The Secluded Village Murders

by Shelly Frome

  “I thought you should know that Pru Curtis, the dotty stepsister, got lost in the moor and I had to go traipsing after her. In the meantime, something happened to Harriet, the older sibling, which I can’t go into right now. Anyway, the Twinning has been cut short and there’s a good possibility the rest of the trip might have to be called off.”

  “But you’re okay?” asked Will.

  “Just bone tired after all the hiking.”

  “And the other two?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “And this Doc fella?”

  “Gone, I guess. Nowhere to be found.” Emily hated being coy like this, but her run-in with Miranda was having an aftereffect. Sensing that everything was a game and she was still way out of practice.

  “Well, now,” said Will, as he took this all in, “I’d say you’ve had your fill.”

  “Chalk it all up, you mean.”

  “Look, I know how you must feel about cutting your tour short and all . . . and maybe you’re still feeling down on yourself about what happened to Chris.”

  “But don’t take everything so personally.”

  “Maybe. In a way.”

  She could hear him walking around, opening the refrigerator door, snapping the cap off a bottle, and taking a pull from a frosty Corona, doubtless still at a loss as to how to handle her.

  Will hemmed and hawed and put his foot in it again when he came up with the old saw about your best feature also being a shortcoming. Like his being easygoing to a fault.

  “Will, if you don’t mind, can we pick this up some other time?”

  “You bet.” There was another pause, as though Will was going over the way he should have put it. Then he came back on, sounding a little surer of himself.

  “It’s just when you expect yourself to be a certain way, always on top of things, and you don’t come through, you take it hard. Or people expect you to be a certain way and take advantage of you. What I’m saying is, the time comes when you got to head on down a whole other road.”

  Emily pulled back for a second. It was only a nudge, not a flash. But it jibed with something Babs had just told her. “Okay, right. I hear you, Will.”

  “Do you? Well, now. And you’ll maybe get Harriet squared away and get back here real soon?”

  “Something like that. I’m working on it.”

  “All right then.”

  A little more yawning on Emily’s part, some added small talk about the moor shadows, and then a soft goodbye.

  After pocketing her cellphone, she heard something stirring close by. Flashing the light around, she caught a glimpse of the ragged face and wild gaze of a Dartmoor pony. It stopped moving and stood stock still, facing her just beyond the break in the stone wall.

  Emily gazed right back at it, giving no quarter.

  It wasn’t the pony per se that held her; it was a combination of things. Fatigue, edginess, and something percolating in the back of her mind she couldn’t put her finger on. A hitch here and there that called for a reshuffling of the whole picture.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  After a fitful night’s sleep, Emily found herself awake early Saturday morning, going over a few factors that had eluded her. Like the link between Cyril and Trevor.

  During the moments surrounding the dreadful incident at the ruins, she recalled that Trevor had been rushing up the High Street muttering “damned tearaways and hooligans.” He made for the pub and began drinking himself into a stupor. As a result of this and other prompts, she revised her agenda. Before departing from the UK, she first needed to touch on the Cyril–Trevor connection, and look into a few other matters as well.

  Did Trevor have it in for Cyril, the “tearaway”? Did he catch Cyril (Doc’s flunky), up to something in the vicinity of Harriet’s undoing? What did this all mean?

  Over a late breakfast, she learned from Maud that Trevor and Cyril went way back. Cyril, the tongue-tied orphan and delinquent, had shuttled from one degrading job after another during his teens. He wound up cleaning Trevor’s chimneys, basement floors, kennels, and whatever other menial tasks Trevor could conjure up. To get rid of him, Trevor accused Cyril of stealing. In retaliation, Cyril stuck a knife in all four of Trevor’s vintage Rolls Royce tires. Unable to speak in his own defense, Cyril was sent to the reformatory. When he got out, not long afterward, he lashed out, looking for all kinds of trouble and finding it, using silence to his advantage. Even his mates never knew what he was up to. He was cocky, strange, and unpredictable. Everyone’s prime tearaway and the only one fitting that description.

  Moreover, Emily had caught Cyril brandishing the nozzle of a pistol that Doc immediately ordered him to put away.

  After duly noting these elements as part and parcel of yesterday’s events, a drive to the Dunstone Constabulary established that Hobbs was right on one score. There would be an inquiry into Harriet’s death followed by an inquest and a coroner’s verdict whether the cause of death was accidental or self-inflicted, or occurred under suspicious circumstances.

  Hobbs failed to tell her these procedures would take at least six weeks and Harriet’s body would remain in a nearby mortuary till she was “done and dusted.” Then, and only then, would her remains be shipped back home.

  According to the constable on duty, Trevor had been apprised of this policy straight away, not long after Harriet’s demise. Primed with enough aged single malt whiskey, Trevor had hopped back into his Rolls, fetched Pru and Silas, and had them identify the victim. He convinced the two of them there was no point in staying on and packed them off to Exeter, and back to whence they came. He had done this all in record time while Emily was tracking down Miranda in Bovey Tracey.

  Taking this into account as well, Emily walked out of the constabulary into the diffused sunlight. She couldn’t wait six weeks while the trail went cold and the mayhem continued or became lost and forgotten. Clearly the odds were against her and although she had no business delving into this at all, she seemed to be the only one really concerned. She’d have to come up with something really striking to prod the authorities.

  But she was duty bound, no two ways about it. She owed at least that much to Harriet. And there was no way she could turn her back on what had befallen Chris.

  Her last stop for the day was the fete, which was in full swing. She spotted Hobbs while making her way through the crowds to the whacking and thwacking Punch and Judy booth. Without any hesitation, she pulled him aside.

  “Here’s the deal, Hobbs. If I come up with something that would force Trevor to make a statement as a material witness and turn it over to you by no later than this coming Tuesday . . .”

  “Crikey, lass,” said Hobbs, completely taken aback. “Need I say I would be jolly well pleased to have a go at making squire Trevor do the right and honorable and confess? If, on the other hand, it’s all bollocks, this rearranging sod all into a square peg, you will leave off, put your own house in order, and there’s an end to it. Are you at long last hearing me?”

  “Well, if you’re going to put it that way . . .”

  “The only way to put it. Now mark me.”

  “Okay, fine. You got it.”

  “Ah, and blessed be.”

  That settled, Emily went back to Maud, thanked her for everything, and promised she would keep her in the picture if anything developed. Then, trying to play both ends against the middle, she asked that if she needed further assistance while she was back clear over in Connecticut, could she contact her?

  The smile spreading across Maud’s broad face was all the reassurance Emily needed.

  The rest of Emily’s Saturday was a matter of logistics. She made the long drive back to Bath to drop off the Vauxhall and travelled via public and private transport to the Ascot House, an ex-coaching inn on the outskirts of Windsor. After a round of fish and chips and ginger beer, compliments of the genial hosts, she collapsed onto the four-poster bed.

  In contrast, Sunday was a trial. An early wake-up call announc
ed that her flight would be delayed three hours. After a taxi to nearby Heathrow, a security check-in line much longer than expected, a stressful spate of turbulence over the Atlantic, a bout over luggage at Kennedy Airport, and an overbooked shuttle flight, she arrived an hour and a half off schedule at the Bradley-Springfield-Hartford terminal.

  On top of all that, there was another snag retrieving her luggage, a trek to locate her Camry in the long-term parking lot, and a meandering drive home through the hills and valleys in the dark and through the drizzling rain. She finally slipped into the cottage and flopped down in her own bed around 11 p.m. Eastern Daylight time.

  The only bright spot was the ample time she’d had to conjure up a totally new strategy—a game plan contingent on an irrepressible hunch that just wouldn’t let go.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The next morning, Emily took a cold shower and put on a light blouse and summer khakis. In contrast with the wilds of Dartmoor, it was a good fifteen degrees warmer in the Connecticut hills on this promising Monday. Promising, that is, if she could keep her mood positive before the jet lag and ordeals of the past few days took their toll.

  Neither Will nor Oliver were around, so she left a note on the back door of the B&B, returned to the guest cottage, and called her mother.

  Anxious as ever, too rushed to ask about Emily or even wonder where she was calling from, her mom carried on about how she managed to keep on the go—comparing menus, advertising, decorating schemes, room rates, and the like from the Berkshires of Massachusetts to the reaches of the Green Mountains of Vermont. She did ask if Emily had been keeping in touch with Will about any problems or news about the worrisome developer and Martha Forbes’s latest sales pitch.

  When Emily managed to slip in the fact that she just got back in town, as an afterthought her mother added, “How’s Chris taking his lost cause? You know, preserving open space? Never mind, don’t tell me, poor soul.” The conversation was cut short as the proprietors of the Waybury Green Mountain Inn could be heard offering a peek at their accounting spreadsheets and cost-cutting measures if Mrs. Ryder could spare a moment.

  Unnerved by her mother’s query about Chris but continuing to try and keep her spirits up, Emily told her she would look into things at this end. And that all the ideas she’d been gathering up there would come in handy in time for the onslaught of the leaf-peepers. All the while, with all things considered, Emily wondered how in the world she could keep up this juggling act.

  After a quick goodbye, Emily had a hasty cup of coffee and some granola and, once again, scanned the odds and ends in the shopping bag from Harrods she’d included in her luggage. Ever since Constance had foisted the stuff on her during her departure from Penmead, something had been nagging at her. She’d made a few stabs at putting the items in some kind of chronological order but nothing jelled, as yet. She was going to have to rely on her opening gambit to pan out so that everything else would fall into place. She was on a tight schedule and, considering the shape she was in, could only hold out for so much longer.

  Her next chore was getting Babs to go along, no questions asked, while managing to keep Trooper Dave at arm’s length.

  Just before entering the Village Restaurant, Emily checked her watch. She had at least fifteen minutes before customers began filtering in from the bank, courthouse, and town hall on their lunch break. All she had to do was keep her eye out for Babs and come to some kind of understanding.

  However, Dave Roberts spied her entering the restaurant, parked his cruiser right out front, barged in, and started badgering her. How come she was back so soon? Had she quit chauffeuring the Curtises around England and decided to take him up on his limo idea? The one about catering to retirees flocking to the new condos soon as the first units were up and ready? But what would she do in the meantime?

  After deflecting his barrage of questions, she excused herself, walked through to the adjacent wood-paneled bar, slipped through the alcove, managed to intercept Babs just as she came around the corner, and asked for a little favor.

  “Right,” Babs squealed. “You just run along and take care of your father hang-up and leave me holding the bag. Stalling Trooper Dave while you’re busy spinning your wheels. That’s perfect. Whoop-de-doo.”

  It was Babs at her worst. Letting things thoughtlessly spill out of her mouth when she was totally flustered. Straining their friendship, which often only hung by a thread.

  Emily had half a mind to tell Babs to forget it. She would go back inside the restaurant and have it out with Dave, even though that was the last thing she needed. She’d take precious time and energy to brush him off and delay the crucial first item on her agenda, which was backtracking to Chris’s old place.

  “Okay, okay,” Babs said, going into one of her back-peddling routines. “Psychobabble, father thing, touchy subject. I get it. But I told you the bind I’m in. Stuck my neck out, so now I got to deliver on the condo upshot or be buried in the cutesy pages, or file for unemployment. And now you want me to stall good ol’ Dave. What is that, a joke?”

  With Babs’s voice echoing all over the place, Emily stepped out onto the sidewalk with Babs scuffling behind.

  “I know, I know,” Babs said, followed by a typical Babsism. “A little louder and we’ll dance to it.”

  “That’s right. Look. I just don’t want Dave out here pushing his stupid limo idea. What’s the point?”

  “And what, pray tell, is the point?” Babs asked, pulling Emily aside and lowering her voice. “If I get something out of it, okay? Thought I had it going but no real kicker, no scoop. The GDC wins, so what else is new.”

  “Yes or no, Babs?”

  “Fine. You go off, do your thing and meet me back here on the Green in no later than twenty minutes and start leveling with me. Fill me in and quit pulling my chain. Yes or no, right back at you.”

  Emily nodded, having no idea what she’d toss Babs in the way of news. As Babs reentered the bar area, Emily left the scene, got back in her car, and was on her way.

  Babs couldn’t help wondering if Emily might be coming undone. She’d never seen Emily so bleary-eyed before. She had been acting a little odd before she left and had sounded uptight long distance over the phone. Babs was dying to know what had happened in between for her to wind up like this. Normally, Emily could hike, run, and play anybody into the ground. And now she apparently had quit her job, just like that. And certainly not because Babs had suggested she knock it off and get her butt back where it was all really going down. Emily had dropped her tour, flew back, and was running around playing hide-and-seek. But for what ungodly reason?

  Shrugging it off, Babs whisked through the empty bar, strode up the aisle, and plunked herself down at the booth opposite Dave and the cross-hatched front restaurant windows.

  Dave looked up from his menu. “I knew that was you hollering. What is this? And where’s Emily?”

  “Unlike you, she’s minding her own business. Leaving me to put you straight.”

  “I don’t believe it. What are we, back in grade school?”

  “Maybe it’s just you back in grade school, pal. Still making the moves on Emily with me as the go-between. What is it about no that you don’t understand? Is it the n or the o?”

  Before they could continue trading barbs, the waitress came by. Dave said he still hadn’t decided, and Babs said she’d have whatever Emily usually ordered, which turned out to be an iced coffee and one of those fruit salads Babs hated.

  Ignoring the passersby peering through the window, checking for vacant tables, Babs said, “Okay, Roberts, let’s see if we can bypass the sexual harassment and the fact you’re in uniform and supposed to be on duty.”

  “What is that supposed to mean? Dammit, what’s going on here?”

  “Exactly. How about what this GDC guy, Doc, is up to? Is he tied into your leaning on Emily to go in with you on some limo deal? To maybe service the new condo residents? Oh yeah, I heard all about it.”

  “W
here did you get that?”

  “Guess. Come to think of it, if it isn’t the same old infractions on the Troop L blotter. Failing to yield the right of way, disturbing the peace, or malicious mischief at the high school—you can’t handle it. So what does this tell us about the competence of Trooper Roberts and some more good ol’ conflict of interest?”

  “Don’t mess with me, Babs. You want to dig up some dirt for that rag you write for, you got the wrong trooper.”

  “That does it,” said Babs, faking a quick exit. “Calling my bluff? I’ll just have to run this all by your superior, including Emily’s take on your constant stalking.”

  “Hold it,” said Dave, motioning her to remain seated as a few men in suits entered.

  As more suits arguing trial lawyer chitchat joined the fray and sat down, Dave leaned forward. “What exactly are you up to?”

  But before she could answer, one of the suits nodded to Roberts from across the room.

  Dave turned his head and sat upright. “That’s correct,” he said, completely changing his tone. “For your information, Miss Maroon, any time assistance is required on a police matter, rest assured Trooper Dave Roberts is always on hand. Any local citizen can call 911, dispatcher relays me at L10, and I’ll be promptly on the scene.”

  Jerking Roberts’s sleeve, Babs said, “You can look at me now, officer. Your friendly judge has sat down and has his back to us. So here’s the deal. Win-win. My best guess is that Chris Cooper’s death, Emily’s dwindling tour guide business, and her mom’s B&B going down the tubes means it’s all downhill for Emily. All you have to do is be on standby in case, while yours truly finalizes a one-on-one with this guy Doc. That is, to discuss why he hightailed it to jolly old England and happened to return at the same time as Miranda Shaw. Throwing in whatever else I know and can glom from Emily, by the time Planning and Zoning meets day after next, the public will have been informed about what really went on behind the scenes. Emily will be beholden to you, stalwart Dave, for playing watchdog and keeping Doc at bay, and stalwart Dave’ll be in a much better position to compete with handyman Will.”