Murder Always Barks Twice

by Jennifer Hawkins

  “So somebody moved the body through the kitchen. But which direction? Upstairs to downstairs, or downstairs to up?” Emma shifted her grip on the steering wheel and eased the Mini around the sharp corner and onto a broader stretch of road that wound between neatly fenced fields.

  “That broken window latch has to mean something.” Oliver stood up on Genny’s lap, mouth open and tongue out to catch all the wind rushing by. Emma felt a twinge of guilt. She really should have him in his harness. Genny, experienced dog owner that she was, kept a firm hold on him.

  “It means something,” agreed Emma, thinking about the broken latch. “But what? I mean, at first, I thought that maybe somebody’d tinkered with it deliberately, so the window would open if Marcie leaned on it, but I mean, the window seat is pretty broad. It wouldn’t be that easy for anybody to fall, even if they were sitting on it.”

  “And it wouldn’t explain why there was blood or a lost earring down by the garage,” added Genny.

  “So maybe the latch is a distraction,” said Emma. “Maybe somebody actually killed Marcie in her office. But then what? If they just pushed her out the window that still doesn’t explain what we found by the garage or the kitchen.”

  “How about this?” said Genny. “Somebody kills Marcie in the office. Then they carry her body down to the garage. The plan is to drive her body away, maybe throw it off a cliff or something. But halfway through, they get a better idea and just drop it under the window.”

  Emma slowed down and stopped. This far in the country, traffic jams were infrequent, but when they did occur, there were probably sheep involved. Right now, a woolly white drift clogged the road, with Arthur Wolstead holding the gate so his border collie could herd them all through.

  “Clem! Clem!” barked Oliver urgently. “There’s one getting away! Clem!”

  “Shhh.” Emma patted Oliver’s head. “It’s rude to tell others how to do their jobs.”

  Genny laughed. “You have a rich and wonderful fantasy dialogue going with him, don’t you?”

  Emma laughed heartily.

  The sheep cleared, Clem barked, Arthur waved and Emma drove on.

  “You know, Genny,” she said, “the more I think about it, the more I think leaving the body under the window was a good idea. Not only does it make everybody think about suicide, but the rain would mess up all the evidence, wouldn’t it? It was really pouring that night. Fiber and hair and DNA . . . all that, it’d all be washed away. If somebody had been handling the body, there’d be no way to tell.”

  “And it’d mess up the body temperature, so it’d be harder to determine time of death,” Genny added. “You’re right. It would be a good idea. In a horrible, cold-blooded sort of way.”

  Emma turned the Mini into Brian’s car lot and parked. Genny agreed to stay with Oliver while Emma went into the office.

  Brian sat at his desk, marking up invoices and running numbers through the calculator. He looked up when the bell rang over the door.

  “Hullo!” He smiled to see her. “How was it?”

  Emma mustered a smile of her own. “Handles like a dream. I had fun.”

  “Fantastic,” he said. “Only I was just about to call. Mrs. Singh came by and said it looked like maybe you’d run into a hedge up by the grange.”

  Villages. Emma rolled her eyes. “No, sorry. That was just . . . Oliver needed to take care of business.”

  “Ah. Right. Should have known. So, thumbs-up from you. What’s Genny say?” He nodded out the window. Genny was standing by her little van, texting someone on her mobile. Oliver was frisking around Lucy, clearly daring the bigger dog to try and catch him.

  “She’s giving us a moment,” said Emma. “But I have her permission to tell you that the car seems to be in decent shape and does not represent an immediate hazard to life and limb.”

  “I’ll have to thank her for the vote of confidence,” said Brian blandly. “So.” He rested his elbows on the counter. “Is that a yes?”

  This really was, she reflected, the worst possible time to be flirting. She was exhausted from everything that had happened up at the house and all the suspicions that had come home to roost inside her.

  At the same time, she didn’t want to discourage Brian. She liked him, and she liked having someone to tease and banter with.

  “Weeeeelllll . . .” Emma leaned against the counter. Oliver was right. Brian smelled like oil and petrol. But she could probably get used to it. “I will have to think about it, and check the budget and all, but at the risk of sounding too easy, there’s probably a yes coming along pretty soon.”

  “I suppose I can live with that.” His smile softened and he studied the countertop for a minute. “But you know, Emma, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t try everything possible to woo you over onto the side of that lovely Mini there.”

  Emma steeled herself, trying to get ready to explain she was tired, that she had to go home, that she needed time to catch her breath because Marcie Cochrane might have been murdered.

  He lifted his gaze again. “What are you doing Friday night?”

  “Friday? Erm . . . nothing.”

  “It’s movie night at the library. They’re showing The Italian Job, the original, with Michael Caine, and about a dozen Mini Coopers.”

  He was asking her out on a date. A real date. With popcorn and sitting together in the dark. She stared at him.

  Brian saw her surprise, and his face fell. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No, no, no. I just . . . it’s been kind of a long day. And, yes, sure, I’d love to. But I warn you, I have to get up really early on Saturdays.”

  “I’ll have you home by curfew, promise.”

  Emma smiled again. This time it felt real. “All right then. I’ll see you Friday. I’m usually done by six.”

  “See you at seven then? The movie isn’t until eight thirty. We’d have time for dinner. Maybe at Claudia’s Bistro?”

  “Sounds brilliant. You can pick me up at the King’s Rest.”

  “Super.” He straightened up. “And, Emma?”

  She’d turned halfway around, and now she turned back. “Yeah?”

  All the flirtatiousness had left Brian’s demeanor. “If something’s going on . . . I’m a first-rate listener.”

  Emma’s heart squeezed, just a little. “Thanks,” she said softly. “And, yes, something is going on. And I will tell you. Soon. At least, I think it’ll be soon.”

  For a minute, she thought he was going to make a joke, but he seemed to think the better of it. “Right, then, see you Friday.”

  They said goodbye and Emma walked out to where Genny was leaning up against the van.

  “I’ve got a date,” said Emma.

  “Interesting timing,” said Genny.

  Emma shrugged. “Funny old thing, life.”

  At the same time, she had to admit, the prospect of having something as ordinary and pleasant to look forward to as a date with an attractive, age-appropriate gentleman did a lot to lift Emma’s spirits. It was certainly a welcome relief from the realization she had agreed to go back to a house where a murder might have been committed by persons yet unknown.

  It’ll be all right, she told herself. It’s not like I’ll be on my own.

  All the same, she found herself hugging Oliver a little more tightly on the way back home.

  * * *

  * * *

  Emma insisted she could walk when they reached the Towne Fryer, but Genny waved this suggestion off.

  “Nancarrow’s right on my way home, and you’ve been through enough today.”

  Emma found she couldn’t argue with this. In fact, it was kind of a relief to just settle back and let someone else be in charge of deciding where to go for a while.

  “I texted Angelique and told her that the festival is officially on,” said Genny as they
drove up the narrow highway which skirted right around the curve of Trevena proper.

  “Did you also tell her Marcie might have been murdered?”

  “Not yet. I figured that’s the sort of thing that goes over better in person.”

  “Probably right.” Emma patted Oliver restlessly.

  Genny gave an uneasy sideways glance. “And you are definitely going to call your detective friend?”

  “I just wish I knew what to tell her. I mean, the last time I talked to her, she hinted really hard that I should not be mucking around in Marcie’s death.”

  “Well, whatever you’re going to tell her, you should probably get it figured out fast, Em.”

  Because they’d pulled round the bend in the road, and now Nancarrow cottage was in view. A battered, blue Range Rover sat in the driveway, and leaning against it, like she had all the time in the world, was Constance Brent.

  31

  In a brief moment of panic, Emma considered asking Genny to keep driving. But she was already too late. Genny pulled into the grassy drive. Constance pushed herself away from her car and stuffed her mobile into her bag.

  Genny stopped the van and rolled the window down.

  “Hullo, Genny,” Constance said amiably. “Hullo, Emma. We need to have a little talk, yeah?”

  “Sure, just let me unbuckle,” said Genny.

  “No, sorry, I meant with Emma.”

  Genny glanced at her to see what she wanted to do. Emma pulled her nerves together and nodded. “It’s okay, Genny.”

  “Well, remember, I’m right on the other end of the phone if you need anything.”

  “I will.” Emma opened the passenger side door. Oliver immediately ran over to Constance, bouncing up and down and barking his hellos. Constance laughed and bent down to rub his chin.

  “Hullo, Oliver. Who’s a good dog?”

  “Emma, why do people always ask that?” Oliver licked the detective’s hands and gave her a thorough sniff. “Am I supposed to name all the dogs? Except maybe Caesar. Caesar is not a good dog.”

  Despite everything, Emma had to swallow a laugh. But her sense of humor bled away when Constance straightened up again, and Emma had to meet the detective’s serious blue eyes.

  “Coming in?” Emma asked. She also dug in her bag for her keys. She’d never lost her London habit of locking her door when she went out.

  “Yes, thanks,” said Constance. “You know, I’m starting to think Genny doesn’t trust me.”

  “She does, really. She’s just protective.”

  “I noticed.”

  Emma snapped on the front room light. Constance looked around curiously. The cottage had originally been one room, and still mostly was, but was divided into distinct spaces. The garden-side part was a lounge area. The part toward the front of the house was the dining area, with the kitchen sort of tucked into the space behind the chimney.

  “Nice place. Cozy. Love the garden.” Constance, escorted by Oliver, went over to look out the back door.

  “Thanks.”

  Emma had never had so much as an allotment before, and she was reveling in her garden. When she’d moved in, the walled space behind Nancarrow was nothing but weedy grass and a pair of scraggly yew bushes. Over the spring, she’d spent much of her spare time working to transform it, with the help of a whole cadre of enthusiastic local gardeners she’d met over tea and cakes.

  Instead of flowers, though, Emma had gone for a big kitchen garden. She had rows of vegetables coming up—carrots, beetroot, Swiss chard, kale, three kinds of beans. There was an herb patch as well—lavender, rosemary, thyme and dill. She’d even put in a pair of fruit trees—a pear and an apple, one in each corner.

  Objectively, this was a lot of work for a place she was just renting, but whenever she looked out the back and saw her harvest in the making, she couldn’t work up any real regret.

  “Can I get you anything? Tea?” Emma propped open the back door for Oliver. He’d been inside a lot today.

  “Do you have any coffee? It’s been a long day.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Emma had hoped that making the coffee and pulling out the remains of the chocolate babka she’d baked yesterday would give her time to think. But Constance followed Emma into the kitchen. While Emma set the coffeemaker going and unwrapped the babka, Constance folded her arms and leaned against the doorjamb.

  “I hear you’ve been up to the grange today.”

  “Yeah.” Emma focused on cutting generous slices of the chocolate-swirled brioche and laying them on a plate. “And I want you to know that I was absolutely planning on calling you.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t be the first.”

  “Sorry?”

  “We’ve been fielding phone calls about what happened at the grange all weekend.” Constance was trying to maintain her nonchalant attitude, but it was definitely fraying at the edges. “And by we, I mean my governor, at least mostly.”

  “I’m guessing they were about releasing the autopsy report?”

  “So you’ve heard. You are one for picking up the local gossip, aren’t you?”

  “People talk to you when you give them cake.” Emma handed Constance the plate of babka.

  “I can see your point.” The detective took the plate over to the Arts and Crafts–style dining table. Emma had found the beautiful linen runner at a Christmas jumble sale. “Then I guess it’s safe to assume you’ve heard about the autopsy results?”

  “Yes. Nobody seemed surprised.”

  Emma put together a tray with cups, spoons, milk jug and sugar bowl. The coffeemaker beeped, and she added the carafe. Her nana Phyllis would have been appalled at the makeshift coffee service, but Emma figured Constance was the sort to value speedy caffeine delivery over the formalities.

  “Want to hear an interesting fact?” said Constance as Emma carried the coffee tray over to the table.

  “Sure.”

  “Women are really bad at suicide.”

  “Oh? Really?”

  “Yeah.” Constance pulled out a chair and sat down. “See, women think about what will happen when they’re found. So they try to make sure it doesn’t look . . . well, too bad. They take pills, or try to drown or suffocate themselves. Methods that won’t make a mess, yeah? Now, men, they don’t care. Blow their brains out, hang themselves, whatever. Their means are usually much quicker and more successful.”

  “Oh,” said Emma feebly.

  Constance nodded in acknowledgment of this feeling. “Nobody actually likes having the homicide detective to dinner.”

  “Really?” said Emma. “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “Can’t imagine.” Constance chuckled, and she and Emma fixed their coffee in silence. Constance poured a lot of milk into her coffee. Emma was surprised. She was under the impression that all detectives took their coffee coal black and strong enough to burn a hole through the table linens.

  Constance took up a big forkful of babka. “Oh, lord, this is brilliant. More of yours?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Emma also added a generous dollop of milk to her coffee and a spoonful of sugar.

  “You are a dangerous woman to know.”

  “You know, coming from you, that’s a double-edged comment. So.” Emma planted her elbows on the table. “What are you really here to talk about, Constance?”

  “Technically, I’m here to issue a warning.”

  “I thought you might be.”

  “Not my idea this time,” Constance told her. “It seems there’s certain parties up at the grange who took an exception to your presence there today. It is thought by some you might be trying to stir up trouble.” Constance sipped her coffee. “Would they be correct?”

  “No,” said Emma promptly. “I wasn’t trying to stir up anything at all.”

  “But I’m guessing trouble was stirred
nonetheless?”

  Emma drank some more coffee, and added some more milk to what remained. It was a habit her brother, Henry, never stopped ragging her about. “Nothing but pure milk by the time you get to the bottom,” he said. “Makes no sense at all.”

  “Can I ask you something, Constance?”

  The detective waved her fork. “You can always ask. We are here to assist the public.”

  “Do you really think Marcie Cochrane killed herself?”

  Using the edge of her fork, Constance methodically cut the remaining bit of babka into tidy squares, and then cut the squares into smaller squares. She frowned in concentration, utterly absorbed in dismantling Emma’s sweet bread.

  “I don’t like to talk about what I think, if I can help it,” Constance said. “What I know is that one Mr. Bertram Cochrane was driving my superiors stark raving mad all weekend with his phone calls. And then at eight thirty a.m. today, my boss handed me a report, duly signed by himself and the assistant coroner for Devon and Cornwall, stating that Marcia Cochrane had jumped out a third story window in her home and died as a result of injuries sustained in the fall, and that was the end of all police involvement and thank you very much.”

  “And you don’t agree with that?”

  “You’re quick. Most people find me entirely opaque. No, I don’t agree. In fact, I think something very different happened.”

  “Why?”

  “Because her face was smashed in. Not just cracked, like it would have been from a fall from that height, but smashed.”

  Emma nodded, remembering. She also might have turned a little green.

  “Sorry,” said Constance. “Do you need a minute?”

  “No.” Emma swallowed. “I’m fine. Do go on.”

  “There’s also the strange affair of the missing handbag.”

  “Sorry?”

  “We had a look around her room, her office, her car, the usual places, and there was no sign of a handbag.”

  “Huh. That’s . . . odd.”