The Blue Virgin

by Marni Graff

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.”

  — Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Frankenstein

  2 PM

  Simon and Nora sat at Val’s table, sharing a late lunch Janet had prepared while Val slept. Simon had thought he’d have to peel Nora off the ceiling from excitement after their interview with Nigel Rumley. When Janet called them about a late lunch Nora agreed to come home for a good meal and to see Val. At least for the moment she seemed to have forgotten her determination to visit Magdalen Road.

  Now Simon wolfed down Janet’s steaming shepherd’s pie. Janet watched him eat with a bemused expression on her face, apparently thankful one person enjoyed her cooking. Val had arrived at the table last and pushed around the mashed potatoes, meat, and peas. Nora, too, had hardly touched her food; she seemed too giddy to eat.

  “We should be thankful for some fine things that happened today,” Janet said, putting her fork down. “Val is home, and Nora and Simon have gotten wonderful news. Tell us, Nora.”

  Simon enjoyed seeing the sparkle in Nora’s eyes, the slight flush on her cheeks as she recounted their meeting with Rumley. From his stately antiques-filled office to his argyle socks, Nigel Rumley was a character in his own right. But the interview had turned out better than either of them had expected.

  “I admit I was gob smacked, as you Brits say. We signed a note for a proposed contract that will be reviewed by Simon’s lawyer and his agent, but it’s for three books in the series, with first rights to expand in the future. We have a date for the next one to be submitted, and the galley proofs for the first should come in six weeks. I’ll have both of those things done and out of the way before the baby is due.”

  Val grabbed her friend’s hand. “That’s just wonderful, Nora. You must be so pleased. And Simon, good for you, too.”

  “By the time we get back to Ramsey Lodge, it should be ready for signing,” he said.

  “And with the advance arriving soon after that, I’ll only have to dip into my savings occasionally,” Nora added. “But how are you feeling, Val?”

  Simon saw concern etched across Nora’s face.

  “Honestly, I feel like I’m moving through a vat of pudding. It’s all so unreal, like I’m living someone else’s life,” Val said.

  Janet patted Val’s hand. “It will be all right.”

  Simon helped himself to another biscuit. “This is delicious, Janet. Thank you for including us.

  “I’ve always enjoyed cooking,” Janet said, “and Bryn was an excellent helper and student. She was more adventurous than I am, though. I tend to stick to old favorites.”

  Val put her fork down. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready to see my favorite solicitor,” she said with an attempt at wryness.

  Simon finished his biscuit, watching Nora. He saw deep worry knitting her brow. Janet noticed it, too.

  “We’ll get it sorted out, somehow,” Janet said, rising as Val left the room.

  “Let me, Janet,” Simon said, helping her stack dishes. “I almost feel guilty enjoying that meal.”

  “No need to, Simon. Bryn would understand, and Lord knows I do. The living need to go right on living. It’s what my dad told me like a litany after Bryn was born and we were alone.”

  Simon was struck by the phrasing of Janet’s statement. It almost sounded as if Janet knew Bryn’s father had died. He saw by Nora’s pensive expression that she had also tucked away this thought. She nodded in agreement and said: “And we need to conserve all of our energy right now.”

  Simon groaned. “Don’t tell me you still want to go to Magdalen Road? What for?”

  He watched Janet pick up on an impending argument. She ducked into the kitchen with a pile of plates. “I’ll just load the dishwasher.”

  “What for? For finding Bryn’s murderer, that’s what for,” Nora said without missing a beat. “I’ve told you I won’t leave Val’s future to police who are already convinced she’s guilty.”

  Simon knew he had to tread carefully. Nora was fiercely independent, and he had no real claim to her movements. Still, he could not stop himself from commenting. “And you think speaking to Bryn’s neighbors is somehow going to make a difference?”

  “It might.” She got up from the table. “And I mean to make a start. If it bothers you so much, I’ll get permission first from the police.”

  She bounced up to help Janet as Simon sat back in exasperation. There would be no stopping Nora now. She would make her lists, and ponder, and rationalize. All he could do was try to stop her before she got in over her head.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “It may take time to get over an obsession, even after the roots have been pulled out.”

  — Booth Tarkington, Rumbin Galleries

  2:15 PM

  The Covered Market was pure retail theatre, Declan thought, with its mix of boutiques, food stores, high-end jewellery, and low-end T-shirts. It was mid-afternoon, and his stomach growled. He ducked into a small cafe and ordered coffee and a pastie.

  Fortified, he walked past the showy flower stalls, pausing to watch the butcher hang a whole deer to age alongside the rabbits and steer already swaying from the rafters. Declan walked carefully on the uneven cobbles to his destination, The Cake Shop, pushing through the crowds window-shopping or munching on warm cookies. He knew the shop closed early on Sunday but judged he had plenty of time left to push and nudge Davey Haskitt a bit.

  Pausing outside the bakery’s large, glass window, he looked past the display of an Alpine village executed in fondant and icing to watch a woman seated on a tall stool. She was fashioning miniature people in lederhosen to populate the re-created town.

  Inside he asked the woman behind the counter for Davey Haskitt and was told he was on a break. When he showed his warrant card, the woman raised the pass-through and directed him out back. The baking area, now dormant but coated with a fine dusting of flour, was rich with the sweet mixed odors of sugar, vanilla, and cinnamon. Declan ducked around a tower of empty cooling racks and found Davey lounging on an upturned crate, smoke from his cigarette curling away into the fresh air.

  “Nice day, Davey.”

  The lad turned at his name, surprise in his expression fading when he recognized the detective. “What’d you want then?” he asked, rubbing the stump of his smoke out against the crate and throwing it into the road.

  Not quite as pleased today, Declan noted. Davey seemed older, more insolent, and the detective thought that perhaps his being this close to a murder had toughened him. But then being close to a murder affected everyone in its circle in some way. “You had enough of being the center of attention?” he asked.

  The boy shrugged. “Still dead, isn’t she? No matter what … ” He cut himself off and looked away, suddenly interested in the state of his fingernails, scraping flour out from underneath a few.

  “No matter what … ” reverberated in Declan’s memory, and he recalled where he had heard that phrase before. It was from the lyrics of the song playing in Bryn Wallace’s flat when her body was discovered. “No matter what, Davey?” he prompted.

  “Nothin’,” Davey said sullenly, closing the topic.

  Declan sat down on a crate next to him after carefully dusting it off. “Davey, it must have been a rough experience to find Miss Wallace’s body like that, especially since she was a good friend of yours.”

  The boy nodded but kept his head down.

  “Is there anything new you’ve thought of now that a few days have gone by? Anything at all that you might have forgotten to tell me?” Declan loosened the knot in his tie. “It could be important in finding her killer.”

 
The boy shook his head and lit another cigarette, blowing smoke out of one side of his mouth, keeping his silence.

  Declan stood, fighting down annoyance. “Why do I get the feeling you’re holding back, Davey?”

  Davey wouldn’t meet his eyes. He inhaled deeply one last time, chucking the butt into the street. He rose and checked his watch, muttering: “Have to help close up shop now.”

  He pushed past Declan into the bakery, leaving the detective wondering what Davey Haskitt was hiding and what buttons he could push to find out.

  *

  When he got back to the office, McAfee was hanging about. “Any joy?” Declan asked.

  “Nothing of interest at the co-op according to Watkins, but I’ve found something I think you’ll find interesting.” He followed Declan into his office, pointing to a few sheets of paper placed front and center on his crowded desk.

  “The background checks, sir. Nothing at all on Allen Wesley, the deceased’s father; he seems to have fallen off the face of the earth. But Cameron Wilson, her former lover? It seems his real name is Melvin Wilmot, and under that name, he has form for cocaine possession.” McAfee straightened up.

  “Interesting. Very much so, McAfee.” Declan tapped the sheets on his desk while he thought. “Get this Wilmot’s mug shot and one of the pervert, Tommy Clay, and have the team take them around Magdalen Road for idents. We’re looking to see if they were hanging around Wallace’s flat. But be careful,” he warned the young man. “Clay will be the first one to cry ‘unfair’ if we’re not scrupulous. Don’t mention either one of their backgrounds.”

  “Yessir, understood.” McAfee whirled around, almost running over the female constable who had started to enter the office. “Oh, sorry, Debs,” he said.

  The woman shook her head at his retreating back. “In a hurry to make Inspector, that one,” she said with a smile. “You have a visitor, sir. A Miss Tierney asked if you had a few moments.”

  Declan raised his eyebrow and put on a face of annoyance. “Have her wait ten minutes while I look over this pile on those handbag snatchings and then bring her up. Thanks.” He made himself sort dutifully through his pile, pondering what was behind this visit from Nora Tierney.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Pardon me for interrupting whatever it is that you might better be doing just now. Having got this far, I hope to grow on you.”

  — Paul West, Tenement of Clay

  4 PM

  Nora waited patiently downstairs to be summoned up to Declan Barnes’ office. She’d implored Simon to drop her off and then run to pick up more packing supplies. Nora felt she would make more headway with DI Barnes without Simon’s presence.

  She knew she hadn’t fooled Simon, but he was gentleman enough to play along with her charade after she announced her intention of visiting the inspector. She’d pointed out she was safe enough inside a police station. Simon must be mellowing, she thought, because he’d finally caved and hadn’t nagged her about coming here.

  Nora had her notebook out and was perusing her jottings when a shadow fell across it, and she looked up to see Declan Barnes standing over her. She stood quickly, thrusting her hand out in greeting.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Inspector Barnes,” she said.

  He led her upstairs. When they reached his office, he pointed out a chair and settled behind his desk. “Have you some information for me?”

  She smiled. “I don’t have information as such. Actually, I was hoping to get information from you.” She pushed her glasses up her nose.

  Declan leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head. “That seems highly irregular, Miss … Nora. Usually I’m on the receiving end in an investigation. It’s best to leave the policing to us, and I’m not really allowed to discuss the case with an outsider.”

  Nora thought he sounded almost apologetic and pressed her point. “Oh, but I’m hardly an outsider. Val Rogan is my friend. I know her better than you, after all, and let’s be honest here; we both know she’s in your sights for killing Bryn Wallace. I’m out to prove she didn’t, and that will leave you to find the real murderer.” She thought she’d explained this very well and sat back in satisfaction.

  “So you’re not prepared to find the murderer for me?”

  It took Nora a moment to realize he was teasing her. “If you insist, I’d be delighted. Hire me on,” she parried, looking him straight in the eye.

  There was a moment of silence as they appraised each other. “What are you interested in knowing, Nora?” Declan finally asked.

  She flipped a few pages over in her notebook. “I’ve made a list of people I can interview, starting with Bryn’s employer, her neighbor, and the boy who found Bryn’s body.”

  Declan sat up in consternation. “Perhaps you missed me telling you to leave the detective work to the professionals.”

  Nora’s chin rose a few inches. “Perhaps you missed me telling you I’m going to prove my friend didn’t commit this awful murder.”

  “If you meddle in my case,” Declan said through clenched teeth, “I can have you arrested for interfering with an investigation.”

  Nora had the feeling Declan Barnes was poised to ask her to leave, but before he could, she flashed him her broad smile and, raising one eyebrow in mock imitation of his habit, held both wrists out for future handcuffing.

  A swift knock at the door was followed by Debs entering. “Sorry, sir, but DS Watkins has a suspect in those computer thefts and needs a word.”

  Nora hastily dropped her arms.

  Declan stood. “Tell him I’m on my way. Miss Tierney, I’m sorry but we’ve been having a rash of laptop thefts in town, and I must be involved in this.” He escorted her to the door and down the stairs without further commentary.

  Nora noted he had lapsed back to “Miss Tierney” and wondered what he would have said or done after her flippancy if they hadn’t been interrupted. She turned at the doorway before stepping outside.

  “Thank you for your time. I promise to try very hard not to get in your way, Inspector Barnes.”

  He looked at her, and his annoyance seemed to waver. “I’m merely concerned for your safety, Miss Tierney,” he said. He turned on his heel and left, but not before she saw the concern written on his face.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Wilson sat up very straight. This was the first letter she had ever written in her life and she wished it to be correct in every particular.”

  — Margaret Forster, Lady’s Maid

  4:45 PM

  At home at last after a long day, Cameron Wilson scrubbed his makeup off and stepped into the shower. He’d been shooting on location outdoors, in the gardens of Kelmscott Manor. Normally it was closed on Sundays, but most of the staff had showed up anyway, ostensibly to clean. They and everyone else who had heard about the shoot had turned up in droves to watch him and two female models drape themselves dramatically over William Morris’ simple grave in the churchyard.

  While the light and weather had been perfect for photography, the shoot had required long and tedious staging sessions, dressing changes in a cramped caravan, and poor-quality food from the caterer. The other models were new to him. Cam chatted them both up, but with little result. In the end, the hours dragged on in truly tiresome fashion. The only redeeming note, he decided, was that the clothes hung well on him, as usual.

  As Cam, hungry and tired, toweled dry in his own comfortable bathroom he thought again about some other way of earning income before his looks faded. He’d toyed with the idea of managing other models, but the prospect of scheduling and executing contracts for others held little appeal. Those headaches he was happy to leave to his own manager.

  He threw his towel in the hamper and slipped into comfortable sweats, pad
ding barefoot into the sleek kitchen, modeled after Jamie Oliver’s television set right down to the aqua Smeg fridge. Pouring himself a cold glass of mineral water, he added a squeeze of lime and dropped the wedge in, turning to admire his contemporary flat and its glossy furnishings.

  This was the fruit of his labors, a visible reminder of his long days sweating under layers of out-of-season clothing and heavy makeup. Each item in his home had been chosen with care. Even the Picasso print, “The Maids of Honor,” had been meticulously framed and hung as a focal point over the fireplace, not because Cam was fascinated by the many paintings within a painting or because it was based on a Velazquez of the same title, but because the bright scarlet and butter-yellow colors in the work exactly matched the throw pillows scattered on his sofa and chairs.

  Mixed textures of leather and suede, glass, and chrome gave him a perpetually cool feeling, providing the right background against which to display himself. Flopping down on his leather sofa with today’s mail, he sorted out the junk and circulars. That left three bills, a postcard from a friend hiking in Kendall, and a small plain white envelope without a return address.

  Cam took a long swallow from his glass and put it down on the floor beside him, debating the merits of going out for dinner or having a takeaway at home in front of the telly. Curious, he tore open the anonymous white envelope. Inside was a stiff, white card, an invitation to yet another party, he assumed. But as he pulled the note out and read it, his stomach plummeted, taking his hunger with it.