by Fiona Grace
“Actually, the burglar was Nigel.”
Tom frowned. “Were they working together?”
Lacey shook her head. “No. It’s complicated. You should come in out of the cold.”
Tom nodded and entered. As he followed Lacey and Chester along the corridor toward the kitchen, where the voices of Gina and Nigel grew louder, he suddenly paused and took Lacey’s arm.
“He’s here? Nigel?” he whispered. “The burglar?”
Lacey quickly explained. “When Nigel realized the painting was missing, he came to the same conclusion I did, that Iris was murdered for the painting, and that it had been hidden in the clock. He came here to break open the clock and prove his theory.”
Tom pulled an expression of distaste. “Couldn’t he have just called ahead and asked? Rather than breaking into your store with a crowbar and scaring the bejesus out of everyone!”
“Grief makes you crazy,” Lacey said. “And he learned his lesson.”
She patted Chester’s head, and he whined.
But Tom still didn’t look convinced. He tipped his head to gaze into the kitchen, where Nigel was pouring Gina a wine. When he looked back at Lacey, his expression was serious.
“You’re a more forgiving person than I am, Lace, to invite your self-confessed burglar into your home. Grief-stricken or not, it was a terrible thing for him to do to you.”
Lacey paused. She’d noted the protective air in Tom’s tone. He was looking out for her, and it made a warmth spread through her. Throughout the darkness of Iris’s murder, Tom had always been her shining light.
They went inside the kitchen. Tom flashed Nigel a slightly reticent look, and accepted the glass of wine he poured for him with a slightly stiff “Thank you.”
Together, they began strategizing on how to expose Benjamin. They talked everything through, from Lady Isabelle’s painting to the clock, to the loophole in the will, to the history of male inheritance and Iris’s final wishes.
“If only there was a way we could convince the police to look inside the clock,” Lacey said. “Once they see the painting is in there, they’ll have him.”
“He’ll be on his way back to South Africa by now, won’t he?” Gina said. “Now he’s got what he wanted, I can’t imagine he’ll want to hang around the scene of his crime any longer.”
“He’ll have caught the first plane, I’m certain,” Nigel agreed.
“But what about the clock?” Tom asked. “A huge, heavy piece like that can’t just be shoved in the undercarriage of a 737, can it?”
Lacey sat up straight. “That’s a good point. Ben spent over thirty grand on that thing. He won’t risk it being mishandled or damaged in transportation.” But then she remembered the details she’d given him for the specialist removal’s firm. They handled all kinds of aspects of delivering and moving large antique valuables. “That said, while it’s not easy, it’s not impossible for a wealthy CEO to pay his way out of the problem if he needs to.”
She felt herself slump as the burst of adrenaline from her short-lived moment of hope left her.
“Okay, but where does he live?” Tom asked.
Lacey noticed his eyes were sparkling like he might have hit on a brain wave.
“Cape Town,” she said. “Why?”
Tom held up a finger. “Give me a sec.” He went on his phone, quickly tapping buttons. “Thought so!” he said, triumphantly.
“What?” Lacey questioned, curiosity making her impatient.
Tom grinned at her. “There’s only one direct flight from London to Cape Town per day. All the rest involve connections and lengthy stopovers. A wealthy CEO isn’t going to waste half a day sitting in a Moroccan airport for a connecting flight. He’ll fly direct. Definitely.”
“Your point?” Lacey asked.
“He missed today’s flight,” Tom said. “It was at four p.m. and the auction didn’t finish until three. Unless he was rocket launched to Heathrow, there’s no way he caught the flight. We have until four p.m. tomorrow to convince Superintendent Turner that your theory is right.”
Hope blossomed in Lacey’s chest again. Perhaps there was still a chance they could catch their killer.
“Hey, guys, look,” Tom said, pointing to the clock on the wall. It was midnight. They’d been talking for hours. “It’s Easter.”
“You’re right,” Nigel said. He looked suddenly more depressed than ever. “Iris loved Easter. It was her favorite festival. She told me how every year she’d put on an egg hunt for the children, then they’d have an afternoon meal together, then take it in turns doing Bible readings.” He dabbed at a tear in his eye. “Would anyone object to a prayer? In Iris’s honor.”
Lacey gave Nigel a sympathetic look. At times, she’d let herself forget there was a dead woman at the center of all of this. But Nigel had been her friend, her confidant, and he’d have to live the rest of his days knowing someone he cared for deeply had been taken from him before their time.
Gina patted Nigel’s hand across the table. “Not at all, poppet. I think that would be lovely.”
Tom and Lacey nodded as well, and they all bowed their heads as they listened to Nigel’s poignant prayer of gratitude and forgiveness.
When he was finished, they all said a soft, “Amen.”
But just as Lacey unclasped her hands and opened her eyes, something suddenly clicked in her mind.
Easter… Bible readings…
She leapt up and struck both her fists against the table. Everyone jumped in their seats and turned to her, blinking.
“Lacey?” Gina asked.
“What’s wrong?” Tom added.
“We’ve got the wrong killer!” Lacey exclaimed.
“What?” Nigel said with a gasp. “But Ben bought the clock. It has to be him.”
Lacey shook her head emphatically. “Trust me. It wasn’t him. But I know who it was. And I know exactly how we’re going to expose them.”
Everyone around the table exchanged bewildered expressions as Lacey grabbed her phone.
“Who are you calling?” Tom appealed.
“Superintendent Turner,” she replied. “He’s going to want to be there when I catch a killer.”
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Lacey strolled past the convoy of shiny black cars parked in the driveway of Penrose Manor and trotted up the steps to the door. As she wrapped her knuckles against it, she couldn’t help but recall that moment all those days ago when the door had swung open beneath her fist and this whole nightmare had begun. Now, she’d come full circle, and she was here to finish, once and for all, what had started that terrible morning she’d found Iris Archer dead.
Though the sun was shining on her back, Lacey felt like a dark cloud was hanging over her head. Her breath seemed stuck in her lungs, she was so nervous about what she was about to do.
She looked down at Chester, her trusty companion. He wagged his tail at her; the doggie equivalent of a pat on the back.
Just then, the door was opened from the inside. Nigel stood in the doorway.
“They’re here,” Lacey said, nodding her head over her shoulder toward the cars in the drive.
“They are,” he confirmed with a stiff nod.
He looks as stressed as I feel, Lacey thought as he let her inside.
She smelled the cooking right away, and headed for the kitchen. Inside, Tom was standing over the stove, working on the Easter meal. He gave her a tense grin as she entered. Even the unflappable Tom Forrester was nervous about their plan.
“How’s it all going in here?” Lacey asked him.
His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. “We’re right on schedule.”
“Great.” She flashed him a smile, one she knew would betray her nerves. But she didn’t need to pretend to be something she wasn’t in front of Tom. She was about to confront a killer, after all.
Just then, the sound of squabbling came through the door that adjoined with the dining room. It was the three distinct voices of Benjamin, Henry,
and Clarissa. Hearing them made Lacey’s stomach turn even more. Her tongue felt suddenly like it was pasted to the roof of her mouth, as if her heightened anxiety had burned up all the water in her body.
“It’s been like that since they got here,” Tom explained, as she went to the faucet and poured herself a glass of fresh water.
“I’d expect no less,” Lacey replied.
She downed the water and glanced over at the clock. It was show time.
“Let’s do this,” she said.
“Good luck,” Tom told her.
She took a deep breath to steady herself, then pushed open the door into the dining room.
*
The scene Lacey entered into was exactly as she’d pictured it when she’d gone through the details of her plan last night with Gina, Nigel, and Tom. Laid out on the dressers that lined the perimeter of the dining table were all of the items from the playroom—tattered toys, dolls, books, and figurines that had seen better days. Each object had been labeled and itemized as per instructions. It reminded Lacey a little bit of a museum.
Walking around the perimeter of the room, peering at the items on display, were the three siblings. They kept jostling one another to get a better view, or to state their claim to whatever it was they were looking at. And beside each of Iris Archer’s entitled children—wearing matching hawkish expressions—was a lawyer. They’d each brought one, to see over the proceedings. The whole thing made Lacey think of magpies stealing shiny objects from one another’s nest.
“You cannot have my dolls!” Clarissa was wailing at Ben. “What do you even need them for?”
“My daughters will love them,” the eldest brother replied haughtily.
“But they’re mine!” She looked at her lawyer, her eyes round with childish indignance. “Isn’t that obvious?”
“I’ll put them onto the list of items you regard as your own, Miss Archer,” her lawyer said dispassionately.
It was obvious the lawyers were hating every second of this. If there hadn’t been a dead woman at the center of it all, Lacey might have seen the funny side.
“This is so unfair,” Clarissa hissed. “He’s already got the clock!”
“I paid for that, fair and square,” Ben replied, smugly. “With money I earned from my business, might I add. Unlike yours, mine didn’t fail!”
Lacey tensed. The claws were coming out. But she wasn’t surprised. The children may have been putting on something of a united front before, but divvying up their items was always going to turn them against each other. And that’s exactly how she needed them to be if she was going to extract the confession she needed.
Just then, the door swung shut behind Lacey with a dull thud. All eyes snapped to her. Lacey felt herself recoil under the anger in their eyes.
“What’s she doing here?” Clarissa demanded, her glare so intense, Lacey felt like she’d been struck with a frozen laser beam.
Nigel replied coolly and calmly. “You know she was appointed to handle the items within the estate.”
“But these aren’t for sale!” Henry scoffed before Nigel had a chance to finish explaining.
Nigel pursed his lips with irritation. He managed to keep his cool as he explained, “She wants to be present when items are removed from the house. It’s to legally protect her from any claims of theft that may be made.”
Clarissa raised a thin eyebrow, clearly having successfully read between the lines and realized Nigel had insinuated that one of them might later claim Lacey took something from the house she shouldn’t have.
Henry looked at his lawyer. He looked like a lost boy next to Benjamin in his sharply tailored black suit. The lawyer gave Henry a single confirmative nod of the head.
“Fine,” Henry replied, folding his arms like a petulant child.
Clarissa looked nonplussed.
“Can we just get this Easter lunch over with?” Benjamin said to Nigel, in his abrupt manner. “I have a meeting in Johannesburg tomorrow morning. If I miss my flight I’ll sue.” He looked over at Lacey. “Both of you.”
Nigel gestured to the dining table, which was laid out beautifully with fine china pieces that Lacey would one day be tasked with auctioning.
“Then please, let’s sit.”
His clipped tone made it evident to Lacey just how much he was struggling to stay composed in the face of Iris’s murderer. She couldn’t blame him. She was growing more tense by the second.
Ben beelined for the chair at the head of the table. Henry shot his brother a withering look as he was beaten to the seat.
“I don’t know why we need to have this stupid meal anyway,” he muttered.
“It’s our last chance to say goodbye to Mother,” Clarissa hissed as she took her. “You know how much she loved Easter. Always putting on those egg hunts for us.”
Henry shrugged. “I don’t remember any egg hunts. She must’ve given up by the time I was old enough to join in.”
He slumped into his chair like a grumpy teenager. Lacey noted, once more, the missing wedding ring, the patch of white skin in his otherwise golden tan that indicated he had recently removed the band. Her theory became yet more solidified in her mind, and her confidence grew.
“Whether you remember or not,” Benjamin said sharply to his younger brother, “this was our home, and this is our last chance to say goodbye before we’re locked out of here forever.”
He cast cold eyes at Nigel. A chill ran down Lacey’s spine. Even though she’d worked out that Ben wasn’t the killer, she still despised the man and his terrible attitude. She quickly took her seat at the other head of the table, opposite Ben. His siblings sat either side of him, and despite several feet worth of walnut wood stretching between her and them, it still felt too close for comfort.
Lacey looked at Nigel. He gave her a small nod of the head. Then the kitchen doors flew open and in came Tom, pushing a metal trolley. On the trolley were several silver cloched dishes, underneath which were all the various dishes for their meal. And lying next to them was the red leather-bound Bible she’d found in the guest room, with the empty compartment cut in the pages where Lacey had found the photograph of her father.
Tom began to lay the dishes out on the table, then handed the Bible to Lacey. He left.
“Am I right in thinking you used to read Bible passages together on Easter?” Lacey said. “Perhaps we ought to read some passages in honor of your mother. I found this Bible amongst her things.”
She held it up. Just as she’d predicted, Clarissa’s eyes snapped to it and widened. Her face began to drain of all color.
“Of course, it would’ve been amongst the auctionable items of your mother’s,” Lacey continued in a sing-songy tone. “A beautiful copy like this. Only it’s been damaged.” She opened it to show everyone at the table the cut pages.
“What is she blathering on about?” Benjamin asked with a scowl.
But Lacey’s eyes were fixed on Clarissa, who appeared to be trembling. Despite her nerves, Lacey managed to keep her voice steady.
“There’s a lovely passage in here I’d like to read,” she said calmly. “Oh, unless you’d like to, Clarissa? Since it is your Bible, after all. Your special hiding place. The hiding place where you kept the key to the grandfather clock.”
Henry and Ben both turned to look at Clarissa, who was becoming visibly stressed under the scrutiny of everyone’s eyes. She tugged at the collar of her expensive-looking turtleneck.
“What is wrong with that woman?” Ben said, grabbing his fork, too impatient to wait for the reading. “She’s a lunatic!” He began to shovel in his food.
“Do you want to tell them or should I?” Lacey said, her eyes now boring into Clarissa.
Clarissa squirmed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” Lacey returned without missing a beat. She had to put the pressure on. Turn up the heat. “You see, there’s another reason I asked Nigel to gather you all here today, beyond finalizing the will.
It’s because I worked out who killed your mother. And the killer is sitting at this table.” She looked at Clarissa again. “Why don’t you tell them how you killed your mother, Clarissa?”
Ben spat out his mouthful of lamb. His fork clattered to the table. He looked at his sister. Then he tipped his head back and began to laugh.
He picked his fork back up and, pointing the grizzled bit of lamb on its tip toward Clarissa, pinned Lacey with his eyes.
“Her? Are you mad? Clarissa couldn’t say boo to a fly without crying!” He shoved the lamb in his mouth and spoke through his mouthful. “I didn’t know we were going to be treated to a comedy show over Easter dinner.”
But Lacey stayed firm. She kept her eyes on Clarissa. The woman was looking awkward and Lacey decided to turn up the heat to get her to confess.
“Of course, you didn’t harm her yourself,” Lacey said. “You don’t have it in you. But perhaps if you enlisted someone with a short fuse to help, someone who’d do the deed for you… someone like your little brother, Henry.”
Now Ben’s shoulders began to shake with his mocking laughter. “Oh, this just gets better.” He sneered at Lacey. “Let me guess, someone told you about the soup incident. About how Henry once lashed out at the chef? Well, perhaps if you’d been more thorough with your homework, you’d have found out that Henry hasn’t had a violent outburst in years. That was only stress from his gambling addiction that made him act like that. But ever since he married Sheila and started his own thriving business, he’s become a model citizen.”
Ben went to tuck into his meal again. But Lacey was far from done. She didn’t blame Benjamin for not wanting to face the truth, but she had to hold her ground in the face of his nasty condescending manner.
“So Henry hasn’t told you about his divorce?” she asked Benjamin. “Or how his business has failed?”
Ben put his fork down again, this time more forcibly, clearly irritated. There was a spear of broccoli still on its tip that hadn’t had the chance to make it all the way into his mouth.
He threw his napkin down and looked at Henry.