Murder in Misdirection

by Anne Cleeland

  So, what was it? There was no grasping plan afoot to hitch these children to the illustrious fortunes of the House of Acton— and even if there were, the illustrious head of that illustrious house would have twigged onto it, and put paid to such a plan with no further ado. Why was it pokin’ at her—aside from the fact, of course, that everything seemed to poke at her, nowadays, including Edward.

  Surely, it had nothing to do with the blood-money? It was hard to imagine how it would, but it did remind her that she should do some more digging, since it had been her unfortunate experience that ghosts didn’t haunt her dreams without good reason.

  Pulling out her mobile, she thought to scroll up Williams, but then hesitated. She’d had the impression that Williams was truly out of Acton’s loop on the blood-money matter—whatever that matter may be—but she couldn’t be certain, and one thing she did know for certain was that she shouldn’t let her husband twig on to the fact that she was digging into a dead priest’s relatives—not yet, leastways. Because if Acton didn’t want to her find out whatever it was she was trying to find out, suffice it to say that he’d take steps to ensure that she never did; she was no match for her wily husband.

  So instead, she’d have to recruit someone else who had access to the general database. It couldn’t be Lizzie Mathis, since

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  she’d grass to Acton in a heartbeat, and probably with a great deal of satisfaction. Gabriel would be a candidate, save for this whole unfortunate fake-girlfriend-may-actually-be-a-murderess problem—faith, another tangle patch laid before the fair Doyle, who was already awash in them. Therefore, there was but one option left, and Doyle regretfully rang up Detective Sergeant Isabel Munoz.

  “Doyle. What’s up? I’m busy.”

  “That’s not very friendly, Munoz. How d’you know I’m not callin’ to say I had the baby?”

  “Everybody here would probably know before you did.” Doyle smiled. “A fair point. But I was wonderin’ if you could

  do me a favor—on the down-low, so to speak. I’m tryin’ to help my church-friend track down the sister of a dead priest, and I told her I’d take a peek into the general database, since she’s not havin’ any luck.”

  “We’re not allowed to do that sort of thing, Doyle. They’re very strict about it.”

  But Doyle had already foreseen this protocol-skirting problem, and had come up with a plausible tale. “It’s for a good cause, though—it has to do with payin’ over some money.”

  “It always does,” countered Munoz, unmoved.

  Delicately, Doyle offered, “This one’s truly connected to a Met case, though, so it’s not as though I’m fishin’ for random information. It’s that arson investigation, with Holy Trinity.” She’d been hoping not to disclose this connection, but stupid Munoz was being a stupid stickler.

  “All right,” Munoz conceded with poor grace. “Let me pull up the clergy database—I can’t get into as much trouble if I use that one. What’s the name?”

  “I only know the first name—Father Danilo. He was the associate pastor at Holy Trinity; or he was until he left, leastways.”

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  There was a small pause. “Oh. Well, you may not want to hear this.”

  “Is it about how his sister was the arsonist?” “That’s the one.”

  “Yes—well, I already know about her; we’re lookin’ for another sister.”

  But Munoz replied, “No record of another sister—or any other siblings, for that matter. It does list his mother, who’s still alive, but looks to be quite old. She’s in the Philippines—want an address?”

  “Surely, I do,” Doyle said, all bright with pretend-gratefulness. “Now we’ll have someone to send the money to— thanks a million, Munoz. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to anyone until we find out if we can reach her—we don’t want anyone else to catch wind about the money.”

  “Already forgotten. I’ve got too much to do.”

  It suddenly occurred to Doyle that it was a Saturday; since she’d gone on maternity leave, every day seemed like every other boring day, and it was easy to lose track. “You’re workin’ today?”

  “No rest for the weary. And besides, I haven’t any plans.” This, of course, was because Philippe Savoie was her current beau, and he spending his Saturday nights in Wexton Prison, larking about in the hallways with the guards.

  Doyle was alive to the underlying nuance in the other girl’s remark, and on impulse, offered, “Come to Acton’s confirmation tomorrow, then. I know Drake and Williams will be there; mayhap you can flirt up a storm, and forget about Savoie for a while.”

  Rather to Doyle’s surprise, Munoz agreed, and as she was giving the other girl the event’s particulars, Acton came in through the front door.

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  Doyle immediately covered the mobile and hissed, “Stay quiet; Emile’s asleep.”

  He nodded as he hung up his jacket. “Reynolds?”

  “We’re back from the zoo early, so he’s not here yet—I’ve a million things to tell you; let me ring off with Munoz.”

  Doyle said her goodbyes as her husband sank into the sofa beside her, and when she’d put the mobile down, he promptly began kissing her neck. “Don’t get any ideas,” she giggled. “We don’t want to traumatize Emile, if he walks in unexpectedly.”

  “Or Reynolds.”

  She lifted her chin to grant him greater access. “Reynolds probably wouldn’t turn a hair; he’s too well-bred. Faith, if someone had told me when I moved to this stupid city that I would wind up with servants and loose-end children always underfoot, I’d have laughed in his face.”

  “Not much longer,” he soothed, and moved southward to bestow a lingering kiss on the mole near her collarbone.

  “Which?” she teased. “Not much longer for Reynolds, or for the children? Or both?”

  He smiled, and placed his hands on either side of her as he moved to kiss the other side of her neck. “It would take an act of war to dislodge Reynolds, I think.”

  She giggled. “Mainly because there’s an earldom on the come. He’s probably crossin’ his fingers and checkin’ the obituaries, each and every mornin’.” Aside from holding a barony, Acton was set to inherit an earldom from Lord Aldwych, who was nearly ninety.

  “Hmmm,” said Acton, whose mouth was otherwise engaged. “You’ve got to stop,” she laughed. “I’m powerless to resist, as my hormones are runnin’ amok, and you are one handsome

  man, my friend.”

  “Right then.” With some regret, he pulled himself away, and stood. “What might I bring you?”

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  She brightened. “Coffee.”

  Smiling, he stepped toward the kitchen. “Water, perhaps. We’ve got to keep your amniotic sac hydrated.”

  “Faith, that sounds nasty—like prison slang, or somethin’.” Amused, he looked at her over the refrigerator door. “I’ll

  add some lemon, to make it more palatable.”

  She was aware that he wanted something stronger—a scotch, perhaps; he was in a good mood—but he poured his own glass of wretched water so as to commiserate with her, which was very much appreciated.

  After dutifully accepting her glass, she gave him a look, as he settled in beside her. “Tell me, Michael; d’you ever get tired of bein’ right?”

  “No.” With a small smile, he sipped his water, and it was the truth.

  “Well, you were right about Gemma—Giselle wasn’t her mother, apparently. In fact, Mary thinks Gemma may have been a foreign adoption, and so she’s worried about our preschool plan, since she may have to prove she has legal custody.”

  He contemplated the glass in his hand for a moment. “I foresee no problem. Mary is providing for Gemma, and the two have a close relationship. It is clear the child has never been trafficked or abused, which would be the main concern. I thin
k we tell the school the truth, and if they balk—which I am certain they will not—I will offer to sponsor her until the legalities are concluded.”

  Although this was nothing less than what Doyle had expected, it was nonetheless gratifying that he was willing, and so she hooked an arm around his head to kiss him soundly, despite the fact she sloshed his water a bit. “You are a good man. You’ve only to throw your mantle over Gemma—like Elisha at the plow—and her path will now be made smooth.”

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  He used the excuse to set his glass on the sofa table, and demurred, “It is little enough, surely.”

  With a fond smile, she traced the day-end stubble of his beard with a forefinger. “You threw your mantle over me, too.”

  But his mood shifted subtly, as he stayed her hand, and pressed her fingertips to his mouth. “Your path has not been the smoother for it.”

  Lightly, she teased, “Fah, husband; never had a nicer time, I assure you.”

  He gathered her to him in a fond embrace, and in the process, she tried to set her water glass next to his, but he neatly intercepted it, and so she was forced to take another drink, and then cradle the glass between them.

  “Your way will be smoother, now; my promise on it.”

  With a sigh, she nestled into his side, and watched the fire. “Are we back to ‘no more hardships’ again? You can’t make it so by declarin’ it, foolish man; the reason that they say ‘give thanks in all things’ is because the ‘all things’ part is goin’ to include a few lumps.”

  “No,” he declared, only half-joking. “No more lumps.”

  Her scalp prickled, but before she could think about why it would, he’d changed the subject. “How was your visit to the zoo?”

  “Well, for starters, Gabriel was anglin’ for an invitation to your confirmation. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I invited him.”

  “By all means.”

  Turning her head, she eyed him. “Williams thinks Gabriel’s just polishin’ the apple, but I’m not so sure. As a matter of fact, I don’t think his girlfriend’s his girlfriend; I think she’s actually some sort of subordinate officer.”

  Absently, he fingered a tendril of hair that had fallen onto her shoulder, and observed in a mild tone, “You’ve had an eventful day.”

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  It was not surprising, of course, that he appeared to be well-aware of this alarming situation, and so she asked the next logical question. “Is the girlfriend workin’ for you, Michael?”

  “No, she is not.”

  This was true, and she blew out a breath. “Well, that’s rather a relief, because here’s a wrinkle; her name is Tasza— which isn’t your ordinary, everyday sort of name—and Father John’s embezzler-suicide fellow was datin’ a girl named Tasza.”

  There was a small pause, whilst Acton absently rubbed her arm. “That is indeed very interesting.”

  Watching him, she prompted, “And? Aren’t we the least bit worried that the woman’s a murderess?”

  “Unlikely; Gabriel would have made an easy target.” Hearing the trace of humor in his voice, she reined in her

  wayward imagination—for heaven’s sake, if Tasza was a law enforcement officer of some stripe, she was hardly a murderess. “It just seemed such a coincidence, that the name was the same. Have you had a chance to resolve the suicide’s case, one way or the other?”

  “I will,” he promised. “Very soon.”

  She turned her head to look at the fire again. “I suppose you have to tread carefully, since you’d have to tell Drake that he mucked it up, in his initial report.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Very carefully.”

  “Nothin’ new, there—you’re always careful,” she observed fondly, burrowing in beside him. “Which is a good thing, I think, since I’m a bangin’-about sort of person, and we counter each other. It’s that ying and yams, again.”

  Fondly, he kissed her head. “You mustn’t exert yourself at the event tomorrow—no banging about, if you will. Mathis will be there to help Nellie, so that you may stay off your feet.”

  “I’ve no intention of exertin’ anythin’, husband; instead, I’m goin’ to sit back and watch this little holy show unfold—although

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  I’ll keep a sharp eye on Tasza, in case she decides to murder someone else.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” he agreed.

  Reminded, she turned to ask, “D’you know about the scary hound—the one from basketville?”

  He tilted his head toward hers. “Could you give me some context, perhaps?”

  “Well, Gabriel said somethin’ about it, and I had the feelin’ that he was havin’ a private joke with himself. He was speakin’ of that night at Trestles, when the DCS was taken down.”

  Acton smiled, slightly. “He must have meant The Hound of the Baskervilles. It is a famous story—a famous story about a misdirection murder.”

  “Oh—then I suppose it would be ‘apt’?” She was teasing him, because she still wasn’t certain when one said “apt,” which was a funny little word that the nobs tended to over-use.

  Amused, Acton considered the fire for a moment. “The Sign of the Four would be more apt, perhaps.”

  Sighing, she tried to brush off the water she’d spilled on her blouse, but it had seeped through, making the wet material cling to her skin. “I’m goin’ to have to change.”

  “Allow me to help,” he offered, and began kissing her neck again.

  Giggling, she relented, “All right, all right—I’m only flesh and blood, after all. Five minutes, Michael, and keep your ears on the stretch in case you-know-who wakes up.”

  “Done,” he agreed, and lifted her water glass from her hand.

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  Chapter 14

  It should prove to be a very interesting sacrament.

  T hat night, Doyle was visited again by the Filipino priest, who faced her with his usual benevolent attitude and—as before—seemed disinclined to speak.

  She ventured, “The ducks are all hissin’ for the bread, and I’m worried that Acton is goin’ to shoot them all dead.”

  His expression became a bit grave, but he offered no response.

  Although privately she could commiserate with the priest’s grave attitude, Doyle felt it was her obligation to defend her better half, and so she offered, “I truly think he’s tryin’ to tone it down a bit. He’s gettin’ confirmed, and he’s had a scare, what with the ACC, an’ all. He didn’t kill Morgan Percy, which should go down as a mark in his favor.”

  At this, the ghost raised his head.

  “I know, I know,” Doyle offered in apology. “I should look into her murder, but I’ve too much to sort out, just now, and I can’t get around, like I used to. I’m working on your sister, too—I had to wheedle Munoz into the general database, and I can’t keep doin’ it, so I’m not sure what to do next. I’d like to help your sister, but there’s no record of her, and I can’t very well ask Acton why he’s payin’ her the money.”

  “Why is that?” the priest asked gently. “Why can’t you ask him, my child?”

  Doyle stared at him for a moment. “I suppose—I suppose I’m afraid of what I’ll find out. We’re not your usual mister-and-

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  missus, Father, and it’s important that I not go probin’, overmuch.”

  She paused, gathering her thoughts, because it was important that he understand. “It’s a delicate balance, I guess you’d say. He trusts me not to hurt him, and so I can’t just start crashin’ about in his doin’s, like a cow in a cornfield. I know I’m havin’ an effect, and it’s a good effect—or at least, a better one— but if I start shovin’ at him, this whole house of cards could come tumblin’ down, and he’d go back to where he was before he let me in.”

  Pausing, she lifted her head and met his gaze. “I know it doesn’t sound like much of an ex
cuse—everything’s black-and-white, to you. But on the other hand, you’ve never been married.”