by Leslie Meier
Lucy knew when she was beat. “All right, Mother.”
“Now finish your coffee and get dressed like a good girl. We’re meeting downstairs in fifteen minutes.”
Pam was sitting at the computer terminal in the corner when Lucy arrived in the lounge a half hour later.
“It’s about time you got here,” said Sue, who was flipping through a magazine.
“What is the matter with this thing?” muttered Pam.
Rachel put down the guidebook she was reading and went over to her. “What’s the problem?”
“I’ve got this attachment, and I want to print it, but it won’t cooperate.”
“Let me try,” suggested Rachel, reaching for the mouse. She clicked a few times, then shook her head. “It’s got a virus scan going or something. It’s too busy to bother with your attachment.”
“How long will it take?” asked Sue.
“I don’t know. It says it will complete waiting tasks when the scan is complete. We might as well go. Your attachment will be here when we get back.”
Pam considered. “I don’t want people reading my e-mail.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Sue, impatient to get going. “Who’s going to be interested in your boring e-mail?”
“Just close it out and do it later,” said Lucy. “I’m starving.”
“Good idea, Lucy.” Pam clicked the little X in the corner of the screen and hopped up. “There’s a Starbucks in that bookshop across the way—let’s go there and get some decent coffee.”
Lucy felt a lot better after she’d eaten, and she had to admit her friends were right about Starbucks, which was a big improvement over the watery orange juice, weak coffee, and greasy eggs the hotel provided.
“I kinda missed the bacon,” she teased as they emerged from the Underground at Oxford Circus.
Sue ignored her, as her gaze was focused on the Topshop sign as if she’d finally found the Holy Grail. “There it is.” She sighed in rapture before leading the charge across busy Oxford Street.
Once inside, Lucy found the loud rock music and jumbled displays disorienting.
“This is the perfect place to find something for Sara and Zoe,” said Pam, joining Sue in energetically flipping through racks of colorful shirts.
Lucy moved a few hangers in a halfhearted way, then turned to Rachel, who looked uncomfortable. “Let’s find the ladies’ loo,” she suggested, and Rachel agreed.
“Too much coffee this morning,” she said as they stepped onto the escalator for the descent to the lower level.
“Too much music,” said Lucy.
Much to their surprise, when they emerged from the ladies’ room, they found a café where they could sit in comfort and gather their thoughts.
“There are a lot of other shops around here,” said Rachel. “Maybe we could meet them later.”
“I saw Marks and Spencer,” said Lucy. “Bill needs some underwear.”
“My guidebook says Marks and Sparks, that’s its nickname, is the place for underwear.”
“We better go find them and figure out where to meet.”
The store had become crowded, filled with chattering girls darting from one rack to another, like distracted honeybees in a flower garden. There was no sign of Sue, but they did find Pam pawing through a bin of colorful scarves.
“Can you believe it? Twenty pounds for this!” She held up a garish black and yellow striped number. “Sue said this place had great bargains but I haven’t found any.”
“We’re going on to Marks and Spencer,” said Rachel. “Want to come?”
“No, I want to find Liberty. It’s around here somewhere.”
“Okay, let’s say we all meet back here, out front, in an hour. Okay?”
“Sounds good to me,” said Pam, digging down and pulling up a polka-dot scarf, which she held up. “What do you think?”
Lucy and Rachel both shook their heads no.
When the four friends met at the appointed place, only a quarter of an hour late, they all had something to show for their time. Rachel had found some colorful glass and brass knobs on sale at Liberty, and Pam had discovered a shop selling natural cosmetics where she splurged on skin lotion and bath bombs. Lucy had found briefs at Marks and Spencer for Bill, and faux Burberry scarves that she bought from a street vendor who was selling them for about five dollars each. Back in Tinker’s Cove, nobody would know the difference.
Sue wasn’t impressed. “Oh, Lucy, anyone can see that’s not really a Burberry scarf.”
Lucy studied the pink plaid strip of acrylic fabric. “I don’t care. I think they’re pretty and I got one in every color.” She pulled out a gray and black one. “This one’s for Toby.”
Sue examined it. “You know, that’s not bad. It’s this season’s color.” She came to a quick decision. “Where’d you get it?”
“Over there.” Lucy pointed across the street, where the vendor had set up a portable table displaying his wares.
“Let’s go.” Sue was leading the way with the others following in her wake. Lucy and Rachel were just behind her, crossing the street as the light began to blink. Pam, who’d dropped her bag and stopped to scoop it up, was running after them and just made it to the crowded pedestrian island in the middle of the street before buses and taxis began surging past. She was perched at the very edge of the island, barely on it. One moment she was there and the next she’d fallen backward, into the path of a cab that was speeding to catch the green light. The driver swerved and avoided her, passing with a blare of the horn.
“Oh my goodness,” said a gentleman, stooping to help Pam get on her feet and back onto the curbed island. “You must be American—Americans always forget to look right.”
“No, no,” insisted Pam, shaking her head as her friends gathered around her. “I wasn’t crossing. I was on the island. I was pushed off.”
“Did you see who did it?” asked Lucy.
“I didn’t. I was looking at the light, waiting for it to turn and keeping an eye on you guys so I wouldn’t get separated from you. Then, all of a sudden, I felt a jab from my left side and over I went.”
“She’s right—I saw him,” said a tiny Indian woman dressed in a red sari topped with a Western-style jacket.
“What did he look like?” asked Lucy
“Young and tall.” She considered a moment. “I don’t think he did it on purpose. These islands get so crowded. I think it was an accident.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s what it was,” said Pam. “It was an accident.”
But as they crossed the other half of the road, Lucy wondered. The woman’s description of a tall young man could fit Will. Of course, it could also fit a lot of people, but Autumn had speculated that Will had pushed Caroline off the pier. Trailing along behind the others, Lucy thought it was one heck of a coincidence. Or was it? It would be easy to find out if Will went along with the group to Windsor or if he’d taken off on his own. She was thinking about that when she caught up with the others, who were waiting outside a pub.
“Pam’s twisted her ankle,” said Sue, “so we thought we’d grab some lunch in here and see if she recovers.”
“Fine with me,” said Lucy as they filed into the mahogany and red plush interior. She perched on a banquette with Pam while Sue and Rachel went to the bar to get drinks and order their food.
“Salads all round,” announced Sue, returning with a glass of white wine in each hand.
“The menu’s pretty limited,” added Rachel, who also had a wineglass in each hand.”
“It’s just nice to sit,” said Lucy. “How’s the ankle?”
“Fine, as long as I don’t put any weight on it.” Pam sighed. “I hate to spoil your day.”
Lucy was pawing through her bag looking for the little tin of painkillers she always carried. She finally produced it after a prolonged search, finding it lurking beneath a business card.
“Take two,” she told Pam, passing over the tin and giving the card a quick glance. It was
a bit crumpled but still quite legible; it was the card the Scotland Yard detective had given her after interviewing her on the plane.
She debated whether to discuss her discovery with the girls for a moment, then decided not. There’d been too much discussion; it was time to put her suspicions to the test. If he thought she was on to something, he’d talk to her. If not, she’d forget the whole thing. Anyway, the chance that he would actually be at his desk and answer his phone was exceedingly slim. She could live with that, but she had to try. Without a word to the others, she got up and went over to the pay phone that hung on the wall, dropped in some coins, and dialed.
“Neal here.” The voice was firm and brusque, businesslike, to the point.
“I’m Lucy Stone. You questioned me about George Temple, the man who died on the plane from America. . . . You gave me your card, in case I thought of anything more.”
“Umm, right.” Neal didn’t sound very interested. “This was . . . when?”
“Just about a week ago,” said Lucy, a bit annoyed. How many people died on flights en route to the UK? You’d think he would remember.
“Uh, sorry. I was multitasking. Now what’s this about?”
“George Temple. The man who died on the airplane. I may have some new information.”
“Go on.”
“I think he was murdered.”
“Well I guess you better come round, then, and tell me about it. I’m here until six o’clock.”
Lucy didn’t need any encouragement. “I’ll be there in about an hour,” she said.
“What was that all about?” inquired Sue, putting down her fork. She’d been poking halfheartedly at a blob of tuna salad that was nestled in a bed of iceberg lettuce along with some pineapple chunks and a scoop of mayonnaise.
“What’s this?” The same dish was waiting for Lucy.
“It’s the pub version of a salad,” said Pam, who was cutting up her lettuce chunks with a knife and fork. “It’s not bad.”
“It’s full of calories,” said Sue. “The tuna is loaded with mayo.”
“And they give you extra, in case you need a bit more to clog up your arteries for good,” said Rachel.
“Between those greasy breakfasts and lunches like this, it’s a miracle they don’t all drop dead in the streets,” said Lucy, spearing a pineapple chunk.
“You haven’t told us who you were calling,” reminded Sue.
“Don’t laugh,” warned Lucy. “I called that Scotland Yard detective. I found his card in my purse.”
Sue gave her a look. “Just to chat?”
“Oh, come on.” Lucy felt defensive. “You’ve got to admit there’ve been an awful lot of so-called accidents on this trip. I don’t think the average tour to London includes a sudden death in the air, a leap off the Brighton pier, and a near-miss auto accident.”
Pam nodded. “And there’s the atmosphere—like everybody’s hiding something.”
Lucy leaned forward. “You’ve felt it, too?”
“Not really,” admitted Pam, “but you keep talking about it and I’m beginning to think you’re right.” She gave a sharp nod. “I was definitely pushed into traffic. I’m absolutely certain about that.”
“Want to come to Scotland Yard with me?”
“If we take a taxi—I don’t think I can manage the Tube with my ankle.”
“While you do that, Sue and I can go to the Natural History Museum,” suggested Rachel. “I’ve been wanting to go.”
Sue looked at her as if she were crazy. “Don’t be silly, darling. There’s a marvelous gallery around here, just a street or two over, that’s an absolute can’t-miss. It’s got fashion—”
Rachel’s good nature was being stretched. “Fashion isn’t really my thing. . . .”
“You can say that again.” Sue was looking at her empty glass, considering whether to have another. “Just joking, sweetie. No, the reason this gallery is so special is that it has nature stuff, too. Skulls and twigs and things.”
Rachel knew when she was beat. “If you say so.”
Lucy couldn’t help it—she was excited when the taxi pulled up in front of the revolving New Scotland Yard sign she’d seen in so many British crime dramas on TV. And here she was, actually at Scotland Yard, to assist on a case. But first, she had to help Pam out of the cab and pay the fare. After that, there was quite a bit of security to negotiate and miles of corridors, which Pam insisted were fine but which Lucy knew must be terribly painful for her. It was a great relief when they finally reached Inspector John Neal’s office.
The office was very small, painted green, but very neat, and it had a wonderful view of the Thames. Neal, who had hung his suit jacket on a coat tree and had rolled up his shirtsleeves and loosened his necktie, immediately noticed Pam’s swollen ankle and leaped from behind his desk to hold a chair for her. She expelled a huge sigh as she settled herself. Lucy, sitting beside her, noticed and felt guilty for dragging her along on what was probably a wild-goose chase.
“Soo, Mrs. Stone, you say you have new information about George Temple’s death, which the medical examiner and the coroner have determined to be the result of an asthma attack.”
Lucy spoke slowly and carefully. “I think the attack was caused by the tour members. I think they did things on purpose that would cause him to have a reaction.”
Neal didn’t seem convinced. “Really? How so?”
Lucy ticked off the events at the airport, the peanut granola, and the incident with his inhaler. Seeing that she wasn’t making much of an impression, she made a reckless accusation. “Even the EpiPen could have been faked,” she added.
Pam was shaking her head. “I don’t think Dr. Cope is involved, but I do think something weird is going on. Caroline Smith was pushed off the pier, and I was knocked into traffic today, twisting my ankle.”
“Foreigners always forget to look right,” said Neal, leaning back in his chair. He’d formed a little tent with his fingers and seemed to be enjoying himself.
“I was pushed,” insisted Pam. “It was not a matter of not looking in the right direction.”
Neal smiled. “And have you been having a nice time in London? Seeing the sights?”
Lucy didn’t like the direction this was taking. “London’s fine; it’s the group that’s worrisome,” she said.
“I fear that is often the case when an oddly assorted group of people travel together. Tensions often arise.” He paused. “I wonder, have you been to the theater?”
Pam and Lucy nodded.
“I mention it, because the incidents you’ve described to me almost seem like the plot of a play. You didn’t perhaps see a thriller?”
“We saw The Mousetrap.” Lucy felt as if she were signing a confession.
“Aha.” Neal nodded. “Case solved. I think we can put your suspicions down to less than congenial company and overwrought imaginations.” He stood. “I’ll be happy to call a cab for you, and I think we can rustle up a wheelchair to get you back downstairs.”
Pam was touched by his consideration. “Thank you so much.”
Lucy less so. “Thanks for your time,” she grumbled.
Back at the hotel, Lucy and Pam stopped in the lounge and had a cup of tea to fortify themselves for the climb upstairs. Pam insisted she could manage by taking each stair with her good leg and hanging on to the railing for support. Lucy was doubtful.
“Maybe we can get you a room on a lower floor,” she suggested, heading over to the computer where she planned to check her e-mail. A stack of papers on the printer caught her eye, and she glanced at them, finding they were from Ted.
“Here’s your e-mail,” she said, taking the pages over to Pam.
“Oh, good, this is that story about Tim’s project in New Orleans,” she said, flipping through the papers. “Oh, and Ted says he’ll get on that George Temple research for you when he has a minute.”
“Tell him thanks for me,” said Lucy, closing out her e-mail account. No word from Elizabeth. Oh, w
ell, she decided. No news was good news. At least she hoped it was.
Chapter Sixteen
“Don’t you think there was something positively sinister about that place?” asked Sue, holding the hotel door for her friends who were returning from dinner at a highly recommended French restaurant.
“The food was awfully good,” said Rachel.
“And it was the closest one—I was glad not to have to walk very far,” said Pam.
“But those waiters . . .” Lucy shuddered. “I didn’t like the way they stood around, watching. It was weird.”
“Like in a movie, when they’re focusing on supposedly everyday activities to build the tension.” Sue gave a knowing nod.
“Maybe it was just everyday stuff,” said Pam. “I think you’re overreacting. It’s just that we were early and they didn’t have much to do. The place was just starting to hop when we were ready to leave.”
Sue yawned. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m beat. I think I’ll go on up to bed.”
“Me too,” said Rachel, starting up the stairs and leaving Lucy and Pam in the foyer.
“I’m not tired yet. I slept in this morning,” said Lucy. “Besides, I’d like to check my e-mail again.”
“I’m not ready to face the climb,” said Pam. “Let’s see what’s doing in the lounge.”
When they entered, they found a card table had been set up and Laura Barfield, Ann Smith, and Dr. Cope were all playing Scrabble. Pam immediately hobbled over.
“Do you mind if I join? I love Scrabble,” she said.
“I don’t mind at all. You’re quite welcome,” said Ann.
“But you’ll be at a disadvantage,” warned Dr. Cope, studying his tiles. “We’ve already racked up quite a few points.”
“Not a problem.” Pam was lowering herself into the fourth chair. “I don’t care about winning—I just like to play.”
Not a problem at all, thought Lucy, seating herself at the computer. If she were a betting person, she’d put her money on Pam, even with a late start. She was an absolute fiend at Scrabble, never missing an opportunity for a triple-word score, preferably one with an X.