by Marni Graff
He hadn’t fooled Miles. “Helping the police with their enquiries” was a well-known phrase that meant “being questioned down at the station.” But when Miles protested that he was merely the woman’s employer, the PC had hastened to assure him he would be interviewed either at his flat or at the studio. Miles had smiled his toothy grin at the young man, announcing in a courtly manner that he would be available at their discretion. Best to be cooperative on all counts. He reached for the telephone.
No need to have the plod spending time with him when they should be out looking for the blighter to blame for this terrible event. Even though this PC had been annoyingly discreet when it came to the details, Miles had formed a mental picture of the crime scene, determining Bryn had probably brought her death upon herself with her dark good looks and variable love life. He sighed as he dialed. There was work to be done, no matter the circumstances.
“Terry? Miles here … Good, and you? … Look, I seem to have lost my assistant rather suddenly, and I was wondering if that nephew of yours had found a position yet?”
*
At The Artists’ Co-operative, which she had started with Val Rogan, Lottie Weber wrapped a birthday gift that the gentleman leaning on the counter had bought for his wife. She was pleased he’d chosen a piece of her pottery, a large bowl with three different glazes that had taken her three tries before getting the effect she wanted.
Aerosmith sang about their Ragdoll on the radio while Lottie wrapped the bowl in bubble wrap before settling it in a nest of unprinted newspaper in the bottom of the box. Today she’d chosen to wear dangling silver sunflower earrings, which bobbed against her neck as she kept time with the song. She knew they complemented her skirt with its blue background and large yellow sunflowers. She’d added a bright yellow tee that strained across her large bosom. “Which paper would you like to use?” Lottie pointed behind her to three rolls of decorated wrap hung on dowels.
“The blue one with the stars; that’s her favorite color,” the man said.
“And you could write on the card: ‘You are my favorite star!’” Lottie enthused.
The man shrugged. Some people just didn’t get that relationships took work and careful attention, Lottie thought, tearing off a hunk of the paper. It was like her pottery. She started out with a lump of clay and molded it into shape, but if she overworked it, her bowl would collapse into itself. You had to use finesse, just the right amount of pressure. Lottie loved the earthy smell of the unbaked clay, the way the wheel spun and her fingers massaged what had been a square lump into a recognizable object.
She wrapped the box and added a blue and silver ribbon bow. “There you go! Your wife should be very pleased with your choice. Please come again.”
The man thanked her and left. The smile faded from Lottie’s face. It was quiet in the co-op now. The other artisans on duty today were out to lunch. The co-operative had a rotating roster of artists who manned their own stalls and helped shoppers in any stall. Lottie preferred to keep the co-op open at lunchtime, when working people might pop in for a gift, just as this man had done.
Behind her, from a small fridge, she took out a chilled diet soda and her wrapped sandwich and settled down to her own lunch, one foot tapping in time to the music. She’d made two sandwiches that morning, on the off chance that Val would be in to join her, but that hadn’t happened. Silly to think it would. She wondered what Val was doing at exactly that moment, and bit into her salami sandwich.
*
In an expensive contemporary flat out west along the Botley Road, Cameron Wilson checked his profile in the triple mirror over his bathroom sink. For a moment he thought he detected a hint of sag, just there at the corner of his eyelids, and experimentally put tension on either side of his temples, tightening the skin around his eyes and lifting away his frown lines. If you do only one thing, a plastic surgeon he’d met had remarked, get an eye job. It takes away the tired expression characteristic of aging, freshening up the face. Best start saving for that one.
Dropping his hands, he examined himself critically, judging his blonde highlights could go another week, scrutinizing himself the way the lens of the camera did every time he donned one of the expensive suits he modeled. Posing for magazine advertisements for a well-known designer, affecting a nonchalant, casual manner, he had become associated with the designer’s clothes, and Cameron knew once his face started to fall, so would his career, his travel, and his comfortable income.
Cam fancied himself a Hugh Grant type, smarter because he would never consider lopping off his trademark floppy bang as old Hugh had recently done for a film, a bad move in his opinion. And his eyes were better shaped than Grant’s, he decided with one last look in the mirror, none of that downward droop giving him a hangdog look. Satisfied with his appearance for the moment, he checked his stash to see just how much of a good time he could have tonight at The Coven. The place would be jumping, mostly non-students vibrating to the lasers and lights, enveloped in clouds of smoke. A popular DJ was on tap, and his appearance would guarantee a dance floor filled with sweet-smelling young women, navels pierced and on display, shaking their booties and everything else they owned in his direction.
Bryn had always refused to come to The Coven with him. After taking up with that lesbian, Val Rogan, and her artsy crowd, she’d gone on occasion to The Blue Virgin. One look in there had convinced him he needn’t return—too much sex and not enough drugs was his estimate. He’d rationalized when she’d broken off with him that Bryn’s action was proof positive she was rather immature. He’d also felt certain she would regret her decision to dump him. When that hadn’t happened, he’d made a decision to settle things. He could handle the rejection of a foolish girl leaving him for another man; what he couldn’t stand was being trumped by a dyke.
Chapter Eight
“Before the murder I was grateful to live where I live, to work where I work—for all the happy facts.”
— Rafael Yglesias, The Murderer Next Door
1:30 PM
Detective Sergeant Douglas McAfee paced restlessly outside Bryn Wallace’s flat, waiting for the SOCOs to pack up and leave. He had barely made the height requirement for joining the force, and as such, was known for his upright posture. A young man impatient to rise up through the ranks in the Criminal Investigation Department, he discovered that the thorough, routine parts of murder investigations didn’t provide him with the stimulation he had anticipated when he set his sights on becoming a detective inspector. He would have liked to be the family officer on this case, just to experience that angle, but the job had been given to Watkins because of his seniority. McAfee consulted his watch for the fourth time in ten minutes, chastising himself for expecting the plum parts to fall into his lap. He needed to become proactive, to deliver something that advanced the investigation instead of grousing like an adolescent, if Barnes and his superiors were to take more notice of him.
He continued his pacing, this time with renewed purpose. As he paused to collect his thoughts, he saw the constable posted on the entry door allowing the postman to enter the lobby, where the man began slipping mail into the tenants’ boxes.
“You there!” he called. The postman thrust a set of letters through one of the slots. McAfee strode toward him, holding up his warrant card. The young officer had always wanted to do that.
“Let’s see what you have for Bryn Wallace,” McAfee said.
The man scrutinized McAfee’s ID, then thumbed through the stack he was holding before handing over the few items and having McAfee sign a receipt.
Now he’d clinched it, McAfee thought, labeling the evidence bag containing the victim’s mail, careful to hold it by just one corner. Inside was a general circular announcing the opening of a new day spa in Cowley, a credit card bill, and two personal letters: one of ivory, watermarked paper, the address written wit
h an elegant hand; the other a bright, lime-green note card printed in metallic gold ink. Certainly one of these should provide a clue to someone in the victim’s life, with the added bonus of giving him something interesting to pursue in his own line of inquiry. Even if it proved a dead end, he would garner points for his initiative. McAfee smiled in silent satisfaction, industriously jotting in his notebook.
*
The Old Vicarage stood next to St. Mary’s Parish Church, circa 1500, five minutes from the town center and just down from a row of picturesque, gabled almshouses with mullioned windows that lined the path to the church. It was the site of a popular bed and breakfast owned by Susan and Anthony Ross, managed and inhabited by Janet Wallace.
It was Janet’s favorite position in a long line of work to provide support for herself and her only child, Bronwyn. As hostess she provided booking duties and checked people in, but did none of the heavy housework. Managing allowed Janet to meet people and to stay involved in the modern world, something on which she prided herself. She’d learned how to use a computer to take bookings, and with her own comfortable suite in the building provided rent-free, she had enough left from her wages to enjoy bus trips to Stratford with a local theatre group.
At the sound of the bell, Janet moved into the hall to open the door. She had the same fine facial structure as her daughter but not her height. Her feathery hair, once light brown, now sported wings of white at the crown. Her sharp brown eyes saw a police car parked outside. Janet was like a dog on alert, even as she strove to be welcoming.
“Valentine! What a wonderful surprise!” she said cheerfully, her face lighting up. “Welcome to the Old Vicarage,” she said to the two men with Val.
As a Celica pulled up behind the cruiser, Janet looked from one man to the other as they withdrew their warrant cards and introduced themselves. Her puzzlement changed to alarm when she realized her daughter was not among the unexpected guests. “What’s going on?” she whispered, her crisp look wilting.
One of the detectives gently took her arm. “Perhaps we should go inside, Mrs. Wallace,” he said.
Chapter Nine
“This is the reason why mothers are more devoted to their children than fathers; it is that they suffer more in giving them birth and are more certain that they are their own.”
— Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics
2 PM
Nora was in the kitchen making tea with Simon. “The Brit’s panacea,” she told him ruefully. The room was airy and tidy, overwhelmed by a large Welsh dresser filled with stoneware and china and with a setting for one at a small table. From the sitting room, the murmur of voices had become low and soothing, Janet’s weeping controlled. Nora nodded to Simon, who carried in the full tray ahead of her. She took in the scene in front of her.
“Who would do such an unthinkable thing? She was so lovely, our Bryn, wasn’t she, Valentine?” The muscles around Janet’s neck and jaw looked tense. She clutched Val’s hand as they sat next to each other on a chintz love seat. The men sat in armchairs across from them.
The room was low slung, with an inky beamed doorway that all of the men had to duck under to enter. Wide-plank floors softly reflected a few polished tables; three armchairs covered in crewel prints shouted the Shakespearean influence in the area. A wide casement window drew the eye to a small but well-tended garden with a petite pergola crowned with wisteria vines. Nora thought it was a place of tranquility now spoiled by the devastating news.
It had become humid as the noon sun warmed the room, and Nora rose and cranked the casement open. The peppery-sweet scent of the wisteria wafted into the room on a mild breeze, accompanied by the melody of a song thrush. From a chair in the corner, Nora watched Watkins take notes as the inspector gently questioned Janet. He’d gotten through Bryn’s state of mind, her work and her friends. When he asked about Bryn’s father, there was a noticeable change in the red-eyed woman who had seemed to shrink into the sofa as the room became sultry.
“There is no Mr. Wallace, Inspector Barnes,” Janet said quietly, drawing her frame to the edge of the couch with great dignity and leaning forward. “Wallace is my maiden name. The man who fathered my daughter disappeared when she was two days old—I never knew if it was because he was disappointed the baby was a girl or just felt trapped by the responsibility.” Her voice trembled as she recounted the day she was to take her baby home, waiting for Allen Wesley to arrive.
“I was convinced he’d had an accident when he didn’t come. I called my parents, but they hadn’t heard from him. He wasn’t from around here so I had no one else to call. My father finally took us home, to the flat he’d made us over our barn.”
Her voice faltered, and she paused to take a sip of her tea. Nora’s heart turned over for her pain. Janet cleared her throat and continued.
“He’d left the baby things we’d collected and the money we’d saved and just took his clothes. I was certain he’d panicked and would be back in a few days. It took six months with no news from him for it to sink in he wasn’t ever coming back, probably a year before I admitted that to anyone else.”
The inspector nodded sympathetically. “How did you divorce?”
A blush rose on the pale face. “We weren’t married. I wanted a proper dress, not one made to disguise my pregnancy. I suppose that turned out to be a big mistake.”
Nora caught her breath. She understood Janet Wallace more than she’d ever imagined she would. At least she was having her baby in a time where it was more common for a woman to raise a child alone. She could only imagine the struggle Janet had gone through almost thirty years ago.
Janet shrugged, smiling ruefully, and her voice got stronger as she summoned the mettle it had taken her to raise her child alone without a father. “Perhaps in the end it was for the best. We didn’t really know each other well, and the pregnancy pushed us into thinking we should get married. Allen gave Bryn her long legs and dark hair. She had beautiful hair—I used to braid it when she went to sleep and all the next day she would have brown waves like a soft cloud around her face.” Janet blinked rapidly, hurrying to get her story out.
“My parents helped me raise Bronwyn while I worked in a series of town shops and then the postal office before coming here. We had a good life, I think. We all doted on her, and I managed, although it was tough at times. She was always pretty, a delightful child, but on occasion melancholy. I thought it was because she never knew her father.” Janet’s eyes misted over, and she was lost to her memories again; the room’s occupants shifted their positions, giving the mother time to compose herself.
Nora found Barnes’ eyes on her and realized her empathy was showing. She looked quickly away, struck by the intensity of his gaze. He turned to Janet, and Nora heard him gentle his tone as he continued.
“And you’ve had no contact with him, no idea where Allen Wesley is now?”
Janet shook her head. “I decided he either made a new life for himself, or he died.”
“Would you have a picture of him?” Barnes asked. There was a pause as Janet concentrated.
“I had one from when we were dating. Bryn used to keep it in her room; I guess she took it with her when she moved to Oxford.”
“Bryn had a tin she kept old photographs in; it might be in there,” Val offered.
“Right, we’ll get it and have copies made.” Barnes paused before asking: “Do either of you know if Bryn ever tried to find her father, to contact him in any way?” Both women shook their heads, but a look between Barnes and Watkins told Nora they, like she, wondered if Bryn’s father could be a part of this equation.
Nora stirred and got up to take the tea tray into the kitchen. While listening to the questioning, she had been trying to figure out who might have had a motive to kill Bryn Wallace, but she was at a loss. Surely if her father had surfaced, he would wa
nt to reconnect with his daughter. What possible reason could he have had to kill her?
Simon followed her, and as he helped her load the dishwasher in the large vicarage kitchen, she saw him notice her frown and distant expression. His own expression turned to one of dismay.
“Oh, no, I’ve seen that expression before,” he said.
“What expression?” Nora asked, eyes wide, handing him a dish towel.
“The one that says you’re getting ready to poke your nose in where it doesn’t belong,” he answered good-naturedly.
Nora was sorry she’d ever told him her mother called her a “nosey parker.” She noted he was trying not to sound stuffy, but still, she wasn’t going to let him off that easily.
“That’s absurd,” she said with more than a hint of defensiveness. “I’m not poking, I’m involved. Val is my dearest friend, and this was her love. I’m just going to try to think of anything those two detectives out there may have missed. I have no intention of trying to solve this murder.”
“You promise to leave the detecting to the professionals?”
“Of course. At least I mean to leave it to them … I’m just thinking—thinking can’t hurt.” Simon groaned as she rushed on. “How about a compromise? I’ll only poke about if it seems Val is a serious suspect. You’ll just have to be happy with that.”