“What fibers?” Sam asked. “I didn’t see it in the report.”
“Sloppy of them not to include it. There was a wad of something synthetic, almost like a tangle of fishing line, but much more delicate. I thought it was hair, but Keri said no, it wasn’t organic. I have no idea what it could be.”
“I want to see it,” Sam said. “Keri wouldn’t have made that mistake, I probably just didn’t read far enough along in her report.”
Stuart was making quick work of Marias’s post; she could step out for a moment. She and Marcus crossed the autopsy suite to the evidence room. The door was hermetically sealed; there was blood evidence in here that needed special attention. She set her finger on the new biometric scanner. All evidence was now kept under lock and key after one of her MEs had been caught stealing marijuana from the evidence lockers. He’d been fired immediately, and new security measures put into place, including cameras and the fingerprint scanner. It helped her keep track of who went where in the morgue.
Keri had left everything for the case right where it was supposed to be. Sam smiled. She liked having a tightly run ship. No searching, no wasted time and effort. She opened the evidence locker, found the bags that matched her case, then went through smaller envelopes until she located the one labeled Left Pocket.
Using tweezers, she teased out the wad of fibers. It only took her a second to identify them.
“Wig hair. This is from a wig.”
“Was she wearing a wig?”
“No.”
“Does the Regretful Robber wear a wig?”
“That I can’t answer.”
“All right. But why would she have wig hair in her pocket?”
Sam thought about it for a minute. “Maybe she’s got a family member with cancer. They lost their hair, she buys them a wig. She obviously doesn’t have much money. She might not be able to afford the real-hair ones they’re making now, those are surprisingly expensive.”
“That’s solid. But in her pocket?”
“Locard’s theory. Plain old transference. She touched the wig, the strands came away, and either she didn’t realize it, or she didn’t want to drop them on the floor so she just tucked them in her pocket.”
“Head’s ready,” Stuart called out.
They tidied up the evidence and went back to the body. The hematoma was visible on the brain, right where Sam expected it to be.
“Okay, go ahead,” she said to Stuart, who proceeded to remove the brain from its cavity. There was a large squelch as it came away. Sam watched Marcus pale. She’d had seasoned detectives drop at autopsy plenty of times, but Marcus had always been unflinching.
He shook his head. “Never have gotten used to that sound. The pop when the skull comes free, either.”
Stuart placed the brain gently on the dissection tray. “Brain’s ready,” he said.
Sam punched Marcus lightly on the arm. “The body is a temple of noises, my friend. You want to stick around for the dissection?”
Sam’s cart was all assembled with her knives, ready for the afternoon’s work. She was very particular about her knives. She had a set of stainless steel Henckels. They were no different than the set she had in her kitchen, except for her workhorse: the twelve-inch blade she used for hearts and livers. She had a regular eight-inch chef’s knife, two smaller slicing blades, a set of forceps and a pair of long, delicate, gold-tipped Metzenbaum scissors. Her tools were her pride and joy. She carried them in a large black leather knife case, like a chef. She didn’t trust anyone else’s tools. She even had a brand-new Dremel that she was itching to try out. Simon had given it to her for her birthday. Love between scientists at its best.
Marcus shook his head. “I think you have it under control. Let me know the final findings, okay? I need to get down to her house, see if I can figure out what her life was about.”
“Good luck,” Sam said, making a long slice along the woman’s liver.
“You too,” Marcus replied, a smile on his face. “Don’t have too much fun with the organs.”
“I’ll try,” she said. Every body had a story to tell. It was her job to read them right.
She had a moment of guilt—she could use her work to heal. Despite the random flashbacks to the kidnapping, she was healing.
But Taylor was forced to run away. Sam couldn’t help but think that work would have been a better fix for her as well.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Memphis knocked on Taylor’s door at five minutes to seven. She’d rested up, washed her face, and changed into black wool slacks and a cream cashmere turtleneck. At the last minute, she put on her grandmother’s pearls. Memphis said they dressed for dinner, and the pearls were original Mikimotos—a beautiful, graduated, princess-length strand with a delicately scrolled platinum clasp that had a tiny, perfect pearl on it. She hoped that would be dressed enough.
She opened the door, and Memphis looked on her with approval.
“Very nice. Shall we?” He extended his arm, and she accepted it. They started down the hall. “I talked Cook out of serving downstairs in the main dining room. I didn’t feel like giving the radiators a workout. We’ll be eating in my parents’ dining room, the second dining room, we call it, instead. Be prepared, she’s gone a bit all out.”
They went down a flight of stairs, not the same ones she’d been on earlier, and entered another wide, open passageway. Delicious smells wafted out of the room at the end of the hall.
Goodness, Memphis. Just how many stairways are there in the castle?
He stopped, brows knitted. “You know…I’ve no idea.”
She shook her head. How very Memphis.
She was no longer a stranger to the castle’s opulence, but the second dining room, as Memphis called it, was as fine as the finest restaurants she’d ever been in. A fire crackled in the grate; she could have stood, only slightly stooped, in its cavity if she chose. The mahogany table could comfortably seat fourteen. Above it floated a crystal chandelier, each drop pendant reflecting the glow of the ten white pillar candles she counted. Crystal goblets, delicate china on engraved chargers, four sterling forks, three knives. Intimate dining. Yeah, right.
All out?
He just smiled.
At least they weren’t sitting at opposite ends of the table—she would have felt like a fool. She’d have to shout pass the salt, and the room would echo in return.
Memphis grandly held her chair for her, then tucked him self in on her right side. He’d remembered that she ate continental-style, with her left, and hated to bump the person next to her. Goodness, he wasn’t playing games. He wanted her to know that he remembered every little detail. The momentary flush of flattery was replaced with a tiny touch of concern. Fantasy could easily turn into obsession. She’d seen it happen time and again, with poor results.
She dismissed the thought. He’s trying to woo you, stupid girl. Not own you.
No one else joining us?
“Of course not. The servants take their meals in the kitchen—some traditions aren’t easily changed. Trixie will see to them. That’s her job.”
Soundlessly, two young girls appeared with the first of the seven courses Cook had planned for them.
They started with a thick fish soup Memphis said was called Cullen Skink, then moved into more traditionally French fare. The venison stew must have been for the servants.
Memphis explained that Mary, Queen of Scots, was responsible for the French inflection to their cooking, having brought a passel of countrymen back from France when she returned. There was delicate Dover sole, beef Wellington, venison, fresh veg, carrots and peas and mashed potatoes, a dizzying array of cheeses, then burnt cream—she knew it as crème brûlée—and apple frushie, a delicious open-faced tart, for dessert. Memphis had also opened a bottle of Châeau Latour ’54. She couldn’t help herself; she was impressed, and said so.
“I’ll show you the wine cellar later. You’ll love it. Father is quite the oenophile. He’s been adding to the colle
ction for years, through auctions, estate sales, the works. He has over 50,000 bottles down there.”
“Wow,” she managed to say. That was quite a collection.
Taylor ate until she was uncomfortably full, succeeding in eating only two bites of the apple frushie before she couldn’t handle another bit.
She pushed her plate away and picked up her pen.
My God, that was amazing. Thank you.
“It was, wasn’t it? Shall we repair to the drawing room and have some port? It will help you digest.”
Good Lord, Memphis, you’re making me feel like I’ve stepped onto the page of a Victorian novel.
“Oh, no. If this were Victorian times, I’d head off for port and cigars and whist and you’d be stuck with the ladies, nannering on about…whatever it is you women nanner on about.”
“Ha,” she said, punching him lightly on the arm, then scribbled in her notebook.
Besides, you know exactly what we women talk about when we get together.
“Length, breadth and depth, I assume. What else is there to discuss?”
Memphis, you are extremely naughty.
It was so comfortable. She was so comfortable. Even her head hurt less. That was the wine and pills and jet lag talking, she was sure of it.
The room Memphis took her to next was more her speed, subtly decorated while still lavish, but not overdone. The walls were paneled in dark wood. Two leather club chairs faced a leather sofa with a table in between. The fire was off to the right. Half the room was another library, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the other half an office centered around a stunning oak rolltop desk. Very masculine, very posh, but eminently comfortable.
“Nice,” she said.
“This is part of my suite of rooms,” he said. “My office, when I’m here. I like to have a bit of privacy. Why don’t you try talking some more? I know you need to practice. It sounds like your voice is working.”
“I…” Nothing else came. Her throat constricted. Damn it. She wasn’t ready. She just wasn’t ready. The pressure of being asked to speak was too much for the tenuous hold she had on her voice.
Memphis took a step toward her. He traced her jawline with his forefinger, then slowly moved his hand down until his palm cupped her throat. Her traitorous heart responded by speeding up. She could feel her pulse fluttering under his thumb. His eyes met hers, desire plain in his gaze.
“Try now.”
She shook her head.
“Poor darling. I wish I could fix you myself. Take away the last month, take away your pain.”
They stood there, face-to-face, transfixed. She felt oddly vulnerable, in this position of supplication before him, his hand wrapped around her neck.
Memphis was a strong man. All he had to do was squeeze. Cut off her air supply. It would stop her pain. No more struggling, no more looks. No more people talking about her behind her back—well, that wasn’t true. Tongues never cease, even in death. She just wouldn’t be around to hear it. She’d drift away without a care in the world, the scent of Memphis strong in her nose.
Good grief, Taylor. Get hold of yourself.
He meant what he said. No pity, no coddling. Just a statement of fact. He wished she didn’t have to go through this. No one else had said that to her.
Interminable moments passed. His eyes spoke to her, questioning. She didn’t know how to answer. He finally began to lean his head in and she went rigid. He stopped immediately, dropped his hand and turned away.
“Don’t worry about it. Your voice will come back in time.” He went to a small drinks cabinet, poured the port into snifters.
“I do hope you like vintage.”
He handed her a glass as if nothing had just happened.
Her heart was still pounding. She dragged a breath into her lungs, fought for composure. Wished for that stiff upper lip all Brits seemed to possess. Took a sip of her port, then grabbed her notebook.
Of course I do. Tawny and ruby aren’t my thing, I’m glad that’s what you have. It’s delicious.
He’d made a lucky guess on that one, she wasn’t sure she’d ever discussed port with him before. Of course, vintage was more expensive. She recognized that Memphis, while quite understated about his heritage, did enjoy the trappings that came with it.
She started to sit, then felt the strangest sensation down her back, accompanied by a draft of cool air across her shoulders. Her senses went on alert immediately. She’d been a cop long enough to recognize the feeling. They were being watched.
She angled her head to look behind her, assuming one of the servants had entered the room. There was no one there.
Her spine grew cold. She hadn’t imagined it. Had she?
She looked back to Memphis, who was whistling slightly as he poured himself another little bit of port. Topping off, her father always called it. He’d done that every time he’d poured a drink—taken a healthy swallow, then filled his glass again. Maybe she’d just had a little too much.
Memphis turned and caught her looking at him. Her face must have registered her distress.
“What’s wrong?” He crossed the room to her, set his glass on the table and sat on the sofa next to her. Took her hands in his. “Jesus, your hands are like ice. I told you this place was hard to heat.”
She pulled her right hand away.
I just had the strangest sensation that someone was watching us. One of the servants…?
Memphis leaned back, keeping her hands securely tucked in his. “Ah. Not the servants. No, in this part of the castle, that was probably the Lady in Red. She’s one of our more famous ghosts.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Taylor shivered. She didn’t believe in ghosts. But the thought that the feeling she’d just had was caused by the otherworld was all too real. She was still overwhelmingly chilly, and suddenly on edge. She pulled her hands from his, grabbed her notebook.
Don’t mock me. It’s not funny.
Memphis waited a moment, then gently took her left hand back, rubbed it between his to warm them.
“I’m not mocking you, dearest. Dulsie Castle is haunted. Several times over.”
Please. It is not haunted. You’re just trying to scare me.
“Not at all. It is haunted, just like most of the castles in the Highlands. Battles were fought over these lands, brother against brother. Enemies tried to plunder the castles for their contents. Most were built on sorrow and death, vaults for the overlord’s treasures. With all that enmity, it’s not at all unusual to have multiple ghosts wandering about.”
Come on. That’s silly.
“Taylor, it’s not silly at all. People pay good money to stay at haunted castles. That’s why we opened the attics for Samhain. Let the public in, have a few delicious ghost stories at the ready. One of our best is the Lady in Red.”
Okay. I’ll bite. Tell me.
Memphis sat back into the cushions. “According to my family lore, she’s the ghost of Lady Isabella Bruce, a relation of good King Robert, sold as a child bride to Colin Highsmythe, the fourth Earl of Dulsie. He was forty-eight, widowed, with seven bairns, some of which were older than Isabella. She was fourteen, ripe as a peach, headstrong and unwilling to marry such a disgustingly old creature. She was overruled, of course. It was an advantageous match. Her father recovered most of the lands he’d lost to Longshanks—you’d know him as Edward the First—when Scotland and England were at war in the 1300s.”
He settled in closer to her, put his arm around her shoulder. They were touching now, rib to rib. She let him. She was still cold. And despite her interest in Memphis’s history, ghost stories weren’t her thing.
“She moved to the castle, and they married in a ceremony befitting a queen. Colin doted on her like she was a doll, buying her anything she wanted, throwing the most lavish of parties in her honor. He, being an honorable sort who disliked the idea of bedding a child, promised the girl they could wait until her sixteenth birthday.”
Taylor could see the woman-chil
d, promised off, unwilling to devalue herself for the sake of her parents and their ever-amassing fortunes. She liked Isabella immediately.
“But the stupid girl played Colin for a fool. She had an affair with the youngest of the Highsmythe sons at the time, the dashing Oliver, and of course got with child. She hid it for as long as she could, but Colin eventually found out. He had Oliver killed, locked Isabella up in the tower above us for the rest of her confinement. When she had the baby, he took it away and murdered it as well. Then he bedded Isabella as many times as it took to plant his own seed in her belly.”
That’s hideous!
“Quite. As you can imagine, Isabella was terribly distraught. She’d lost her lover, her child by him, and all the freedom she’d been accustomed to, for Colin kept her in the tower and would allow her no visitors. She was subjected to what amounted to no more than rape on a regular basis. So she hatched a plan. She figured if she could get Colin out of the way, she could have everything back the way it was. She’d find a new lover to mend her broken heart, would dispose of the child she was carrying. She planned to leave it out in the wild, let the faeries take it for their own.”
Faeries?
“Oh, yes,” Memphis replied. “Faeries all over the land round here. The auld folk. You’re in the Scottish Highlands, remember. We live for myth.”
He brushed a stray hair back from her forehead, gently, then continued.
“Anyway, the lady Isabella kept back a knife from one of her meals, and when Colin came for his nightly assignation, she waited until he was in the throes of passion and stabbed him. Did a good job of it, too. He, mortally wounded, fought with her for the knife, managed to get it away from her and cut her throat, but he was too weak to injure her properly. He died; she lived. But the earl, ever prescient and distrustful of his child bride, had left strict instructions in his will that if anything were to happen to him before the child was born, the doctor was to take it by force from her womb.”
Where All the Dead Lie Page 11