Death at an English Wedding (Murder on Location Book 7)

by Sara Rosett

  When Quimby finally came in the library, he apologized for the long wait, and said he had a few more questions about my identification of the man.

  I wasn’t sure “man at the airport” constituted an identification, but apparently it was all the investigators had to work with at this point.

  Quimby settled at a large desk with leather inlays. He waved Alex and me into the chairs on the other side of the desk as he asked, “You picked up your mother Wednesday?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said. “I don’t have her flight number, but I’m sure she can get it for you when she gets back.” I glanced out the windows, but the sweep in front of the house and the drive that curved into the woods remained empty except for one car, which I assumed was the one Quimby had arrived in.

  “There’s no need for that. We can track it down.” He dialed a number, repeated the information, and added, “And have someone check the inn, see if anyone matching the description was staying there. If he wasn’t, branch out from there and cover the surrounding hotels and bed and breakfasts…right. Keep me updated.”

  Quimby checked his watch. “Your mother should be here soon. Constable Albertson was able to track her driver. He had his mobile on and said he should be back within the hour. Now, about the man in the maze,” he said, and I couldn’t help but think that it sounded like a mystery novel title. Quimby must have had the same thought because he paused and gave a small shake of his head, then said in a low voice, “I hope the papers don’t get ahold of this. They won’t be able to resist a phrase like that.” His voice returned to normal as he asked, “I realize you said the man wasn’t a wedding guest, but did either of you see our John Doe at the wedding or the breakfast—er, the reception, I believe you’re calling it?”

  “No, I didn’t,” I said.

  Alex echoed my words, then asked, “Are you sure he was there?”

  “Because he had the menu card in his pocket, at this point, we have to assume he was there, even if no one recognizes him. Did you have any extra seats? Could he have slipped into a seat without a place card?”

  “We did have extra open seats. I made sure we had about six extra places, just in case. And a few people weren’t able to come at the last minute, so I’d say we probably had ten empty seats. But we didn’t have place cards. It was open seating. If he did slip in somehow, then he could have picked any chair without drawing attention to himself.”

  “Maybe someone gave him the menu card after the wedding,” Alex said.

  It was a good point, and I liked it because it removed the wedding in general—and my mom in particular—from the equation.

  “That is possible, of course,” Quimby said. “But looking at the initial time of death estimate, it doesn’t seem likely.”

  “You think he died sometime during the night?” I asked.

  “Yes. As a matter of form, where were both of you last night between midnight and two in the morning?”

  “Cart Cottage,” I said.

  Alex added, “Together, the whole time,” and I felt a blush creep into my face.

  Quimby made a note in his phone and murmured, “I should hope so.” Then he said, “And then we have his clothes to consider. A suit and tie, which may indicate he was at a formal event.”

  He had been wearing a dark suit and tie along with a white shirt. Perfect attire for a wedding.

  “Except for his shoes,” Alex said.

  Quimby nodded. “Yes, trainers are rather informal for a suit.”

  “He had on tennis shoes?” I asked Alex.

  “Neon green and blue,” Alex said. “They didn’t go with the rest of his clothes.”

  “I completely missed that.” I had been so focused on the knife that I hadn’t even looked at the man’s feet.

  The door flew open, and Mom burst into the room. “A murder? Can it be true?” She wore a sun visor, a windbreaker, jeans, and tennis shoes. She swung her umbrella, jabbing it into the Axminster rug with each step. She now wore her money belt on the outside of her clothes like a fanny pack, but it was positioned over her hip. A thick guidebook stuck out of it, and the whole thing thumped against her hip as she strode across the room to us.

  “I’m afraid it is, Mom. But we’re all okay.”

  “Here, have my seat, Mrs. Sharp,” Alex said.

  She transferred all her attention to him. “Gallant boy. So glad you’re here to take care of Kate at a time like this.” She patted his shoulder before taking his chair.

  “Mom, this is Inspector Quimby.” I wished I could somehow warn her about the questions he’d surely ask her. I had a bad feeling about the whole situation.

  “Oh, I didn’t even see you there.” She shifted away from Alex and me toward the desk. “It’s so dim in that corner. You practically blend in with the books. Inspector? A real-life inspector like the one in Sherlock Holmes, Inspector Lestrade?”

  “Not quite,” Quimby said, and I could tell he wasn’t flattered by the comparison. I couldn’t say that I blamed him. Lestrade wasn’t exactly known for his brilliant crime-solving skills. “I’m not fictional,” Quimby said. “I have a few questions for you.”

  Mom blinked. “For me? Why me?”

  Quimby held out his phone to Mom. “Do you recognize this man?”

  I caught a glimpse of the image as he passed it over. It was a photo of the dead man’s face, probably taken while he was still on the ground in the maze because I could see the background of green, the grass behind his head.

  Mom took the phone. After a tiny pause, she said, “No, no idea,” in her falsely bright voice that brought back memories of the aftermath of fights between her and dad. No, dear, everything is fine. And I didn’t miss the slight narrowing of her eyes before she opened them wide and went into her clueless act.

  Quimby didn’t miss the hesitation. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, of course.” She held out the phone, but Quimby didn’t take it.

  “Look closely. It’s an official inquiry in a homicide investigation. Your daughter recognized him, and says you talked with the man.”

  Mom shot me a look. I could tell she was longing to break into full-name territory and call me “Katherine.” But her gaze flicked to Quimby then back to the phone. She frowned at the image for a moment then cleared her throat. “Perhaps. He’s dead? He’s the murdered one?”

  “Yes,” Quimby said.

  I could have sworn that a look of relief chased across mom’s face for a split second before she shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve met so many people here in the last few days—all of them new to me…” She placed the phone on the desk since Quimby still hadn’t reached for it. He didn’t say anything else, just kept staring at her.

  She gripped the arms of the chair and prepared to stand. “Is that all? It’s been an exhausting day. So interesting, though. I saw the cathedral, a canal, and a rebuilt Roman fort. Then it was on to a museum with a display of the actual sheet music from one of the The Edge of Zero’s original songs. Remember, Kate, I told you we might be related to Tom Davis through your father’s side—”

  “Mom.” My tone startled her. I pushed the phone back toward her. The image had gone dark, so I touched the screen. “At the airport? Don’t you remember? He was at the airport.”

  She studied my face for a second then removed her hands from the chair arms. She transferred her gaze to the phone and studied it for a long moment. “The young man at the coffee shop, you mean? I suppose that could be him.”

  “Now that your daughter has jogged your memory,” Quimby said with a look at me that signaled I should stop interfering, “what can you tell me about him?”

  “Tell you? Nothing. We only chatted about—flying…you know how it is. How you never know if your checked bags will actually show up, that sort of thing.”

  “Did he introduce himself?”

  “No.”

  “Did he mention where he’d traveled from?”

  Mom shook her head.

  Quimby persi
sted. “Or where he was going?”

  “No, I told you. It was vague small talk. Nothing specific or detailed. I’m sorry I can’t help you, but there it is.” She stood. “The tour was quite long. I never realized Manchester was so large. So nice to meet you, Inspector. Now, I must change for dinner.”

  Quimby opened his mouth, and I was sure he was about to order my mother back to the chair, but then he saw the name of the incoming call on his phone. “Let me know if you remember anything else. Your daughter knows how to get in touch with me.”

  “Whatever did he mean by that?” Mom asked as soon as we were out of the library.

  “I couldn’t say.” I shot a look at Alex to make sure he wasn’t about to clue my mom in on my past involvement in a few police investigations. I’d intentionally avoided telling her the details of some of them and had even glossed over a few completely. I certainly didn’t want to get into that now.

  As we climbed the steps to the next floor where the guest bedrooms were located, Alex whispered, “I’m not going there.”

  I slowed, letting my mom trot a few steps ahead so she wouldn’t overhear as I spoke to Alex. “Turnabout is fair play. I can keep a secret as well as she can—and that’s what she’s doing. She knows something about that man, but she’s trying to pretend that she doesn’t. If I can get her alone, I might be able to find out what it is.”

  Alex paused as we came to the landing at the top of the stairs. “Okay, I’ll disappear for a while—” A door down the hall opened, and my dad stepped out of his room. He’d moved to Parkview two nights ago, and I was pleased to see he hadn’t moved back to the inn immediately after the wedding. He was also staying another week in England. He said it was so he could do some sightseeing and visit bookshops, but I thought it might have more to do with putting off the return flight to the States. He’d talked about switching to a cruise ship, but hadn’t changed his travel plans yet.

  He nodded to my mom as she passed him. She inclined her head in a way that would have looked regal if she hadn’t been wearing a sun visor with the words “Manchester United” on it.

  He didn’t look surprised to see us as he joined us on the landing. “Bad business, this murder.”

  “You know about that?” I asked. “I thought you were going to visit all the bookshops today.”

  “I did. Went out this morning and got a nice haul. Nothing spectacular, but several interesting things. I found a book of antique maps. Excellent condition. The trouble is the time change. I can’t seem to adjust. I was up half the night, then I finally got to sleep, but in a few hours, it was light, and I can’t sleep once the sun is up. I went out early, but after a few hours, I nearly fell asleep, waiting to pay for my books in a little shop in Upper Benning. That’s when I decided to call it a day and came back in a taxi. Slept like a baby on the way back, only to find the police blocking the gates. Had to prove I was a guest here before they’d let me in.”

  He tilted his head toward his room. “I spent the afternoon watching the comings and goings from my window.” His room was situated on the east side of the house. From his windows, he’d have an uninterrupted view of the gardens to the lake beyond the little hill. You could even see the folly from those rooms. “Bad business,” he repeated as he rubbed his eyes. “Listen to me, going on. Why are you here? I thought you two were staying in some undisclosed location, a little cottage I heard, until it’s time for your flight to Italy.”

  “We would be, except the police asked us to identify the man they found because they thought he was a wedding guest,” I said.

  My dad fell back a step. “That’s terrible. Was it someone…?”

  “No one we knew,” I said quickly. “At least, no one Alex and I knew, but I think Mom talked to him at the airport. I’m on my way to get the real story out of her.”

  Alex said, “I’ll wait for you here.”

  “Good choice.” Dad nodded to the billiard table visible through an open door. “I want to try that out. No idea how to play the game, but it seems to me that if you’re staying in an English country house, you should at least give billiards a try.” He asked Alex, “Care to join me?”

  “No idea how to play either, but I’ll give it a go.”

  I left them discussing whether they should look up the official rules on Alex’s phone or just play a modified version of pool.

  I knocked on the door of Mom’s room. “It’s me, Mom.”

  Her muted voice sounded through the door. “It’s unlocked.”

  I stepped inside. She’d removed the visor, changed into a robe, and was sitting at a little dressing table touching up her makeup. “Hello, dear.” Her words were distorted as she flexed her lips to apply a fresh coat of lipstick.

  I dragged a chair covered in green-and-white striped silk over to the dressing table and positioned it so that I could see her face. “Mom, you need to tell me what you know about the guy at the airport.”

  She kept her gaze on the mirror as she put the lipstick away then removed a fleck of mascara from under an eye. “I don’t know anything about him.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Kate, you’re doing it again—getting worked up over nothing. You should be with Alex. It’s the first day of your honeymoon.” She picked up a makeup brush and swept it over her cheeks.

  It took some effort, but I ignored her and stayed focused. “You know why I don’t believe you? I know when you’re lying. I can tell. You get this squinty look for a second, then you delve into your what-are-you-talking-about act. But that’s what it is, an act.”

  She threw down the brush and shifted so that she faced me. “It’s not important.”

  “It’s a murder investigation. Do you know what Inspector Quimby is going to do? He’s going to take what you told him and check it. He’ll try and pick it apart.”

  She shoved the chair back and went across to the large wardrobe where she jerked the doors open. “So I talked to Nick at the airport. So what?”

  “Nick?”

  She sighed and pulled out a dress in a leopard print material. “Yes, his name was Nick.”

  “Nick. Okay, good. Did he tell you his last name?”

  “Davis.” She selected a pair of black pumps with leopard print bows as well as a pair of black flats. Looking between the two pairs of shoes, she said, “So the most they’ll find out is that I talked to him a few times.” She held up the shoes with the bows against the dress. “What do you think? Too much?”

  “You talked to him more than once?”

  She waved both the shoes and the dress in a no-big-deal motion. “We met a couple of times for coffee. It was nothing more than that.”

  I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat. “You mean…you knew him in California?”

  “Yes, that’s what I said. Weren’t you listening? You really should pay closer attention, especially since you’re the one going on and on with the questions.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “This is so much worse than I thought.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “H ow can a few innocent meetings—it was only a cup of coffee occasionally—be bad?” Mom asked as she set the shoes with the bows down and returned the other pair to the wardrobe.

  “Mom.” I rubbed my forehead. I had that pulsing feeling in my temples that meant a headache might be coming on. “It’s bad. Trust me.” I hopped up, caught her shoulders, and then drew her down to sit on the bed beside me. “You lied to the police. Once they figure that out, they’ll doubt everything you tell them. You’ll no longer be an innocent person on the edge of an investigation. You’ll be someone they can’t trust, and they’ll look at you more closely.”

  “Surely not,” she said, but some of the confidence had drained from her tone. She adjusted the folds of her robe. “It will be fine. They’ll find out I sent him a letter, and we had a few meetings. That was it, until I happened to run into him at the airport.”

  “You sent him a letter?” I latched on to the strangest thing in her n
arrative. Who sends letters these days?

  “Yes. For my family tree. I was looking for Nick Davis, a descendant of Tom Davis, the singer I told you about? With such a common name, it’s not easy. You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find a prince in genealogical research, let me tell you.”

  I blinked, working out the metaphor. “You mean, you contacted several people named Nick Davis?”

  “Exactly!” She shifted into a more comfortable position on the bed. “What you do, you see, is there are all these marvelous databases—”

  “Mom, please, let’s just focus on this Nick Davis. Why did you send him the letter?”

  “Because he was one of the names that came up. I’d had no luck tracing Rebecca Westings—she married Tom and took his name—but then Nick’s name came up. Sometimes you can reach people through the Internet, but sometimes I’ve had better luck with actual letters. So unusual now to get a real letter—that’s why I think it works so well. I couldn’t find an email for this Nick Davis, but I had an address in San Bernardino, which isn’t that far from me. On the off chance that he might be the Nick Davis whose mother was Rebecca Westings, who was married to Tom Davis, I sent him a letter and gave him my phone number.”

  My head was spinning with all the names, but I focused on the one important fact. “And he called you?” I asked, my thoughts skipping ahead. When the police found Nick’s phone or got his phone records, my mother’s number would be in his call log.

  “Yes, right away. I was delighted,” she said, then her bright face saddened. “But he was the wrong Nick Davis. With two names that are so common, I shouldn’t have been disappointed, but he could tell I was disheartened. Common names make it so difficult. Anyway, he offered to buy me a coffee to cheer me up.”

  “And you met him? A stranger that you knew nothing about?” I realized I sounded more like a mom than a daughter, but I couldn’t help it.