“Mrs. Huntington?”
Liz looked up from her reverie. It was Sergeant McFarland.
How could she tell them that story? She couldn’t! She remembered David’s distress. She knew how much Jamison’s death would upset him . . .
“My husband is the one who fired him,” Liz said again. “It was his decision. I wasn’t there. You’ll need to speak to David about this.”
“We plan to, but we understand from Mrs. Hoffman that he’s away,” said Sergeant McFarland.
“Yes,” Liz replied. “On business.”
“So, until we get in touch with him,” the sergeant went on, “we were hoping you might tell us whatever you know. Why would your husband tell Mrs. Hoffman that he was firing Mr. Wilkes on your directive?”
“I have no idea,” Liz whispered.
“Had he done something offensive?”
Liz looked over at Mrs. Hoffman again. What did the housekeeper know? How much did David tell her?
“He came into my room . . .” Liz began, her voice failing her.
“Into your room?” McFarland asked.
Liz nodded. “He said . . . well, he told me about a girl who had been killed here on the estate . . .”
As she spoke the words, the enormity of the situation became obvious to Liz. Another murder! There had to be a connection! She was suddenly terrified, both for herself and for David.
“I assume he meant Audra McKenzie?” Foley asked.
“Yes,” Liz replied, her voice shaking. “I believe that was her name. That happened before I came here, however.” She added that last remark instinctively, almost as if she felt she needed to protect herself in some way.
“Interesting,” McFarland said, looking over at her partner. “He speaks of Audra’s death and a few hours later he’s murdered.”
“It happened that same night?” Liz asked.
“That’s what forensics is telling us,” Sergeant Foley replied.
His partner had another question for Liz. “Did Jamison say anything else to you?” Sergeant McFarland wanted to know.
Once again the dead young man’s words echoed in Liz’s mind. Should she tell them? Should she tell them that he’d insisted Audra had died not on the grounds but in her room—and that she had been slain by the undead hand of Dominique?
Liz felt the gaze of Mrs. Hoffman upon her. When she glanced over, sure enough, the housekeeper’s cold cat eyes were burning into her, her face a frozen plastic mask, devoid of all emotion.
“No,” Liz managed to say. “All he said was that Audra had been killed here.”
“And for that he was fired?” Foley asked.
Liz gathered her wits together. “Yes. My husband felt it was impertinent to tell me something like that on his own.” She took a deep breath. “It rather upset me, you see, on my first night here.”
“That’s understandable,” Sergeant Foley said. He seemed satisfied with her response. He looked over at Sergeant McFarland, who nodded.
“Could there be a connection?” Liz asked. She was terrified; she almost didn’t want to know the answer. “Between what happened to Audra and what happened to Jamison?”
“That’s what we’d like to know,” Foley said. “Wasn’t he the same boy who was with you, Mrs. Hoffman, when we came that day after you called and notified us of the girl’s death?”
“Yes, he was,” the housekeeper acknowledged.
“But it was you who found the body in the grass, was it not?”
Mrs. Hoffman nodded. “Yes, it was I who found the poor girl’s body. I asked Jamison to stay with me until you arrived. I was rather upset, as you can imagine.”
“Of course,” Foley replied.
“I think the episode deeply disturbed Jamison.” Mrs. Hoffman’s face betrayed no worry or concern. “He was very devout, you see, a very religious young man.” Her lips tightened. “It was difficult for him to come to face-to-face with the work of the devil.”
“The devil?” Sergeant McFarland asked.
“Surely whoever could kill like that was influenced by the devil.”
Foley was writing this all down. “Did Mr. Wilkes have any connections to Audra’s friends?” he asked. “Anyone who might have wanted to kill him, for whatever reason? Could they have blamed him in some way for Audra’s death?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Mrs. Hoffman said, almost dismissively. “I have very little knowledge of the private lives of the employees here, or what they do or whom they see in their off hours.”
“Well, we’ll be checking it all out,” Sergeant McFarland said. “Before we go, is there anything else you can tell us about Jamison?”
“Until the episode the other night, he had a spotless record working for us,” Mrs. Hoffman declared.
“I wish I could tell you more,” Liz said. “This is all just so horrible. I feel so badly for him . . .” She found herself crying all of a sudden, which embarrassed her. “He may have been inappropriate, but he was just trying to . . . in his own way . . . protect me . . .”
“Protect you from what?” asked Sergeant Foley.
Liz wiped her eyes. “From not knowing, I guess. He felt it wasn’t fair that no one told me about what happened here before I arrived. And he was right. David should have told me.”
“Mr. Huntington simply didn’t want to upset you,” Mrs. Hoffman said.
Liz nodded. “I know. But Jamison’s statement to me wasn’t malicious.” She looked over at the police officers. “I didn’t want you to have that impression.”
Sergeant Foley smiled at her. “Thank you, Mrs. Huntington.”
“Thank you both,” his partner added. “That’s all we need for now. But we may be back in touch.”
“Of course,” Liz said. “You’ll be calling David?”
“Yes,” Foley assured her. “Mrs. Hoffman gave us his card.”
Liz escorted them to the door. Sergeant McFarland strode out to their waiting cruiser, but Sergeant Foley looked back at her and gave her a small smile.
“I regret that your arrival here should be so unpleasant,” he told her.
Liz just smiled sadly. What a kind man Sergeant Foley seemed. His strawberry blond hair was cut short, and he sported some day-old ginger scruff on his cheeks and chin, not heavy enough to disguise a pretty deep dimple in his chin. His eyes were pale blue and very reassuring. Liz was glad he was on the case.
She closed the door and looked back at Mrs. Hoffman.
“You’re new in your role as mistress of this house,” the housekeeper said. “I understand that. But I believe Mr. Huntington would want me to point something out.”
“What’s that?”
“Never reveal more than what is necessary about what goes on here, not even the slightest, most innocuous detail. And never, ever show weakness to outsiders.”
“Was I being weak when I cried? Is that what you mean?”
“Mrs. Huntington always smiled, no matter what the situation. She always faced outsiders with a smile and a steeled back.”
“I see,” said Liz.
“Just a helpful comment,” Mrs. Hoffman said. “If I were you, I’d put all this unpleasantness aside and move on. It has nothing to do with our lives in this house.”
Liz said nothing. She just watched as the housekeeper hustled off, to do whatever it was she did to run this glittering mansion.
A glittering, bloated, oversized monstrosity that Liz suddenly thought she could never learn to call home.
14
Standing off in the shadows behind the grand curving staircase was Rita. She had heard the entire conversation with the two police officers.
Jamison—dead!
Murdered!
The housemaid stepped out of the shadows and resumed her task of dusting the tables. But her mind was reeling.
She couldn’t shake the image of that sweet boy, his throat slit. The blood must have been everywhere.
Rita felt as if she might get sick.
She slipped out of the parlor and into the h
all bathroom, the one reserved for guests. Mrs. Hoffman would have a fit if she ever caught Rita in here for anything other than cleaning. But Rita needed to steady herself, and if her breakfast of coffee and toasted blueberry muffin was going to make a reappearance, she wanted to be near a toilet.
Jamison! Dead!
She looked into her eyes in the mirror. He must have been killed soon after they had spoken to each other at Mickey’s Bar. Jamison had told Rita some really disturbing things as they sat there drinking their beer.
He had admitted to tampering with evidence, helping Mrs. Hoffman move Audra’s corpse from Mrs. Huntington’s room to the grass outside. He had been planning to go to the police and reveal all he knew.
But someone had stopped him from ever squealing.
The door to the bathroom suddenly rattled. Someone tried to turn the knob, but found it locked. Rita tensed.
A rapping. “Who’s in there?” a voice called through the door.
Mrs. Hoffman’s voice.
Rita quickly began wiping the sink with her dust rag with one hand while unlocking the door with her other. “I’m just doing some cleaning,” she replied, opening the door behind her.
Mrs. Hoffman stood there, filling the door frame with her imposing presence, her frozen face as white as the ceramic of the bathroom. Only the eyes showed any life. They were blazing.
“Why was this door locked?” the head housekeeper asked icily.
“Was it locked? Oh, I must have accidentally hit the lock when I came in here.”
“I asked you to dust the parlor. What were you doing in here?”
“I told you. I was cleaning. I noticed there was some residue in the sink. Perhaps Mrs. Huntington used this bathroom . . .”
“There was no residue in this sink,” Mrs. Hoffman seethed. “I’ve told you, Rita, time and time again, that the servants may use the bathrooms at the back of the house, off the kitchen. Not any of those in the front of the house. You must know your place in this house!”
“Really, Mrs. Hoffman, I wasn’t using—”
“Just get out and get back to work,” the older woman said, and Rita quickly complied.
She hustled back into the parlor. The nausea had passed. Now it was anger that surged up from Rita’s gut.
That wicked old witch, Rita thought. If anyone had reason to kill Jamison, it was her.
After all, Jamison knew the secret she was keeping from police—that, under her direction, Audra’s body had been moved.
As Rita halfheartedly dusted off the mantel, her mind was far, far away from her task.
Not only did she suspect Mrs. Hoffman of killing Jamison, but she suddenly believed the old harridan had killed Audra as well.
Rita had never bought into Jamison’s talk of ghosts and devils. It had been Mrs. Hoffman who had stabbed Audra to death. It had to have been! No ex-boyfriend of Audra’s, who cops thought the most likely suspect, would have been inside the house. No, it must have been Mrs. Hoffman who’d wielded the knife, ending the poor girl’s life, and then she had roped Jamison into helping her move the evidence of her crime. When Jamison had been fired, she’d had no choice but to kill him as well.
Rita’s heart suddenly began to pound in her chest. A fear overtook her. Did Mrs. Hoffman know that Jamison had spilled the beans to her before he died? Did she know that Rita knew the truth—that the truth hadn’t died with Jamison?
It wasn’t likely. The police officer said it looked as if Jamison had been killed in his sleep. That was more likely. Mrs. Hoffman wouldn’t have wanted to tangle with him awake. Jamison wasn’t a big guy, but he was bigger and stronger than old Mrs. Hoffman. How much easier to just slit his throat while he slept.
So there had been no chance for Jamison to reveal that he’d told Rita the truth about the night of Audra’s death. Mrs. Hoffman had no idea that her secret still lived on.
“A penny for your thoughts, Rita, my dear.”
The voice startled her, and she spun around. Variola stood there across the parlor, smiling at her and gazing at her with those mysterious black eyes.
Could Variola read minds?
“Oh, I doubt they’re worth even that much,” Rita said, trying to smile.
“With you, your thoughts are always rich,” the house chef observed. “Whenever I see you so far away in thought, I think to myself, ‘There is a master schemer at work.’ ”
Rita shook her head, trying to mask her thoughts, just in case Variola could see inside her head. It was a crazy idea, but still, Rita worried about it. “I was just thinking about my mother and what to buy her for her birthday.”
“Ah, but Variola thinks you were contemplating someone much farther away than that.” She smiled at Rita again. “Someone who right now, I believe, is in Amsterdam.”
Rita didn’t know David’s exact itinerary, but she knew Amsterdam was one of the frequent stops on his business trips. She smiled back at Variola. Better that the chef believe she was thinking about David than thinking about Mrs. Hoffman being guilty of murder. Rita didn’t trust Variola; the chef had her own agenda, and she’d use information for her own purposes.
“You can believe whatever you want,” she said.
Variola laughed—that magical, tinkly, musical sound—and headed out into the kitchen. Rita let out a breath in relief.
Perhaps, on second thought, she could trust Variola. After all, Variola had spotted Rita and David together and she’d never said a word. If Variola had told Mrs. Hoffman about the affair with David, the old witch would have definitely fired her—she was very insistent that the staff not fraternize with the Huntingtons. She didn’t even want them sharing the same bathrooms! So Rita was pretty sure that Variola had kept her secret about David.
Maybe she should take her up on her offer for some potion or some island herb to magically win back David’s love. But Rita hadn’t yet given up on accomplishing that task all on her own.
It was thinking about David that made everything suddenly so clear to her.
I know why Mrs. Hoffman killed Audra, she realized.
Rita’s previous conversation with Variola came back to her. She’d implied that David had had an affair with Audra . . . Rita had dismissed the idea. But what if it was true?
What if, when she’d discovered Audra’s misbehavior, Mrs. Hoffman had killed her? Maybe it was an impulsive move—a rash act of anger on the housekeeper’s part. How she hated when any staff did not know their place in this house! Audra had dared to impose herself on Mr. Huntington and Mrs. Hoffman had had enough!
But there had to be more to it than that.
That was when Rita remembered the obsessive devotion Mrs. Hoffman carried for her late mistress, even now.
Mrs. Hoffman had worshiped Dominique. Some of the staff even whispered it was sort of an unrequited lesbian crush that the older woman had on the younger. Mrs. Hoffman would follow Dominique around slavishly, attendant on her every need, watching her with eyes filled with adoration as she dropped her robe and dove naked into the swimming pool. After Dominique’s death that day on the boat, Mrs. Hoffman had been devastated. She had insisted that everything be kept as her late mistress had left it, and that Dominique’s enormous portrait remain hanging in the stairwell, as if she were still watching over the house. And how angry she had been when Mr. Huntington had dug up the gardenia bushes, not wanting to be reminded of his late wife.
So Mrs. Hoffman had killed Audra because she had dared defile the sacred memory of Dominique by sleeping with Dominique’s husband.
If that was so, then what fate did Mrs. Hoffman have in mind for the new Mrs. Huntington, who was now doing the same thing?
As Rita began setting the setting the dining table with plates and silverware for lunch, she was hearing Jamison’s words in her head.
If anything had happened to Mrs. Huntington, and I hadn’t said anything, then I’d be partly to blame.
Jamison had been worried Audra’s fate might befall little Liz.
We a
ll have to watch out for each other. That’s Christ’s teaching, right there.
Rita was torn. If Liz was found stabbed to death, she’d have a pretty good idea who did it. But she’d also have David, free and clear.
Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe Jamison was killed by a burglar, or someone totally unconnected to Huntington House. Maybe he was unstable, and all that talk about moving Audra’s body had just been in his mind. The police had never questioned anything about Mrs. Hoffman’s story, after all. They had seemed to be convinced the killer was an ex-boyfriend of Audra’s.
For now, Rita would say nothing. But she would keep her eyes open. Wide open. Especially when Mrs. Hoffman came lurking around.
15
“Darling!” David’s voice crackled over the phone.
“Sorry I haven’t called in a while. Have you gotten my emails?”
“Just one,” Liz said, her heart pounding in her chest as she heard David’s voice.
It had been nearly two days since the police had been there, giving her the news of Jamison’s death. How desperately Liz had tried to reach David after that. She couldn’t call him, because he’d said his international mobile phone was out of service; he’d have to call her. But he had not done so. Except for one short email, telling her that he’d call soon, there had been no communication from David. Liz had been so worried that something had happened to him. “Oh, David,” she gushed. “I’m so glad to finally speak with you. Did you hear from the police?”
“Yes, and I told them that we knew nothing about that kid’s death. Darling, don’t freak about this, okay?”
“But now there have been two murders here . . .”
“No! Not there! Jamison died at his own apartment. His death had nothing to do with Huntington House. There is no connection, darling. None! The police can see absolutely nothing that links the two cases. You must understand that it’s just a horrible coincidence and not let it freak you out.”
“That’s what I keep trying to tell myself, David, but—”
“It’s the truth, Liz.” He seemed impatient with her. “Darling, I really need you to be strong about this. I’m in a bit of a crisis over here. Two of our Dutch subsidiaries are near a melting point. And I’m dealing with a hostile takeover at our German company, and I just really need you to be strong and not get hysterical.”
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