by V. M. Burns
There was only one customer in the store. When he turned around, I saw it was Frank Patterson, the owner of the restaurant down the street.
“Sam, you remember Frank.” Nana Jo smiled as she guided Mr. Patterson toward me. “Doesn’t Sam look beautiful?”
I tried to kill my grandmother with my eyes, but I hadn’t yet mastered that trick. So, I scowled at her and then plastered a fake smile on my face.
He had a hand full of books and juggled them to shake hands. “Yes. She looks lovely.”
“Are you a mystery lover, Mr. Patterson?”
“Please, call me Frank,” he said. “Well, I don’t know if I’d say I like mysteries as much as thrillers. Are those the same?”
“Not always, although they can be. Every mystery doesn’t have to be a thriller, but it can be.”
“I tend to go for spy stories. I like Ian Fleming and John Le Carré.”
I indicated the pile of books in his arms. “I see Nana Jo has introduced you to a few new authors.” I glanced at the titles of the books in his arms. “Have you read Marc Cameron? I think you might like him.”
We spent a little time talking about thrillers, and he purchased his books. Frank Patterson was a nice man. If I were interested in dating, I would consider him. However, I wasn’t dating, so the point was moot. When he was gone and the store locked up, I hurried upstairs and quickly went through practically everything in my closet trying to find something to wear to my non-date. The restaurant Professor Quin had selected wasn’t super fancy but it was nicer than most of my clothes. Jeans and a nice shirt would be appropriate or a dress. But, a dress might imply I was looking at this as more than just a research non-date opportunity. I didn’t want to look too eager, nor did I want to look slovenly. My new hair and makeup made my clothes look shabby. However, I did have one nice pair of jeans, a gift from Jenna two birthdays ago. They fit beautifully, but I rarely wore them. I could tell they were expensive and I’d saved them for special occasions. Tonight qualified.
I also had a pair of nice wedge shoes I loved because they were comfortable with a peep toe, which would show just enough of my pedicure and also raised me high enough that my jeans didn’t drag the ground. My bottom half was set, but my shirts were faded out or stained. I was just about to give up and change to a dress when I noticed the pink bag at the back of my closet. I dug it out and found the cashmere sweater my mother shamed me into buying. I pulled the white cashmere sweater on and looked at myself in the mirror. The sweater looked fantastic with the dark-washed jeans and wedges. It was soft and felt like silk against my skin. It hugged my curves without being too tight and landed at just the right place on my hips.
I went into the kitchen. Nana Jo and Dawson sat at the table. When Dawson came to live with me, he had been on academic probation. As a former mathematics teacher, Nana Jo tutored him in math while I tutored him in English.
Nana Jo whistled like a New Yorker hailing a cab. “Wow, you look great. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear that sweater before. Is it new?”
“Yeah. Mom talked me into getting it last Sunday.” Was it only a week ago that I’d gone shopping with my mom? A lot had happened in a short period of time.
“Well, she was right. That sweater looks divine. Is that cashmere?” She rubbed it. “Yep. You can always tell the real stuff.”
“You look amazing Mrs. W,” Dawson said.
The compliments boosted my courage. I left with a smile and headed to my non-date research dinner.
* * *
Lake Michigan Grill was a South Harbor restaurant located near the beach. It was only about a mile from my building. We’d agreed to meet at the restaurant and he was there when I arrived.
“You look lovely,” he said. “I like your hair.”
“Thank you. My sister thought I needed a makeover.”
“Well, I like both versions.” He smiled.
The hostess showed us to our table.
He ordered a glass of wine when the waitress came by. I wasn’t much of a wine drinker, but Lake Michigan Grill served one of the local wines made just up the road. The climate and soil on the southwestern shore of Lake Michigan made it an ideal location for winemaking. One of our local wines was even served at the White House. I ordered the Classic Demi-sec.
“Professor Quin, I really appreciate your agreeing to help me with my research.”
“Please, call me Harley.” He smiled.
I was thankful the lighting was dim because my face became heated. Thirty-something-year-old women shouldn’t blush when they went out on non-dates.
“Thank you, Harley. Please call me Sam.” I pulled a small notebook out of my purse. “Now, I’ve been thinking about what questions to ask you.”
“Certainly. Perhaps you should start by telling me a little about the book you’re writing.”
So I did. He asked a lot of questions and I found myself doing the majority of the talking. The waitress came and took our orders and he asked more questions. Normally, I didn’t talk about my writing. It was still very private, but Harley asked the right types of questions. He knew a lot about mysteries and was an Agatha Christie fan. I could talk about mysteries for hours and found that I had. Several hours later, I looked over and noticed we were the last people in the restaurant and the staff was waiting patiently for us to leave.
“What time is it?”
He looked at his watch. “Eleven thirty.”
“They close at eleven. I didn’t realize how quickly the time passed.”
He reached for the check, but I was quicker. “This is on me. After all, you’re helping me with my research. This is the least I can do.”
He smiled. “I’m glad to help.”
I pulled out my credit card and our waitress immediately came to take care of the check. I’m sure she wasn’t allowed to leave until we left and was probably anxious to see the back of us. She returned promptly and I left a generous tip to compensate for her time.
Outside, Harley walked me to my car.
“I very much enjoyed talking to you. I’m not sure I answered all of your questions, though. Perhaps we should try again,” he said with a sly smile.
I laughed. “Perhaps we should.”
He took my hand, bowed low, and kissed it.
My knees started to buckle the tiniest bit as I got into the car. I was grateful he didn’t try to kiss me. I’d enjoyed the evening, but kissing a man other than Leon was something I wasn’t quite ready for yet. Although, as I drove home, I thought maybe there might be a time in the near future when I might be ready.
Once I got home, I was still very excited. Maybe there was room for a James Bond who looked like Sean Connery in 1938 England. I decided a little writing would help me settle down before I went to sleep.
Lady Elizabeth and Penelope stared at the butler in shock.
James hurried past the butler into the library and closed the doors behind him. “Quickly, there’s very little time. I’ve already called the police. Has anyone else come by here?”
Both ladies shook their heads.
He turned to Thompkins. “Make sure no one leaves this house.”
The butler nodded, turned, and left.
“Oh, James. What are we going to do? Someone has to break the news to David. He’s going to be devastated. Is she going to live?”
James looked surprised. “David?”
“Yes, her husband, Edward the VIII,” Lady Elizabeth said with a slight frown. “I thought you knew all the family call him David.”
“I know, but Wallis isn’t the one who’s been shot. It was her maid, Rebecca.”
Lady Elizabeth and Penelope stared at each other. “Thompkins just told us it was the duchess who’d been shot.” She sighed. “I know I shouldn’t be re lieved, but I must confess I am. I certainly didn’t fancy having to explain to the king his sister in law was shot at my home.”
Penelope stared. “I wonder how Thompkins got things so wrong.”
“Easy to do.
The maid was wearing the duchess’s clothes. Apparently she didn’t have appropriate clothing for shooting, so the duchess gave her some of her things. They were dressed almost exactly alike. It wasn’t until we got a close look at the body that we discovered the mistake.”
Lady Elizabeth gasped. “Will the maid be alright?”
James looked grim. “I’m afraid not. She’s dead.”
The local constables arrived to secure the scene and wait for Scotland Yard. The shooting party re turned in groups. Daphne and Lord Charles and Lady Abigail Chitterly came back together. Lord Charles seemed to be especially shaken up and required a stiff drink immediately upon arrival. Lady Abigail was remarkably well composed and sat quietly in the li brary.
Daphne looked a little pale, but she walked straight to the sofa where Penelope and Lady Elizabeth were seated. When she reached her aunt, she whispered, “The duchess was so distraught she fainted and had to be carried in by Count Rudolph.”
Lady Elizabeth rose immediately and left the room.
Victor, Virginia Hall, and the Polish ambassador, Józef Lipski, were the next to arrive. They stood quietly near the window and whispered.
Lord William was the last to arrive as he had stayed to talk to the gamekeeper and the police, but quickly left.
The gathering in the library was grim. Lady Penelope looked to Victor. He caught her eye and smiled.
Daphne took her aunt’s place on the sofa next to her sister.
Penelope took her sister’s hand. “Are you okay?”
Daphne nodded. “I’m fine. I mean, it’s not as though I knew her, but it’s awful that it happened here, again.”
Penelope nodded. She shuddered at the recollection of stumbling across Charles Parker’s body, six months ago. Parker had been brutally stabbed. “Was it horrible?”
“No. It wasn’t like . . . like before. She was shot in the back.”
The sisters sat quietly for several seconds before Penelope asked the unspoken question on everyone’s minds. “It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
Daphne paused before responding. “I don’t know. But, I wonder . . .”
“What?”
“I wonder if it was an accident, what kind of accident it was.”
Penelope scowled. “I don’t understand.”
“Was the accident that a woman was shot? Or was the accident that the wrong woman was shot?”
“I see. James did tell us she was wearing Wallis’s clothes. But surely it was merely an honest mistake. Accidents happen during shooting parties. It could have been a bad shot.”
Daphne stared at her sister. “True. Accidents do happen, but if it was an accident, why is no one stepping forward? No one would blame them.”
“Do you mean no one knows who shot her?”
Daphne nodded.
“But surely loaders or the beaters saw who . . .”
Daphne shook her head. “No one claims to have seen anything.”
Penelope stared aghast. “That’s impossible. You were all paired off, right? Surely someone was with her.”
“She was paired off with Wallis, Count Rudolph, and Brasseur. They claim she said she was cold and wet and was heading back to the house.”
“But where was she found?”
“In the marsh.”
Penelope stared openmouthed. “But that’s the total opposite direction from the house. It’s not surprising she was shot if she was in the marsh. That’s the direction everyone would be shooting. Why, that’s suicide.”
Daphne nodded. “They said she started walking toward the house. No one knows why she changed direction or why she went toward the shooting. It’s awful.”
James entered the library and stood for a few moments. He looked around, made eye contact with Daphne, and then strode purposely toward her. “Where’s your aunt?”
Penelope rose to leave but James motioned for her to stay.
“She’s seeing to the duchess. She fainted.”
He looked around impatiently. “Look, I’ve got to run up to London.”
“What about the police?” Daphne asked.
“If I wait to talk to the police, it’ll be hours before I can go. I’m not sure . . .”
Daphne stared at him for several seconds. “If you go down the back stairs, you can get out by the servants’ entrance.”
“Cut through the back to our house, and Victor’s car is in the garage. He keeps the keys in the visor,” Penelope added. “I know he won’t mind.”
James squeezed Penelope’s hand in thanks and absentmindedly kissed Daphne’s forehead before hurrying out.
Moments later, Lord William entered the library with a constable.
The constable stood at the door to the library. “We appreciate everyone’s patience. However, I’m going to need to ask you all to bear with us a little longer. Someone from the Yard will be here shortly to take your statements. Thank you.”
A low murmur started as guests whispered to each other.
Lord William walked over to his nieces. “Bloody bureaucratic falderal. Chap won’t tell me what’s happening in my own house.”
Daphne and Penelope smiled at their uncle.
Daphne stood. “Would you like a glass of port? I think you deserve it.”
Lord William smiled fondly. “I could use a bit of a drink. Thank you, dear.”
He looked around. His favorite chair was occupied by Fordham-Baker, who was nodding off with a nearly empty bottle of his best scotch on the table nearby.
Daphne returned and handed the glass to her uncle.
“Thank you.” He gulped down the liquid.
Thompkins entered the room with a tea cart. He looked around briefly and then rolled the cart to Daphne and Penelope. “Her ladyship thought everyone might like some tea and sandwiches.”
Daphne and Penelope poured tea and offered sandwiches. Lord Charles looked as though he couldn’t stomach the idea of eating but accepted a glass of port in lieu of tea. Lady Abigail, however, said she was famished and ate enough sandwiches and scones for both she and her husband.
The other guests declined food but accepted the tea graciously.
The atmosphere was strained and Penelope was just about to see if her aunt needed help with the duchess when the door finally opened. The constable returned with a tall man, who was lean and gangly with thick curly hair.
“Good afternoon. My name is Detective Inspector Covington from Scotland Yard.” He looked around the room. He hurried over to Lord William, smiled big, and shook his hand. “Lord William, I came as soon as I heard.”
“It’s good to see you again, although, well, I don’t mean with another murder, but . . . oh, dash it all, man. This is bad timing.”
Detective Inspector Covington nodded. “Quite. Quite. Where’s the Duchess of Windsor now?”
“Upstairs in her room. Fainted when she heard about her maid.”
“Can you take me to her?” He followed Lord William upstairs.
Lady Elizabeth came out of the bedroom and saw Lord William and Detective Inspector Covington.
“Detective Inspector Covington, how nice to see you again.”
“I wish it were under better circumstances.” The detective suppressed a smile and looked around cautiously. “How is she?”
“She’s had a shock. Dr. Haygood just arrived. I believe he’s given her a sedative. She’ll rest and I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
Detective Inspector Covington’s shoulders relaxed and he released a sigh. “Well, that’s certainly good news.” He looked around again. “We don’t have much time. Someone from the Home Office is coming down to handle this case personally. Is there any chance the maid was the intended victim?”
Lord William pondered the question and shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Another constable hurried down the hall to the small group. “Sir, take a look at this.”
Detective Inspector Covington unfolded the sheet of stationery and read. When he finished, his eyes were large and his
hands had a slight tremor.
Before the detective could say anything, Thompkins walked in, in a quiet, yet determined manner. He stopped at the group and said to Lady Elizabeth, “Telephone, your ladyship. It’s the king.”
Detective Inspector Covington’s eyes looked as though they would pop out of his head. “Sweet mother of God.”
Chapter 13
It is a truth universally acknowledged that anyone who owns a pet and thinks they will get to sleep later on the weekend than on weekdays must be delusional, especially if said pet is a twelve-year-old pampered poodle. For some reason, ever since daylight savings kicked in, Oreo now woke at three every morning to go outside. Despite the fact I’d only gone to bed about an hour earlier, I got up and opened his crate and made the trek downstairs. Snickers’s bladder wasn’t on the same schedule. She slept through this excursion.
He found his favorite spot near the fence line and did his business and then trotted back up the stairs and was snoring by the time I got back in bed.
Sleep evaded me. I tossed and turned and turned and tossed and finally gave up trying. I wasn’t in a mood for more writing, so I pulled out a notebook and tried to make sense of all of the information we’d collected about Melody Hardwick.
I rolled the conversation with Mariana over and over in my mind. She was definitely a passionate individual. She’d gotten in a physical fistfight with Melody, so I knew she was capable of violence. However, I just wasn’t sure her violent streak extended to murder. Maybe if she felt her family was in jeopardy, she might murder, but I doubted she would plan a cold-blooded murder. Of course, I could be wrong. She might have been lying. Maybe the relationship between Trammel and Melody wasn’t over. However, my gut told me she was telling the truth, but I wasn’t willing to bet Dawson’s future on it.
Virgil Russell was a slimy lowlife. He was, according to Dawson, in an intimate relationship with the daughter of the man he’d murdered. That was weird. Although, based on what Ruby Mae said, he had been guilty of sexual extortion. His relationship with Melody could have been extortion rather than consensual.
Melody’s half sister was another strange cog in the wheel. Where did she come from? No one knew anything about her, and she seemed to have popped out of nowhere. Chicago was only ninety miles away from North Harbor. Their relationship didn’t seem that close, based on the tone of her text messages with Emma. Although, it wasn’t fair to read tone into a text message. Maybe she was just a curt texter. I would assess her veracity more after our meeting in a few hours.