by Susan Finlay
While Dave and Greg sat on thick cushioned lounge chairs on the bricked terrace, awaiting Ian, Dave looked around at an adjoining small yard. There were gardens filled with beds of daylilies, orchids, and assorted annuals, a small newly mown carpet of grass, an elderly apple tree without fruit at the moment, an intricate bird bath, and a white wooden bench positioned in shade under the tree. Near the fence several pink bougainvillea swayed in a gentle breeze, reminding him of Fabienne whose favorite plant of all was the bougainvillea. Dave decided she would very much like this garden.
Greg was sitting next to Dave, his arm resting on a small side table, looking bored.
The glass door opened and Ian flitted over to the table. Dave smiled, wondering how the guy could manage that appearance without spilling the tray he was carrying. Ian promptly poured out tea and handed a cup to each of his guests. He sat down eying Dave and Greg. Dave took that as his cue to begin.
“Brittany told us that you were the eyes of the neighborhood. How did you get that reputation?”
“Nearly always home. Retired. Got nothing much to do. Besides, started having some problems around here. Somebody needs to watch.”
“You seem keen on gardening, like my grandmother.”
He beamed. “It’s a hobby I like. I’m always starting new projects, new gardens. Used to be all grass back here, but I keep goin’. Soon, won’t be any grass left.”
Dave noticed some new patches of grass by the tree and a small bed of freshly earth. Some branches of the tree had recently been trimmed and were in a neat pile near the fence. “What’s your next planting project?”
“I’m thinking about more flowers. At first I wanted more bushes, but they’re difficult to keep trimmed up. I had to get a neighbor to help cut those branches off my tree. Flowers are easier.”
“You mentioned some trouble in the neighborhood. What kind of trouble?”
He shrugged and poured cream into his tea, then stood up suddenly. “I forgot me biscuits.” He sprang back into the kitchen and practically flew back to the terrace with a plate of biscuits, unwittingly reinforcing Dave’s image of him.
Greg chuckled and shook his head.
“That girl, Brittany,” Ian said as he set down the biscuits in front of the men, “is the sweetest girl in the neighborhood. Of course, Maura used to be the sweetest—that was until the whole dreadful murder.”
“Does that mean you think she murdered Jared?” Greg asked as he stole a look at Dave.
“Now, did I say that?” He gave Greg a reproachful look. “Don’t go puttin’ words in me mouth.”
“Sorry,” Greg said. “I’ll be more careful.”
Dave laughed, and Greg raised his hands in a gesture of giving up.
Ian said, “Maura went away, that’s why she’s not the sweetest girl here anymore. I tried to tell those policemen, I did, that she wouldn’t kill nobody, but they treated me like a senile old man who didn’t know nothing.”
“Did you see anything that night?” Dave asked, leaning forward. “Do you have any idea who killed Jared?”
The old man’s face lit up and his hands trembled, shaking his teacup so hard that he nearly spilled the dark liquid. “Well, finally there’s someone asking the right questions of me. Them coppers were too busy to talk to me, they were.”
Dave smiled, though inwardly he hoped the police weren’t right about the old man. “Go on.”
“Well, I’ll be telling you. After Maura moved out, there was comings and goings aplenty at that house.”
Dave looked at Greg, and back at Ian. “What do you mean? Who was coming and going? How was it different?”
“The dad would come at odd hours, sometimes staying ‘til dawn. Sometimes, I would see the dad’s girlfriend, Robin, and Elizabeth arguing outside in the shadowy lawn. And that Elizabeth—she’s an odd bird, that one.”
“How so?”
“She kicked her husband—that be Peter Raybourne—out of the house, divorced him, she did, because of that girlfriend of his. Elizabeth’s a bitter woman. But then, she starts dolling herself up and trying to win the loser back. Make sense to you?”
Dave frowned, wondering how it all fit together. “Do you think the Raybournes were getting back together?”
Ian shrugged, tapped the side of his nose, and smiled.
“Are they together now?” Greg asked.
The old man shook his head. “No, sir. Peter blames Elizabeth for the death of their son.”
Dave squinted as he looked over at Greg and back at Ian. “Peter thinks his ex-wife killed Jared?”
Ian shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. All I know is their boy had problems. After the murder Peter said Elizabeth should have taken the boy to a psychologist long ago.”
Dave took a deep breath, thinking, and let it out slowly. “How do you know all of that?”
“Robin told me.”
“You’re friends with her?”
“I guess so. She sometimes came by to drop off Jared after he’d spent a weekend with her and Peter. I’m outside often, tending my front garden. She’d come by and we’d chat a bit. She needed to blow off steam and I was there, willing to listen.”
“When Peter stayed all night, do you think he was there to be with Elizabeth or with their son, Jared?”
“I can’t see through walls,” Ian said, raising his hands
.
Greg leaned forward now, looking straight at Ian. “Did Maura visit after she moved out? Did you ever see her coming or going?”
Ian hesitated, then shook his head, saying, “Nope, she wouldn’t come near that place. She wanted nothing more to do with that boy.”
“She told you that?”
“Aye, she did. She had tea here with me several times. Last time was a few days after she moved out.”
“Was she ever romantically involved with Jared like people say she was?” Greg asked.
“Never. She wouldn’t get involved with that little gobshite. She treated him as if he was the little brother she never had—until she realized he was obsessed with her. That changed everything.”
“What do you mean?” Dave asked.
“I mean, she left. She told me he tried to pick the lock on her bedroom door once, while she was sleeping. She woke up and made him go back to his room. She told me she had to barricade the door after that. Two days later, she moved out.”
“Who do you think killed Jared?” Dave asked again.
“How should I know? I got me hunches, mind you, I do, but I can’t tell you who done it. Not for sure, anyway.”
“Go on,” Dave said. He hoped Ian might have something concrete, but he doubted it.
“Well, I’ve been thinking it was Elizabeth or Robin.”
Greg looked at Dave, while pointing down at his watch.
Dave said, “We really appreciate your talking with us. Unfortunately, we have an appointment we have to rush off to. Would you mind if we call on you again?”
Ian pursed his lips together, and nodded. “Any time you gents want. Good to have some company sometimes.”
Dave and Greg took last sips of tea, put their cups down on the table and stood to leave. Ian led them back through the house, giving them one more look at the rainbow décor. After shaking hands with Ian, and thanking him profusely, they left and hastened back to the bus stop in time to catch a double-decker headed toward South London.
As they found seats Dave asked, “So, what do you think?”
“He doesn’t seem to think Maura did it, though he didn’t have any reasons other than she was a friend and is kind to animals.”
“Do you think it’s odd that he seems to know everything that goes on with his neighbors?”
“Nah. He seemed friendly enough, just lonely. And bored. I remember how it was when my dad first retired. He nearly drove my mother crazy. Eventually, he found some other retired guys to hang around with. I think he likes to feel he’s at the heart of it all, though I wonder what others really feel about him.” Greg chuckled.
“From what I’ve seen of the neighborhood, there aren’t many people home during the day, like he said. I can imagine him watching for them to come home so he’ll have somebody to talk to.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Guess that makes sense,” Dave said. “
Simone groaned inwardly when two uniformed gendarmes walked into her café. She’d been expecting them, of course, but after an hour she had begun to hope Paul hadn’t followed through on his threat.
One of the men walked over to the counter where Simone was standing.
“Excuse me, Madame. Are you the patronne, Simone Charbonneau?”
“Yes.”
“I am Officer Roland of the Gendarmerie. I need to ask you some questions about a young woman we believe is going by the name Maurelle Dupre. Have you met this person?” He showed her a photograph.
Simone nodded.
“Paul Lepage told us that she is hiding in Reynier and staying in the home of Fabienne Laurent. Do you know anything about that?”
“I think she was staying there, temporarily.”
“Was? Does that mean she has gone?”
“My grandmother is a good friend of Fabienne. Fabienne told her that Maurelle took off on foot during the night. Last night, I mean.”
The gendarme studied Simone for a moment, and then said, “Why would she suddenly leave?”
“We all attended a party last night. Unfortunately, it didn’t go well. We had an argument. I threatened to call the gendarmes—you—on her. She and Fabienne left the party early. I suppose Maurelle got scared and ran away.”
“And what is she hiding?”
Simone shrugged.
“You must know something if you told her you planned to report her.”
“I don’t really know anything about her. I was angry and suspicious.”
“Why?”
Simone sighed. “She was hiding out in one of the caves for a while when she first arrived in Reynier. Who does that?”
“Monsieur Lepage mentioned the same thing. Why did Madame Laurent take her into her home?”
Simone licked her lip. “Do you have a grandmother, Officer Roland?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you know how lonely they can get. I think Fabienne felt sorry for the girl and thought she could help her out and also have a temporary companion.”
He thought about it a minute, and nodded. “Do you know where we can find Madame Laurent?”
“She was upset about losing the girl. My mother and grandmother were going on a trip to Orleans to visit my aunt. They invited her to go with them.”
“When did they leave?”
“This morning.”
“I’ll need the name and address, please.”
Seeing no choice, Simone gave him the information. As he turned to leave, she said, “Officer Roland.”
He turned back to face her. “Yes?”
“Maurelle isn’t really in trouble, is she? This is only a misunderstanding, yes?”
“I can’t say. We believe she may be a suspect in an ongoing investigation.”
Simone watched as he and the other gendarme left the café. As soon as the door closed behind them, she glanced at her wristwatch. She wasn’t sure whether to hope the women had already made it out of Orleans and were headed wherever it was that they planned to hide, or whether to hope she could warn her mother and prevent them from going. The officer hadn’t said what kind of investigation it was. To be on the safe side, she picked up her mobile from behind the counter and dialed her mother’s mobile number.
“They’ve already left,” Coralie said, after Simone told her what she knew. “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”
As Simone hung up the phone, Lillian Lefevre rushed into the café. “Simone, have you heard the news?”
“What news is that?”
“The gendarmes are questioning people about that woman. You know, the dark-haired stranger. They say she’s a murder suspect from England. Jonas went on the internet after we heard that and he found out her real name is Maura Barrington. Can you believe it? I knew there was something strange about her.”
“What did you tell the gendarmes?”
“I didn’t tell them anything. I don’t like them. Never have. Let them find her on their own. That’s what I say. And plenty of others feel the same way.”
Simone felt goose bumps on her arms. For the first time, she wished she’d tried harder to find out more about Maurelle. If only she’d asked Maurelle more questions when they were at Fabienne’s for lunch.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Putney was a district in south-west London, located in the London Borough of Wandsworth, and about five miles southwest of Charing Cross. Forty minutes after leaving Hampstead, Dave and Greg arrived there and exited the Tube station. Looking for Kate Hill’s house, they walked through the neighborhood that Dave had mapped out, but they still ended up lost. Finally, they asked a man in a business suit and obtained directions.
From a short distance, the house was a large two-story red-brick with white trim. On closer examination, Dave noted a row of eight small windows gabled out from the roof; an attic, he guessed. Closer up, a four foot brick wall backed by much taller shrubs, perhaps six or seven feet tall, gave the house privacy. A black iron gate attached to the wall was open to the driveway where a black Mercedes was parked. Everything about the place spoke money.
Greg said, “Looks like we’re in the wrong line of business.” Dave agreed. They walked into the courtyard and up to the front door, and Dave rang the bell.
A tall woman, looking slightly older than in the photo on her website, answered. She had shoulder-length curly brown hair, kept tidy, and wore a modest amount of makeup, a stylish suit, and flat shoes.
After the cordial introductions, she said, “Let’s go into my office, shall we?”
As they followed her to the back of the house, Dave stared out the large picture window overlooking the River Thames. “Your home is lovely,” he said. “And what a spectacular view.”
“Thank you. It was my parents’ house. I inherited it a few years ago. Some people might have sold it for a profit, but I love this house and the town. I wouldn’t trade them for anything.”
“This is our first visit to Putney. It’s a remarkable looking town. I can see why you like it here.”
“Are you interested in boating?” she asked, pausing to look out at the river. “Since the second half of the nineteenth-century, Putney has been a major centre for rowing in England. We have more than twenty rowing clubs here.” She sighed and turned to face Dave. “My husband—he passed away six months ago—was an avid rower.”
Greg said, “I used to belong to the crew team when I was in college.”
She smiled. “You should check out the clubs while you’re here, if you have the time.”
“We saw a lot of stately buildings here,” Dave said, “and quite a few magnificent-looking houses, or should I say mansions. Quite impressive.”
“Oh, you are right. This area became highly desirable to wealthy city-dwellers back in the 1890’s, and they began moving in. They weren’t exactly welcomed at the time. The locals called them ‘outsiders’.
Dave nodded.
“We also have one of the oldest cricket teams in London—Roehampton Cricket Club. It was established in 1842. I don’t suppose you play, do you? Being from America, I mean.”
Greg chuckled. “No. We don’t have cricket there. At least not that I’m aware of.”
“You do know who J. P. Morgan is though, don’t you.”
“Sure,” Greg said.
“He was made an honorary member of the club in 1900.”
“Interesting,” Dave said.
She laughed. “I am pretty much quoting from an article I wrote a couple of months back for the local paper. I know nothing about cricket really.”
Dave and Greg followed her into an impressive study, apparently turned into an office. Lined with bookcases, it looked more like a library.
They sat in overstuffed burgundy leather chairs across the desk from Kate.
“Well, shall we get down to business?” she said. “In your email you mentioned a criminal investigation you wanted to discuss with me. Which investigation, and why me?”
Dave said, “Greg is a detective from Chicago. We used to be partners until I left the force to become a writer. My newest mystery novel will be set here in the London area. That’s partially why we’re here—to look around, gather information, take notes, as well as sightsee. I’ve been reading local newspapers, and came across a case that appears similar to my storyline. I figured that by researching the case, I could get some good details that I can use. I’ll change the names, and such, of course.”
She leaned back and studied him.
Finally, she said, “Okay, why me?”
“Most of the articles I read were somewhat biased. Yours were more objective.”
“What’s the case?”
“The Jared Raybourne murder.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s an interesting case, I’ll grant you that. It seems the victim had some problems that no one wants to talk about. They’re more focused on this school teacher, Maura Barrington.”
“Do you know why?”
“She had gained a reputation, with whispers flying around Westglenn Comprehensive for a few weeks before the murder. When people heard that Jared had been killed, they automatically assumed she’d done the deed.”
“Was there any proof of an affair?” Greg asked.
“Proof, no. Innuendo, yes. Mostly by way of emails and voicemail messages.” Kate looked at Dave, and said, “Even if she did have an affair with the boy, that doesn’t necessarily mean she killed him. That’s what I’ve been saying. Most people don’t want to listen. I can’t exactly blame them. After all, she did run away.”
Dave nodded. “Will you help us?”