Midsummer Mayhem

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Midsummer Mayhem Page 13

by Marty Wingate


  “She’s an actor,” Christopher reminded Pru. “Did she know Gibb was allergic to bees?” He frowned. “Would a beekeeper carry round a jar of honey?”

  “Unlikely.” Unlikely, that is, unless you’ve made a plan.

  Christopher settled his intense gaze on Pru, but she knew his mind was working elsewhere. “Nick would have access to the honey as well,” he said.

  “You think he might’ve done it for revenge? ‘Stay away from my woman’?” Pru wrinkled her nose. She couldn’t see it, but then, as Christopher had pointed out in the past, she tended to think the best of people until proved otherwise—and occasionally that proof had been almost too late.

  “I’ve seen poorer excuses for murder,” he replied. “And we don’t know that it was meant to kill. What if the murderer wanted only to take Gabriel Gibb off the cast list? What was the mood here today?”

  “Mmm. Well, if you go by their words, everyone feels Gabriel’s loss deeply, including Max. Perhaps especially Max. But their line delivery left a lot to be desired—I don’t think anyone is upset, only cautious.”

  “Who is protecting whom?”

  Out the far exit of the theater lawn, Pru could see Will wheeling his bicycle toward the gates.

  “Where are they staying?” she asked. “Will and Anna and Nell?”

  “Max arranged a flat for the two men—Will and Gabriel—and another for the women. Tadburn Road in Romsey. Well,” he said, pulling out his notebook, “I’ll question Linden again.”

  “You could ask her for a jar of honey from Kidlington.”

  “As a bribe?”

  “Pollen analysis, Inspector. There are labs that will tell you which plants the bees foraged to make the honey. You can compare the two samples, and you’ll be able to tell if they came from the same area.”

  “Ms. Parke, as always you are a fount of useful information.”

  He leaned closer and she tilted her head up, their lips almost brushing. Sure, he was on duty and in the middle of an investigation, but they were alone. And it was only a kiss.

  A small brown figure streaked past their feet, causing Pru and Christopher to bump noses in surprise. Before she could get a good look at it, the brown shape rounded the corner of the hedge heading toward the double border. Christopher reached out and pulled Pru close as a pair of black-and-white furry forms came next, hurtling across the theater lawn and heading straight for them amid a cacophony of barks. At the last second, the dogs split, and Pru felt a breeze as they whooshed past and raced off in hot pursuit.

  A whistle pierced the air, followed by a shout.

  “Stop!”

  At their master’s voice, Bubble and Squeak put on the brakes so fast, bits of lawn sprayed up into the air. The next command—“Come!”—caused them to circle round and trot back to Nick. Their pink tongues were like ribbons dangling out the sides of their mouths, as they dropped to their haunches in front of him.

  “Hare,” Nick explained to Pru and Christopher. “You lot.” He shook a finger at the dogs but smiled. They scratched an ear, shook from nose to tail, and sat again with a snort, looking pleased with themselves.

  “Is Ms. Parfitt still on the grounds?” Christopher asked.

  Nick’s head shot up. He cut his eyes in the direction of the gates and back to the DI. “Yes, I believe—is there something you need?”

  “I need to speak with her.” He put a hand on Pru’s arm. “I’ll see you at the gates.”

  “Yes.” Pru turned to Nick, sizing up his discomfort and sorting through the many questions she could ask him. But he spoke first.

  “Better get these two in the car and leave the wildlife in peace. See ya, Pru.”

  * * *

  —

  Miriam embodied the best qualities of a houseguest—she offered to help but didn’t push when help was graciously declined. She appeared for dinner in a timely fashion, and she asked for nothing. However, she remained an extra presence in the house and one that precluded Pru and Christopher from hashing out details of the day over an early glass of wine or during the evening meal. No, they must wait until they were secure behind their bedroom door.

  Evelyn’s superb kedgeree—curry spiced with chunks of smoked haddock and egg—had been reduced to a few grains of rice, and soon thereafter, Miriam excused herself from the table. Pru had seen Ambrose and Miriam talking by the gates at Coeur-de-la-Mer at the end of the day, their heads low together, his hand lightly on her elbow. She had hoped that Miriam might relax a bit more on her second evening at Greenoak, but once again there had been precious little dinner conversation.

  After their houseguest had gone upstairs, Pru and Christopher lingered over their empty plates. Still quite aware Miriam could walk back in at any moment, Christopher managed to tell her that when he’d asked Linden for a sample of honey from her bees, she had asked why. He had told her it was to further eliminate her from the inquiry. Pru made a mental note to add “further” next time she gave that excuse. Linden had asked Christopher if he wanted the bees as well, but he said that wouldn’t be necessary.

  Now he asked Pru, “Would that have helped?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve looked into it—thinking they might’ve been special bees that stung Gabriel. But, although there are several varieties of honeybees, they hybridize easily. So, someone could bring Italian bees into Britain, and it wouldn’t be long until they’d crossed and then where would you be? I don’t believe you could tell the difference between an Oxfordshire honeybee and one from Devon.” Then she added, “Apart from his accent.”

  Christopher smiled and kissed her and then went off to his computer to search for labs that offered honey analysis. Pru headed for the kitchen garden, which was how she spent many a long summer evening. Weeding was one of those activities that set her mind free to wander—perhaps grubbing out bitter cress would help her solve the case.

  She dug, and her heap of chickweed, groundsel, and bitter cress grew. The scent of rich soil calmed her mind, and her thoughts shifted to everyday business. Had Simon sown the autumn crops yet? They usually started flats of broccoli, spinach, and chard in the potting-shed windows in early summer. She got up from her hands and knees and dusted herself off. The peas were just about finished and could be pulled out—that would clear some space. She harvested the last of the pods, and, using her shirttail as a basket, carried them into the kitchen, where she dumped them on the counter. Next, she stripped off her shirt, leaving on her camisole, and dropped it into the washer in the mudroom. Then she caught sight of her hands.

  Gardener’s hands—grime rubbed into the fingertips and dirt packed under her nails and cuticles. Would she ever think to wear gloves? Most gardeners she knew never bothered. Into the mudroom loo she went for a good scrub with the nailbrush before locking the kitchen door and heading for the stairs, where she found Miriam on the bottom step, wrapped in a long silk dressing gown with an embroidered shawl collar.

  Pru blinked—her evening had turned so commonplace she’d forgotten they had a houseguest. And why.

  “I saw you in the garden,” Miriam said.

  “Yes, that’s the view from your window, isn’t it?” Pru replied. “It always makes me feel better—weeding, planting.” She glanced over at the library, which was dark, meaning Christopher had already gone up.

  “It’s the same when I sew,” Miriam said, sticking her hands in her pockets. “Anything—a bit of handwork—it calms me.” She looked at the floor.

  “Can I get you something?” Pru asked. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

  Miriam’s meek tone led Pru to believe she wanted to talk and felt sure it was about Ambrose. Time for a heart-to-heart. But she seemed to need a nudge.

  “It’s no trouble at all. Why don’t I put the kettle on. It would give us a chance to chat—we’
ve had no time for that, have we? I’d love to hear about…your career. Ambrose has mentioned you two were together when—”

  “Together?” Miriam went from meek to furious quicker than that hare streaking through the theater lawn. “Is that what he told you?”

  “No. No, he didn’t tell me anything.” Pru backpedaled as fast as she could, but Miriam’s scarlet face and blazing eyes told her it wasn’t fast enough. “And, anyway, it’s none of my business, so…I’m going to bed.”

  Pru hurried past Miriam but made it only halfway up.

  “Wait, please.” Miriam took a ragged breath and pulled a wadded tissue out of a pocket. “I’m a bit at sixes and sevens, and I could use some advice. But it’s been so long since I’ve told anyone this story, I don’t know if I can.”

  “I tell you what, why don’t we go into the library and just sit for a few minutes. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.”

  But Pru sincerely hoped she would. They settled on either end of the sofa, Miriam sitting upright, feet on the floor with one of the throw pillows in her lap, and Pru sideways, with toes tucked under the cushion. Each of them had a glass of brandy, and the bottle sat on the table. Pru reached for a light throw and wrapped it round her bare shoulders, wondering if she would need to drag Miriam’s story out of her.

  “We were both in our late twenties.” Miriam fiddled with the pillow’s braided edging. “I’d been a seamstress for a few years in a bridal shop.” She shuddered. “There’s not enough money in the world would make me go back to that—brides are even worse than actors, if you can imagine. I got on with Max’s production of Private Lives at the Haymarket. Ambrose had already started on Coronation Street and was getting a lot of notice. We caught sight of each other in the costume shop on the first day, and that was it.”

  Miriam’s eyes shone and her single dimple deepened, then smoothed out. She stared at the brandy in her glass, swirling it round the edges before she spoke again. “Until a few others caught his eye. It was during the next show—we had been sharing a flat for almost a year, but the number of nights I spent on my own had steadily increased, and so the last time he didn’t come home from a performance, I packed up and left. Went back to my parents’ house—I was a bit old for that, but I had nowhere else to go, and I was pregnant.”

  Pru’s hand went to her heart. “Your son is Ambrose’s son?”

  Miriam acknowledged the fact with a nod. “I knew I would have to raise him on my own. I certainly couldn’t rely on someone who would—” She paused to take a drink. “I began sewing pillows and draperies for my mum’s friends, and then I tried my hand at designing fabrics. I saved and saved until I could move out and open my own shop. And I’ve done all right for myself.”

  “More than all right, I’d say,” Pru commented. “But didn’t Ambrose come after you? You and—”

  “Alec.” Miriam busied herself with pouring them both another drop of brandy. “Eventually. But I wasn’t about to be taken in by a load of sweet talk when I knew he’d turn right round first chance he got and—” She took a gulp, set her glass down, and steadied her breathing. “Although, I will admit, over the years, Ambrose has been a good father.”

  “But the two of you?”

  “There is no two of us.” Miriam set her jaw, but Pru saw her chin tremble. “Yes, he’s tried to…there was a time when…but how could I…oh God.” She dropped her face into her hands. “I’m too old for this.”

  * * *

  —

  “He still loves her. She still loves him. They have a grown son together, and they’ve both been wonderful—although separate—parents. Ambrose has spent all these years trying to prove himself to her, and yet, she’s afraid to trust him.” Pru sank into her pillow, drained from the surrogate emotions coursing through her body.

  “She told you all that?” Christopher asked.

  “Yes—well, not in so many words. But now I want to hear Ambrose’s version.” Pru yawned, drawing in a deep breath of damp air from the open window. She drifted off to sleep to the sound of raindrops pattering on the glass.

  * * *

  —

  Pattering became drumming by the time Pru opened her eyes to the gray light of morning. Christopher had closed the window and stood at the dresser mirror straightening his tie, when she sat up.

  “I’d better wear my wellies today.”

  “Won’t Max cancel rehearsal with the rain?”

  “I don’t think so—Miriam says the actors are accustomed to getting wet on outdoor productions.” She climbed out of bed and peered through the rivulets streaming down the windowpane. “Even when it’s raining stair rods.”

  “I’ll have a uniform on the gate at Coeur-de-la-Mer. I’m going into the station to organize that honey analysis, but you’ll ring me if anything comes up?”

  “Indoors?” she chided him. “All right for some.”

  He kissed her. “That’s why you’re the gardener.”

  * * *

  —

  Evelyn tsk-tsked her way through breakfast as Pru and Miriam ate toast and drank tea.

  “I don’t know how Max can expect anyone to have a thought for Shakespeare while being pelted with rain,” the cook grumbled. “Someone should have a word with him.”

  Pru would love to be a witness to that. She tried to exchange glances with Miriam, but the woman had her head bowed and for a moment, looked as if she might’ve dropped off to sleep.

  “Have you sewn all these costumes yourself from scratch?” Pru asked, and Miriam started and blinked.

  “They aren’t wearing togas, are they, Miriam?” Evelyn asked.

  “No, thank God,” Miriam replied. “Max wanted a timeless look to the production—it works better outdoors to have a suggestive set rather than attempt a true representation. We’ve got the men in cutaway coats, vaguely Victorian, and the women in looser, more ephemeral garb. Titania virtually floats in her frocks—Linden is quite suited for that. I worked up a few sketches for Max before the production began. He’s a stickler when it comes to his vision.”

  “This must take up a great deal of your time,” Pru said, glad for Miriam’s chatty demeanor but worried for the dark circles under her eyes.

  “It’s nothing compared with Max. He turns his entire life over to a production, always has—and so he expects everyone involved to be just as dedicated.” Miriam reached for another piece of toast, buttering as she continued. “He does not suffer fools gladly, as they say—he’s fired actors smack in the middle of rehearsal. I remember years ago, a young actor who thought he could paraphrase Henry V rather than learn his lines. He and Max practically came to blows before—” Miriam’s eyes popped open wide, and her mouth clamped shut, and the silence in the kitchen was broken only by the clock on the wall ticking. Keeping her eyes on her toast, she whispered, “Is there more tea?”

  Up and down, up and down,

  I will lead them up and down.

  3.2.396–97

  Chapter 16

  Miriam eased her Jag down the drive to Coeur-de-la-Mer, trying with little success to avoid the multitude of wide, muddy ponds that had appeared overnight. She had the windshield wipers on their fastest setting, and still it was difficult to see.

  In the passenger seat, Pru struggled to pull on her wellies and snap her jacket. Miriam hadn’t said an unnecessary word since breakfast, giving Pru plenty of time to ponder the story of Max and the young actor with whom he’d argued. But isn’t that the way of the theater? Full of temperamental actors and, apparently, directors.

  “Do you have any waterproof gear?” she asked Miriam.

  “I’ve a brolly in the boot.”

  The usual cars sat in a row at the gates, and a stoic uniform in yellow slicker and what looked like a shower cap pulled over the top of his hat waited at the opening. No one else was in sight—th
at is, until Miriam pulled in next to the orange Jazz.

  Through the fogged-up windows, she could see Penelope at the wheel and Frances in the passenger seat. And on the other side of them, through the cloudy glass of the silver Mercedes, Ambrose and Max. Ambrose lowered his window, and, as if on signal, other windows along the line lowered.

  “Dreadful, isn’t it?” Penelope sputtered, blinking as a spray of water caught her in the face.

  “I don’t know we have the heart for it today,” Ambrose said loud enough to be heard over the racket of rain on the cars.

  Miriam leaned across Pru. “Oh, is that so? I’ve seen you standing in muddy water up to your bum, and it made no matter.” She must’ve given herself a good shock saying that, as she pressed her lips together and reddened while a slow grin grew on Ambrose’s face.

  “I’ll take one scene at a time in the cottage,” Max declared in his booming voice as he secured the scarf round his neck and set a fedora on his head. “We’ll start with Helena and Hermia. The rest of you can stay in the stables.”

  Penelope climbed over her car seat, dragged out the three-ring binder, and began flipping pages while Frances held up a pencil.

  “Max, there aren’t any leaks in the stable roof, are there?” Miriam asked. “I’m a bit worried about the costumes. I’ve got plastic sheeting in the boot to drape over them.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have room in the cottage for any scene with more than two actors,” Penelope said.

  “Well, it’s all we can do; we can’t afford to lose a day—not after Tuesday.”

  “Max!” Will Abbott stuck his head out of his sister’s car down the line, squinting. “Did you say yes, we’ll stick it out? Because it’s no bother for me.”

  “Wait!” Pru shouted, as the proverbial lightbulb went off in her head. “I have an idea—you can come to Greenoak.”

 

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