The jazz band reunited on stage with a gentle beat of the drum. The waiters had sifted out through among the people, offering refreshments and adding food to the buffet-style banquet Diane had been talking about earlier.
It had been a blessing, given everyone was hungrier after waiting to be questioned, and even some sobering while events played out. I supposed being around a dead body was sobering in a sense, the mortality of life, splashed about before your eyes.
“Apologies,” Diane called through the microphone.
Most everyone was seated at their tables again, while some people, Ruth included was at the buffet, picking out sushi to try.
“This was never the plan for the evening,” she continued. “I mean, nobody plans to have a party guest die at the party, do they?” she waved a hand at the comment. “Never mind, the celebrations must continue, of course. And as you’re aware, it is my birthday, and I don’t want the night to go to waste, especially the cake I had made.”
“A cake?” I grumbled, turning to my side to see Ruth still at the buffet.
The only other people at the table were Howard and his wife, and they both appeared completely shattered by everything, but they still had glasses of champagne to sip on.
“We will not be singing happy birthday this evening,” she said, her glance direct straight to her husband at the foot of the stage. “But we will have cake.” She nodded to the back of the ballroom where a triple tier cake was wheeled out from the kitchen.
I was surprised I hadn’t seen it while I was in there. It matched the colour scheme, and was embedded with small golden balls dotted around the tiers.
“I would also like for us all to put our hands together and give the service men and women a round of applause, for all the help.”
I clapped my hands and nodded. They’d done well at rounding everyone up to quiz people, they’d done equally well at covering and guarding the body from pictures.
Slices of cake landed on our table on small white plates.
It broke the silence around us.
“Oh delicious!” Howard’s wife said.
It was chocolate and vanilla, filled with layers of buttercream and strawberry. On any other given day this would’ve been something I relished in and scraped down every last single bite. But today, my throat wasn’t so convinced.
“Are we just going to believe it was him?” I asked Ruth. “I know he confessed, but why would he?” my brows knitted together and my bottom lip smushed against the top.
“It was odd,” she said. “To go through the effort of poison, and then to admit. You poison people so you don’t get found out, you do all that so there’s no physical object like a knife to connect you.”
“And didn’t you say, women poison as revenge?”
Ruth nodded back.
I glanced out at the people on our table, looking at us as our whispering had caught their attention.
Stabbing my fork into the cake, I smiled. “Is it good?”
They nodded back, their mouths full of food.
I still couldn’t stomach it, even after going through the effort of putting a slither of it on the fork. “Or men who don’t want to get their hands dirty.”
“Or that.” A grimace forced across her lips. “Did you see that in one of those shows I was telling you about?”
To Ruth’s surprise, I hadn’t taken her offer of watching a crime show about people murdering each other. Unfortunately, horrors and the likes where people were shown to be murdered weren’t my cup of tea.
“Well, you’re going to be working as an investigative journalist soon,” she continued. “It’ll be good to watch a couple, maybe not the TV shows, but the documentaries are good.”
I had hoped the new step in my career wouldn’t be murder focused, I want to investigate companies, and write those expos pieces about shocking working conditions, and unfair wages. I didn’t see myself being around so much death in the future.
“They talk about being analytical,” I mumbled back with a nod. “And I am.”
I heard a voice call my name.
“Eve,” it cooed again softly.
Diane waved at me from her table, sipping a cup of coffee.
The table watched me as I stood and approached her.
She smiled, pulling the cup from her lips. “Glad that’s over,” she said.
The people around her table went on without pause, sipping from their glasses and nibbling at the slices of cake on their plates. I hadn’t been introduced to any of them, other than her husband. They didn’t make eye contact as I looked them over.
“Me too,” I said.
“Well, I know Patrick mentioned how it would’ve been a great starter piece at the new paper,” she said. “I think you should scrap that now.” She nodded to Patrick at her side, he smiled back at me and nodded to us both.
I shrugged. “It is what it is.”
“He confessed,” she said. “And thankfully he did as well, otherwise it could’ve gone on all night.”
“Someone was looking out for the evening then,” I replied.
“It’s nothing short of a miracle.”
Patrick hummed. “But never would I have guessed it was him. Very out of character.”
“Yes, yes.”
“We’ve been having meals with him and his wife for years now,” Patrick continued. “We know they had their differences, recently, but business is business, none of them were screwed over.”
“Well, he admitted to it,” Diane said. “And it must take guts to get on that stage and tell your truth.”
My browed creased as a question crossed my mind. “What do you think would’ve happened if he didn’t confess, and nobody came forward, and nothing was pinned on anyone.” Because, they didn’t have any evidence, only a note found on Finley’s body.
“Let’s not dwell on it,” Diane said. “Let the evening to continue. Eat some cake, help yourself to the food, which I’m glad isn’t going to waste now. But I wanted to tell you not to bother with the article.”
Patrick confirmed this with a nod. “Besides, everyone will have already beaten you to the punchline.” His head turning to glance around the room.
He was right.
In a room filled with people and their connections, this story was already out there, and anything I would’ve had to say wouldn’t have been worth reading. Not because it wasn’t important, but because I didn’t have anything fresh to add.
Even after years writing fluff pieces for the travel magazine, I knew whenever I went to visit a location for a second or third time, I had to be creative with my approach, whether it was focused on product, the owners, or the someone’s story at that place.
Diane reached out a hand to me. “Enjoy the evening,” she said. “And I think I’ll be asking for an hour with the hot stones tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Back at the table, Ruth had devoured both my slice of cake and hers. Her front teeth had a crumb of chocolate between them.
“I was hungry,” she mumbled, shrugging at the plates. “What did she want?”
I took my seat again, and looked around the table, wondering if everyone was listening. “To tell me there was no articles,” I said. I also didn’t want to hear them express my doubts over Spencer. “There’s going to be several of them tomorrow or Monday, claiming to be exclusives form the scene.”
“Why do you look like there’s going to be a but?”
Looking around, the couples weren’t paying attention to us. They were all loved up, taking the time to absorb in the champagne hues of each other.
“There could be more to this,” I said. “They had meals with them; Spencer and his wife. They would’ve said if they thought it was marital problems, and they said neither of them were screwed out of the businesses. So, why?”
“Paul will find out,” Ruth said. “It’s out of our hands, let’s enjoy the rest of the night.”
I turned, my head immediately glancing to the empty
space where Finley and his date had been. Looking, I tried to find where Spencer had been sat, but people were moving around, and there were many empty seats.
A tap to the hand snapped me back to the table. “What are you looking for?” Ruth asked.
“Spencer’s seat.”
Her hand shot past my face. “That table,” she said.
A table filled with seated bodies, except one.
There was a spare seat, and over it, a distinct dark red suit jacket.
FIFTEEN
I’d left Ruth at the table as I approached the seat where Spencer had been sat. Table nine. I had no clue who anyone else at the table was. They were most likely investors or people who the magazine used for advertising and marketing, photographers, or freelancer writers.
I only knew as much as what I was paid to know. And that was the businesses in the Cotswolds. An odd thing to think, especially when I was heading on to a writing post which expressly asked to know or investigate the unknown.
“Is this—” I asked as a man flailing his arms around turned to me. “—Spencer’s?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “Yes, it is.”
Others shrugged and nodded.
Maybe they didn’t know Spencer either, or they were pretending like they didn’t know him after the bombshell of news he’d struck everyone with.
“Thank you,” I whispered back, slipping the jacket from the back of the seat.
The heft to the jacket caught me off guard, almost losing my grip.
Pulling the jacket away, I started to walk and search through the front pocket.
Paper. Slick and glossy to the touch. I grabbed at the small scrap.
£32.98. It read, followed by a list of items.
It was a receipt.
“Find anything?” Ruth asked at my side, startling my finger to fumble and drop the jacket.
“No, just—” I grabbed the jacket, touching something hard.
“What?”
She took the receipt. “This?”
Digging my hand into the inside jacket pocket, I pulled out a phone and a piece of folded paper. Looking around, nobody was paying attention to the two of us. I showed her what I had in my hands, grabbing the suit jacket and pulling it to hide the objects from view.
“What is it?”
With a nod, I signalled to move somewhere else, somewhere people wouldn’t be able to see us as well as they currently could.
We were in the corner of the ballroom, at the end of a long buffet table. To anyone looking at us, we were here for the food, everyone else was going about the evening as if nothing had happened, or gossiping about the evening as though something major had happened, I wasn’t focused on them.
“What does it say?” Ruth asked.
Unfolding the note, my gut sank.
Tell them you killed him. Or else. We know about Nora.
My lips moved as I read the words out in my head. Of course, there was something going on. I knew he wouldn’t have confessed; I knew nobody in this room would’ve confessed. Everyone here was out to protect themselves; the lives of the rich and secret.
“Nora?” Ruth questioned. “Who’s Nora?”
“That’s what we need to find out.” I gestured to the phone, the second part of the discovery we’d made searching through his pockets.
“Caroline is his wife,” Ruth added. “So, he was the one having the affair. I can’t believe we just thought it was her with Finley.”
“He didn’t give us anything else to believe,” I said.
The screen of his phone flashed white in our faces.
On the screen, there were several missed calls showing as notifications. No names attached to them. Only missed call (8). Similarly, the same for text notifications. Whatever Spencer was doing, he was incredibly secretive about the whole thing.
“Annie does the same with her phone,” Ruth said. “When she’s home, and if I hear that little buzz on the counter in the kitchen, you know, normal motherly instincts kick in and I go to check her phone.”
A grin swallowed my face.
“So, she has her settings all—you know, secret, so they don’t show you what’s been sent or who by on the screen.” She tapped her fingernails against the screen.
It vibrated in my hand.
Incorrect passcode.
“Oops,” she said, biting her teeth.
“How many tries do we get?”
She shrugged. “Three, four—ten, I think.”
Holding a finger against the screen, the numbers appeared. “It’s only four numbers,” I said. “And you know him the most, so, take a shot.” I handed the phone over to her.
“Well, Spencer is still here,” she said.
I snapped my fingers. “Not like he’d give us the code,” I said. “If he was worried enough about the news of an affair getting out, so much so he’d take the blame for a murder he didn’t do, I doubt he’s going to let us fight for him.”
“It’s worth a shot.”
“Well,” I clicked my tongue. “I can ask Paul if he’s found anything else, and then maybe I can tell him about what we found in the jacket.”
“If he believes you.”
Another if, there was no reason Paul wouldn’t, and it could’ve been written in the same ink, with the same paper as the note found on Finley’s body.
I looked at the note once again. “I’ll see what I can find out,” I said. “Take these.” I handed the jacket, phone, and note to Ruth. “I should grab my shawl first, I bet it’s cold outside.”
“I’m going back to the table,” she said with a nod. “But first, I’m going to fill myself because nobody else seems to be doing it.”
Nobody else was taking advantage of the buffet, and I knew Diane had spent days combing over every detail of the event to be perfect. But there’d so far been a dead body found, so the night was anything but perfect, I was sure her thoughts wouldn’t be on the buffet food going to waste.
Finley’s body had been moved from the disabled toilets, but it had been replaced by caution tape and a barrier for no entry.
A police officer stood at the exit door out into the lobby.
The same officer who’d been standing inside the kitchen on duty.
He smiled. “Evening,” he said. “Where are you headed?”
“I’m going to see Paul.”
He hummed and shook his head, pulling the clipboard from his chest out to me. “Go on then, Mrs Green.”
“If we’re not on lockdown, why are—”
“To be cautious,” he said, noting my name on the paper. “Don’t want anyone to go missing.”
I headed out into the hallway, bright lights overhead struck my eyes at first, before they adjusted. I walked until I reached the reception area.
The woman Finley had brought with him was on one of the sofas; wrapped in a blanket and talking on her phone.
The two people seated behind the reception desk glanced over to me.
“Is Paul—is the detective still here?” I asked them in my approach, tugging at the shawl across my arms.
A cool breeze hit as the doors opened.
It wasn’t Paul, it was another police officer, pressing his mouth to the talkie on his chest and shoulder lapel.
“Think he’s outside,” the woman at the desk replied. “I don’t think any of them have left yet.”
I glanced back to the receptionists, getting a closer look at their nametags. Zara and Ben. They were seated at the desk; they must’ve been in their early twenties as they smiled without the obvious wrinkles of age.
“Were you questioned?” I asked.
They both nodded.
“Scary,” Ben said. “Can you even believe someone would do that here?” He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “They asked us not to post or talk about it.”
Zara cleared her throat. “Plus, it’s company policy not to have our phones out in work.” She let a shaky breath out. “But it’s crazy. I don’t know what I’d do if I saw a dead bod
y.”
“Probably scream,” Ben laughed at Zara.
I offered them both a smile. “Hope this is as eventful as the night will get,” I said. “And I’m sure if you get hungry, my boss—Diane, wouldn’t mind you going to grab something from the buffet.”
Their eyes lit up.
Of course, there was no saying how she would react. But it was better than letting the food go to waste.
I headed outside, a gust blew into my face, followed by an acrid cloud of smoke.
To the left, Paul stood sucking back on a cigarette.
“Eve—Eve,” he stumbled over my name. “I don’t smoke all the time.” He pressed the cigarette into the tray above the rubbish bin.
“It’s okay, Paul,” I said. “Have you taken Spencer to the station yet?”
He shook his head. “We’re searching his car now.”
“Can I—can I just have—can I just ask him a question?”
He chuckled. “Definitely not.” Looking ahead at the police cars towards the edge of the parking area, blocking everyone in.
The parking lot was filled completely with cars, and after the police and ambulance, the area was packed.
“Well—”
“What do you want to ask him?” he paused before asking.
I took a deep breath, attempting to clear my lungs from the second-hand smoke cloud I’d walked into. “Why did he do it?”
Paul shrugged. “We’ve already got his statement,” he said. “You don’t have any business knowing. Because I know you Eve, you’re writing for some big-time newspaper now, you’re looking for a story, and I’ve already had several people come out and offer me money for information.”
“Did you take it?”
He scoffed. “With the promotion I just got?”
I nodded.
“No, I didn’t take anything they offered,” he said. “There’s nothing anyone could offer me; I’ll never give confidential police statements.”
I wasn’t asking him to give me Spencer’s statement, just a moment alone with the man. I shouldn’t have lied about my intention, I should’ve told him about the phone, but I didn’t want to back track, and I didn’t want him to be hailed for finding the phone.
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