “Not really,” said Erin. “It’s … Society business. So is there anything else you noticed about her?”

  “Yeah—she had an accent a’ some sort. Not sure what—sounded Polish or somethin’.”

  “Thank you,” said Erin. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “So what’s she done?” Billy asked.

  “That’s enough, Billy—back to work,” said Chef Moore.

  “I very much appreciate your time,” said Erin, and clutching her now soggy bag of soup, fled the kitchen.

  There was little doubt the person Billy described as being in the kitchen around midnight was Luca Wolf. The question was, what was she doing there?

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Luca Wolf twisted a strand of smooth dark hair between her fingers. “I was hungry,” she said in a sulky voice. They were seated in the parlor of her hotel suite, the fanciest the Grand had to offer, which, as their Guest of Honor, the Society had reserved for Barry Wolf. Luca was relaxing in an overstuffed armchair, clad in a thick white bathrobe, the hotel’s name monogrammed in gold on the lapel. Her slim legs rested on a matching footstool, her freshly polished toenails the color of bright-red holly berries. Erin didn’t blame her for sticking around after her husband’s death—the luxurious surroundings included a massive bouquet of flowers in a cut-glass vase, velvet curtains, and an eighteenth-century French armoire.

  Though Judith’s body had finally been removed, the room was still cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape, and no one at the hotel could talk of anything else. Hetty and Prudence had notified Society members of her death via email, though at the request of Detective Hemming, no mention was made of how she had died. The keynote presentation for the evening had obviously been canceled, and conference members were informed there would be further updates as more was known. Erin’s phone had started ringing minutes after they sent the email, until she finally turned it off. She took the stairs from her room to avoid running into conference attendees who, understandably, would be full of questions.

  “Is it crime to be hungry?” Luca said, a pout on her pretty face.

  “If you were hungry, why not take something from the minibar?” said Erin.

  “Too expensive,” she said, flipping the corner of her terrycloth robe over her tanned ankles. Erin wondered how she had a tan in the middle of an English winter. “I don’t know what Barry left me in his will—maybe nothing. I have to be careful.”

  “There’s a vending machine.”

  She made a face. “All junk.”

  “If you were so hungry, why not ask Billy for something to eat while you were in the kitchen?”

  “He make me uncomfortable.”

  “So you left hungry.”

  Luca shrugged. “I got crisps from vending machine.”

  “Then what?”

  “I went to bed.”

  “So you didn’t steal a skewer from the kitchen and stab Judith Eton?” Erin said it just to watch her reaction. She had to hand it to Luca. If she was guilty, she managed to look appropriately shocked.

  “Of course not!” she sputtered. “What are you talking about—did someone stab Judith?”

  “Didn’t your brother tell you?”

  “No. I haven’t seen him since breakfast.”

  “You didn’t read our email?”

  “I just wake up from nap. What has happened?”

  Erin told her of Judith’s demise, without mentioning details, but it was too late—she had spilled the beans, and Luca knew it.

  “So she was stabbed? With a skewer?”

  “No one knows how she died,” Erin said, feeling foolish.

  “You just ask me if I stab her.”

  “I was just fishing. I don’t know how she died.”

  “But she was murdered?”

  “I honestly can’t say,” Erin said, but knew Luca saw through her.

  “She was—otherwise you wouldn’t ask me that question.”

  “Look,” Erin said, her palms beginning to sweat. “Just forget what I said, all right?”

  “How can I forget when you accuse me of murder?”

  “I didn’t—I just had to be sure.” Erin was keenly aware she was losing, and that the power had shifted to Luca. “Look,” she said, feeling sweat prickle on her neck, even though the room was cool. “I would really appreciate it if you didn’t repeat this conversation to anyone.”

  Luca studied her, and Erin sensed something coolly predatory in that gaze. Maybe Luca’s protests were the reaction of a very clever and collected killer.

  “Why are you afraid of what I might say?” said Luca.

  Erin decided to bare her throat. “Because I promised the police I wouldn’t say anything.”

  “How is it you—oh, you discovered body, didn’t you?” said Luca with a triumphant little smile.

  “Yes. I did.”

  “And they don’t want the public to know details—like police shows on the television.”

  “Right. So do you think you can—”

  “Don’t worry,” Luca said. “I grew up in Hungary—I am good at keeping secrets. And I did not like that Judith Eton. I am sorry she was killed, but she was not nice person to me or my brother.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “She made us feel we were hired help. Treated us like servants. Barry noticed but never said anything.” She pulled an emery board from her pocket and swiped at her fingernails. “He was a—what is it you British say? A wanker. Do they think this person also kille
d Barry?”

  “They’re not convinced he was murdered.”

  Luca put down her emery board. “But you are?”

  “I think there’s a good chance. Did he see a lot of his ex-wife?”

  “No. But she brought their son over sometimes.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might want to harm Judith?”

  “Not especially. I didn’t know that many people. I think Barry wanted it that way.” She stretched and yawned. “And now, if you don’t mind, I have appointment at spa.”

  “Thanks for your time,” Erin said, rising.

  “I hope they catch this person. Barry was not good person, but no one deserves to die like that.”

  As she left the expensive suite, Erin had to agree. No matter who or what Barry Wolf had been in life, he did not deserve the fate that she increasingly believed had befallen him.

  The minute she entered the hallway, Erin nearly ran into Sergeant Jarral.

  “Sorry,” he said, stepping out of her way. He seemed to be in a great hurry, and she decided to follow him. She didn’t have far to go. At the end of the corridor, near the fire exit, a room door opened and Detective Hemming emerged with Winnifred Hogsworthy in handcuffs.

  “Anything you say may be given in evidence,” he was saying as he led Winnie down the hall.

  He was in such a hurry to arrest her that he was still reading Winnie her rights, Erin thought as they came toward her.

  “What’s going on?” Erin asked. “Why are you arresting Winnie?” she demanded when Hemming didn’t answer.

  “We’ll be giving a statement later this afternoon,” he said, avoiding eye contact as they passed.

  “Winnie—?” Erin called out. “What’s going on?”

  She twisted around to face Erin, her face a mask of sheer panic. “I didn’t do it!”

  “Why do they think you’re guilty?” Erin asked, following after them.

  “They found one of my knitting needles in the room—they think it’s the murder weapon!”

  “Please let us do our job,” Hemming told Erin as Sergeant Jarral rang for the lift.

  “Where did they find it?” Erin asked, ignoring him.

  “Under the bed,” Winnie said. “They claim it was covered in blood. I didn’t do it!”

  “We’ll be releasing a statement at five o’clock,” Hemming said as he and Jarral escorted Winnie onto the lift.

  Erin watched as the doors closed behind them. She felt bad for Hemming—she knew from his gray pallor and beads of sweat on his forehead that he wasn’t well. But she also knew someone had planted evidence against Winnifred Hogsworthy. Erin had looked carefully under Judith’s bed, and saw no knitting needle, bloody or otherwise. The problem was, if she told the police, it was an admission she had snooped around before calling them—either that, or she was implicating herself as the murderer.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “Is it true they arrested Winnie Hogsworthy?” Hetty Miller said breathlessly, rushing into the dining room. The members of the North Yorkshire Branch of the Society were meeting over dinner that evening to discuss how to proceed after Judith’s sudden death.

  “It’s true, pet,” Farnsworth said, spearing a pat of butter with her fork. “Pass the bread, please.” Judith’s death did not seem to have affected her appetite.

  “Why?” asked Jonathan, handing her the basket of fresh, yeasty rolls. “What do they have on her?”

  Erin was silent. This was no time to involve other Society members in what was, at best, a highly charged situation. Anyone she told could immediately be put in danger.

  “Do you know?” Farnsworth asked her.

  “I’m as confused as you are,” she replied, which was the truth.

  “I heard they’re to release a statement soon,” said Hetty, glancing at her phone. “I keep checking their Twitter feed but haven’t seen anything.” Hetty was quite the devotee of social media—she was responsible for the branch’s online presence, and Erin had to admit she did a brilliant job. Her posts were witty and informative, which made Prudence quite jealous. Erin thought Pru was also secretly proud of her friend, though she would never admit it.

  “What are we going to do going forward?” said Jonathan. He tended to sprinkle his conversation with phrases like “empower,” “pivot,” and “going forward,” which Erin attributed to the administrators in the public schools where he taught.

  “What I’m hearing is that people don’t want to cancel the ball tomorrow,” Pru said, taking a large bite of linguine primavera. “There seems to be a general opinion that Judith would want us to carry on.”

  “How strange,” said Jonathan. “Why would anyone—”

  “Her son actually asked us to hold the ball,” said Hetty, picking at a plate of crudités next to the bread basket. She and Erin had ordered the trout, which hadn’t yet arrived. “He claimed his mother would want us to.”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as odd?” asked Farnsworth, reaching for the pinot grigio. She had ordered a bottle each of red and white for the table. Unlike the parsimonious Prudence, and Hetty, who was always dieting, Farnsworth was all about abundance, one of the many things Erin loved about her.

  “Grief strikes people in strange ways,” said Prudence as the server arrived with the fish entrées.

  “How’s your head, dearie?” Hetty asked Erin.

  “Better, thanks,” she said, gazing longingly at the Shiraz. She still had a bit of a headache, and thought it best to abstain until she was entirely recovered.

  Prudence plucked a piece of broccoli from her plate. “Those who do not complain are never pitied.” Erin recognized it as an Austen quote, though she couldn’t place it.

  Hetty put down her stick of celery. “Why on earth would anyone want to be pitied?”

  “I’m just saying,” Prudence replied, wrinkling her nose as she sniffed at a carrot. With her dull brown hair and scruffy beige cardigan, she reminded Erin of a small burrowing animal.

  “I did have an interesting sighting, though,” said Erin, inhaling the scent of almonds, lemon, and butter emanating from her plate. The trout was as exquisite as ever, she thought as she took bite of the tender white flesh.

  “Did it involve your sexy detective, shirtless maybe?” asked Hetty.

  Everyone laughed except Jonathan, who pretended not to hear. Seizing the bottle of Shiraz, he poured himself a rather reckless amount.

  “It was an owl, actually,” Erin said. “Perched in the yew tree outside my window.”

  “That’s very portentous,” came a deep voice behind her.

  Erin turned to see Grant Apthorp hobbling toward them, leaning heavily on a cane. His bandaged right foot was clad in a hotel slipper.

  “The dead have arisen!” Farnsworth exclaimed, her cheeks flushed from more than just the wine.

  “Please join us,” said Jonathan, rising to fetch an extra chair.

  “Your poor foot,” said Hetty, clucking her tongue. “Does it hurt much, dearie?”

  “Not nearly as much as two days ago,” he said, lowering gingerly into the chair Jonathan provided, next to Farnsworth.

  “We’ve missed you,” she said, passing him a menu.

  “You did not want to be around me during the worst of this, I can promise you that,” he said, taking it.

  “Oh, surely you’re exaggerating,” said Prudence, a blush creeping up the yellowish skin of her face. Even she seemed enlivened by Grant’s presence.

  “Pru is right,” Hetty said. “You are always delightful.”

  “If you enjoy the company of a very irritable and hungry bear just coming out of hibernation,” Grant said.

  “Didn’t you want someone to comfort you in your misery?” asked Prudence.

  “Men are different, pet,” said Farnsworth, reaching for the pinot grigio. “They prefer to suffer in silence.”

  “Is that true?” Hetty asked Jonathan.

  “I can’t speak for other men,” he said. “But I generally don’t enjo
y being around other people when I’m not feeling well.”

  “You see?” Farnsworth said smugly. “Just as I said.”

  “Two people hardly comprise a scientifically supportable conclusion,” Prudence remarked.

  “Call it a representative sample,” said Erin. “My father is the same way. Best to leave him alone when he’s under the weather.”

  “Your father’s a clergyman, isn’t he?” Grant asked.

  “Yes, in Oxford.”

  “He’s a veritable fount of information,” said Farnsworth. “Knows everyone in Oxford.”

  “Oh? What kind of information?” said Grant.

  “For her investigation,” Hetty whispered. “You know, into the murders.”

  “It sounds to me like the police have everything well in hand,” he said as the waiter approached their table.

  “You must be so devastated about Judith,” said Prudence. “I mean, you and she go back so far.”

  “Yes,” Grant replied sadly. “It hardly seems real. I’ll have the salmon,” he said to the server, who stood waiting patiently, his weight on one hip.

  “Yes, Sir,” he said. He was new, maybe Sam’s replacement, Erin thought glumly. “Is everyone else all right?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Jonathan.

  “Everything is lovely,” Farnsworth added.

  “If you ask me, the coppers jumped to a conclusion awfully quickly,” said Hetty. “I mean, aren’t they meant to interview people?”

  “They interviewed me,” said Prudence.

  “And me as well,” said Farnsworth.

  “What about you, Erin?” asked Hetty. “Did they speak with you?”

  “Yes,” she replied, hoping no one would press for details. She exchanged a glance with Farnsworth; only she knew Erin had discovered the body, and Erin intended to keep it that way.

  “What about you?” Hetty asked Jonathan. “Did they interview you?”

  “I don’t know that you could call it an interview, but yes, they did reach out to me,” he said, taking a bite of rocket salad. Erin shuddered at the sight of the dark green leaves. Normally she loved its bitter taste, but hadn’t ordered rocket salad since then Barry Wolf’s death.

  All eyes turned toward Terrence Rogers as he entered the dining room. He was nattily dressed as usual, in a burgundy dinner jacket and matching bow tie, but he looked haunted. His whole body slumped forward, his shoulders narrowed inward, and his remarkably youthful face looked a decade older. His red-rimmed eyes darted around the room, as if unable to focus, and fine lines in his face, nearly invisible before, had deepened. He was the very picture of walking grief.