by Marni Graff
She entered the dining room, nodding to the guests she passed on her way to the table. Simon waved to her from across the room, where he stood at the kitchen door conferring with Agnes.
It was close to 9 AM when Kate joined her. Nora ordered a full English breakfast from Maeve, who’d decided to wait on them herself. She seemed dour today, wearing a crisp, white blouse and black skirt, doing double duty as a waitress.
“Make that two, please. Did someone call in?” Kate asked.
“Daisy has a cold,” Maeve answered, rolling her eyes to let them know what she thought of that excuse. She left to put in their order.
Her curtness surprised both women. “I wish that woman would learn to smile even if she’s in a bad mood,” Kate sighed as she stirred honey into her tea. “She can look like she’s just lost her best friend.”
“Maybe she has,” Nora countered, wondering if Maeve had been a friend of Keith’s. Who knew if they’d dated before Maeve’s crush on Simon? Both were single and good-looking; it wasn’t too much of a stretch to imagine it.
“Perhaps you’re right. We never do know what others carry around, do we? I should be nicer to her.” Kate sipped her tea. “Ready to face the fortress later? I thought we’d walk to Clarendon Hall. It’s only a quarter of a mile, but a portion is uphill.”
Nora brightened at the thought. “I can use the exercise. I’ll bring my camera, maybe get some shots of Belle Isle from up there.” She remembered what she’d been thinking before falling asleep the night before. “Kate, do you think my pregnancy will be a problem for anyone at the Hall?”
“I really don’t think so,” Kate answered as Maeve appeared. “I believe they’ll appreciate your regards.” She paused as Maeve set their plates down. “Thank you, Maeve.”
Not a blink from Maeve, who moved on to clear another table. So Maeve could be moody, Nora decided. Maybe that’s why Simon resisted her—if he had. Time to find out.
“I wondered if Maeve and Keith dated and that’s why she’s upset today. Or even she and Simon?”
Kate smiled. “Not for her lack of trying again with Simon. I never saw her with Keith, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
Again? Nora nodded. “I didn’t realize she and Simon had been an item.”
Kate waved the thought away. “Eons ago, before he went to France. They had a few dates, but I got the impression she was too shallow for my dear brother.”
That explained it—history that Maeve was trying to resurrect. Nora attacked her breakfast with relish, surprised at her hunger. When she was finished, she put her fork down with a sense of satisfaction.
“I think the young man and I have had our fill of breakfast this morning. I’ll just get some air before we take that walk. You take your time here.”
They agreed to meet at 10:30, and Nora left the dining room, exiting the main lodge door. The fresh morning air was bracing. She looked at the lake across the road and hesitated. She turned away, passing instead through the curved trellis draped with vines that led to the flower garden just outside her own room. Empty. With a grateful sigh, she pulled out a chair and sat down. Her baby was quiet this morning, just an occasional flutter to remind her of his presence—as if her constant backache could let her forget. Most evenings, her feet and ankles were swollen, but Dr. Ling, her obstetrician in nearby Windermere, assured her this was normal.
Despite having ignored the lake, Nora thought of Keith and remembered clearly how his eyes had shone when he’d talked about the water he loved. Could he have chosen it deliberately as the place to spend his final moments, lulled to eternal sleep in its depths? But why would he have wanted to end his life? He seemed so positive, so filled with ideas for the future. If his death was at the hand of another, what had Keith done to provoke someone to kill him?
Even though she was blameless, Nora wasn’t happy to be any part of Ian’s investigation. She knew being involved in a murder inquiry cast widening circles, like the ripples of a mud puddle, contaminating and infecting everyone within its reach. Nora slipped her feet out of her loafers and wiggled her toes. She wouldn’t be in the middle of another death investigation if she’d stayed at her job at the magazine, she thought ruefully.
Nora remembered her last day at work before leaving for the Lake District. She wrinkled her nose with distaste when she recalled the morning spent reading a truly awful piece of Tony Warner’s on a new memorial being built for Princess Diana. Nora thought the readers of People and Places wanted the poor, dead princess to rest in peace so many years after her death as much as she did, but the Third Floor insisted that one article per issue highlight some royal, and Nora had stopped fighting the Third Floor early on in favor of her weekly paycheck. Tony’s stunted prose reflected the smugness he felt because a distant uncle was an earl. He also had the habit of coining new words he insisted were trendy, words Nora ruthlessly obliterated with her sharp, blue pencil. “Punkishness” would not be printed in any article edited by Nora Tierney.
At least she didn’t have to deal with Tony Warner anymore. Supporting her heavy belly with her hands, she rose to retrieve her camera and steeled herself to face the bereaved parents.
Chapter Fifteen
“Ill news hath wings, and with the wind doth go …”
— Michael Drayton, The Baron’s Wars
9:54 AM
In Oxford, Tony Warner received a phone call from his boss, Clive Jenkins, managing director of People and Places magazine. Jenkins had just heard the local BBC newscaster announce the death of Keith Clarendon, an employee of the Worth Travel Agency. He told Tony he had no difficulty placing the name of the pompous man who had brought them so much publicity when Nora Tierney won that contest.
“I want you to drop everything and head to the Lake District to get an exclusive interview with Nora,” Jenkins told the reporter. “Find out everything you can about the death of the Clarendon heir.”
Tony could picture his boss hurrying to retrieve his aluminum Zero Halliburton and pulling out his bulging Filofax to look up Tony’s home number. Publicity for the magazine took precedence over even Jenkins’ precious daily crossword.
“Absolutely; no problem,” Tony told his boss. A few minutes later, Tony was on his laptop, looking up the quickest route to the Lake District. Jenkins’ call had stymied Tony’s plans to meet later with a lass who had once worked as a maid for Princess Anne, but he accepted this assignment with glee. The maid could be postponed—that story would keep. A good investigative reporter had to be flexible, ready the instant a story broke.
Not only could Tony freelance this story to several papers, he would show that Tierney bitch and her blue pencil he knew how to write.
*
9:58 AM
In a flat in Nora’s old building in Oxford, Val Rogan had stepped out of the shower minutes before, in time to hear the same announcement of Keith Clarendon’s death. Val immediately recognized the name of the agency that had sponsored Nora’s contest and Keith’s name as the chap who had engineered it.
She wrapped herself in a terry robe after carefully drying the tiny gold bar that pierced her left nipple, then blotted her short, dark hair with a towel and ran her fingers through it. Opening the first of a series of tiny boxes set out on a side table, she began searching through each of them successively for the note Nora had given her with the phone number of Ramsey Lodge.
*
9:59 AM
Nora was in her room, emailing her mother in Connecticut before leaving for the Clarendons. She pointedly left out the news of stumbling across Keith Clarendon’s body. It was doubtful that news would reach Ridgefield. When her mobile rang, she saw it was Val Rogan. Either her friend had heard the news of Keith’s death and was calling for details, or she had ESP.
Val listened in surprise to Nora’s ord
eal in finding Keith’s body. “I heard on the radio he’d died. I had no idea you were involved.”
“I’m not involved, Val,” Nora insisted. “I merely stumbled over his body.”
Val’s nurturing spirit kicked into gear. “That makes you involved. When do you want me? I can get coverage at the cooperative and be there later today.”
“Thanks, Val, but I’m absolutely fine. Simon and Kate are taking good care of me, and Kate’s fiancé, Ian, is heading up the investigation.” Nora knew her friend couldn’t help but think about her own recent loss.
Val took a deep breath. “It’s so sad. I remember when you won the contest. Keith seemed like a decent bloke. On the other hand, that agency he worked for—what’s its motto?”
The two friends chorused: “It’s always Worth your while with us!”
“Still,” Val said. “There must be something I can do. You want me to start snooping on this end?”
Nora sighed. She didn’t want her friend getting into trouble, but Ian had said drugs were involved. What if Val was right, and Keith’s death was less than innocent? Still, she was having second thoughts about getting involved herself. “Hmmm. Remember how annoyed Declan was when I interfered in his case? I should let Ian handle this one; he’s in charge, after all, and I don’t want to get on his nerves.”
“Since when did you grow a conscience? I’ll be discreet, but I think you need me to do a little sussing out right here in Oxford, Yankee.”
*
10:12 AM
Far out on the Woodstock Road, the same announcement had caused Keith’s Oxford associate, Glenn Hackney, to immediately lose his erection, much to the chagrin of his current bed partner, a rather hairy young man Glenn had picked up the night before.
Once he’d thrown the guy out, changed his sheets and showered, Glenn Hackney, as he was known in his current occupation and guise, dressed quickly. He set out for the short drive to the Worth Travel Agency, his office keys in the pocket of his pressed jeans, an empty leather satchel on the seat beside him. Tall and sleek, with longish hair and a haughty manner, he was known to Scotland Yard by an entirely different name.
*
10:28 AM
At The Scarlet Wench, Daniel Rowley and his best pal, Jack Halsey, were back at their stools along the bar, almost still warm from last evening’s session. News of the death of the Clarendon heir dominated last night’s conversation and continued into today. The men had been at the door for a special early opening, prepared to drown their sorrows in a succession of real ales and wash down the sad fact that their favorite sport had come to an abrupt end.
“No more noisy town meetings trying to squash KC’s development plans,” Daniel pronounced.
“Those meetin’s won’t be the same without Keith to badger,” Jack agreed.
The men shook their heads in agreement.
“More time to spend in here, though,” Daniel noted.
Jack raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that!”
Chapter Sixteen
“What have these lonely mountains worth revealing?
More glory and more grief than I can tell.”
— Emily Brontë
10:29 AM
Ian was reviewing reports when his intercom buzzed.
“Dr. Foreman on two for you, guv,” the duty sergeant said.
“Hello, Milo,” Ian said, picking up. “Have something for me?”
“Sommer Clarendon still have that rare plant collection of his?” Milo was uncharacteristically brusque.
“I expect so. Why do you ask?” Ian heard the pathologist draw heavily on his cigar before he answered.
Milo couldn’t hide a tinge of professional pride. “My budget is groaning from the rush on the toxicology, but my instincts paid off. There are definite traces of a plant called Tanghinia in Keith’s stomach, not native to England. The only person around who might know of it is Sommer Clarendon. Tough situation.”
“Leave it with me, Milo, and I’ll get back to you. And thanks,” Ian said. He didn’t want Milo bumbling over his investigation. The pathologist meant well, but his people skills could use some polishing.
A sense of foreboding stole over the detective as he looked up the number to Clarendon Hall. This was a delicate task, to call the victim’s father so soon after his son’s death with disturbing news. He framed his questions before dialing.
Minutes later, Sommer Clarendon picked up an extension, and Ian explained what he wanted to know.
“Why yes, Ian, I know of that plant; pretty little thing. It was used in Madagascar centuries ago to ferret out criminals. Highly poisonous, of course, and the blighters never survived.” Sommer paused as the reason for Ian’s call became obvious. “My God, Ian. This has to do with Keith, doesn’t it?”
Ian plowed on. “It’s been found in Keith’s body. I promise to keep you posted as soon as I know more, Sommer. Right now, I need to know where it can be found.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the bereaved father replied: “There are only two that I know of in the Lake District, and I own them both. I still have one here; the other I loaned to Simon Ramsey.”
*
10:31 AM
Nora poked her head into Simon’s rooms after retrieving her camera. She saw him disappearing into his studio and followed.
“Hi there. I’m going with Kate to Clarendon Hall,” she called out. When she reached the doorway, she caught a glimpse of a painting in progress and a plant standing on a table next to the easel. Odd; she’d never known Simon to work from studio specimens. He preferred to sketch en plein air and then develop his paintings in his studio from those drawings, clipped to his easel. She always enjoyed watching Simon at work and was fascinated by his talent. He often took the time to explain his strategies and vision as he worked, conversations they both enjoyed. Her keen interest had cemented their friendship early on.
She stepped into the studio, eager to hear about his new project. Simon saw her and hurried over to the doorway, blocking her view and practically shoving her back into his kitchen as he drew the door shut behind him.
Nora was taken aback. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other in that way he had when he was nervous.
Nora had trouble believing him. He was usually open to showing her what he was working on. Today, he didn’t meet her eye and was distinctly uncomfortable.
Nora felt his uneasiness and started to speak, then thought better of it. She would have to trust Simon to explain in his own time. “I’m off then,” she said brightly and left the room, wondering about Simon’s odd behavior.
The quilted bag slung over Nora’s shoulder sported a floral William Morris pattern. In addition to her camera, it held her wallet and the various bits and pieces most women accumulate: lipstick, tissues, a compact mirror and a roll of antacids. She’d added a small notebook in which she listed baby names under consideration. After pushing her glasses up her nose, she withdrew it and was consulting her latest entry when Kate found her in the hall.
“Sorry, occupational hazard. Agnes always has a menu question, even though I told her Simon was on duty.” Kate carried a covered basket over one arm and pointed to the notebook. “Still name hunting?”
They exited through the lodge’s main door, and Nora felt a twinge of relief when Kate guided her away from the scene of yesterday’s trauma. “What do you think of Aubrey? It means a visionary leader, someone of moral authority.”
Kate wrinkled her nose. “I’m the wrong one to ask. I think it sounds kind of stodgy or abrasive,” she said. They crossed the road and walked along the quay in the direction of the ferry dock.
“We’d call that a know-it-all.” Nora smiled and drew a line through
the name. “When I was looking online at nursery things from the Beatrix Potter shop, I didn’t even think of her stories as a resource.”
“I don’t think you’ll find a name there unless it’s Peter,” Kate laughed. “You can easily walk over to the shop, or I can get Maeve to give you a lift tomorrow.”
Nora didn’t want Maeve taking her anywhere, as unreasonable as that seemed. “No, Squirrel Nutkin or Hunca Munca won’t do, but there’s always Benjamin or Jeremiah to think about. I’ll get there soon.” She stowed her notebook and concentrated on not bumping into anyone with her bulk. The area bustled with travelers navigating the uneven pavement dotted with stretches of cobblestones. It already seemed crowded with tourists, and Nora could see how Keith’s plans to increase visitors to the small village of Bowness-on-Windermere would have garnered local detractors in addition to Simon.
“I’m assuming naming the baby after Paul isn’t going to fly?” Kate asked, guiding Nora down Rectory Road.