The Green Remains (The Nora Tierney Mysteries Book 2)

by Marni Graff

  Ian sat back in his chair, remembering Kate in school, always lean and athletic, sure of herself and with the creative Ramsey bent that set her and Simon apart from their classmates. They were both friendly and polite, never condescending. The feeling they gave off was that they saw things with a different eye.

  He was not surprised when Kate left Bowness for design school in London and stayed on as a set decorator for some of the West End’s top productions. It was when she came home after her mother’s sudden stroke to help her father run Ramsey Lodge that he became attracted to her in a way that startled them both. They started dating, and he was increasingly grateful that she stayed in Bowness after her father’s subsequent death. For months following the elder Ramsey’s death, Ian worried Kate would sell her interest in the lodge and return to her glittery city life. It took him a long time to understand that he was part of the reason she’d stayed.

  Ian hit “Save” and emailed his report for his team to review. He printed a copy for the murder book and another for the case manager. He needed to read up on the findings from the rest of the team before going to see Kate. Despite Higgins’ pessimism regarding Anne Reed, Ian had to keep his finger on top of it all and keep his team active and involved.

  *

  10:30 PM

  Ian rose reluctantly from the comfortable chenille sofa that sat in front of the fireplace in Kate’s suite. By the time he’d arrived at Ramsey Lodge, Kate had spoken with Simon over dinner, and her anger had dissipated. Ian felt relaxed in her company for the first time since the discovery of Keith’s body. Her engagement ring sparkled in the light, and he felt they were back on course.

  “If I don’t leave now, I’ll stay the night,” he said.

  “You going? I thought—”

  “Sorry, Kate, there’s nothing I’d like more than to crawl into bed with you.” He reached for his jacket on the sofa’s arm. “But I have to leave early in the morning to go into Oxford.”

  Kate raised an eyebrow. “All the way to Oxford? That’s what phones and computers are for.”

  “Don’t forget Keith worked there, too.” He reached for her waist.

  “I should be glad you’re not arresting Simon. Don’t say it, I know—you’re just doing your job.” She had been decidedly cool when he arrived but had softened as the evening progressed. “I know Simon is innocent, and that’s all that matters. All of this will soon be behind us—I hope.” She draped her arms around his neck. She hardly had to tilt her head back to look into his eyes. “Have I told you lately how sometimes I abhor your bloody job?” She pressed her body into him and lightly bit the lobe of his left ear.

  He knew she could feel his immediate response against her stomach. “Yes, you have, on numerous occasions.” He folded her into his arms, enjoying how they fit together. “Have I told you that you don’t play a fair game?” He ran his arms over her back and lightly teased the nape of her neck.

  She shivered and leaned into him harder, swaying her hips across his groin. “You could leave from here. I have your clothes from last time all clean and ready.” She kissed his bottom lip, then sucked it into her mouth.

  He pushed his mouth against hers in assent as their tongues met in recognition and desire. They broke apart, faces flushed and smiling. Kate led him to her bedroom, turning out lights along the way.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Several years ago circumstances thrust me into a position in which it became possible for the friend who figures in these pages as Godfrey Loring to do me a favor.”

  — David Graham Phillips, The Husband’s Story

  10:45 PM

  Simon felt torn between waking Nora or covering her with a blanket to let her sleep longer in the chair. He studied her, curled up around a pillow to support her baby bulge, and thought back to earlier in the evening.

  They’d agreed a big meal wasn’t what any of them wanted and raided the lodge kitchen to find leftover chicken stew. After leaving Agnes a note owning up, they ate in Simon’s rooms, avoiding talk of Keith’s death or Simon’s interview. When they finished, Kate left to await Ian, and Simon lit the fire. They sat in companionable silence, watching the flames dance. Nora paged through her baby name book. Simon turned on the radio; Handel’s “Water Music” became a backdrop to the crackling fire. Darby settled on the rug in front of the fire and let out a contented snore.

  Nora broke the silence. “I wonder if Keith had a girlfriend? Kate didn’t know. Could he have been gay?”

  “I don’t know,” Simon answered. “When I saw him, it was usually at a town meeting or out on the lake. Maybe in Oxford he had a relationship of some sort?”

  Nora shifted in her chair. When she spoke, it was almost a whisper. “Have you ever been a part of something you knew to be wrong but were unable to stop?”

  Where was this going? Simon held his breath. Surely Nora couldn’t believe he had anything to do with Keith’s death?

  Nora didn’t wait for his answer. “I never knew Paul properly, I see that now—not who he was inside when he let his hair down or on a deep level, the way I should have if I was going to marry him. That isn’t like me at all. I love research, looking into things, exploring them, and that includes people.”

  Simon nodded and let his breath out. Nora shrugged and settled back into her chair, pulling her glasses off and rubbing the sides of her nose. It was reasonable that death would be on Nora’s mind, and this would bring her to the memory of her baby’s father. He searched for something to say and settled for honesty. “I think it would’ve been terrible if you’d married him feeling that way.”

  “I suppose so, but now that he’s dead, I have the distance to see I should’ve broken off the engagement. When Kate asked if I’d considered naming the baby Paul, I had such a negative feeling, I knew our relationship had died long before he did.” Her eyes appealed for understanding.

  Simon leaned forward, hiding his relief, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “So you think it would have been better for Paul if you’d broken his heart just before he died?”

  Nora shrugged. “Neither of us knew that plane would go down. I might have been doing him a favor, something he wanted to do himself and couldn’t. But then without him, I wouldn’t have little What’s-His-Name here. He’ll probably be the spitting image of Paul or have his personality as he grows.”

  Simon sat back. He restrained himself from speaking his thoughts aloud. He doubted any man who had Nora in his life would willingly give her up.

  “What will you do about Paul’s parents? Will they be a part of the baby’s life?”

  Nora shook her head. “We only met once, at his memorial service. They blamed me for not seeing Paul when it was his work that kept him away. I didn’t know I was pregnant then and haven’t contacted them since. They’d made it clear I wasn’t their cup of tea. Since it was my decision to raise the baby alone and I’m not asking them for help, I’m leaving them out of it.”

  Simon considered this. “You can always change your mind on that.”

  “I suppose.” She dozed off soon after asking him what he thought of the name Harold. His expression alone was answer enough but he merely said, “Purple crayons,” and she put her book away.

  Simon leaned over to scrutinize her relaxed face. The marks her glasses left on either side of her nose had softened but were still visible, two tiny lima bean-shaped depressions. Circles of strain under her eyes looked blue in the firelight. He reached out to wake her but before he could touch her, the night bell clanged.

  Straightening up, Simon checked the clock over the kitchen sink. Almost 11. The bell rang in his room and Kate’s, but since he’d told her she could have the night off, he’d answer it before it woke Nora. He let himself quietly out of the room and headed down the hall.

  When Simon o
pened the front door, the sleek young man leaning on the doorframe stood up and pushed past him into the wide hall. The scent of vanilla wafted in with him. Simon relocked the door and followed him to the desk. The man put his Gucci leather bag down and retrieved a shiny, black alligator wallet from his breast pocket. Simon took in his narrow, craggy face and his equally narrow mustache.

  “Cheerio! Hope I haven’t roused you out of bed, but I got a late start. You do have a room?” He smiled and glanced pointedly at the VACANCY sign on the corner of the desk.

  For the second time that day, Simon wished he’d flipped the thing over, regardless of the effect this would have on their custom. He cleared his throat and pushed the register toward the young man, his instincts telling him this would be another annoying guest. Simon watched the man carefully write his name in a distinctive script, complete with ornate flourishes. Another poser in the guise of a bright spark.

  “Right then, Mr. Hackney. How long will you be staying with us?”

  Glenn’s wide mouth contained a full complement of capped white teeth, which he hid after changing his smile to what he must have deemed a more appropriate somber frown. “Until after the memorial service for my colleague, the late Keith Clarendon.”

  Both men turned in the direction of footsteps coming through the dining room. A tousled Nora appeared in the doorway, waved to Simon and turned back toward her room without noticing Glenn, who was fishing out his Platinum card.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “If you should have a boy do not christen him John … ’Tis a bad name and goes against a man. If my name had been Edmund I should have been more fortunate.”

  — John Keats

  Sunday, 24th October

  7:55 AM

  The morning started as usual for Gillian Cole. She rose with the sun, jotting Robbie a note about his lessons and chores for the day. Leaving their cottage on the grounds of Clarendon Hall, she walked the short distance to the main building, breathing in the fresh morning scents the lake offered as the mist rose: a smell of oak, birch and conifers mixed with the late-season wild garlic and the smoke of early-morning fires. An elusive red squirrel ran across her path, and Gillian took this as a sign that the day would be a good one.

  Her damp hair felt cool against her neck, and she reached up and spread it with her fingers, fanning it to dry, reflecting on how the human body could change. Her hair as a teenager had been thick and full, taking hours to dry naturally. Today, it would be dry by the time she took breakfast up to Edmunde.

  When not in his presence, Gillian thought of Edmunde in his prime, before the stroke left him to rely on her for his basic needs. Sommer had been her only patient then, and she’d been integrated into the small Clarendon household as time had passed. Edmunde had been the strong one, bold and loud. His presence in a room had seemed to take up more space than anyone else’s. Gillian knew well, though, the dark rage of loss that had hovered just beneath his lusty exterior and drinking bouts.

  Gillian remembered him as a teen, when she’d glimpsed him in town, home for the holidays from the exclusive school he and Sommer had attended. With his swarthy good looks and brazen nature, he had been difficult to miss. While she had a vague recollection of the brothers’ elderly parents, they’d been dead for many years before Sommer’s accident provided her with continuous employment. Later, Edmunde’s stroke guaranteed it.

  She stopped to admire the view from the path and pulled in a deep breath of the crisp air as she drew her sweater closer around her thin shoulders. She’d always been grateful that she’d listened to her mother about following the nursing path. “You’ll always find a job, dear, and never worry about putting food in your stomach,” her mother had told her only child, advice borne from her own experience struggling to provide for the scrawny girl she’d raised after the baby’s father was long gone.

  Gillian reached the kitchen door. Rosemary grew on one side of the stoop in a lush bush. A handful of tiny winter pansies survived the coolness, and she reached down and tore off a clutch of the delicate stems, adding a small, fragrant branch of the rosemary. It was a pity people didn’t stop more often to enjoy what was right before their eyes. She carried the tiny blooms inside to decorate Edmunde’s breakfast tray.

  *

  8:30 AM

  Detective Sergeant Stephen Higgins dismantled Keith Clarendon’s computer, carefully packing the flash drives and tower. His detective inspector had filled him in on the poisonous plant, and he knew the only fingerprints found on the container with the confiscated plant from Clarendon Hall belonged to Sommer Clarendon. Those on its twin, retrieved from Simon Ramsey’s studio, were smudged with overlays, but Simon’s and Sommer’s were both identified. He’d never heard of this plant and would have to look it up online when he got a chance. Of all the damn things to use for a murder weapon.

  After he’d checked the desk drawers and written out a receipt, Higgins walked down the hall and knocked on the door Cook had described after she’d signed her statement.

  When Travers had instructed him to determine if Keith Clarendon’s uncle was competent enough to make a statement, Higgins had wanted to balk. It had been bad enough taking statements from Cook, whom he knew slightly, and the nurse, whom he knew only from village gossip. But he had firsthand knowledge of Edmunde Clarendon’s heated temper from the past, and Higgins didn’t know the man’s current state, only what was rumored.

  He also felt uncomfortable entering what he considered a sickroom. Although he knew he couldn’t catch anything from the man, the idea of seeing someone as proud as Edmunde Clarendon in the throes of his affliction was distasteful.

  A female voice called out: “Come in.”

  Higgins entered to find Gillian Cole adjusting a tray on the over-bed table set across Edmunde Clarendon’s lap. The head of his bed was raised, and a large linen napkin spread out across his chest. Higgins set his jaw so his reaction to the man’s loss of function wouldn’t show. Good God. When Higgins had been a constable, this was the same man he’d helped wrestle out of The Scarlet Wench on numerous occasions. Leave it to Travers to have him deal with the sick man.

  Higgins nodded to Gillian and moved closer to the bed, withdrawing his warrant card. “Mr. Clarendon, I’m Detective Sergeant Higgins. I’m very sorry about the loss of your nephew. I have a few questions for you today, sir.”

  There was no reaction from the man. Gillian cleared her throat and stood back from the bed. Higgins knew she’d been Sommer Clarendon’s nurse for many years. He tried again. “When was the last time you saw Keith, Mr. Clarendon?”

  Edmunde stared ahead, the drooping lid over his right eye almost closed. Higgins’ frustration escalated.

  “Did Keith visit you here, Mr. Clarendon?” He spoke louder and waited respectfully for some sign the man had heard him. He knew a stroke might affect the man’s speech but surely not his hearing? Finally he burst out: “Blink an eye, move a finger, do something, Mr. Clarendon.”

  Higgins kept himself from flinching as Edmunde moved his head slightly to face him, staring at the detective with his good eye, and slowly raised his tremulous left hand. At last, some kind of reaction. Was Edmunde trying to shake his hand?

  With a vicious shove, Edmunde sent his breakfast flying down the front of Higgins’ best suit.

  “I think he got that, sir,” Gillian pronounced.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “A few weeks ago, at a dinner, a discussion arose as to the unfinished dramas recorded in the daily press. The argument was, if I remember correctly, that they give us the beginning of many stories, and the endings of many more.”

  — Mary Roberts Rinehart, The Red Lamp

  8:35 AM

  The morning’s tea was English Breakfast, and Nora gulped the sweet brew down with relish, enjoying the toasty warmth of her
bed. She could stay here all day, reading her name book, but an overriding sense of purpose fueled her out of bed when she remembered Keith’s work. She was curious to see what Keith had unearthed that she could use; more importantly, there could be a clue as to why he was poisoned.

  It was obvious that whether Ian wanted Kate to believe it or not, Simon was viewed as a potential perpetrator in Keith’s death. The idea that this might be ridiculous didn’t enter the equation, as she’d learned from Declan Barnes during Bryn Wallace’s murder investigation. Declan’s job had been to follow the evidence. That damned rare flower would force Ian to shine his spotlight on Simon.

  After a hot shower, Nora knotted her fluffy, blue robe around her. The chenille barely covered her huge belly, and Nora said hello and talked to her son as she rubbed Vitamin E on her taut skin. “I’m still working on your name,” she told him as she turned on her laptop and toweled her wet hair. “I’ll know it as soon as I hear it,” she promised.

  Nora’s compulsion for order led her to copy the contents of Keith’s flash drive onto her hard drive. She didn’t consider herself computer literate and harbored the nagging feeling that one day she would hit the wrong button, and all of her work would be floating in the ozone.