Murder Is a Must

by Marty Wingate

  “I’ve got Monday morning well in hand,” I told him. “Nine o’clock briefing with Mrs. Woolgar, during which I’ll explain I’ve selected a new exhibition manager. I’ll ask her to contact the board—except for Adele, because I can tell her. Tomorrow, I’ll text Clara and ask her to arrive at Middlebank at nine thirty. That way, I’ll have thirty minutes to go over the situation with her before Zeno arrives at ten. Then, I’ll take an hour with the two of them to lay out our timeline and prioritize tasks, after which I’ll walk them over to the Charlotte and introduce Naomi. After that, I will hie me to the police station.”

  “Leave Tuesday’s salon to me,” Val said. “The retired DCS from the Met. I’ll meet her when she arrives that afternoon, get her sorted, and you only need to show up. Right?”

  * * *

  * * *

  On Sunday, I gave up any thoughts of murder, exhibitions, and my responsibilities as curator of the First Edition library and instead helped Val clean his house. I then left him to dinner preparations and returned to Middlebank, made an apple crumble, and began to worry about the evening to come.

  Val and Jill had married young, as had Roger and I. The twins came along after only a year of marriage, and by the time Bess and Becky were nearing five, Jill had become unsettled. After a difficult period, she had left her family behind—husband and daughters—to move north with another man. A few months after that, she had contracted bacterial meningitis and died two weeks later. It had left everything unfinished, and Val had been forced to leap into the breach, giving up his own writing career in order to teach full-time and provide a home for his twin girls.

  Twins. Would I be able to tell them apart? I’d seen photos, of course, although the most recent was a year ago Christmas. Bess and Becky had thick dark hair—from their mother, I thought—which they both wore shoulder length, although they had their father’s smile that made their eyes crinkle up at the corners. But they were identical. How would it look if I got them mixed up?

  We were laying the table when they arrived, bursting in the front door, bringing with them cold air and a great deal of laughter and chatter, and I could see at once that, although identical, they were each their own person.

  Their new hairstyles—Bess’s bob and Becky’s layered cut—would be an easy visual aid, but there were other tangible signs of difference. I could see that Bess possessed that quality of being sure of everything. She gave her dad a hug and a kiss and, upon introduction, offered me a politely confident handshake. It’s all right, I didn’t mind starting that way. She then drew a bottle of white wine out of her bag and began looking in a drawer for a corkscrew.

  Becky’s turn. She was just as happy to see her dad and she had a polite greeting for me, but an air of uncertainty hung about her, and she had a slightly softer outline. Her arms were full—she presented Val with two massive leeks pulled from her allotment in Devon and me a pot of snowdrops dug that morning.

  “I didn’t know if you had a garden where you live,” she said.

  “Yes, we do, a back garden.” Which Mrs. Woolgar maintained, but surely she couldn’t object to snowdrops. “I know just the spot for them. They’re lovely, thank you.”

  Under the guise of getting ready for the meal, conversation was easy—easier, at any rate. The weather, the neighbors, the grandparents. The girls would be staying over on a Sunday night, which may have seemed like nothing on the surface, but signaled to me the significance of their visit.

  We gathered in the sitting room with glasses of wine. The girls had taken the sofa, and Val and I were in facing armchairs. I asked about their work.

  “Mondays are fairly quiet,” Bess said. She had charge of the booking office for a hall in Cheltenham that housed the opera, symphony, and theater.

  “Your job sounds like a great deal of work, keeping everything straight,” I commented.

  “It does take a firm hand,” Bess said.

  “Bess is older by three minutes,” Becky pointed out, “and she got all the organizational skills.”

  “Yes, but you’re the creative one,” her sister replied, and in only one exchange, I saw that bond, strong as steel, between them. For a fleeting moment, I wished Dinah had had a sister. Not a twin, though—I don’t think I could’ve managed that.

  “Your work is wonderful, Becky,” I said. “Those beets look quite real.”

  Becky, who lived in Devon close to her grandparents, painted and taught art. Val displayed his daughter’s work proudly—beets, cauliflower, aubergine, and broccoli hung up the staircase, and a large, heavily framed picture of a bunch of carrots took pride of place in the entry.

  “Dad’s got my entire veg series,” Becky said. “I’m beginning an experimental stage now—using saturated color blocks for landscapes.”

  “Hayley, is your job dangerous?”

  Bess’s question—offered politely—sliced through the conversation. I noticed Becky drop her gaze.

  “Not terribly,” I replied, and attempted a smile.

  “It’s only . . . that woman was killed, and she was working for you.”

  “Yes, and that was dreadful. But it didn’t happen at Middlebank.”

  “Not this time,” Bess said.

  Val stirred, but I jumped in before he could say anything.

  “I work with books and they are hardly dangerous. We do have a ladder in the library, but it’s only three steps and I’m unlikely to fall off.” Unbidden, my mind went to Clara and her fear of heights. Was she still here in Bath?

  “Do you think she was murdered?”

  “Bess!” Val said.

  “I’m sorry she’s dead,” I said, and had to take a breath before continuing. “But I really do not know the details—it’s a police matter now.”

  “Such a lot of things go through your mind when someone dies, don’t you think?” Becky asked, at last looking up from her wineglass. “When it’s someone you know, I mean.”

  Bess twitched an eyebrow at her sister, leading me to believe Becky wasn’t following the script. Becky’s gaze returned to her wine, Val gave Bess a warning look, and I saw that I would need to stay on my toes for the rest of the evening.

  * * *

  * * *

  But the meal turned out to be a pleasant affair, making me hope I’d managed to clear the evening’s only hurdle. At the table, Val told stories about the girls, who laughed and blushed and said, “Oh, Dad, we were only ten, what did you expect?” I offered tales of Dinah growing up, and Val told them about our first official date. He’d taken me to the seaside in November, and I’d spent so long poking round in the tide pools, my fingers were numb with cold and I couldn’t hold my hot chocolate. He didn’t mention he’d sacrificed his own warmth and let me slip my hands in under his shirt. I glowed with the memory.

  Becky asked me to name my favorite mystery writer. I knew it was an innocent question, but it struck a nerve, reminding me that as curator of a library full of detective stories, I should know more than I did. I began hemming and hawing, when Val came to the rescue.

  “Lady Fowling painted the Golden Age of Mystery with a broad brush,” he said to the girls as if he were lecturing a class. “For example, she included Daphne du Maurier, who is usually put on the romantic suspense list. But I think she’s a good addition.”

  “Yes, her ladyship championed women writers,” I said, relieved for the few extra seconds to think. “And she was a writer herself—her detective was named François Flambeaux. There are so many choices, I’m not sure I can think of a favorite.”

  “How does a detective decide who the suspects are?” Becky asked.

  “Well, there’s motive, of course,” I said. Who were the suspects in Oona’s death—who had a motive?

  “And opportunity,” Val said. Yes—did all the suspects have an alibi?

  “And method,” I popped in, realizing I did know something. �
��Agatha Christie was awfully fond of poisons.”

  “Is that how your friend died?” Becky asked.

  “No, it was a violent death.”

  The conversation had taken a turn I didn’t like. Perhaps neither did Bess, because she had risen from the table during the last exchange and now called out from the kitchen, “Is there ice cream? Wouldn’t it be lovely to have ice cream with the crumble?”

  “Sorry, love—” Val began.

  “That was my job,” I said. “Shall I pop out and get a tub?”

  “No, you don’t need to do that,” Bess said, reappearing in the doorway. “Dad’ll go—won’t you?”

  “Ice cream?” Val asked.

  “Just down to the shop. Won’t take you two ticks,” Bess said.

  “I will, sure, although it’ll take me more than—” He rose and started for the door, then stopped and said to me, “Fancy a walk?”

  “No, I think I’ll stay here. You go on.” Because I felt certain that ice cream was not Bess’s actual reason for sending her dad out on a cold January night.

  His eyes flickered from daughter to daughter to me, and I believe he cottoned on. “Sure?”

  “Yeah,” I said, and gave him what I hoped resembled a reassuring smile. “I’m fine.”

  Val left and the three of us cleared the table, after which we took our wineglasses—almost empty—into the sitting room.

  “What else do you have in your allotment, Becky?” I asked.

  She had been watching her sister and, at my question, blinked.

  “Oh, er, only cabbages and leeks now. I had half of it in a cover crop for the winter, giving it a rest, and so end of March, I’ll—”

  “How do you think Dad’s doing, Hayley?” Bess cut in. She leaned forward, hands clasped, elbows on her thighs. “It’s only that we worry about him.”

  “He seems to be doing fine,” I said evenly.

  “He takes on too much, doesn’t he, Becky? Always has.”

  Becky nodded. “But he seems really happy, Bess.”

  “He brought us up on his own, you know—since our mum died. I suppose he’s told you about that.”

  “Yes, he told me.”

  Bess’s eyes scanned the tabletops in the room—a cursory search. “Has he taken all her photos down?”

  To my annoyance, I felt myself going red. I knew the implication here—Bess was accusing me of wiping the memory of their mother from the house.

  “Have you seen her photo?” Bess asked me. “Becky, do you have one to show Hayley?”

  Becky reached over to her jute bag and brought out a snapshot in a heavy metal frame—not exactly the thing one carries around all the time. She held it out to me, and I dutifully took it.

  Jill looked disheveled but happy, as she sat on the same sofa I sat on now. She had a toddler in each arm, and it looked as if both girls were kicking their legs out in all directions against their confinement.

  “How lovely,” I said, softening toward the girls. This was all they had of their mother, I told myself, and so why wouldn’t they be extra careful about what happened to their dad?

  Also, the photo reminded me of Dinah at that age. I could still feel her resistance against being held and remembered her overwhelming desire to be free. “How old were you—eighteen months?”

  Bess’s smooth demeanor faltered. “Yes, that’s about right. The thing is, Hayley, Dad can be so trusting, and Becky and I have learned we need to look out for him. We don’t want him disappointed.”

  “He seems really happy,” Becky said again, as if her sister would hear it the second time.

  “That’s not the point,” Bess replied sharply. She went no further. The front door opened, and she snatched the framed photo from me and stuffed it back into Becky’s bag a second before Val appeared, holding up a tub of ice cream.

  “Right,” he said, panting slightly. “Who’s for pudding?”

  13

  As Val drove me back, I chatted about the dinner and the girls’ jobs. I admired my pot of snowdrops and fiddled with the heater. Val stayed quiet until he’d pulled up in front of Middlebank, switched off the engine, and turned to me.

  “How was it? When I was out?”

  “Fine,” I said. Not fine—but not his responsibility, either.

  “Did she keep it up—Bess?”

  I took his hands. “They want you to be happy.”

  “Oh God, she did. The two of them? I’m sorry.”

  “Nonsense, there’s nothing to apologize for.”

  “This is down to Bess, and where she goes, Becky follows—it’s always been that way. The older sister. How can three minutes make so much difference? Well, I’m going to have a talk with them.”

  “You will do no such thing,” I said firmly.

  “I will. They’re my daughters, and they know how to behave. They know better than this.”

  “Ah,” I said lightheartedly. “Did it end badly the last time they tried?”

  He blushed and started to speak and exhaled and inhaled, squeezed my hands, and started again. “They really were girls then, and I let it go, because it didn’t matter. But this time, it does.”

  He locked his green eyes on me and I thought, well, there it is—as close as we’d come to acknowledging what was between us. It was enough for now. I cupped his face in my hands and brushed his lips with mine.

  “Do you think I’m going to let Bess and Becky scare me away?”

  “God, I hope not.”

  “You’re going to have to let go of this,” I said. “I know you want to make everything right for everyone. It’s what you’ve spent your life doing for your daughters—trying to make up for them losing their mum.” To the exclusion of your own life. “But this time, it’s out of your hands. Bess, Becky, and I will sort this out ourselves. All right?”

  Val responded with half a nod. I hoped that I sounded more confident than I felt.

  * * *

  * * *

  You have reached Timeless Productions.” The man’s voice on the outgoing message had a touch of cockney blending into what was known as an Estuary English accent. “Looking for a company to showcase your dreams? You’ve come to the right place, but at the moment, we are away with the fairies”—a chuckle—“so go on, you know what to do.”

  I left a message for this last of the three references Zeno Berryfield had provided. Did no one work on a Monday morning? Checking the time, I realized it was just as well no one answered, because the rest of my day was about to begin. I headed into the secretary’s office for our morning briefing with one goal—for Mrs. Woolgar to approve of our new hire. Or, at the least, to keep her reservations to a minimum.

  She remained silent through my explanation. “And so, you see,” I said, wrapping it up, “it really was our only option. Not that Zeno is a bad option—I’m making quite sure of that. I’ve got calls into the references he gave me, and when I hear back from them, if what they say causes me any alarm, I will pull the plug on the offer.”

  I sat with my hands in my lap in the chair across the desk from the secretary, whose large glasses did, as always, a fine job of disguising her feelings.

  “Do you believe that his association with Ms. Atherton”—I’d been vague about that, sticking only to the professional side of their relationship—“was a benefit to Mr. Berryfield’s work? Will he be able to carry on as she had begun?”

  There it was again—the Oona Effect.

  “We have her notes, and we have her notes on my notes. And her sketches. They will guide us as we go along.”

  Oona’s notes on my notes—her scribblings on the transcriptions of Lady Fowling’s writings—were why I had to go back into the police station instead of just reading over the files on my own computer.

  “Will Ms. Powell be of any help?” Mrs. Woolgar asked.

&nb
sp; “I’d say she will,” I said, cautiously optimistic about how our morning briefing was proceeding. I stole a glance at the time. Nine twenty—only ten minutes until Clara arrived. “And so, here’s what I plan to do.”

  By the time the front door buzzed eight minutes later, Mrs. Woolgar had agreed to contact the board and our solicitor, Duncan Rennie, with the news and ask them to tea that afternoon. The load on my shoulders lightened, to be replaced with the job of buying tea cakes and a new bottle of sherry.

  “When he arrives, I’ll be sure to bring Zeno in for introductions.” I pulled the secretary’s door closed and went to answer the buzzer.

  Clara, back in her Oona-style suit with hair in a tidy bun, looked ever so put together, down to her large glasses, which perfectly framed her bright eyes. She blinked hesitantly, her tablet tucked under an arm. She should’ve been wearing a coat—it was too cold for a suit jacket only.

  “Hello, Hayley. Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Clara, do come in. You must be freezing.”

  As she prepared to enter, two uniformed police officers strolled by.

  “Oh, hello,” I said, remembering Sergeant Hopgood’s promise of a foot patrol. “Good morning.”

  Clara glanced over her shoulder, saw the police, and scurried over the threshold.

  The uniforms nodded and continued on their way, and I closed the door against the cold.

  “Go through to my office, Clara. We have a great deal to talk about. I have what I hope will be good news.”

  “Yes, all right.” She hurried before me and perched on the edge of the wingback chair, her back straight as a rod.

  I settled at my desk. “How are you, Clara?”

  “I’m fine, Hayley. How are you?”

  Not exactly what I meant. “I’m fine. Clara, where did you spend your weekend? Did you go back to your nana’s in Shepton Mallet?”

  Clara hesitated, her lips forming a word that might’ve started with the letter w. Nothing came out for a moment, until she coughed slightly.