Murder Always Barks Twice

by Jennifer Hawkins

  “Oh, for God’s . . . Get back, dog! Go on!” he snapped.

  Not a nice human. Oliver skulked back to Gus. He suddenly missed Emma. Maybe he should just leave these two here and go find her. He already had a lot to tell her.

  “What are you doing out here?” Gus was asking.

  “Looking for you!” growled Frank. “Where’ve you been all morning?”

  “That’s my business. How’d you even find me?” Gus was having trouble with his hands. He put them in his pockets, and took them out, and tucked them under his arms, and then tugged at his shirt.

  “I saw your car in the garage. I thought you might have not wanted to come inside yet, so I was heading down to the pond.”

  “Yes, well, you know.” Gus folded his hands under his arms again. He was very nervous. But so was Frank. Frank was sweating, even though he was just standing there. “I hate confrontation. My therapist says that’s common in youngest children. We’re always trying to please everybody.”

  “I thought that was middle children.”

  “You as well. We’re all still trying to win approval from our parents.”

  “Our parents, in case you hadn’t noticed, are dead.”

  “Makes it that much harder, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, all right. Leaving all that.” Frank’s voice was tight too, and harsh. “Has Wilkes been able to tell you anything about the will?”

  “No. He hasn’t.” Gus pulled his shirt down again, and shoved his hands in his pockets again. “As far as they’re concerned, there isn’t one.”

  “I can’t believe that! Marcie had to know what that would mean! Years of probate, maybe even court cases. And God! All the money”—he practically whined the word—“tied up for ages! She wouldn’t just . . . leave it like that.”

  “Maybe she meant to get around to it, but she didn’t get the chance.”

  “She had years!” shouted Frank.

  “She had a lot going on!”

  Oliver barked. He couldn’t help it.

  “Christ, Gus, can’t you do something about that damn dog!”

  Gus made a low, growling noise. “Go on, Oliver. Go home.” He shooed him away. “Go on.”

  Oliver backed away, unsure what to do. He did want to go. He wanted Emma. He didn’t like the way these men were acting with each other. But this might be important.

  A noble corgi always found a way. Oliver zoomed away up the path, and then dove straight into the underbrush, and stopped. He lay flat on his belly and strained his ears.

  “Look, Gus, I don’t want to argue with you,” Frank was saying. “We need to try to work together, especially now.”

  Slowly, one little bit at a time, Oliver inched forward. Leaves and grass tickled his ears, and made him blink.

  “Do we?” Gus said.

  Oliver found a good spot. He could smell the two of them from here, as long as the wind was blowing. He stretched out his nose and his ears as far as he could.

  “I keep telling you,” Frank was saying. “If Marcie really didn’t leave a will, the estate is going to be tied up for years! We won’t be able to get at a single penny!”

  Gus shrugged. “Maybe it’s not worth it anymore. Maybe it’s time to just . . . walk away.”

  “You are kidding. After all these years? After . . . everything . . . ?”

  “Yes, Frank, after everything. I mean, look at us!” He spread his hands. “Look at where we are. We’re brothers and we’re wondering if one of us went and killed our sister. I bet if I said right now that I think it was Bert, you’d go along!”

  “I would,” said Frank. “Gladly. Because, as it happens, I’m sure one of us did kill Marcie, and you and I need to think very hard about exactly what that means.”

  Oliver did not like what these humans were doing.

  Gus raised his hand toward the other man, fast. His whole body said he was angry. Frank swatted Gus’s hand away.

  Oliver barked, he couldn’t help it. Gus jumped, startled.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” groaned Frank. “Can’t you do something about that blasted dog?”

  Oliver tried to scamper backward, but Gus spotted him.

  “All right, Oliver, go on!” Gus waded into the underbrush. “Go on home. I’m sure Emma’s looking for you. Go on.”

  Oliver ducked out of the way, grumbling. Not that Gus was paying any attention. He was trying to herd Oliver toward the house. He wasn’t very good at it.

  Oliver was annoyed. He didn’t actually want to stay with Frank, or Gus, but they might be saying, or doing, something important. Unfortunately, it was pretty obvious whatever that important thing was, it wouldn’t happen while he was there.

  Oliver yipped at Gus, and Frank, to let them know they were being rude, and darted back into the undergrowth. Gus didn’t follow.

  Frank said a few more rude things.

  “You and dogs, Frank,” said Gus.

  “It’s not my fault. I’m allergic. I don’t see why I should have to live through a week of clogged sinuses . . .”

  “There’s these shots you can get, you know. My therapist says—”

  “Please, Gus, spare me what your therapist says right now.”

  They were walking away. Oliver hesitated, then he turned and started snuffling the ground until he found his own trail, and trotted back to the shed.

  It was possible the humans might do, or say, something important. But Oliver knew for certain there was something important in that shed. He might not be able to find out what the humans were doing. But he could find out what was in the shed. At least, he could try.

  Because there was one little problem. All that fussing Gus had been doing with the door. He’d been locking it.

  Oliver scrabbled at the door to the shed. He stretched up as far as he could and batted at the hasp, and the lock. He dropped back down and barked at it. It wouldn’t do any good, but it made him feel better.

  Oliver sniffed around the shed. The bottoms of the walls were jagged. Things had been gnawing here. Mice, and a rat, and squirrels had all been chewing at the wood at various times. An idea struck. Nose down, Oliver circled the shed.

  There.

  Just what he’d been looking for—a jagged hole, bigger than the others. Not quite big enough to get in through, but an enterprising corgi could fix that.

  Oliver started to dig.

  40

  Helen took the photo of the incongruously happy Caite and Gus out of Emma’s hand. “It must be an old picture. Gus doesn’t have a girlfriend. Let alone—” Words failed her and Helen just waved the photo.

  “Doesn’t look old,” said Daphne, obviously swallowing a laugh. “Looks like just yesterday.”

  “But Gus doesn’t . . . He couldn’t,” said Helen. “If he was dating Caite, Bert would never let us hear the end of it.”

  “Which could explain why nobody heard the start of it,” said Pearl.

  Emma nodded in agreement. She could just imagine what Bert would think about his brother dating someone who had spread uncomfortable rumors about the Cochranes.

  “I just can’t believe, I mean . . . Caite?” breathed Helen.

  “We can’t do this here.” Emma felt the space between her shoulders tightening, like somebody was already staring at her back. I am really starting not to like this house. “Somebody might hear us. I’ll meet you down in the kitchen.”

  “Meet us?” said Pearl. “But . . .”

  “Because you’re going to put that picture right back where you found it,” said Helen. “Now.”

  “Mum—” Daphne tried.

  “Daphne”—Emma cut her off—“you have to get that back to wherever it was before Gus gets home.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right.” Daphne plucked the photo back out of Helen’s hand and tucked it into her side pocket. “Meet you all
in the kitchen.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The kitchen was, thankfully, empty when Emma, Helen and Pearl got there. After a minute’s hesitation, Emma dropped the folders she’d filched from Marcie’s desk on the counter, grabbed a hand towel out of the drawer and used it to prop open the door to the outside, just in case Oliver came back. Her nerves were very much on edge. Maybe it was from being in Marcie’s office for so long, or finding out that so many important items had gone missing.

  Or because of Bert’s casual dismissal of Helen’s place in the family, or Frank’s sudden willingness to try to take on his larger brother.

  Or because Caite Hope-Johnston, who resented Marcie to the point where she was ready to accuse her of theft, seemed to be in a relationship with Gus Cochrane.

  “I cannot believe you girls went rifling through other people’s things,” Helen was saying.

  Pearl looked thoroughly unapologetic. “We thought we might find a clue about Marcie’s death. And we did. And anyway, we’re not the only ones making off with things.” She held up the folders full of bank statements Emma had collected.

  “That’s evidence. I hope.” Emma took them out of Pearl’s hand, and put them back on the counter, and put her handbag on top of them. She also went and switched on the electric kettle. If they were making tea, no one would question what they were doing in the kitchen.

  “So’s that photo,” Pearl pointed out.

  “What could a relationship between Gus and Caite have to do with Marcie’s death?” Helen demanded.

  “It does help explain how Caite was able to get into the house,” admitted Emma.

  “And we know she and Marcie hated each other. Well, she hated Marcie anyway,” said Pearl. “What if Marcie found out she and Gus were a thing? What if she threatened to cut Gus off if he kept seeing her?”

  “I can’t see Marcie doing that,” said Helen.

  “But I can see Gus thinking she might,” said Emma.

  “And Caite as well,” said Pearl. “What if Caite wanted the estate? I mean, until just recently, everybody thought Gus was in line for it, right? They might have wanted to kill Marcie before she had a chance to change her will.”

  That was a very ugly idea. Emma shivered.

  The door from the main house opened and all three of them straightened up abruptly. Daphne came in, and waved them all back. “Just me.”

  Helen sagged against the counter. “I am really starting to hate this.”

  “I know the feeling,” said Emma. She wished Oliver would come back. Had sending him out with Dash been a mistake? She shook herself. Oliver was smart, and he was a good dog. He was fine. Maybe a little distracted out in the patch of woods, but fine.

  “Do you want to go home?” Daphne asked her mother.

  “Yes,” said Helen. “But we can’t. At least, I can’t.”

  “Well, I’m not leaving you here on your own.” Daphne hugged her mother and gave her a quick kiss. “So we’d better just work out what’s going on as quick as we can.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what,” said Pearl. “I think Bert better hope that will gets found.”

  “Bert?” said Emma. “How do you figure?”

  “Bert is used to being able to boss his brothers around,” said Pearl. “With Marcie out of the way, he might figure he’ll be able to take charge of the estate, and the money. That’s a serious motive.”

  Daphne swore, and then blushed. “Sorry, Mum.”

  “No, that’s all right. So, what do we do?”

  Emma looked at the door to the outside. Then, she went to the door to the inside of the house and listened for a minute.

  “Emma, you’re making me nervous,” said Pearl.

  “I’m making myself nervous,” she admitted. “But, Helen, I’ve got a question. Who are the family solicitors?”

  “Able and Wilkes,” said Helen promptly. “I spent goodness knows how long dealing with them during the divorce. Why?”

  “I didn’t want to say this earlier, but when I was looking through Marcie’s copy of Rebecca last night, I found a business card for a law firm tucked in the pages. A different law firm.”

  Pearl whistled. “You think Marcie kept the will with somebody else?”

  “I think it’s possible,” Emma said. “She knows her brothers are not happy that she controls the estate. She tried to keep her conversations about the future with Helen and Daphne quiet, because she knew they’d kick up a fuss. And she knows Bert drinks and golfs with all kinds of people. She might have got worried somebody at the old family firm might let something slip over the port.” Especially if she was afraid that one of them was plotting her murder.

  “So, what firm was it?” prompted Daphne.

  “Some three-name firm. I didn’t bring the card—” Emma searched her memory. “Minchin! That was one name. I remember that, because it was the nasty boarding school headmistress in A Little Princess . . .”

  Daphne and Pearl had their phones out before she could finish and were typing madly at the screens.

  “How about this?” said Pearl. “Minchin, Price and Little? They’re over in Camelford.”

  “Yes! That’s it!” exclaimed Emma.

  “I’m calling.” Pearl stabbed at her screen.

  “No, it has to be Daphne,” said Emma. “They won’t talk to you—you’re not in the family.”

  “Oh, right.” Pearl handed her phone to Daphne.

  That was when the door opened.

  “Oh, hullo!” Tasha walked into the kitchen. “There you all are.” She looked from one of them to the other. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “No, no,” said Emma.

  “Just talking about who we could get to help with service on the festival weekend,” added Pearl. “Daphne thought some of her mates might be interested in a little extra cash.”

  Daphne tucked her phone into her pocket. “I’ll text later.”

  “Oh, well.” Tasha hesitated, but then clearly decided that believing them was easier than not. “I was coming down to see about some tea. Oh, great minds think alike,” she said as she saw the kettle already plugged in.

  “How are things going?” asked Emma.

  “So far, disastrously.” Tasha sighed. “Do you know where the cups are in this museum?”

  “Of course.” Emma started opening cupboards and handing down mugs and the Staffordshire ware teapot with its brightly colored pansies.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Helen. “Can I help?”

  “I wish you would,” said Tasha. “The crew is here, and we’re starting to get the public rooms set up. People love seeing the house all dressed up in its best, especially during the masquerade. But there’s a whole set of things we can’t find—some of the good paintings, the silver Lamerie tea set, one of the William Morris tapestries. Caite is about to explode. Ten days to go, and we’re all at sixes and sevens.”

  Daphne snorted, but at least had the grace to look apologetic, and to start helping with the tea things. She even went and got a packet of McVitie’s ginger nuts from the pantry.

  “Once more into the breach.” Tasha picked up the tray. “You sure everything’s all right here?”

  “Fine,” said Helen a shade too quickly, and Tasha noticed. She narrowed her eyes a little, but thankfully didn’t ask.

  Emma held the door for her.

  As soon as Tasha was gone, Daphne yanked the phone out of her pocket, touched redial and held it to her ear and waited.

  Emma’s gaze drifted to the window. She wondered where Oliver was. Had he found anything? Or had he forgotten he was even supposed to be looking and spent the time chasing mice and rabbits in the gardens with Dash?

  Somebody must have answered at the law firm, because Daphne straightened up. “Yes. Hello. My name is Daphne Cochrane. I think my aunt, Marcia Cochrane,
was a client of yours? Oh. Thanks.”

  “Switching me over,” Daphne mouthed. Then she spoke into the phone again. “Yes, hello, Mr. Minchin. Yes. Oh, you heard? Yes. Thanks. We’re going to miss her a lot. I’m calling about Aunt Marcie’s will? You do? Oh, great.” She nodded vigorously at them all. “Well, obviously we’d like to get a copy as soon as we can. Aunt Marcie doesn’t seem to have kept a copy here at the house. Maybe you saw . . . oh. Uh-huh. So who would the executor be? Oh? Yes. I can get hold of her right now. Yeah. Of course. Right. Thanks.” She rang off.

  “They have the will,” Daphne announced. “The executor will need to go pick it up, and they’ll need a copy of the death certificate.”

  “Who’s the executor?” asked Helen.

  “Uncle Gus,” said Daphne. “And you, Mum.”

  The women all stared at each other. Emma opened her mouth, but whatever she’d been about to say was cut off by a faint but very familiar, high-pitched bark.

  “Emma!”

  “Emma!”

  Emma threw open the back door and ran up the steps. She knelt down and held her arms out. Oliver bounded straight into them, licking her face enthusiastically. “Where have been!” Emma hugged Oliver hard. “I was worried!”

  “I found things!” he barked. “Marcie things! There was a bundle, and Gus threw it in the pond, but he didn’t want it back, and then he went to the shed, and but the important thing is there’s more bad!”

  Emma grabbed his paws so she could help him balance on his hind legs and look him in the eye. “Whh . . .” She gulped and glanced behind her. Everybody was still talking in the kitchen. “More bad?” whispered Emma.

  “Yes, in the shed. With the digging things! I’ll show you!” He stopped. “Except the Gus man locked it.”

  “Yes, yes, okay. We’ll work that out. Soon.” She rubbed his head and settled him back down on all fours.

  Constance said Marcie must have been hit with something with a handle to provide momentum. Like a cricket bat or a wooden board.

  Or a shovel.

  Could Oliver have actually found the murder weapon? Emma’s heart thumped, but she wasn’t sure if it was from excitement or fear.