by Sara Rosett
Her crinkly hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wore light blue capris with a T-shirt. At first glance, I thought it had some sort of abstract design on it. But as she came closer, I realized the marks were dried streaks and splotches of paint. She put out one sandal-clad foot and hopped off the bike, tilting it sideways as she stopped. “Yes, thank you so much for letting me borrow your bike pump. I was able to get down to the repair shop where they patched it for me. You saved me quite a walk.”
Annette waved her hand. “No worries. I couldn’t leave you stranded, not with the sun at its peak. You would have had a long, hot walk down to the village. Visiting Nether Woodsmoor, are you, for the biking?”
“No, I’m not much of a cyclist, really. It’s just a break for me, to get out a bit.”
“But you’re not from here.” Annette said it with assurance. Nether Woodsmoor was small enough that, while I didn’t know everyone’s names, I did recognize almost all of the villagers. Annette had grown up in the village—she’d given me an overview of her history when she moved in—so she would know a visitor when she saw one. “Where are you staying? At the inn?”
I hid a smile as the woman inched her bike backward. She didn’t like the nosy questions, but Annette was oblivious to any discomfort she was causing.
“No, I’m in a bungalow on the other side of the village,” the woman said vaguely.
“One of those Internet house rental things, then.” Annette’s forehead wrinkled then cleared. “Henrietta Philbank’s bungalow? Red door with the frosted glass panel on the side?”
The woman looked half-surprised, half-frightened. “Yes, how did you know?”
“Women’s Institute. Henrietta teaches at a nice day school in Yardley. She always takes a holiday in the summer and goes to see her mum in Devon. She’s done that house share thing the last few summers. Wouldn’t like to do it myself as you’d never know who would be staying in your place.”
Annette seemed to realize that she’d said something that could be taken the wrong way and quickly added, “Of course, if they were like you, it would be fine. You’re the sort who would take care and not leave a mess. Oh goodness, I didn’t realize it was so late. I must be off, which is a pity. I’d love to have you in for a cup of tea. I could tell you about the cycling paths.” She gripped the handle of the wheelie bin and maneuvered it through her gate. “There’s one that goes around Parkview, which is quite nice, although a bit crowded. Another one goes over to the old Hillary place. Not as popular, but even nicer views, I’ve always thought. I like to walk it myself, but the path is wide, and you could ride it.” As she towed the bin toward the side of the house, she called, “Do come by again if you get the chance.”
Once she’d disappeared around the side of her house, I looked back at the woman’s slightly bemused face. She said, “She’s rather, um, overpowering.”
“She means well,” I said, my tone apologetic, “but doesn’t realize how she comes across.”
“It was really you I wanted to speak to. I saw you at the pub last night…” She rotated her tight grip on the handlebars backward and forward a few centimeters.
“I remember. We sat next to each other.”
“Right. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. I realize I should have said something the moment I realized who you were, but I was so stunned. The shock of everything, I suppose…anyway,” she released her grip on the handlebar and held it out toward me, “I’m Violet Emsley.”
Chapter 19
I WAS ALREADY SHAKING HER hand as I processed the name. “Violet? You’re Arabella’s sister.”
At first glance, I didn’t see any similarities between the two women, but then I realized that they both had the same shade of brown hair, but Arabella’s had been sleek and shiny while Violet’s coarse frizz stuck out wildly. They both had dark brown eyes and a similar brow line, but Arabella’s eyebrows had been plucked and shaped into delicate arches that emphasized her eyes. Violet looked like she had never worried about shaping her eyebrows, or much else related to fashion, grooming, or makeup. Her face was free of makeup, and her hair was escaping from an elastic.
“Do you have a moment to talk? I’d like to hear about Arabella. The police are being quite beastly about it. I hoped you’d tell me how she was these last few days.”
I felt like the note was burning a hole in the pocket of my shorts, but how could I put off a woman whose sister had just died? I hesitated, my mind racing. She’d been on the path yesterday with a broken-down bike. Could she have tampered with the wiring at Tate House? Apparently, anyone determined enough could climb over the wall, and if she was cycling around Nether Woodsmoor, she wasn’t exactly delicate. And Violet had visited the house earlier when Torrie turned her away. Maybe yesterday Violet had made her way onto the grounds without going through the gate and…what?…Set up an elaborate electrical trap for her sister? If her distraught expression was genuine, that wasn’t what happened.
She motioned to the keys I held. “I can see you’re on your way out. I can come back later. Or I could meet you somewhere later. Perhaps the pub?”
The only date I had was with a postbox, but she didn’t need to know that. Although she looked genuinely grief-stricken, I didn’t want to be stupid and invite a stranger into my home. “I’m on my way into the village now. Why don’t we go that direction? We could take the path that goes down to the river. There are some benches there where we could talk. That wouldn’t put you out of your way, if you’re going back to the bungalow where you’re staying.”
She swung her leg over the bike to dismount. “Yes, let’s do that.”
As Violet and I walked down the lane, Annette reappeared on the way to her car, which was parked on the lane, and gave us a sharp once-over.
“Looks like you’ll have some questions to answer later,” Violet said.
“Don’t worry, I’m getting quite good at evading her. If she does catch me, I’ll tell her we discussed bike paths.” I tried to ignore the faint crackle that came from the envelope in my pocket with each step.
Violet gestured to the basket on the front of the bike that held a wooden box and several glass jars with screw-top lids filled with brightly colored water. “I’m not getting anywhere today so I might as well head back.”
Arabella had said something about her sister being a painter. “What sort of paintings do you do?” I asked as she pushed her bike beside me down Cottage Lane.
“Watercolor.” Her mouth turned down at the corners. “Arabella called them nursery school art, but many serious artists work in watercolor.”
“I’m sure they do,” I said since I wasn’t well informed on watercolorists.
She wrinkled her nose. “Sorry. I tend to get a bit defensive about it, but she was so…so snobbish, which was quite ironic, considering that she made her living playing pretend.” We had made our way down the sloping streets and were now in Nether Woodsmoor. As we paused on the curb to wait for the traffic, she said, “That sounds awful.”
Her voice was contrite as I motioned for us to take a street that would bring us out at the path that ran along the river. “It was an old argument,” Violet continued. “Arabella didn’t understand that other forms of artistic expression are just as legitimate as hers. And the thought that I could be happy with my “pale little doodles” as she called them—well, she didn’t understand that. Unless everyone knew your name, and you were paid millions of dollars for a few months of your time, you were a failure in her eyes.”
We had reached the pedestrian zone beside the river, a wide swath of flat water that flowed by with a low murmur. Restaurants and shops lined the walking area. Since it was a sunny day, it was filled with tourists and locals alike. Some strolled while others spread blankets for an early picnic lunch. I spotted a free bench and headed for it, walking by a red postbox. I ran my hand over the outside of my shorts pocket where the square of the folded envelope pressed against the fabric. I would have liked to drop
it in the postbox, but couldn’t figure out how I’d explain using a tissue to hold the thing. “That must have been difficult,” I said, trying to put the note out of my mind and focus on Violet. “I don’t know what it would be like to have a sister—or brother for that matter. I’m an only child.”
Violet parked her bike at the end of the bench and sat down beside me. “Arabella and I shouldn’t have fought so much. I probably shouldn’t speak of her this way, with her…gone…but it’s how she was.” Her voice turned fierce. “She was selfish, even as a little girl. She never would share. And she didn’t change once she got older. A few thousand pounds was nothing to her. She spent more than that on a handbag, but she’d never give it to me even though I’d put it to good use. There are plenty of people who would love to learn to paint—children and adults.”
“Your art school,” I said.
She turned toward me. “She mentioned it? Had she decided to fund it?”
Arabella hadn’t sounded the least bit interested in it when I heard her mention it—in fact, her tone had been disparaging, but I couldn’t say that, not with Violet looking at me so eagerly.
“I have no idea. I wasn’t involved with her much. I only spoke to her a few times.”
“Oh. Well, perhaps after the will is…” She waved her hand and shrugged a shoulder. “…probated or whatever it’s called. Maybe then I’ll be able to open the school. I mean, if she hasn’t changed her will. And she wasn’t the sort of person to dwell on things like that. I doubt she gave it another thought after she signed it.”
“So she did have a will?”
“Oh, yes. She called me out of the blue one day and said I would get half her estate and not to do anything foolish with it if she were to kick off before me. Like leaving the other half of her estate to fund an acting grant wasn’t foolish. Her business manager made her draw up the will after she got together with Stevie Lund. He said that Stevie was the sort of person who would cause no end of trouble if something were to happen to Arabella.” Her tone became quieter. “I think, too, that he wanted her to do it as a preventative measure to keep Stevie from getting any…ideas about, you know, hurting her—or worse.”
“You think Lund would have killed her for her money?” I asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”
Her gaze slipped away from mine. “That sounds so… horrible when you put it like that, but Stevie is quite vicious, and look at his family—criminals, all of them. Not white-collar criminals, either. Mobsters, that’s what they are, no matter what the papers say. They run drugs. Arabella and Stevie always had a stormy relationship. If they were on the outs, and he thought he could get Arabella’s money, then I think he’d do it. Or, actually he’d probably have someone else do it.”
Arabella had said the same thing, I remembered, and suddenly I felt as if I was standing in a cold draft. I crossed my arms. But how well informed was Violet about Arabella? From what I’d seen, Arabella hadn’t wanted anything to do with Violet and had kept her at a distance. “Stevie Lund is here in Nether Woodsmoor. Did you know that?” I asked.
“Stevie Lund?”
“He was at the pub last night.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. “In fact, he bumped into me when I left, didn’t you see him?”
“No. I went to the loo, and when I came back, you’d already left. I’d been working up to asking you about Arabella, but then when I heard the word murder…I went all funny inside. The police had told me, of course, but when I heard you mention it, it hit me hard—that it was real. Too many drinks probably had something to do with it, too, I suppose. After I washed my face, I felt better. When I got back and saw you were gone I didn’t look around to see who was in the pub. I left as quick as I could, hoping to catch up with you. Your dog made you easy to spot. I saw you turn to go up the lane to your house, and I followed. But then I realized that if I ran up to you on a dark street and began asking questions about Arabella you’d think I was absolutely mad, so I hung back and watched which house you went into.”
“I thought there was someone at the end of Cottage Lane last night. It wasn’t my imagination.”
“No, that was me. I decided I’d wait until today to talk to you. I’d already been by your cottage once today on my way to paint this morning, but couldn’t get up the nerve to knock on your door. And then I couldn’t concentrate at all, so I pitched my painting things in the bike’s basket and came back to the village, passing your cottage again.”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you much about Arabella. Like I said, I only spoke to her a few times, and she didn’t mention the art school to me.”
“The art school doesn’t matter. That’s not really why I wanted to talk to you.”
I refrained from pointing out that the art school had been the first thing that had come up. It was important to her, no matter what she said.
“The police have been so cagey,” Violet said. “They won’t tell me anything. I don’t know why they’re making such a fuss about me being in Nether Woodsmoor, if Stevie is here, too. He’s obviously the best suspect.”
“What have the police said?” I asked.
“Only that she fell down the stairs.”
So they were keeping the bit of news about the wiring to themselves. I wondered how long it would be before it came out. I decided I’d better not say anything about it to Violet. I cast around for something that I could tell her. “It looked like Arabella was on her way to do yoga.”
“She would be. She was always working out. And if it was nice, she’d be outside. It was the one time she’d allow herself to get some sun.” She gazed at the river, watching a group of ducks float under the bridge. “Was she…did it look like she had been in pain, or anything like that?”
“No, I don’t think so. It must have been quick.”
Still looking at the river, she drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I wish I could have seen her. Even though we had our moments, I still—” She looked down at her hands clasped together in her lap.
“Were you hoping to see her yesterday?”
She nodded as she sniffed and got her emotions under control. “I actually went by Tate House twice. Your neighbor only saw me at noon, but I went back later, after I’d had a bite at the tea shop. I figured it was worth a try.” She unlocked her hands and picked at a patch of dried blue paint on her shirt. “I suppose that’s why the police went so funny. Why did I go back when I’d already been turned away? Wasn’t I welcome?” She made a face. “Of course I couldn’t deny it. Blooming security cameras everywhere these days. Nothing’s private anymore.”
“Tate House does have quite a bit of monitoring equipment.”
“And the security lads, too.” A corner of her mouth turned up. “Arabella did know how to play up the drama. She was always good at that. One security person would certainly not be enough for a star like her.”
“So it was late when you went back? It was after you’d had tea?”
“Yes, it was around five or so, I think. I figured, one more go. I’d made a special trip here. I had to give it another try before I left.”
“When were you leaving?”
“I’d planned to leave this morning, which is another tick against me according to the police. I had no idea she was going to die, did I? I came up to see my sister for a few days. I couldn’t stick around forever.” Her gaze sharpened on something behind me. “And speaking of that, I should go,” she said briskly. “I have to clear up and pack so I can get out of here today.” She stood and rolled the bike to her hip, again taking a quick glance over my shoulder.
I looked back, but only saw milling families, cyclists, and a group of teens making their way toward the river. “So the police haven’t asked you to stay on?”
“In Nether Woodsmoor?” she asked as if the village were in the Arctic Circle and no one could be expected to stay and survive. “They shouldn’t have any problem with it. London is only a train ride away. Th
ey know where to find me. And besides, I need to get on with the arrangements for the funeral.” She swung up on the bike and said goodbye. She pushed firmly on the pedals and picked up speed. She followed the curving bank of the river and disappeared behind a group of trees that edged the water.
Did Violet realize Arabella’s will—if it contained the bequests she thought it did—gave her a motive? The way she spoke so freely about it seemed to indicate that the thought hadn’t crossed her mind. I twisted around, running my arm along the back of the bench as I looked over the pedestrian area behind me. The group of teenagers parted, half of them darting toward the bridge. That’s when I saw Constable Albertson.
I tensed, and my hand went to cover my thigh so that it rested over the envelope in my pocket, but then I realized that Albertson wasn’t interested in me at all. His attention was focused on Torrie, who was several yards in front of him.
Chapter 20
I STAYED SEATED ON THE bench and watched Albertson watch Torrie. He was in street clothes, a brown knit shirt and jeans. Torrie was several yards ahead of him, making her way speedily toward the red postbox that Violet and I had passed. One of the Hibberts was at her side, and she held a flat box clutched to her chest. She must be sending off the last of Arabella’s mail. Maybe she was a better assistant than I gave her credit for. Just because she seemed to dislike Arabella, didn’t mean she wouldn’t do her job.
The man with her turned his head. I didn’t see a glint of an earring, so I assumed it was Sylvester. Torrie dropped the box in the slot of the postbox, while Sylvester waited behind her, hands clasped loosely while his head turned, his gaze sweeping the area. His posture reminded me of the pose Secret Service agents took around the president. When Sylvester looked in Albertson’s direction, the constable melted into one of the shops that fronted the pedestrian area.