“It starts on the first of January of this year, which is soon after Lydia began her affair with Rob, Tom’s uncle. Their first intimate encounter was at the company Christmas party. Then it was on his pool table, on the bonnet of his Porsche, and at various luxury hotels. I mean, she told me a lot of this stuff, but I can tell you, some of the entries made me blush. The man must have been on Viagra.”
Rob Gladstone was not much older than him, Rex thought with a wince, which would have made him at least twenty years Lydia’s senior. “Are you suggesting their relationship might have been the motive for Lydia’s death?” he asked. Motive was what he was after, not the lurid details of an extra-marital affair.
“I just can’t understand why she would take such a risk.” Cheryl’s voice betrayed frustration with her friend. “I mean, her husband’s uncle? What was she playing at? But it seems she had suspicions about Tom’s own fidelity.”
Rex gave a sigh. “Oh, dear. And who might he have been seeing?” This was certainly getting complicated, he reflected.
“I don’t know. Lydia never actually said anything about Tom cheating on her to me, which surprises me. I honestly didn’t think we had any secrets from each other. We’ve known each other since our first year at Uni. Perhaps it was her pride that kept her from mentioning it, I don’t know. But in the diary she writes about a change in Tom’s attitude towards her. He was less spontaneous, she says, more tired, even falling asleep one evening as they sat together watching a true crime mystery on TV. One time she detected a whiff of perfume on his collar, expensive perfume, and he started taking longer than usual running errands or else picking up or dropping off Devin. But then they went to Gay Paree and things seemed to be going better between them. She wrote that their passion was revived and they felt like new lovers again.”
“I see,” Rex said. “But was there something specific you wanted to tell me, Cheryl? Some clue as to how Lydia and Tom were poisoned, and by whom? Didn’t you say this morning that Lydia had told you where to find the diary in case something happened to her?”
“Yes, she kept it in an antique writing desk that has a hidden drawer. But I don’t think she meant if something happened to her in the way of murder; just that if she was run over by a bus or whatever, it was something she wanted me to have of hers, and of course, she wouldn’t have wanted it falling into the wrong hands. Like her mother’s. Her mum didn’t like Tom much to begin with. If Paula had known about him cheating on her daughter, she would have told Lydia, ‘Well, I did warn you!’ ” Cheryl imitated the mother in an unflatteringly common voice.
“And yet it looks very much as though she was murdered,” Rex stated. “And that diary might hold vital clues. When was the last time she wrote in it?”
“The day before she, you know…died.”
“Can you tell me what is says?”
Cheryl cleared her throat. “ ‘Busy day at the office,’ ” she read deadpan. “ ‘The brochures for the line of Very Berry Cushions came out really well. Daniel did a fantastic job with the lighting. Had lunch with Allison from Accounting. Rumour has it she and RG used to be an item until I joined the firm, but she didn’t bring it up. T. is still feeling run down. Maybe he's getting too old and it's a problem keeping up with her.’ Her is underlined,” Cheryl informed Rex before continuing to read. “ ‘Hope he's okay for the big day tomorrow. Taking the kids to Chatsworth. N. is pleased because it's cultural and she's a Jane Austin nut. Can't keep my eyes open. Time for bed.’ ” Cheryl gave a sigh. “N is Natalie,” she added.
So Tom was having an affair and Lydia knew about it, Rex reflected; though she didn’t sound overly concerned. And what was the meaning behind the emphasized “her”? “That's the very last entry?” he questioned Cheryl.
“Yes. I imagine she didn't get the chance to write in her diary the next day.”
“And Allison from Accounting… Was she a frequent visitor to the Gladstone home?”
“I saw her a few times at parties, but she wasn’t someone Lydia saw a lot of outside work. Funny thing is she looks a lot like Lydia, but more exotic. She’s of Indian descent. I suppose Rob likes petite brunettes.”
“Who else is referred to by name or initial?” He sighed inwardly. So much easier if Cheryl would just give him the journal to read.
“Me, naturally, because we saw quite a lot of each other. Her mum, a few other people at work. The diary covers less than two months, so there’s not that much.”
“Who else at work?”
“David Lee. He’s the chief bean counter. Lydia called him Bean Pole because he’s tall, thin, and bald. He quibbled about the marketing budget. Nobody likes him. No social skills, but she and Tom invited him to some of their parties because he has clout. Married, three children. I don’t think he’s a person of interest.”
Rex tended to agree, but wondered if Allison, who presumably worked under him, was worth talking to, even if she hadn’t spent much time at the house. After all, she and Lydia had both been romantically involved with Rob Gladstone.
“Anyway,” Cheryl interrupted his thoughts. “The reason I called is that there’s someone who might be able to help us.”
Rex was pleased Cheryl had said “us.” It sounded as though she trusted him and they were officially allies. Meanwhile, Helen continued to put the food items away as quietly and unobtrusively as possible as he paced the floor, as was his custom while on his phone.
“And who might that be?” he asked Cheryl, disappointed that the young woman had not been able to extract more helpful evidence from the diary, but eager to hear about the new lead.
“Lydia told me about a psychic she met on the plane coming back from Paris, and she mentions it in her diary. She was going to consult this Madame Mathilde regarding her father, who died of a heart attack five years ago. Lydia wanted to make contact with him. She was devastated when she lost him so suddenly. Perhaps we could meet with Madame Mathilde and she could contact Lydia, you know, in the other world, and find out what happened to her.”
Rex was beginning to see what might have drawn Lydia to Uncle Rob. A father figure, perhaps? And yet he did not feel enthusiastic about meeting with the psychic. Any psychic. “Ehm, let me get back with you on that. How do we know she’s still in England?”
“She’s here until May, according to the diary. She has clients in London and Derby.”
“Incidentally, whose idea was it to go to Paris? Tom or Lydia’s?”
“Totally Lydia’s. She was so excited about it, and said she felt like a changed woman when she got back. Signed up for cordon bleu classes and was on her way to becoming a real Francophile.”
Rex tried to think of something appropriately witty to say in French, and failed, his school français being woefully rusty. He said he would call Cheryl later that day or the next and urged her to think of anything else she might have read in the diary that might be useful in the case. Often, he told her, things later popped into one’s head that had not occurred at the time.
“Any joy?” Helen asked when he ended the call.
“Cheryl suggested we enlist the services of a French psychic whom Lydia met on the plane from Paris.”
“I can tell you’re sceptical,” Helen said with a smile. “But on the plus side, she had the opportunity to talk to Lydia. Psychics are intuitive, and if they met on the couple’s recent trip to Paris, she may have picked up on something.”
“Tom and Lydia must have gone to Paris to patch things up. Cheryl told me Lydia suspected her husband of infidelity on his side, while she was carrying on with Uncle Rob. But Paris in January is not Paris in May.”
“Paris is Paris,” Helen said.
Rex wondered if she might like to go there for their honeymoon.
Now that he was off the phone, Helen openly bustled about the kitchen preparing dinner. “Perhaps it was part business trip. But from what I could make out at the party, it had been more like a second honeymoon. They visited the Louvre and Versailles and strolled down the
Champs-Elysées. Lydia enthused about the bistros and showed us what she had bought on the boulevard Saint-Michel in the Latin Quarter.” Helen sounded wistful and a touch envious.
Rex now got the distinct impression she wanted to go to Paris for their honeymoon. “Aye, it wasn’t a business trip from what I gathered. Far from it.” He asked Helen if they were drinking red or white wine with dinner, and opened a bottle of Beaujolais.
“Well, if you do see the psychic, I’d like to be in on it,” Helen said from the oven, where she stood stirring sauce in a pan. “Even if it’s just for the entertainment value.”
“Right,” Rex said. “Not sure I could keep my face straight.”
“Some people swear by them.”
“The sort who swear they’ve seen ghosts and UFOs…” Rex held up his palms. “Well, who am I to say? Science has not fully explained away all phenomena. So, much as I prefer cold hard facts, I’ll try to remain open-minded.”
Helen cupped his bearded face in her hands and planted a kiss on his mouth on her way to the refrigerator. “That’s very big of you.”
“Anyway, it’s not as though I have a pile of people to interview. The ex-wife won’t talk. And I daren’t approach Tom’s parents or Lydia’s mother in their time of grief.” Rex poured the red wine into the crystal decanter he had bought Helen for Christmas. “Cheryl said Lydia’s mum didn’t approve of Tom.”
“Paula thought Tom was a womanizer. You just had to take one look at him to see he was a potential heart-breaker. And maybe she wasn’t happy that he already had a child. There are often complications with ex-wives and joint custody. Plus Lydia had a wild side. Perhaps Paula thought her daughter needed a more stabilizing influence in her life. But I never saw her and her son-in-law on less than good terms on the few occasions I saw them together.” Helen took the glass of wine Rex offered. “He probably won her around the way he did with all women—with flattery.”
“Speaking from experience?” Rex asked, surprised to find himself a little piqued by jealousy. He didn’t much like the sound of Tom. He’d known his type at university. They were part of the popular set and got the best-looking girls.
“He turned the charm on with every woman he met,” Helen explained. “Didn’t matter who or how old. I think he enjoyed his effect on women. Each conquest, on whatever level, probably gave his ego a lift, a bit like getting a fix.”
Rex listened attentively. Helen had studied psychology and usually got a good read on people. That was partly why he valued her input on cases. “He sounds a bit shallow,” he remarked as he leaned against the counter top.
“Narcissists are, if that’s what he was. But by all accounts he was very competent professionally.”
“What did he do at the furniture company?”
“Sales. What else?” Helen smiled and took a sip of wine.
“And Lydia?”
Helen thought for a moment. “Marketing, I believe.”
“Do you happen to know any of their colleagues? An Allison from the accounting department? It seems Lydia replaced her in Rob Gladstone’s affections.”
His fiancée shook her head. “Sorry. I met a few of them at parties, but I don’t recall any names. Allison doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Cheryl said she looks a bit like Lydia.”
“Hm. I do remember a few young women with long, dark hair, though no one specific.”
“She’s petite,” Rex supplied.
“And they were all petite. Perhaps Rob Gladstone employs a certain type of female.” Helen halted her glass midway to her mouth. “Wait a minute. You could try Tom’s younger brother, Daniel, who works at the firm.”
“In what capacity?”
“I’m not sure. He’d hang out with the younger crowd. He’s in his early thirties, unmarried. I don’t know if I ever actually spoke to him.”
“Close to his brother?”
Helen shrugged. “Hard to say. There was a large age gap.”
“Other siblings?”
“None that I ever met, but I think I heard something about a sister living in Toronto.”
“Think Daniel would talk to me?” Rex asked hopefully. “Does he know Tracy well?”
“The nanny?” Helen laughed. “Slow down, Rex! You’re putting my head in a spin, and I know it’s not the wine. I’ve only had a couple of sips. I can’t get one in edgeways with all the questions,” she joked.
“Sorry. I just get this tingly feeling when I’m on a case. I can’t explain it.”
“I can,” Helen said. “It’s your high. But with you, the case is your potential conquest.”
Rex scratched behind his ear. “Not sure I like being psycho-analyzed. Or compared to Tom. But I suppose you’re right. Once I get my teeth in a case, it’s hard to let go, even though I was ready to give up on this one before Cheryl called offering her cooperation. And I’ll admit I’m curious to meet Madame Mathilde.”
Chapter 7
As it turned out, the French psychic was unable to meet with Rex until the following weekend, and he planned to return to Derby then, much to Helen’s delight. Cheryl had called Madame Mathilde to arrange the séance, and reported to Rex how upset the Frenchwoman had been to hear the news of Lydia’s death. “So tragique!” Cheryl had mimicked on the phone. It seemed, however, that Madame Mathilde had experienced a premonition of impending misfortune when she had met Lydia on the plane.
Cheryl told him the psychic had requested a personal item of the deceased woman for the séance. Rex thought how macabre that sounded and began to feel slightly uneasy about the prospect of communicating with a dead person.
“So, what now?” Helen asked as they lay on the sofa during a commercial break in a World War II documentary on TV.
Rex knew immediately what she was alluding to, since Cheryl’s call had come just before the programme started.
“I thought I’d try to meet with Daniel tomorrow, unless you have plans for us?”
“Nothing special, and I don’t suppose your meeting will take all day.”
“That’s if he gets back to me and accepts to meet.” Rex had found Daniel Gladstone’s number in the phone directory and had left a message on his home line before dinner. The young bachelor was in all probability out on a date.
As German tanks rolled onto the screen, Rex and Helen fell silent, but during the course of the documentary his thoughts reverted to the Gladstone case, and when his phone rang and he saw the local number he had rung earlier on the display, he jumped up from the sofa in eager anticipation. He took the call in the hallway so as not to disturb Helen. After listening to Rex explain his interest in the case, Daniel agreed to meet for coffee mid-morning the following day. Rex asked him to bring a photo of his brother. He had seen a couple of Tom Gladstone in the papers, but wanted to view something clearer and more personal.
He returned to the living room in time to witness shells exploding in snow and decimating the woods near Bastogne. Helen, who sat curled up on the sofa hugging a cushion, looked up and raised an eyebrow in question. Rex nodded with a brief smile. Now he would get to meet the younger brother. His private investigation was finally moving along after a slow start. Any qualms he had previously entertained about poking his nose into the local deaths were now buried. He was curious as to why, how, and at whose hand the glamorous couple had succumbed to antifreeze poisoning. But that could wait. He settled in with Helen on the sofa and made a conscious effort to ban all further speculation from his mind for the moment.
Chapter 8
The following morning at the appointed time, Rex met Daniel Gladstone at Dilley’s, a coffee shop close to the Fruité Furniture offices, where the young man said he was going afterwards to catch up on some work. An athletic six-foot tall and casually dressed, Daniel appeared shy, judging by his hesitant demeanor and half smile. Rex took an instant liking to him. He had Tom’s large hazel eyes and chiseled nose, and sported designer stubble. Rex reiterated his commiserations on the loss of his brother.
As soon as they sat down in a booth, Daniel handed him a framed photo. “I brought this from home. I took it at my sister’s wedding three years ago. She married a Canadian. That’s Tom with Lydia, Dad, and Uncle Rob.”
Tom Gladstone, strapping in build, was blessed with an actor’s smile: A TV actor’s if not big-screen, but enough to turn most women’s heads. The male trio stood together in their tuxedos decorated with boutonnières and exuded confidence to the point of smugness. Tom resembled his dad, still a handsome man, though older than Rob. Lydia was visibly pregnant in a salmon pink silk gown. Her raven locks hung in sculpted wings either side of an oval face, her red harp-shaped lips suggesting a willful and possibly wayward personality. Here was a woman who knew what she wanted and intended to get it, Rex thought. He asked Daniel if he had been on good terms with his sister-in-law.
Daniel made a small grimace and ran his forefinger under his beaded leather wrist band. “For the most part,” he said. “She could come across as bossy, but she had a great sense of humour. She worked in Marketing. I design the brochures and catalogues, as well as updating the company Web site, so we saw quite a bit of each other. Tom went to business school and I became a graphic artist. I’m, like, the black sheep of the family, not an A-type go-getter like the other Gladstone men.”
“You enjoy working for the family business?”
“It pays the bills. I’d rather be taking photos of supermodels than pieces of furniture, but our product is more creative than most, so I’m not complaining. Who would’ve thought to make furniture look like fruit? Genius.”
“Whose idea was it?” Rex asked.
“Lydia’s, actually. Uncle Rob’s been in the furniture business for yonks, and was producing mostly office stuff. Lydia had been looking for furniture for the house on Barley Close and said one night at a family dinner that modern furniture was boring, and why not introduce seating that made you feel relaxed and refreshed, like plunging into ripe fruit? Fruit has a subliminally health-conscious appeal. Uncle Rob thought the idea over and then asked if she would be interested in launching the new line. She helped design the prototypes. Fruité Furniture is environmentally friendly, all natural fibres and sustainable wood. For every tree we cut down, we plant a new one. And we use a lot of bamboo. It started out mostly as kiddie furniture, but developed into adult residential and commercial. It’s amazing how it took off, and that’s how I came on board. I was a struggling artist before then. Spent a year studying in Paris living as a half-starved bohemian, and decided the life wasn’t for me, so this gig was a lucky break.”
PRELUDE TO MURDER: A Rex Graves Mystery Page 3