Murder in Shadow (The Doyle and Acton Murder Series Book 6)

by Anne Cleeland

  Acton ducked his chin, thinking over this revelation. “Is he a danger to you?”

  Doyle stifled alarming visions of her over-fond husband burning the place to the ground, and assured him, “No—he’s not. Mainly, he can’t believe I’m such a nodcock. He has little use for women—and the Irish in particular—and everyone’s afraid of him; they stay well out of his way.”

  As they walked down the hallway toward the foyer, her husband cast her a glance. “Are they afraid of you?”

  “Like the Santero was?” She paused for a moment, and fought a panicked feeling, because it was always difficult for her to speak of it. “No, they’re not afraid of me. In fact, some nice woman told me I should use fennel if Edward gets the colic—have no idea what she’s talkin’ about, but I will keep it to mind.”

  He paused for a moment, in the spacious entry way, and regarded her. “You are extraordinary,” he said, and meant it.

  She emphasized with a touch of anxiety, “But not at all creepy, Michael.”

  “Not in the least,” he assured her, and it was true. “Let’s go home.”

  “This is home, too.” She stretched her arms over her head, and viewed the timbered ceiling with a resigned eye. “Let’s lie in front of the fire, and roast potatoes in the jacket. D’you suppose Hudson has any, in the root cellar?”

  “You needn’t humor me.” With a fond smile, he took her elbow. “We’ll go home, and if you wish to roast potatoes, you shall roast them there.”

  “Let’s stay here, instead—we can go home after dinner. I don’t mind, Michael, truly. And I’ll try on my spiky heels; I was too nervous to try them on in the store.”

  He was very pleased, she could see. “By all means, then.”

  And so, a short time later, they were seated on the Aubusson rug before the hearth in the drawing room, a crackling fire casting shadows on the walls whilst two potatoes lay roasting beneath the grate.

  “We used to do this, my mother and me,” Doyle said absently, watching the flames. “Now I realize that we were probably out of money, but at the time I always thought it such a treat.”

  Negligently, he leaned over to kiss her. “What happens next?”

  She smiled at his ignorance. “We split them open and eat them, Michael. I’ll let you pull them out; I always burnt my fingertips.”

  He reached for the potatoes, and eased them out of the ashes with short, quick movements. “Does this call for butter?”

  “Indeed, it does. But let me take these shoes off before you call Hudson—he’ll think me a wanton, and I’d rather he didn’t think someone in my condition might be havin’ sex all over the fancy rug.”

  Acton leaned over to pull the bell cord. “Nonsense; he’ll only assume these are your potato-roasting shoes.”

  She laughed, as she wiggled the narrow shoes off her swollen feet. “I suppose that’s true; if I told him that’s how we do it in Ireland, he’d mark it down as just one more oddity amongst the many.”

  Upon hearing their request, the dignified steward fetched the butter as though the sight of Acton—sprawled on the floor like a derryman, and eating with his hands—was the merest commonplace.

  As Hudson discreetly closed the double doors behind him, Doyle smiled and licked her fingers. “He’s that pleased that you’re so happy.”

  This earned her another fond kiss, this one a bit more buttery than the last. “I am inordinately pleased, myself.”

  “It’s truly a nice place, Michael. My hand on my heart.”

  “You need to become accustomed; I understand.”

  Gazing into the fire, she thought about nothing in particular for a space of time, whilst her husband absently rubbed her back. Although she’d downplayed the knight’s concerns, she decided that it wouldn’t hurt to speak to Savoie yet again, just to make sure that he wasn’t working against Acton. She’d asked him once already, and he’d assured her that he was not. In fact, at the time, Savoie had hinted that he was working with Acton as opposed to against him, and subsequent events and shown that this was true. Nevertheless, she should double-check; the knight’s certainty was a bit unsettling, truth to tell.

  Reminded, she turned to him. “Did you find out why Williams wasn’t tellin’ you the truth, about Harding’s bein’ dead?”

  “I believe,” he said slowly, “that Williams is under intense pressure, and is trying to extricate himself from his problems all on his own.”

  This was in keeping with what she knew, and it also reassured her that Acton was keeping an eye on the situation. “Foolish man,” she teased. “He should unburden his soul to you, and trust you to make it right.”

  “He may yet; we shall see.”

  “Well, I think he’s bein’ too prideful, Michael, but he’s a rare knocker, if he thinks he can outfox you. He should just take his lumps, and let you help him.”

  Doyle winced, as overhead, the knight slammed the flat of his sword into a hammer beam.

  32

  Unlikely, that she’d developed a taste for juice; she must be meeting someone there, instead.

  I’m being run ragged, Doyle thought a bit crossly, as she buttoned her coat against the early morning cold. And the clock is ticking, but I don’t know if I’m getting any closer to whatever it is. And meanwhile—although I’m whale-sized—various ghosts are urging me to go faster. Impatiently, she glanced up the pavement, and decided it was a shame no one had ever mentioned that this marriage business was so very complicated, and if only they had, she might have thought it over for more than twenty minutes.

  It was the next morning, and she’d arranged for an early meeting with Savoie because the final committee hearing was fast approaching, and she’d best speak with him before it went forward, just to make certain that he wasn’t about to pull the curtains down around their heads.

  Since she was supposed to stay close to headquarters, she’d hit on the subterfuge of asking the driving service to drop her off so that she could pick up another order of juice, and then walk in to work. Of course, if he heard about this diversion, Acton would no doubt wonder why his better half was doing something so completely out-of-character, but the stores weren’t yet open, and it was the best she could do on short notice.

  Hopefully, Acton would be too busy to notice that she was taking the slow route in to work, and just as hopefully Trenton wasn’t on the case, as yet. It hardly mattered; it was important that she speak with Savoie face-to-face, and if she was confronted on the subject, she’d just admit to it.

  As was his usual, Savoie was a bit late—no doubt because he was casing the place; he was a cautious man, and with good reason. Doyle was reviewing the chalkboard menu and trying to decide if anything sounded remotely appealing when Savoie materialized next to her. “Bonjour.”

  “Hallo, Philippe.” She noted that he held Emile by the hand, and smiled at the boy. “Hallo, Emile.”

  “Hallo. Papa says you are fat because there is a baby inside your tummy.”

  “Your papa is correct.” Unsure of what one should say, she decided to add, “The baby is a little boy like you. His name is Edward.”

  Emile thought this over. “I will let him ride my horse, when I get it.”

  This statement raised a flare of alarm within her breast. “Oh—oh; where will you be keepin’ your horse?”

  “La Belle France. Papa says.”

  “Emile,” Savoie cautioned. “Less talk.”

  As this seemed a good sign that Savoie was not truly planning to take over Trestles by force of arms, Doyle hid her relief. “Are you headin’ back to France, then?”

  “Soon.” He squinted at the offerings, and then ordered some complicated concoction. “But Emile, he must begin the school here, so I will come back in the fall. What is it you wish, Emile?”

  “That one,” said Emile, pointing to another patron’s orange-colored beverage. To Doyle, he announced, “I will wear a uniform at my school, and they have rabbits, in a pen.”

  “That is excellent
,” Doyle acknowledged.

  “It is St. Margaret’s,” Savoie explained, with a gleam.

  As that gleam reminded her that he’d no doubt falsified the admission papers, Doyle hastily changed the subject. “I’m that surprised you’re settlin’ here, instead of back home where you came from.”

  “You forget,” he informed her with a chiding expression. “I have the business interests, here.”

  Yet again, Doyle quickly changed the subject, because she couldn’t very well discuss his massive smuggling-by-horse-trailers rig without arresting him on the spot. “Yes; well, I hope you will keep Emile to mind, and how I’m unlikely to be givin’ him any horses if you wind up in prison.” Doyle had made a much-regretted promise that she’d stand in as next-of-kin, if anything happened to Savoie.

  “Me, I will be careful.” With a gesture toward her belly, he teased, “I will be le parrain, yes? When le bébé is baptized.”

  Doyle guessed at what the word meant, and quirked her mouth at the picture thus presented. “I can’t imagine Acton would look upon such a plan with a benign eye, Philippe.”

  Very much amused, Savoie rendered his thin smile. “Non. He would not have the nine eyes.”

  “Definitely not.” She swallowed, and decided there was nothin’ for it; she was running out of time to discover what she needed to discover. “I wanted to meet with you, Philippe, because I wanted to make sure you aren’t double-crossin’ Acton.”

  He glanced at her in surprise, as he stepped forward to take his juice from the attendant. “Non. I do not do the double-cross of Acton. Is this what he says?”

  “No, I am just a bit anxious, is all.” Doyle thought about his response—which was true—and cautiously asked a follow-up. “Are you helpin’ Acton, then? You’re not causin’ him any trouble, are you?”

  He frowned at her for a moment, as he handed Emile his cup. “Me, I help Acton. Do not worry, little bird; I do what he asks.”

  Her scalp prickled, and thus prodded, she asked what seemed like the obvious question. “But why? Why would you help Acton?” Acton had cut an immunity deal with Savoie when he’d enlisted his help in taking down the corruption rig, and she wondered uneasily if perhaps more favors had been promised—which was not something law enforcement should probably be doing, with the likes of Philippe Savoie.

  But his answer went a different direction. “We are friends, yes? I think you are the only one.”

  This was said in a slightly melancholy tone, and it immediately raised her defenses. “Don’t pitch me a wheedle, Philippe, I’m not buyin’ whatever it is you’re sellin’.”

  Savoie’s gaze rested for a moment on Emile, sucking on his straw and jumping with both feet on the pavement cracks. “Your husband, he is not a forgiving man.”

  This was unexpected, and she answered cautiously, “No—I know. We’re workin on it.”

  He eyed her sidelong. “I think to myself, maybe this Acton, maybe he thinks, ‘Savoie knows too much’.”

  The irony was thick on the ground; apparently Savoie was just as worried as she was about who was double-crossing whom. “Yes, well, I wouldn’t worry about that, Philippe. Recall that you’ve duped me into raisin’ Emile if anythin’ happens to you—and I don’t appreciate bein’ an insurance policy against my own husband—but there it is. Just don’t cross him, and all will be well.” She hesitated, then added, “I think—I think despite my best efforts at hidin’ it, Acton knows that we’re friends, and that goes a long way with him.”

  He lowered his head. “Bien.”

  She decided that she may as well ask. “Do you know of anythin’—is there any reason that would make you think that I shouldn’t trust Acton?”

  The question surprised him, and he lifted his brows. “There is another woman? Yes?”

  He genuinely had no idea what she was talking about, and so she shrugged and said lightly, “Definitely not. Forget that I asked, I was just worried about—about somethin’ I can’t quite put my finger on.”

  His pale gaze held hers, and he said nothing for a long moment. “Eh bien; if you put the finger, you must come to live with me, and Emile.” Pausing, he added, “As long as Acton will have the nine eyes.”

  Doyle duly noted that poor Munoz did not enter into this equation, and disclaimed with a smile, “Never you mind, my friend; I’m just bein’ fanciful.”

  “Papa, will we go soon?”

  “Moment, Emile.” Savoie regarded her, his expression unreadable. “You will let me know if you have the troubles, yes? I will be the Saint Bernard.”

  “I will,” she agreed, and decided she shouldn’t elaborate—she’d told him too much as it was. “Thank you for meetin’ me.”

  With no further ado, he put his hand on the back of Emile’s head, and steered the boy away and down the pavement without a backward glance.

  With a stoic air, Doyle began the walk to headquarters, after having decided that she couldn’t bear to order a juice, even as a cover. I’m still flummoxed, she thought as she trudged along. I’ve plumbed Savoie as thoroughly as I can, and there doesn’t seem to be anything amiss—other than the fact he’s a criminal kingpin, of course. But when he said he saw me as his only friend, it was true, and when he said he wasn’t going to do any harm to Acton—and that he’d help me, if I was in trouble—that was all true, too.

  He’s nicer, she decided, absently gazing into the distance with her hands in her coat pockets. Savoie was miles nicer than when first they’d met, under best-be-forgotten circumstances. He seemed very content, and there was no question that he doted on little Emile. Mayhap the knight didn’t trust him because he hadn’t seen the new, nicer version of Savoie. After all, the knight last saw him at Trestles, on another best-be-forgotten evening, when Acton brought down the corruption rig in spectacular fashion. That terrible night, when the DCS had stormed the gates to arrest Acton; the night when Solonik’s sister, Savoie, and Acton were all meeting together at Trestles, and speaking in French.

  This gave her pause for a moment, since the knight also spoke French, and presumably knew what it was they’d been speaking about. But she’d checked as best she could, and hadn’t found the whisper of a conspiracy by Savoie against Acton. Mayhap the knight misunderstood something—he didn’t trust the French, after all, and was always going on and on about some stupid battle with King Hank, as though she had the slightest interest in the stupid English and their stupid battles.

  So now I’ve checked into it, she told herself firmly, and I have one less worry. Almost without conscious volition, she lingered in front of the shoe shop’s window, but as it was not yet open, she resolutely pushed on.

  33

  So; she’d met with Savoie, which made sense. She was uneasy about him, and she was uniquely situated to sound him out. He wasn’t worried.

  Doyle settled in at her desk with the dogged determination to follow up on the shadow murders—she’d been distracted by this whole knight-rampaging-around situation, and felt as though she’d been led on a wild goose chase—or wild Frenchman chase, as the case may be. It was past time to concentrate on putting some villains in the nick, especially the ones who were trying to get away with shadow murders.

  Carefully, she went over her notes from the QC’s murder and from Blakney’s murder, and almost immediately something leapt out at her. Picking up the desk phone, she decided that this was exactly what she deserved from letting herself get distracted from doing the tedious but necessary legwork in a homicide case such as this one, where the forensics didn’t point a bright and shiny arrow at the perpetrator. In those unfortunate cases where the forensics weren’t helpful, a detective was instead tasked with putting together evidence that showed motive and opportunity, in the time-honored tradition.

  Opportunity was one-half the equation, and at the Crime Academy, they drilled into you that a detective’s single most important chore was to set up a timeline, so as to rule out potential suspects who didn’t have the opportunity to commit murder, and to
likewise bring into focus those suspects who were in the right place at the right time. However, the other half of the equation was motive, which is how one came up with a list of suspects to begin with.

  And there was the sticking point: what was the motive for the QC’s murder? It was staged as a cosh-and-rob, but now they knew that his was a shadow murder, to be pinned on the evil Santero for reasons which were as yet unclear. They’d ruled out the flight attendant girlfriend, but hadn’t looked any further than that. Surely, it was too much a coincidence—that he was a member of the same Inns of Court as the Santero’s case-sabotaging counsel? Acton famously didn’t believe in coincidences, and indeed, it was looking very much as though the QC had been the victim of a containment murder—he knew something dangerous, and had to be taken out with the blame laid elsewhere. Doyle was left with the certain conviction that if she could figure out the motive behind the QC’s death, all the shadow murder cases would unravel in short order.

  Doyle’s call rang through to the flight attendant’s voice mail and so she left a message, asking if she could meet up with the woman for a follow-up interview, here at headquarters.

  After ringing off, she slowly replaced the receiver, debating whether she should mention this upcoming interview to Munoz, since she’d promised Munoz an assignment. And she should tell Williams, because Williams was the CSM, after all. Not yet, she decided, fingering the phone buttons. At this particular juncture, the better part of discretion was to keep her mouth shut. Munoz and Williams may be the people she most cared about, but she was paranoid enough from all this business to be very wary; at least until she’d another crack at the witness.

  Williams pinged her, and she immediately felt a stab of guilt that she hadn’t contacted him to assure him that Acton was handling his problems, and that he should not fret himself to death. “Hey,” she answered. “I’ve been meanin’ to report in.”