by Connie Berry
“At least it’s a worthy motivation. What Christine is doing is akin to self-harm, replaying the loss of her father over and over again by subconsciously choosing unreliable men.”
“But she has you. You’re the fixed point in her world.”
Was that why Christine had reacted so badly to my relationship with Tom? Did she see it as abandonment? I was too tired to think about that. “Tell me about your day.”
“We interviewed witnesses in Mildenhall and Haverhill.”
“Anything to go on?”
“Most of them remember a woman—polished, well educated. At Glepping Park she was alone. At Tettinger Court she was with a group of women. In both places, she engaged the docent in conversation, asking questions about certain objects. It might have been completely innocent, or it might have been a tactic used by street thieves all over Europe. One person distracts the target while the other calmly picks his pocket.”
“Good to know. Tomorrow I’ll alert everyone to be on the lookout for a talker. I feel better knowing that additional uniformed police will be present. Will you come?”
“Can’t promise. I’ll try.” His voice sounded funny.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re leaving in a matter of days, Kate. I feel cheated. We’ve had so little time together.”
“Can’t be helped.”
“No, but we do have a little time left. How about taking a day off? We could drive to the coat or just spend the day roaming around Cambridge.”
“That sounds lovely. But how can you do it with all that’s going on?”
“I’ll fix it. How about Sunday? The exhibit will be over.”
“Not Sunday. I may still be moving the Hoard objects back into the safe. What about Monday? Christine will be back at work. I’ll be free as a bird.”
Would I? Saying it felt like tempting fate.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I sat up in bed.
Loud voices and the sound of breaking glass told me there was a fight going on. Oh, not again. Throwing a sweatshirt over my Disney flannels, I slipped on a pair of flats and ran toward the commotion.
In the Commons, Michael and Prue stood behind Christine. She had on the leggings and T-shirt she wears to bed. Her eyes were puffy. Her hair was a mess. She’d obviously been crying.
“You steal my boyfriend and then tell me to chill?” Christine screamed.
Alex stood in the doorway, looking thoroughly bored. “I didn’t steal him, darling. You lost him.”
“Witch.” Christine picked up a ceramic mug and threw it at Alex, who ducked. The shattered remains of a glass soup bowl lay scattered on the floor. Alex was lucky. Christine was no athlete, but she used to have a crack pitching arm.
Tristan leaned against the doorjamb, watching the battle for his affections with an amused smile on his face. I felt like throwing something at him. Instead, I said, “Stop this,” in my mother’s in charge voice. “Fighting isn’t going to get you anywhere.”
“Poor Christine,” Alex said, turning the corners of her mouth down in fake sympathy. “She can’t face the truth. Tristan fancies me—what of it? They’re not engaged or anything.”
Christine yanked her arm out of Prue’s grasp and lunged toward Alex, who raised the umbrella she was holding and brought it down hard on Christine’s shoulder.
Christine grabbed her shoulder and started to cry.
“That’s enough, do you hear me?” I snatched the umbrella. “You’re acting like children.”
“Self-defense,” Alex said. “She started it.”
Pushing me out of the way, Christine took hold of Alex’s ponytail and threw her to the floor. Alex kicked out, landing a blow on Christine’s knee.
“Tristan, Michael,” I yelled. “Get those two away from each other before someone gets seriously hurt.”
Michael grabbed Christine by the arms.
Tristan picked Alex up off the floor.
“Thank you, darling.” She threw her arms around him and gave him a long kiss.
“Let’s go, Christine,” Prue said. “They’re not worth it.”
Alex took Tristan’s hand and led him toward the opposite corridor. “Come on, Tris.” She laughed. “Let’s have another drink.”
Christine spun around. “You’ll regret this, Alex. I swear it.” She stomped out, trailing a comet’s tail of fury.
After cleaning up the broken dishes, I knocked on Christine and Prue’s door.
Prue opened it and stood aside. “Be my guest. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”
I doubted that. Christine lay facedown on her bed, and somehow her silence was more unnerving than her tears.
“Tell me how all this started.”
Christine ignored me.
Prue said, “We left the Arms—the four of us. Me and Michael, Tristan and Alex. Alex had been trying to attract Peter’s attention all night, but he wasn’t having it. So she tried it on with Tristan.”
“And he lapped it up.” Christine propped her head on one hand. Her face was blotchy.
“Of course he did. We’d all had way too much to drink.” Prue moaned and held her head. “Oh, I’m getting the whirly-bats.”
“What happened when you got here?”
“Alex was giggling and hanging on to Tristan,” Prue said. “Kind of stumbling, you know, and he was holding her up. Then Christine came out and saw them and—”
“And went berserk, right?” Christine’s voice was preternaturally calm. “Well, I’m over it now.”
I knew this Christine, and it frightened me. Christine in full meltdown mode is alarming. Christine in a cold fury is enough to curdle the blood.
“Let’s try to get a good night’s rest,” I said. Lamely. Sleep rarely solves anything. “We can deal with this in the morning.”
“What a good idea.” Christine pulled up the duvet and turned over, her face to the wall.
I said good night to Prue and left with a sense of impending doom.
No way I’d get a night’s sleep now—good or otherwise.
When Christine promised retribution, she meant it. I thought of the time Eric and Christine argued about who was going to use the family car for the homecoming dance. Eric won the coin toss, and Christine retired meekly to her room. The next morning, I heard Eric pounding on her bedroom door.
“Look what she did, Mom.” He held out his favorite jeans. Christine had cut them off at the knees. She was repentant, of course, and used money she’d been saving for months to buy him a new pair.
I checked the clock. A little after midnight. Seven PM in Ohio. The only person I could talk to about this was my mother. As I went to dial my home number, I noticed a text from Ivor: NO RESPONSE YET FROM OUR MYSTERY MAN.
Kind of Ivor to let me know, although Christine’s trouble had erased thoughts of the missing Hoard book. Only three days remained until I returned to the States. I might never find out why Tabitha had written out that list of objects. Everywhere I turned was a dead end.
I punched in my home phone number. After five rings the answering machine kicked in.
You’ve reached the Hamilton residence. Leave your number and—
The message was interrupted by a sleepy voice. “This is Linnea Larson.”
“I’m sorry. Were you sleeping?”
“Dozing. It must be late in England. What’s happened?”
I gave her the blow-by-blow. And the arctic aftermath.
“Give her time. Her anger will burn itself out. The main thing is to keep Christine and Alex apart until it does.”
“That’ll be hard. Tomorrow we’re all working together on the Hoard exhibit.”
“Send them in opposite directions. Give them tasks that don’t overlap.”
“I’ll try.”
“Christine will see what she’s doing in time and make a change.”
“Hope I live to see it.”
“You will. Just keep loving and supporting her. Don’t let her manipulate you into saying too much. Y
ou can’t solve this one for her. She’s got to figure it out on her own.”
“There’s something I want to run past you—about the list Tabitha made. The local antiques dealer I told you about has been helping me locate a book on—”
“Kate, darling. Do you mind if we talk in the morning? I’ve had a headache all day.”
“You had a headache the last time we talked.”
“Well, it’s back. I called Charlotte this afternoon to fill in for me.”
“Call my doctor. His number’s in the phone book on my desk.”
“No need. It’s just a headache. I’ll be fine.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow. I love you.”
After we disconnected, I reached for my notebook and scanned the list of questions.
1. Who murdered her? No answer.
2. Who was the father of her baby? Probably Peter. DNA results would tell.
3. Who was the dark stranger? No clear answers yet.
4. Position of Tabitha’s body in the water. Thrown in, but by whom?
5. Connection between Catherine Kerr and Tabitha King. Probably the Hoard, but how?
6. Who’d benefit if the Hoard exhibit was canceled? Mugg argued against it, but not for his own benefit, and he certainly wouldn’t benefit if Lady Barbara lost the Hall.
7. Why did Tabitha make that list? Good question—no answer.
8. What is bothering me about the crime scene? Good question—no answer.
Good question—no answer. My new motto.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Friday, December 18th
The day of the setup dawned clear and crisp. Better yet, the weather forecast for the following day was the same. Clear skies, temps around ten degrees Celsius—a nice, crisp fifty degrees Fahrenheit. A perfect English winter’s day.
On Saturday, hundreds of visitors would descend on Finchley Hall. No muddy shoes or dripping umbrellas. Nice dry coats, handbags, and backpacks to be checked at a table near the entrance and whisked away to a repository on the upper floor.
I joined a group of villagers waiting near the dovecote for instructions. Miraculously, all the interns had shown up on time. Youth is wasted on the young.
Peter and Arthur Gedge hovered on the edge of the group. The sun glinted off Peter’s blond hair. Gedge tossed a cigarette butt into the gravel and ground it in with his boot. The rough old beer-soaked bachelor with permanently dirty fingernails seemed to have a soft spot for his young relative. Good thing. At the moment, Peter needed all the friends he could get.
So did I, come to think of it. Not only was another blow-up between Christine and Alex looming, but I’d felt unsettled since the previous night’s phone call with my mother. Linnea Larson was the fixed point, as Tom had called it, in my life. I knew she was getting older. I’d watched the lines deepen on her face, the silver take over her hair, but she was healthy and strong, always there for me with common sense and words of wisdom. I checked the time. Nine AM—four AM at home in Jackson Falls. I’d call her later.
Alex came out of the dovecote with her purple clipboard in hand. “Lady Barbara has asked me to express her personal thanks to all who have pulled together to make the two-hundredth-anniversary exhibit of the Hoard a success. Let me begin by giving you an overview of what to expect tomorrow. We’ve presold more than three hundred tickets now, which means the total number of visitors could be five hundred or more. The parking area in the yard will be reserved for disabled visitors with a Blue Badge permit. Others will park in the churchyard or in the field at the end of the long drive. We open promptly at ten AM. Those with timed tickets will be admitted first in each time slot—others on a first-come, first-served basis, with a maximum number of thirty in each twenty-minute segment.”
Alex’s beautiful face showed no remnant of the intoxicated shrew of the night before. If I didn’t know better, I could almost believe there were two Alex Devereuxs, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
Christine, standing beside Prue Goody, was avoiding eye contact with me. Tristan slouched near the door to the dovecote, his hoodie pulled up. I hoped he had a doozy of a hangover.
Alex had gotten to the end of her spiel. “Before I divide you into work crews, I’ve been asked by the local police to say something about security.” She flipped a page on her clipboard. “You may have heard about a series of thefts in the area. The criminals will probably not risk another theft so soon, but we can’t be too careful. If you see something suspicious, tell the nearest uniformed officer. There will be at least one in every area. We’ve been told to be on the lookout for a well-dressed woman who may try to distract your attention—asking questions, dropping some personal item, bumping into you or another visitor. Keep your eyes open and say something. You should know your assignments by now, but I’ll go over them again just in case.”
As Alex began to read names, I experienced a moment of panic. How could I make sure Alex’s and Christine’s paths never crossed? But I needn’t have worried. Christine and Prue were sent to the Hall to help Vivian and the volunteers in the tearoom. Tristan, Peter, and Gedge would set up the ticket booths and the rope barriers between the dovecote and the archives building. Michael and Mugg would help me move the portrait and Lady Susannah’s ring into place and make sure the lighting was perfect. After that, Michael would make sure the CCTV camera was focused toward the entrance door. Then he would join the volunteers, marking the footpath from the churchyard.
After my part in the exhibit area, I would join Alex in the gift shop, where I would try very hard to forget she’d attacked my daughter with an umbrella.
That should be fun.
For lunch, the volunteers set up a sandwich buffet and tea urn in the dovecote. The sun was warm enough to eat outside. Groups of volunteers pulled folding chairs into circles and tipped their faces to the sun. The atmosphere was almost festive.
By two o’clock, the exhibit hall was ready. I called my mother at the antiques shop.
“Antiques at the Falls. Linnea Larson speaking.”
“Hi, Mom. Can you talk?”
“Of course. No customers at the moment. I’m arranging a display of antique glass Christmas ornaments in the front window.”
“Perfect. What’s the weather like?”
“Cold. No more snow.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Right as rain. Oh—I have to go. Someone’s just come through the door.”
I felt right as rain, too.
In the gift shop, Alex and Danny’s mother, Glenda, were working on the gift displays.
“Hi, Kate.” Glenda beamed. “Everything is going so well, isn’t it?”
“So far. Can I help with anything?”
Alex was arranging the small round pots of local honey. “Now that you’re here, Kate, do you mind if I leave?”
“Not at all.” I wouldn’t have minded if she hopped a slow boat to the South Pole.
She gathered up her coat. “I should help the volunteers with the timed-ticket schedules. Glenda knows what to do.”
Glenda added a tall, slender bottle of mead to the others on the counter and stood back to examine her work.
“Is Danny in school today?” I asked, picturing the little boy knocking over plinths with his sword and claiming their contents as spoils of war.
“Yes, but he’s missed a lot lately.” She looked worried.
“Still having nightmares?”
“Oh, yes. The therapist has him in art therapy, drawing what he sees in his dreams. They’re always the same. He draws the lake and the body—just a blob, really. He draws himself, standing along the shore—another blob. But then there are trees and an enormous dark figure with yellow eyes. A monster.” She shuddered.
“That sounds scary. What does Danny say about the monster?”
“He says the monster has no face. Just yellow eyes that glow and a voice that sounds like sandpaper. When the therapist asks Danny what the figure represents, he just shrug
s.”
“What does the therapist think?”
“She says the monster represents Danny’s fear, the trauma of finding the dead girl.” Glenda hugged herself. “Danny isn’t himself. He doesn’t want to play with friends. His teacher says he doesn’t utter a word at school. That’s not like him.”
No, it wasn’t.
“Would you talk to him, Kate? He’s mentioned you. He liked you.”
“Of course. Anytime. But do you mind if I tell Inspector Mallory?”
“If you think it’s important.” She wrote her phone number on one of the sales slips. “But I don’t see how it could be. It’s not as if monsters are real, is it?”
* * *
Glenda and I spent the next half hour putting the finishing touches on the gift shop displays, getting the receipt book ready, and figuring out the credit card machine. We were finishing up when Tom arrived.
“I’ve been looking for you.” He gave me a hug and kissed my forehead, then my mouth.
“Be still my heart.” Glenda patted her chest.
“Good timing,” I said. “Tom, this is Glenda … um.” I realized I’d never known her last name.
“Glenda Croft,” she said. “We met briefly the day that young woman was murdered. You probably don’t remember.”
“I do, as a matter of fact. You’re Danny’s mother.”
“She has something to tell you,” I said. “About a monster.”
Tom listened intently as Glenda described Danny’s nightmares and the art therapy. He wrote a few words in his notebook, thanked her, and gave her his card. “If Danny says something else about the monster or remembers anything about that day, contact me at once.”
“Of course.” Glenda gathered up her things. “See you tomorrow, Kate.”
After Glenda left, I showed Tom the portrait and the ring. “So, is it the same ring?”
“They look the same to me.”
“Except for the details. Look at the ring in the painting. If you examine it closely, you can just make out the image carved into the central stone. See?” I pointed out a tiny squiggle of paint. “That’s the intaglio. The artist shows us the light hitting the design. I think that bit right there is the wing. And the griffin’s raised paw—right there. The design on the ring is similar but not exact.”