I walked up to my room, wondering how and why Guy had been talking to Honey.
His appearance on the steps of the National Gallery couldn’t be a coincidence. Such enormous stretches of serendipity only happened in books, and usually in not very good ones. I think what worried me most of all was the gesture he had made with his hand of shooting at Honey. What had I set in motion?
From the silence in the house, I deduced that Caldwell was not home, which was fine with me. I couldn’t talk to him about what had happened and I didn’t think I was capable of talking about anything else. I wasn’t hungry after my large and delectable tea. The evening stretched ahead of me, my second night in London, but I didn’t want to go out again. I wanted comfort.
A bath and a book. That was what I wanted. The perfect combination of my drugs of choice.
I went to my room and started a tub, then, while I was waiting for it to fill, perused Caldwell’s library. I had always felt that you could learn so much about a man by what he read. I should have been forewarned when I had seen a puny pile of Dean Koontzes and Robert Ludlums next to Dave’s toilet.
Caldwell, on the other hand, had exquisite taste: from Philip Larkin to Gerard Manley Hopkins, from Jane Austen to Henry James. But he was not a total literary snot. Tucked in its proper place was a small stash of Dick Francises and the complete oeuvre of John le Carré.
What would be the perfect book for this moment?
I really wanted to read in the tub and I didn’t dare do that with one of Caldwell’s books so I had to select one I had brought along. I decided on a Josephine Tey. She was quintessential English, old-school, not too gory. A trip to the past would be the thing to help me forget my worries.
I sank into the tub carefully, holding the book up high, then equally sank into Tiger in the Smoke. I had read it many years ago but had forgotten most of it. The atmosphere was foggy London, and I read until the bath turned cool and my skin was a maze of puckers.
The water drained out of the tub with a gurgle as I toweled off. In this quiet moment, I took in deeply for the first time that I was in England, in London, away from my life. I could be someone completely different.
I was someone completely different: I was a mystery writer doing research, I was a scorned woman who had railed against her old lover to a stranger in a pub, I was a world traveler who ate scones in the National Gallery.
But looking down at my sturdy but curvy body, I was still me. I hurt from Dave’s rejection, yet I was energized from my day in London. I was scared about having run into Guy again, by how one could set something in motion and not know how it was going to end. Having just seen a dead body, I knew how bad things could turn out.
I felt awful about the death of Howard Worth, but more than anything, I was puzzled by it. Something seemed wrong and out of place about it. How could I even say this—but I didn’t think his death was an accident.
I pushed that thought out of my mind. I was not a mystery writer, no matter what Caldwell thought. I was a tired librarian, ready to crawl into bed with a good book by a master storyteller.
Then I heard wailing coming from right beneath me, like an Irish banshee foreshadowing a death. Or mourning a death.
I tied on my new, purchased-for-the-trip, pink flannel bathrobe, checked myself for a moment in the mirror, slipped my feet into a pair of darling satin slippers also bought for the trip, and set off downstairs.
A trio was ensconced in the sitting room—the two broad-boned women I had seen in the middle of the night were crammed into the love seat and Caldwell was across the room in his high-backed chair. He stood up to greet me.
“Oh, Karen,” he said. “I hope we didn’t wake you.”
“Oh, no,” I assured him. “I was relaxing and reading.”
“I’m glad you came down. Fellow travelers need to meet under better circumstances,” Caldwell said. “So sorry about last night for all of you. Not a good way to start a trip, is it?”
He reached out to pull me closer to the group. “Here are some fellow Americans—Betty and Barb, retired schoolteachers. We were just commiserating about Mr. Howard. They were quite good friends of his.”
I turned and got my first good look at the Betty and Barb, and quite a pair they were: matching large women in their late sixties with tightly curled steel-gray hair, blue polyester blazers, tie-on shoes, large wire-rimmed glasses, and, just to be different, one was wearing a red scarf at her neck and the other a yellow one. They were both still crying, but the sound had subsided to a soft burble.
“Hello,” I said. I hadn’t caught which one was Betty and which was Barb, and I wondered if it really mattered. The Tweedles.
“We were so looking forward to spending time with Howard again. Every year we meet here for the Chelsea Flower Show.”
“It’s been ten years now. A kind of anniversary for us. We had so many things planned.”
“You know his wife doesn’t like flowers, so we would have had him all to ourselves.”
“Just like old times.”
“At least we did see him for a moment.”
“When we came in late last night.”
“We popped our heads in and said hello. He was so pleased to see us.”
“But he was reading and we didn’t want to bother him, so we left him there all alone.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have.”
They both started to weep, as if on cue.
I was trying to keep them separate, but they were blurring together. I was even having trouble telling which of them was speaking; their lips barely moved, and I always seemed to be looking at the wrong one when a remark was uttered.
“Girls,” Caldwell called them and pointed at me. “Please meet Karen Nash. She’s a mystery writer.”
I sat down with a hard thump in the other high-backed chair in the room. I thought I had told him I was incognito. This lie was becoming a tourniquet around my neck. Even my metaphors were getting twisted.
“Well, then maybe she can find out what happened to Howard,” said one of them. I guessed it was Barb.
“Oh, Barb, it was simply Howard’s time. We must accept this,” said the one who I was now sure was Betty.
Barb was wearing the red scarf and Betty the yellow.
“But there’s nothing to find out,” I started, then added, “He died of a heart attack. Isn’t that right, Caldwell?”
Caldwell turned slowly to me, his face ashen. “He did, but we’ve just had news. Apparently the doctor took it upon himself to check his level of digoxin, which Mr. Worth was taking to regulate his heart, and found that it was quite high. High enough to bring on a heart attack.”
“How awful,” I said. “What can this mean? I’ve heard that that medication can be very tricky.”
“It might be a simple matter of doubling up his dose,” Caldwell suggested. “He might have forgotten and taken it again.”
“Yes, of course,” I said. “Tired from jet lag, getting off of his normal schedule. That makes total sense.”
“Or that awful snit of a wife might have slipped it to him,” Betty said in her flat Nebraskan voice. “And killed him.”
FOURTEEN
The Richest Blend
When I woke the next day my first thought was, Had Howard Worth been murdered? I tried to remind myself that it had nothing to do with me, although I was the one who found him, and, somehow, that tied me to his death in an oddly emotional way.
In those few moments when I’d struggled with the fact that he was dead, I had wanted to save him. I remembered my Girl Scout training, my Lifesavers’ Code, my CPR lessons—but all for naught. He could not have been reached or revived by the time I found him.
But maybe I could do something to find out what had actually happened to him—how he had died. Learning his death was accidental would clear my mind and relieve me; if, however, I discovered that it was a result of foul play, I would be able to see that justice was served.
Also, because of my horrid thoughts a
bout doing away with Dave, I had begun to suspect ordinary people capable of awful things. What if someone close to Howard had done him in? Unfortunately this now seemed plausible to me.
I decided a few questions to Annette and the Tweedles wouldn’t hurt anything. Gentle, but probing. I knew how to do that, like trying to help someone find the perfect book at the library, ask around the edges.
I stretched in bed. I was also worried about what Guy meant by his gesture to me outside the museum—was there any chance he had taken me seriously and was trying to involve himself with Dave? Anxiety often attacked me in the early morning when I was drowsy and vulnerable. I tried to push this thought away.
Yes, I hated that lousy plumber. Yes, he had done me wrong. Even yes, I had said I wanted him dead. But I no longer wanted to be involved with him in any way, and killing him would certainly be just one more way of staying tied to him. One, in fact, that could send me to prison. I imagined myself for a moment as a prison librarian, wondering what selection of books they would have, seeing myself raising the quality of the books for the inmates. But I quickly decided all connections must be broken.
I loved staying in bed for a while after I woke up. It felt like such a luxury. That was one more thing I hadn’t liked about Dave. He would go from snoring to sitting bolt upright in seconds. I swear, a minute later he was drinking coffee and reading the paper or talking on the phone. Plumbers get up early, he had explained to me. Toilets wait for no one.
Often, in the morning, I figured things out—a better way to check in books, how to organize the new display in the children’s reading room.
This morning I started a list of questions to ask the members of this temporary household about Howard Worth’s last night while waiting for the other inhabitants to come to life.
* * *
Finally I heard someone stirring in the house; a door closed, and gentle steps sounded on the stairs. I was sure it was Caldwell. I had a feeling the Tweedles would be sleeping in late. This was my chance to have a little alone time with him. I doubted it was Annette, because I knew the doctor had given her a bottle of sedatives. She would not be up too early.
As I slid out of bed and my feet hit the floor, I felt much more in the world than I had yesterday. Ten hours of sleep minus three pints of beer will do that for one. The weather looked fine outside; clouds scudded across the sky, but they were fluffy and not at all threatening.
I pulled on a pair of jeans and a gray sweater that was a nice neutral. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, put a dab of lipstick on for color and declared myself ready to meet the day.
When I opened my door, I found a tray with a pot of tea, a white mug, and a pitcher of milk on it.
Something in me melted. I knew that Caldwell was only doing for me what he did for all his guests, but it felt good to be taken care of.
I picked up the tray and carefully went down the stairs with it. Caldwell was humming a piece of Mozart in the kitchen as he plunked some bread down in the toaster. The soft sound of his voice lifted me up.
He hadn’t seen me yet, so I stood and watched him, how gracefully he moved around the kitchen, putting the toast in a basket and getting plates out of the cupboards. His light brown curly hair formed a cowl around his head. He was wearing a plain white baker’s apron and had a tea towel tucked through the tie. But what I was really noticing was how content he was.
“Very professional,” I said.
He jumped at the sound of my voice, then turned and smiled. “Good morning. What am I professional about?”
I nodded at his outfit.
“This is the way that Jacques says to have one’s towel always at the ready.” He pulled out the towel he had tucked into his apron strings.
“Pepin?” I asked.
“Who else, but the master chef himself.”
“Do you mind if I have my tea down here? With you?”
“Please do. Why don’t you go settle in the sitting room and I’ll bring you something in a moment.” He looked up from what he was doing and gave me a once-over. “My, you look lovely today.”
Again, something inside of me let go—a huge chunk of ice that I had been keeping in the deep freeze sloughed off. I said, as my mother had taught me, “Thank you.”
The windows of the back room faced west, so the sun wasn’t streaming in, but rather the new morning light was tipping the tops of the trees in the garden and they looked as if they’d been gilded. I poured myself a cup of Caldwell’s strong tea, topped it off with a healthy dose of full-fat milk, and drank.
Caldwell brought in a basket of toast, a slab of butter, and marmalade. “In case you want a little edge to your sweet,” he said.
Even the smell of the toast satisfied me. “Thank you. This is very nice to be waited on.”
“It’s a pleasure. How are you this fine day?” he asked after he poured himself a cup of tea and sank back contentedly into his high-backed chair. He was holding the cup of tea in both hands close to his face, looking almost as if he was ready to dive into it.
“Isn’t that the chair that Howard died in?” I pointed out.
Caldwell dipped his head. “Yes, but it’s not the chair’s fault. Not that I’m not sorry about the tragedy of Mr. Worth’s death. It must have been terrible for you to find him here.”
“Yes and no. For a moment, I wanted to revive him so badly, but then there was also something peaceful about his death. He was simply gone from the husk that was his body. I had never felt that so clearly before.”
“That’s beautifully said. Again, I hear the writer in you.”
“I guess the only thing that bothers me now is how did he happen to ingest too much digitalis. You knew him fairly well?”
“Yes,” Caldwell nodded thoughtfully. “As much as anyone could know that man. He’s been staying with me for the last ten years when he comes to the show.”
“Would you say he was a careless man?”
“Not at all. I would have described him as meticulous.” He stopped as he seemed to see where I was going. “But we all make mistakes, don’t remember how many sugars we’ve put in our tea, that sort of thing.”
“Yes, I suppose we do. But having too sweet tea is a rather different thing than overdosing on a drug.” I could tell I was making him very uncomfortable.
He stood up abruptly. “And what’s on your agenda today?”
Suddenly, my mind went over my itinerary. I remembered what I had planned for Dave and me on our third night in London. A play. For wasn’t this city the leading theater capital of the English-speaking world? Where better to see Shakespeare performed? I had two tickets to Macbeth at the Globe this evening. Two tickets.
“Macbeth,” I blurted.
“Indeed. Not at the Globe!” he said with delight in his voice.
“Yes. But unfortunately I have an extra ticket, you know, for my traveling companion who isn’t here.”
“Oh,” he said.
His utterance hung in the air. It sounded hopeful. I wondered if he might like to join me.
“Would you—” I started.
“I don’t suppose—” he began at the same moment.
“Maybe you might—” I continued.
“I’ve nothing on,” he said.
“Please join me,” I said.
“I’d love to,” he acquiesced.
As soon as that was settled, I felt I needed to ask him about Guy, how I could get in touch with him. I was regretting my conversation with him, the sense that he might do something bad to Dave.
“I wanted to ask you—” I was interrupted by a stampede happening above our heads.
“Oh, the Tweedles are coming,” he murmured. “I must warn you. They’re quite rambunctious in the morning.”
“When aren’t they?”
“Don’t worry. They go to bed fairly early, and they often have a doze in the afternoon.”
Down the stairs the women came, sounding like many more than two, and into the sitting room. Again, they we
re dressed similarly, but not identically. Solid brown walking shoes, navy blue polyester pants, white shirts under gray cardigans. Your basic Catholic schoolgirl outfit. But they had different colored scarves around their necks—one red and one purple. If I could put a name to a scarf, I would be able to tell them apart.
“Here we are,” one of them announced as they clattered into the room.
“We are here,” the other said and then they both began to titter, an odd sound coming from two such large women.
“Good morning, my dears,” Caldwell said. “How does a cuppa sound?”
“Don’t you love the way he talks?” Red Scarf said to me as she sat down on the love seat.
“Swell,” said Purple Scarf.
“Toast, just the way we like it,” said Red Scarf as she accepted a plate from Caldwell.
After they were settled with their cups of tea, Purple said to me, brushing crumbs off her chin, “I suppose what’s happened to dear Howard is giving you ideas for your next book.”
I slid into mystery writer mode. “I’m doing some research here in London for a new book. Yes. And I can’t help being curious about Mr. Worth’s demise.”
“You must be very smart. I can’t believe we’re really meeting a real writer.” She nudged the other Tweedle. “Who knows what she’s thinking about?”
I wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. I simply nodded and swallowed the remains of my tea, which had gone rather cold. “You two have known Mr. Worth for so long.”
They looked at each other, then started blinking tears away.
One said, “I still can’t believe it.”
“It’s a bad dream.”
“He was such a worthy man.”
“So knowledgeable about flowers.”
“Not another like him.”
“Annette had no idea what he was made of.”
“Why, she wouldn’t know a petunia from a begonia.”
Somehow I felt compelled to defend the new wife. “But she knew how to take care of him.”
“Did she?” Red Scarf asked.
“She didn’t manage that very well. He’s dead,” added Purple Scarf. “As they say, there’s proof in the pudding.”
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