Emma assured Frank she’d find it, and he left. Emma watched him go. She didn’t even realize how long she’d stood there staring at the swinging door until Genny put a hand on her shoulder.
“Well, that wasn’t at all awkward, was it?” Then she saw the look on Emma’s face. “Hey. You all right?”
“No, not really,” Emma admitted. “I was thinking about Marcie coming to the B and B last night. I knew she didn’t look good, and when she was talking about tidying up loose ends, I . . . I really should have known something was wrong.”
“How? You’d only met her once before, for about five minutes. What could you possibly know about her?”
“I knew she was upset,” Emma said.
Oliver, having completed his investigations of the far end of the kitchen, bounded back over and flopped down in front of Dash, so they were nose to nose. Dash’s tail swished against the flagstones.
“Poor old thing,” murmured Emma.
“He’s sad,” said Oliver. “And hungry. There’s kibble in . . . here!” He zoomed all the way back down to the door that Frank said was the pantry. “Unless you brought chicken? Chicken is always helpful. Or steak. Steak would be excellent.”
Genny gave him a wan smile. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a dog yip as much as Oliver does.”
“You should hear him when it’s just the two of us,” said Emma. “We should probably get started on the tea and sandwiches. I’m going to see if there’s any dog food in here.”
Emma pulled open the pantry door. Inside was what amounted to a walk-in closet filled with boxes, bags, bins and canned goods. Sure enough, there was a big bin of dog kibble and a battered ladle clearly meant to be used as a scoop.
While Genny started opening Emma’s labeled and numbered bins, Emma filled a bowl with kibble and another with water and put them down for Dash. She gave him a pat on the head. He looked up at her mournfully.
Oliver hurried back over and plunked beside him, snuggling close and also looking seriously up at Emma. “He’s still sad.”
“Well, maybe this will help cheer him up.” Emma pulled the smaller container of roast beef out of the bin marked #1, and shredded a slice into the kibble bowl.
Dash immediately scrambled to his feet and stuck his whole face into the bowl, wolfing down the meat and wagging his tail at the same time. Oliver barked in semi-outrage, and shoved his muzzle in as well.
“I’m being used,” said Emma.
“I could have told you that,” said Genny, which was true, although not terribly helpful.
Like any good British household, the grange had an electric kettle on the counter, just waiting to be filled. While it heated, Emma helped Genny ferry in the neatly labeled bins full of ingredients and stack them on the central counter by the cooktop.
One of the cupboards held both cups and pots. There was a tray as well. The tins beside the kettle were both simply labeled “Tea.” Both held loose leaves. One was definitely Earl Grey, the scent unmistakable. The other looked and smelled like an oolong that had gone a bit stale.
She chose the Earl Grey and spooned leaves into the pot. When she finished, she looked up to see Genny watching her. “What?” she asked.
“You’re making faces,” said Genny.
“Sorry. It’s just, I thought of something earlier. But it’s really stupid.”
“How stupid?”
“Have you ever read Rebecca?”
Genny chuckled. “Of course I’ve read it. I’m Cornish. It’s practically a statutory requirement.”
“Do you remember the scene where Mrs. Danvers tries to talk the narrator into—”
“Jumping out the window,” Genny finished for her. She also drew herself up straighter. “Oh, lord.”
“Yeah,” agreed Emma. “I was thinking about that scene, I mean, here’s this old house, and there’s the open window, with poor Marcie below, and she was such a du Maurier fan. I mean, it almost—I don’t know—it felt staged.”
“Well, when you put it that way.” Genny stopped, and now she was the one who frowned. “But, Emma, in the book, there’s somebody else there, trying to talk the narrator into jumping. You’re not suggesting . . . ?”
“No,” said Emma firmly. “It was just something that came into my head. And now I’m putting it out of my head, because nothing about it makes sense in the real world.”
“I agree,” said Genny.
“I mean, if you really want to kill yourself—”
“Or if somebody else wanted to kill you—” Genny interjected.
“You don’t set up a scene from your, or their,” she added quickly, “favorite book.”
“Especially when it’s only a third story window, and you’re more likely to end up in the hospital than the grave,” said Genny.
“Right. If you really want to end it, or somebody wants to end it for you, you go find a nice quiet cliffside. We’ve got plenty to choose from.”
“Yes. Exactly.” Genny nodded.
“So, really, never mind what Frank thinks—we’ve got no reason to believe it was anything except an unlucky accident.”
“I mean, it’s not like that time last summer with Victoria, is it?” Genny added. “Something was so very clearly off there. We knew it from the beginning.”
“Yes,” agreed Emma.
“And there’s nothing at all off, or missing, or anything like that this time,” added Genny.
“No. Nothing. That we know of,” said Emma.
“Right,” said Genny.
“Right,” said Emma.
The electric kettle beeped. Emma turned gratefully back to the tea things. She didn’t want to be thinking like this. She wanted to believe it was an accident, and that she was just being overly dramatic, as usual.
“Well,” she said briskly, “I’m just going to get this tea up to the family.”
“And I’ll get going on the sandwiches.” Genny checked the list. “We’ve got the beef and horseradish, the chicken and cress and the seafood salad, yeah?”
“Yeah. And let’s make them big. No one’s going to want anything fussy. Same with the cake slices.” Emma had baked the extra sponges last night. They just needed to be assembled and cut.
“Good idea,” said Genny. “And much better than standing around wondering if there’s some kind of back way to the upstairs from here. Because looking around before the police get here would be bad.”
“Emma.” Oliver came over and put his paws up on the counter, or tried to. “There’s a stairway. Over here. This way.”
“You’re kidding,” said Emma.
“Huh? Yes, of course I’m kidding,” said Genny. “I never would. Not before the police, anyway. Besides, how would it look if the detective showed up and caught us?” Her eyes lit up. “Do you think they’ll send that woman from last summer—what was her name . . . ?”
“Constance Brent,” said Emma. “I don’t know.” There’d been no chance to ask Raj.
“Well, I hope it is her.”
“So do I, she was really good.”
“And she was willing to talk to you,” added Genny. “You can let us know what’s really happening.”
Emma ignored this. She just set five cups and the pot on the tray.
If Genny was disappointed by Emma’s lack of enthusiasm, or answer, she didn’t let it show.
“Can you find your way?”
“Erm,” said Emma.
“I can!” Oliver bounced on all fours. “This way!” He zoomed back toward the door they’d come through.
Emma sighed and picked up the tea tray. “If I’m not back in three days, send help.”
13
As it turned out, Dash was one of those dogs who could not stand to be left out of anything. Emma and Oliver were barely halfway down the hallway before the mutt was loping
along behind and then shoving his way in front so he could climb the stairs at the end of the hall, stepping right over Oliver.
“Hey!” barked the corgi. Dash replied with a low huff that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
There was a green baize door at the top of the stairs, like something straight out of Upstairs Downstairs. Emma eased her way past the dogs and pushed through. And paused for breath as her inner thirteen-year-old went into squeals of rapture.
This door opened onto the main entryway for Truscott Grange. It was a perfect picture of old-fashioned elegance. A glass and gilt chandelier lit up the hall full of dark paneling and marble tiles. The grand wooden staircase branched to the left and the right, circling together overhead to create an indoor balcony that Juliet could have brooded on for an entire evening. Massive, gilt-framed oil paintings hung on the walls. Arched doorways opened to the left and the right of the stairs, while the dimly lit central corridor passed straight underneath the balcony.
Turn to the right, Frank had said, and straight on ’til morning.
As it turned out, she didn’t need the directions. She just followed the dogs, who followed their noses. They led her under the balcony and down the broad hallway. Rooms—whole suites, actually—opened on either side. Emma couldn’t resist taking a peek inside as she passed. The results though, were disappointing. She saw grand rooms, but they were mostly empty. What furnishings there were had been covered in white sheets. Overall, it looked like a convention of very sedate ghosts.
As much as it disappointed her inner thirteen-year-old, the adult portion of Emma’s mind saw the practicality of it. A house like this would take a small army to maintain. Just the thought of all the dusting made her want to go lie down on her chaise with a plate of biscuits.
But it was all very quiet, and a little bit sad.
Except for the voices she could now hear coming from behind the closed door directly in front of her. Those were not sad at all. Those were angry.
“You should have told us!” shouted a man.
Emma froze in her tracks. The cups rattled on the tray. The teapot sloshed ominously.
“Told you what, exactly?” That was definitely Helen. Her tone was brittle and icy.
“That something was wrong! You must have known! You were the only one she ever talked to!”
“Yeah, and I wonder why that was!” snapped Helen.
“I knew.” A second man’s voice, filled with acid and sadness. Emma didn’t recognize it. Maybe it was one of the other Cochrane brothers.
“I tried to tell you,” the second man was saying. “But you were too busy being chummy with your boardroom buddies . . .”
“How would you know anything, Gus?” That was Frank. “It’s not like she talked to you any more than to the rest of us.”
I should do something, Emma told herself. Like knock. Yes. I should knock. She moved forward, nudging both dogs aside.
“At least I tried to help!” shouted Gus.
“Okay, okay, we’re all upset. What Marcie’s done is a horrible shame, but it’s no good yelling . . .”
“Oh, shut up, Bert,” said Frank. “We don’t need you trying to take over just yet.”
I should knock, Emma told herself again. If I don’t knock soon, this is going to look like eavesdropping.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Bert.
“Like you don’t know!” sneered Helen.
“As it happens, I don’t.” Bert again. “So why don’t you just tell me straight out?”
You shouldn’t eavesdrop on a family that’s just had a shock.
Dash nosed disconsolately about the bottom of the door.
“That’s enough, Bert,” said Frank sternly. “None of this is Helen’s fault.”
“Bit of a change of tune for you, isn’t it?” drawled Gus.
“Gus, you’re not helping,” said Helen wearily.
“Maybe I’m done helping. My therapist says I spend too much time trying to fix other people’s problems. He says—”
“Oh, God!” groaned the other man. “Not now, Gus!”
“Emma?” Oliver bonked her calf. “Are we going in, Emma?”
“Half a tick, Oliver.” Emma shifted position to get away from Oliver’s nose. That this brought her a little closer to the door was purely accidental.
Gus evidently was not going to be deterred. “At least I’m getting some help. You might try it sometime! Maybe then you wouldn’t—”
“Oh, this should be good,” said the third man. “Here’s little Gus, all ready to take charge, because he’s so sure Marcie left him everything!”
Oliver scratched his chin. “Is this eavesdropping? Because you don’t like eavesdropping.”
“It’s not,” she said. “I’m listening for a pause.”
“Oh. Okay then.”
I really shouldn’t lie to my dog.
“I don’t know anything about that,” shouted Gus. “And I don’t care!”
Oliver slunk forward, snuffling at the gap between the door and the carpet. Dash whined and pawed at the wood. Emma held her breath, but nobody in the room seemed to have heard. “Oh, yeah, right,” said Frank, his voice brittle. “You spent all those years sucking up to her for nothing, yeah?”
“Just because I liked my sister—oh, sorry our sister—” growled Gus “who is now dead in case you’d forgotten!”
“How could I forget it! We’ve got the police crawling all over the front lawn!” Emma pictured Frank stabbing a finger toward the door. “And they’re going to start asking some really interesting questions, aren’t they. Like, Bert, how come you’re so quick to say Marcie jumped?”
“Because it’s obvious she jumped!”
“Oh, is it?”
Emma felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
“Listen, all of you,” said Bert. “We need to get ourselves together. Things are bad enough.” Bert’s voice was cold and far too calm. “And if we sit here arguing like idiots, someone is going to think something’s really wrong in this family, and they’ll start asking awkward questions. Do you want that, Frank?” His voice took on a knife’s edge. “Or you, Helen? With Daphne right here in the middle of it all?”
Silence fell, thick and heavy.
“Is that a pause?” Oliver cocked his head.
“Yes.” Besides, if I just stand here any longer, the tea is going to be too stewed to drink.
Emma juggled the tray so she could free up one hand, knock on the door and shoulder her way in.
Everybody in the room stopped in place in a frozen tableau that would have done any BBC costume drama proud.
The sitting room itself was lovely, light and airy. Or, at least, it would be on days when the weather cooperated. One entire wall was lined with arched windows that looked across an expanse of garden that had been beaten down by the recent rain. A stand of ancient walnut trees stretched their branches toward the leaden sky.
And there’s your crows, thought Emma, spying the birds circling the walnuts and strutting across the grass underneath.
Helen stood beside an oval marquetry table that was stacked with publicity brochures and posters for the upcoming festival. She still clutched her tissue in her fist, which she had raised to shake at a slim, bald man. He was the perfect image of the country squire with a gray-streaked beard and a pair of baggy tweeds to go with his loose button-down shirt.
He was also a match for Frank and for the third man. The third man had the same face, the same large dark eyes, dark hair and square, solid build that Emma was beginning to recognize as a Cochrane family trait. This man, though, had clearly been putting in some extra time at the fitness center. Muscles rippled under his green polo shirt, and his tan was far too even, and far too early, to be natural. Which got Emma wondering just how natural that rich dark hair color was.
“I’m, erm, sorry to interrupt,” said Emma, “but we thought maybe you would like some tea.”
Oliver and Dash came in with her, of course. Oliver immediately got busy exploring as much of the room as he could get to. Dash went and nosed around the bearded man and then Helen.
Helen recovered first. She patted Dash and started forward, hands out for the tray.
“Thank you, Emma. I’ll just . . .”
“No, I’ve got it.” Frank hurried past and took the tray. “Thanks, Emma.” Helen gave him a slightly confused sideways glance.
“We’re making some lunch as well,” Emma told them. “Sandwiches and cake.”
Dash was snuffling around Frank’s ankles, and Oliver joined him there. Frank stepped back, awkwardly. “Go on, go on now,” he said to the dogs.
Helen lifted the tea tray out of Frank’s hands and set it on the oval table beside the brochures.
“Thank you,” she said to Emma. “I’m sure we’ll all be glad of something to eat.”
“Sounds like a splendid idea,” agreed the bearded man. Emma thought he must be Gus.
“Well, we had the food, and it’s no good letting it go to waste,” she said, very aware she was making pointless small talk but somehow unable to help herself.
The tall, tanned man was staring at them all.
“Oh, sorry,” said Frank. “This is, erm . . .”
“Emma Reed,” said Helen. “Emma, this is Bertram Cochrane”—she indicated the tanned, muscled man—“and his brother August.” The bearded man nodded. “And you’ve already met Frank, of course.”
Dash, followed by Oliver, switched their attentions from Frank’s shoes over to Bert’s. Bert looked down at the dogs, hiked his tidy trouser legs just a little and stepped back. “Helen—”
Murder Always Barks Twice Page 8