He had been handsome as a young man, her father; there was no doubt about that. His auburn hair waved dashingly above a noble forehead, and the teasing light in his eye reminded her a bit of the young Luke. No mystery about why her mother would have fallen for him. The weakness of his character must not have been so apparent when they married in their late teens. But her mother, Eleanor – whose photos also began to appear now in the book – had deserved so much better.
Eleanor was a woman of character, sweet-tempered and long-suffering, but Ernest’s drinking and inability to hold down a job had worn her down in the end. The album showed her progression, as summer succeeded summer, from a lovely, smiling, innocent young girl to a careworn, faded, hopeless woman grown old before her time. She had died of heart disease – a broken heart, Emily had always believed – when Geoff was ten and Emily only eight.
Emily saw her child self appear in the photos, always cherished by her mother, clinging shyly to her skirts as a little one, then venturing out a bit – but never far from her mother or Geoff – as she grew older. Dear Geoff. He had always watched out for her, protecting her from her father’s occasional drunken rages (he was normally the more sentimental sort of drunk) as her father should have protected her from the world. In the end, though, Geoff himself had succumbed to the strain of weakness that seemed to be carried in the family’s blood. She had watched with helpless and infinite sadness as, within the space of a few years after his divorce, he killed himself with drink.
Maybe it was a good thing the Worthing bloodline would die out with her. But it was lonely, nevertheless.
Luke delivered the amaretto, the amber vial, and the glass Cruella had drunk from to the lab in Tillamook with a request that they be handled as quickly as possible, testing for cyanide first. ‘No prob,’ Caitlyn, the pretty young technician, said. ‘We’re dead right now.’ She grimaced. ‘In a manner of speaking.’
He had to call in a tech guy specially; most of the support staff of the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Office had been given leave for the holidays. The tech guy, Jordan, wasn’t too happy about being pulled away from gobbling his turkey leftovers and playing with his brand-new drone.
‘This better be important,’ he growled as he sat at his desk and pulled Cruella’s laptop toward him.
‘Murder,’ Luke said.
Jordan looked up at him, startled. Tillamook County still didn’t see that many murders.
‘This the victim’s or a suspect’s?’
‘Victim. I only need you to get me in – pretty sure I can find what I’m looking for from there.’
‘Got any hints for me?’
‘Not really. I already tried everything I could think of based on what we know about her. She was a “true crime” writer – not that anything she wrote was strictly true – and a blackmailer on the side. Obnoxious as hell. Thoroughly nasty piece of work.’
Jordan fiddled for fifteen minutes while Luke fidgeted. Then he said, ‘This one’s not going to be easy. You sure you want to wait around? Could be hours.’
Luke huffed. That was not what he wanted to hear. ‘Nah, I got things to do. Better leave it with you, I guess. But call me the minute you get in.’
‘Will do.’
Luke sent off an email to London’s Metropolitan Police asking for anything they had on Hilary Carmichael up through 2001. Then he searched credit card records for Dustin, Ian, and Olivia, looking for any purchase that could have been poison. Ian’s and Olivia’s records were completely normal; the only remarkable thing about Dustin’s was how deeply he was in debt. He used plastic for almost everything – only withdrew twenty dollars a month in cash. But wait. Here, just a few days before he came to Windy Corner, he took out two hundred. For poison? To try to pay off Cruella? Or simply for extra expenses on the trip?
Cursing his lack of a decent break on this case, Luke picked up Emily’s prescription at Fred Meyer on the way out of Tillamook and crawled back through the slush to Stony Beach. His gut wanted to hurry, but he knew he’d be likely to land himself in a ditch if he drove anywhere close to normal speed.
After what seemed like days, he pulled up in front of Remembrance of Things Past, where Devon and Hilary lived above their antique shop. The shop was closed, unsurprisingly, so he rang the bell for their apartment.
After a minute, Devon came sprinting down the stairs. ‘Oh, hello, Lieutenant,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Caught any murderers lately?’
‘Not yet.’ Luke cleared his throat. ‘As a matter of fact, I need to talk to Hilary. I’d like him to come with me to Windy Corner.’ Whatever Hilary’s history was, Luke had no guarantee Devon was privy to it; Hilary would likely talk more freely with him not around.
Devon’s flippant smile wavered as concern crept into his eyes. ‘Didn’t you talk to Hilary the other night? What could he have to add?’
‘Just need to clarify a couple things. Nothing for you to worry about.’ He hoped that was true. Luke wasn’t as friendly with the couple as Emily was, but they were on good terms, and he’d hate to have to face Devon after arresting his partner for murder.
‘Hil’s in the office. This way.’ Devon opened a door to the right of the staircase and led Luke through the shop to the back rooms, where Hilary perched on a stool in front of a computer. ‘Hilary dear, it appears the lieutenant didn’t get enough of your company the other night. He’s come to carry you off to Windy Corner again.’
Hilary glanced up, frowning. He looked annoyed rather than worried. ‘Can’t we talk here, Lieutenant? I’m in the middle of an online auction. Damn, there goes that escritoire.’
‘Sorry, no. Need to be on the spot to go over some things from your statement.’
‘My statement? All twenty words of it?’ Apprehension crept into his eyes at that.
‘Twenty crucial words. Got to be sure of our facts.’ Don’t make me come out with the story in front of Devon, he said with his eyes.
Hilary appeared to get the message. ‘All right, guv, I’ll come quietly,’ he said in broad Cockney. He gave Devon’s shoulder a squeeze in passing. ‘Won’t be long.’
NINETEEN
To guarantee privacy for their talk, Emily suggested Luke and Hilary accompany her upstairs to her sitting room. Levin and Kitty followed, and Kitty took possession of Emily’s lap. Levin jumped on to Hilary’s legs, to his obvious chagrin; Emily inferred he was worried about cat hair polluting his immaculate trousers. But Levin was not easily dislodged. With a grimace Hilary resigned himself to his fate.
Luke led off the conversation. ‘So as you know, Hilary, we’ve got no shortage of people with a motive to do Cruella in. She was that kind of gal, apparently. Trouble is, the facts don’t quite seem to add up for any of them. So I asked Emily to do a little sleuthing in Cruella’s books.’
At this Hilary’s jaw clenched. Emily took up the tale.
‘I started out with a dreadful piece of pulp called Quandary on Queer Street. Have you heard of it?’
Hilary’s nostrils flared. ‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard of it.’
‘There’s a character, Archibald – are there really still people in England called Archibald? – who seemed an awful lot like you. Not that I could believe you’d ever act the way this character supposedly did, but we did wonder if there might be any connection, however tenuous.’
Hilary’s long, slender fingers caressed Levin’s thick gray fur as if the fate of the world hung on the precise alignment of every hair. ‘What sort of connection?’
‘Well, to be blunt – was that character in any way based on you?’
Hilary’s hand tightened on Levin’s neck until the cat yowled and sprang off his lap. ‘Sorry, old chap. For a minute I thought I had Cruella’s neck in my hands.’ He looked up at Emily, his eyes bleak. ‘Yes, there was a time I would gladly have strangled that woman if I’d had any idea where to find her. She took the most painful episode of my life and turned it into a tabloid sensation. Oh, she changed the names, all right, but everyone knew exactly who
she was talking about. And half-believed all her lies into the bargain.’
Emily wanted to reach for his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze, but Hilary was not one to welcome such contact. ‘So what did actually happen? If you can bear to talk about it.’
‘It was quite simple, really. No mystery about it at all. My partner at the time – Nigel – contracted HIV. It happened before we were together, but he didn’t know until after. I nursed him up to the end. When the doctors said he was weeks, maybe days, from death, he had a bad reaction to a new medication and died.’
Hilary squeezed his linked fingers together until the knuckles stood white. ‘There was a post-mortem, and it was perfectly clear what had happened. But Cruella got hold of the story and decided I had given Nigel the medication on purpose, knowing it would kill him. She couldn’t make up her mind whether to call it a mercy killing or revenge on him for having given me the disease – which he didn’t; we were always safe. All a complete fabrication. The doctors didn’t even know the meds would hurt him – how could I have been supposed to know?’ He turned appealing eyes from Emily to Luke and back again.
‘That must have been awful,’ Emily said quietly, genuinely moved. ‘On top of your grief, to have to deal with an accusation like that.’
‘As I said, it was the most painful episode of my life. I don’t know how I would ever have recovered if it hadn’t been for Devon.’
‘You met soon after that?’
‘We already knew each other, in fact. Through the business. I think he’d fancied me for some time.’ A tiny smile played around Hilary’s mouth. ‘He was very kind, very supportive. You wouldn’t think to look at him that he’d be a person to lean on, but he saved me. Definitely from a breakdown. Probably from suicide.’
Luke gave him a minute, then said, ‘You mentioned that other people believed Cruella’s lies.’
Hilary’s smile transformed into a sneer. ‘Oh, yes. All my so-called friends, except for Devon. Oh, they were kind about it – they could all understand why I’d want to put Nigel out of his misery, it must have been terrible seeing him suffer week after week. But they believed I’d done it, all right.’
‘Did that have anything to do with you moving to America?’
‘Everything. Life became impossible in England. Devon agreed to share my exile, and we’ve been wanderers ever since.’ His voice broke on the last words.
Emily looked appealingly at Luke. Was it really necessary to press Hilary any further at this moment?
But Luke shook his head. Emily knew one of the less attractive aspects of police work was the need to press one’s advantage. You had to get people while they were vulnerable – it was the only way to be sure of getting to the truth.
‘You said you wanted to strangle Cruella back then,’ Luke said. ‘How about now? How’d you feel when you met her here at Christmas?’
Hilary’s sardonic smile reappeared. ‘You may find this hard to believe, Lieutenant. But when I saw her in the flesh – which I never had before, she worked all her havoc remotely – all I could feel was pity. After all she put me through, I ended up with Devon, whom I might never have looked at twice if I hadn’t been so troubled. I have love, a home and friends in this charming town, and work that is rewarding, both monetarily and personally. What did she have? The scorn and hatred of everyone who knew her.’
His face cleared as he looked from Luke to Emily. ‘Honestly, I almost wanted to thank her. Not quite, of course. But kill her? No. She wasn’t worth the trouble or the risk. A murderer has to believe himself invulnerable, don’t you think? Thanks to Cruella, I could never labor under that delusion again.’
Luke drove Hilary back to his shop. He knew it was foolish to take a suspect’s words at face value, but part of him wanted to believe what Hilary had said. He’d put Cruella’s persecution behind him a long time ago; seeing her had only brought closure to a painful episode in his life. But despite that, Hilary had motive and opportunity, and Emily had told him ahead of time Cruella would be there. How he could have gotten his hands on cyanide – if it was cyanide – in remote Stony Beach in the middle of a hard freeze at Christmastime was another question. He pretty much would’ve had to have the poison on hand already, and that didn’t seem likely.
Or did it? Hilary spent a good part of every year in the UK. Could be cyanide was easier to come by there. Not that he would have hoarded it on the off chance of running into Cruella, but he might have bought it for some other reason. Didn’t people sometimes use it for rats? Then when Emily told him about Cruella visiting, he might have made a snap decision to get rid of her and dug it out.
Of course, Hilary would never have taken the risk of poisoning Emily, so if it was him, the poison would have to have been in the glass. If only labs could get results instantaneously like on TV. He needed those results.
After Luke left, Emily and Marguerite were alone in the library with the cats when the doorbell rang. A minute later Katie ushered Wanda Wilkins into the room. Emily could not conceal the start it gave her. What on earth was that woman doing here? She hadn’t seemed like the type who, given the proverbial inch of welcome, would take a mile, especially in a house that had just seen a murder.
‘I’m on my way to Seaside,’ Wanda said, ‘since the roads are passable. But I thought I ought to stop by and check with that handsome sheriff to be sure it’s OK for me to leave town.’
‘Oh!’ Emily didn’t know quite how to respond. ‘I’m afraid Luke’s not here right now. I think he only meant you shouldn’t leave the area. Driving to Seaside and back should be fine. But I suggest you call him at the office to be sure.’
She wrote the number down on a piece of notepaper, feeling certain there must be something behind Wanda’s visit other than a desire to cooperate with the law. Maybe Wanda wanted to make a play for Luke. She had turned on the flirt with him from time to time on Christmas Day. That would be a nuisance for Luke but hardly a worry to Emily. She couldn’t imagine any woman he would find less appealing. Except perhaps Cruella.
Wanda took the number but did not make the call right away. ‘Thanks. Wouldn’t want the sheriff to think I was sneaking around behind his back. It’s so important to be earnest, don’t you think?’
Still befuddled, Emily simply nodded and turned toward the door, but Wanda said, ‘Don’t bother. I’ll see myself out.’ She went out the hall door and shut it behind her.
Emily was too flustered to object. At this point she would hardly care if Wanda did help herself to one of the expensive ornaments in the hall.
Then it hit her what Wanda had said. ‘It’s so important to be earnest.’ Was that a deliberate reference to the Oscar Wilde play that had inspired her father’s name? Wanda hardly seemed like the literary type, but if it wasn’t a reference, it was an odd thing to say. Most people would use a word like ‘transparent’ or ‘aboveboard’ in such a context rather than ‘earnest’. Oh well. The phrase was only a drop in the dubious bucket of Wanda’s peculiar behavior.
Emily walked unsteadily over to the bar shelf and poured herself a glass of sherry from a newly opened bottle. She didn’t care that it was barely lunchtime. She needed a drink.
After lunch, the atmosphere in the house seemed to undergo a subtle shift, as if the removal of Cruella’s body had sent the message that although her murder remained unsolved, the angel of death had moved on and was no longer hovering over Windy Corner. Instead of the guests seeking solitude, they appeared to find safety in numbers. Marguerite, who had evaporated when Wanda came in, returned with her laptop, and Ian, Olivia, and Oscar soon followed. To no one’s disappointment, however, Dustin kept to his room.
Emily, not to be outdone, determined to make another attempt at her own writing project. This time the cats left her alone, preferring to pester Marguerite, and she was at least able to get her notes into some sort of order – enough to realize where the gaps were which she would need time in the Reed library to fill. But also enough to realize she was closer t
han she had thought, not only to having enough material to begin writing, but also to having something to say about Dostoevsky that was worth saying and had not been said before. The exhilaration of discovery leapt up within her. Oh, she had missed this. Detective work was similarly gratifying, but also messy and morally murky at times. Scholarship provided a thrill uncorrupted by considerations of real life.
As she shuffled her notecards and papers at the table, she glanced over to where Oscar sat on the window seat and Marguerite in an easy chair. They were both engaged in works of literary scholarship, as she was, but instead of being surrounded by the chaotic litter of dead trees, they needed only their laptops. They could keep all their research files in perfect order, invulnerable to feline attack or coffee stains. They could type for hours without writer’s cramp and make corrections with a few keystrokes at any stage in the process. Perhaps there was something to be said for this technology business after all.
She’d always believed a computer would be incongruous in Aunt Beatrice’s stately old library, but Olivia’s laptop was thin and sleek, its housing a lovely burnished gold color – so futuristic it paradoxically blended in with its antique surroundings. Perhaps it might be time for Emily to think about joining the modern world.
But for now she would immerse herself in nineteenth-century Russia. Could Dostoevsky have penetrated so deeply into the mysteries of the human soul if he’d been tapping plastic keys instead of dipping his quill into ink? She seriously doubted it.
After a couple of hours with Fyodor Mikhailovich, Emily’s brain was spinning; she was no longer accustomed to such concentrated work. She went back upstairs to continue looking through Aunt Beatrice’s boxes of papers and memorabilia. That odd remark of Wanda’s still nagged at her.
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