“No,” she said sullenly. “Like Karen said, we all need the money. I’m not proud of what I did.”
“And what about Jenny? Did she play his game?” I asked, trying to catch Karen’s eye.
She studied the table in front of her for a long time. “She didn’t want to and she was ashamed. But she did.”
What a bastard. “Did any of you see Jenny when she came back last night?” I asked again.
Sheila shook her head no. “I was down dealing with a backed-up drain till ten thirty or so. The dishwasher flooded the floor again and I was mopping up and waiting for Sam to show up.”
“Sam?”
“Our handyman. He came and unhooked the machine to stem the tide. Said he’d be back today with a new part.”
“So no one spoke to Jenny?”
“I heard her come in round eleven,” Cheryl said. “She was dead on her feet.” Cheryl abruptly fell silent realizing what she’d said. After a long pause she continued. “Jenny was exhausted. She was upset about losing her phone, but she was so tired, she pretty much went straight to bed.”
“She didn’t say anything at all about what happened last night?”
“Just that she was tired and probably shouldn’t have had that last drink.”
“What kind of drink?”
“Don’t know. We all help ourselves from the bar at the Rosses’ place after the kids go to bed. Not much else to do and they keep the good stuff in.”
Had Ross offered Jenny a drink and slipped her something? It certainly wasn’t unheard of and it would explain why she was so tired when she came home.
“And you didn’t hear anything unusual after you left Jenny’s room?” I asked Cheryl.
Cheryl shook her head emphatically. “No, nothing. Nothing at all. I’m a heavy sleeper.”
Duncan Ross. He’d been quiet at the meeting last night. Preoccupied and a bit detached from the debate going on around him. Was he focused on something else, like the fate of his victim from the night before? Ross was not a pleasant individual. I’d nailed him as the lizard man. Reptilian. Unsettling, calculating, and frustrated. In fact, there was an almost palpable frustration about Ross, an unfulfilled desire to be in control, and I suspected that he struggled with the fact that there was always someone like Urquhart standing in his way.
Peggy rose from the table and moved in the direction of the hall. “I’ve got to get back to work, but it was nice to meet ya.” She waved over her shoulder as she disappeared along the passageway.
Karen rose as well. “Steer clear of Ross. He’s bad news. Then again, you’d probably be fine,” she said bitterly. “You’re not his type. Too independent, too strong. Not damaged goods like the rest of us.”
Cheryl followed Karen to the sink and they began rinsing their plates.
“Leave them in the sink,” Sheila said. “I’m still waiting for Sam to get here and fix the bloody machine.”
Karen and Cheryl departed, leaving Sheila and me alone in the kitchen.
“I’d love to get another chance to talk to Duncan Ross, and get his version of what happened last night,” I said, “but I can’t think of any good reason for just showing up on his doorstep.”
“I may have just the thing,” Sheila replied. “We had a message from Mrs. Ross the other day saying she had some used clothing to donate to the Rest. She does this every three or four months. Always ridiculous stuff that none of the girls here would ever use. Evening gowns, wild fashion items that were in six months ago and are dead to her now. Still, we can’t be rude. I told her someone from the Rest would come and collect the stuff later today. Amanda was going to drive over after Woolies closed, but you could go instead. Not sure he’ll be there, but he might.”
“Worth a try.”
“Thank you for taking this on,” Sheila said. “I was very fond of Jenny. She was such a dear, sweet girl, and poor Amanda is devastated. She feels she let Jenny down somehow. I try to keep her from stressing more than she has to, but she feels so responsible for these girls. Anything you can do to help us find answers, good or bad, would be much appreciated.”
“I don’t think we’ll know any more till the lab results come back and we see what was in her bloodstream,” I observed, staring into the bottom of my cup and swirling the dregs around. No answers in the tea leaves, but maybe a clue in whatever it was that Jenny drank that night. “Ever heard any of the other girls say they felt odd when they came back from Duncan Ross’s place? Anyone unable to remember what happened to them?”
Sheila shook her head. “Some came back in tears, others angry, but none of them suggested they’d been drugged, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It was just a thought.” I admit I was grasping at straws, but so far I didn’t have much else to go on.
Sheila excused herself and went to retrieve the paperwork on the lease arrangement between Urquhart and the shelter that Amanda had unearthed for me. As I sat waiting, Sheila’s three words slipped into my head: solicitous, sturdy, and insightful. She was the rock that supported the women at the Rest. If she didn’t have insight into what was going on in Jenny’s world, I wasn’t sure how I was going to find out. But I had to try. Jenny had fallen into the abyss. The question was: Did she slip or was she pushed?
Chapter 7
After I left Sheila, I walked back to the car and took photos of the relevant provisions of the shelter’s lease agreement, forwarding them to my solicitor in London for an assessment. Then I put a call in to Patrick’s inspector and made arrangements for him to go over the Campbell Street property with a fine-tooth comb. With the practical matters attended to, I set off for Brownsfield Crescent and the Ross residence. Sheila had given me the address, but I double-checked just to be sure. The house was a striking Victorian with a gated front garden and off-street parking that backed onto the Brownsfield Links. Duncan Ross obviously did all right for himself. I walked past a black Vauxhall sedan parked in the driveway and rang at the front door, feeling a little nervous.
The door was opened by a well-starched Latina woman in a gray maid’s uniform. “May I help you?” she asked in a carefully practiced modulation.
“I’m looking for Mr. or Mrs. Ross,” I said. “I’m from the Shepherd’s Rest.”
“Ah, childminder,” she said.
“No, no,” I corrected. “I’m here to pick up some donation items from Mrs. Ross.”
The woman inclined her head, opened the door, and gestured to a room off the main hall. “Please wait in here and I will see if someone is available.”
The Victorian exterior belayed the modernity of the interior decoration. This room wasn’t the only thing chez Ross that wasn’t what it seemed from the outside. A gas fireplace insert was framed by a white marble surround and the walls were painted a soft shade of gray. The carpet was a darker shade of gray and two interestingly shaped, but brutally uncomfortable-looking, red couches provided the only break in the unremitting grayness of the room. The stainless-steel coffee table had a stack of architecture and garden magazines artfully fanned out across the fingerprint-free surface. No books, no photographs, no personal mementos. The room had all the warmth of a doctor’s waiting room.
I turned as the door opened and Duncan Ross entered, looking puzzled. “Ms. Logan, this is a surprise.”
And not a pleasant one from the look on his face.
“What can I do for you?”
“I actually came to see your wife about some things she had to donate to the shelter.” I smiled ever so slightly, watching for Ross’s response.
“Maria must have misunderstood,” he replied, backing toward the door as if eager to escape from my presence.
“Perhaps I was the one who didn’t make myself clear,” I offered. “I’m surprised to catch you at home, I would’ve thought you’d be at work.”
Ross scowled. “I should
be, but the police were in and out this morning, interviewing everyone that so much as looked at that wretched girl from the shelter.”
“You mean Jenny, I presume.”
“Was that her name? Whole lot of flap about nothing, if you ask me. Silly girl did herself in. The police have no right coming here and pestering me and my family.”
“Would you say Jenny was distressed when she left?”
“Who wasn’t, given all the hysteria going on around here?”
Ross seemed to be harboring a great deal of anger and nervous energy. He walked to the bar in the corner, poured himself a whisky, and downed it without even glancing my way.
“Hysteria?” I prompted.
“That bloody wife of mine decided to put on a vocal display simply because I was in the house alone with this young woman for a moment or two. I’d just returned, for God’s sake, and was preparing to take her home.”
“I understand you use the girls from the shelter as childminders on a regular basis,” I observed.
“What if we do? They’re happy enough to take my money.”
“Are they?”
“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply,” Ross said through clenched teeth. “But don’t pay any attention to the lies those women at the shelter spread. They’re trigger-happy. One look from a man and they’re sure they’re under attack. It’s ludicrous. A man in my position has no use for women like that.”
I’d be willing to bet Duncan Ross had some use for them, but not the kind he would care to discuss in public. Sadly his words, as contrived as they were, would likely carry more weight than those of the shelter’s residents.
“Now, you’ll have to excuse me,” Ross said, heading for the door. “I have important business to attend to.”
He swept out and within two minutes, the lady of the house arrived wearing an immaculately tailored white slacks suit with black wedge heels that were easily five inches high. Given the glazed look in her blue eyes, it was amazing that she was still vertical. She approached me with measured steps, looking me up and down. Was she wondering if I was one of her husband’s playthings? The thought made me angry, but I swallowed hard and said, “Mrs. Ross, I’m Abigail Logan. I’ve just joined the board at the Shepherd’s Rest along with your husband. I was on my way home and agreed to stop by and collect some donations you had. Save you the trip.”
Her eyes flickered, registering that I was someone as opposed to no one. Not a significant someone in her mind, but someone worthy of acknowledgment at least.
“Lila Ross,” she said extending a limp-wristed hand. She opened a carved wooden box on the table next to her and retrieved a cigarette. She lit it before walking back to the door and calling out, “Maria, bring those things down from my dressing room. Not the dry cleaning, mind, but the pile of old stuff on the floor.” She turned back to me and said, “Can I get you a drink?”
“No thanks, I’m fine. I have a long drive ahead of me.”
Lila shrugged and poured herself a large gin from the sideboard and added a token splash of Slimline tonic. Not enough to dilute the drink, just enough to make the beverage arguably a cocktail and not straight alcohol. She collapsed on the couch, cradling her drink, and waved vaguely at the settee across from her. I perched on the edge and said, “We really appreciate the donation. It’s a tremendous help. You and your husband do so much to support the residents at the shelter.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Lila snorted softly. “Duncan’s always keen to be helpful.”
Clearly not a warm relationship. “You had one of the girls from the Rest over to mind your kids on Monday night.” Lila ignored the remark. “Jenny,” I prompted. “Did you know her at all?”
“Me? Don’t be daft. I don’t know any of those women.”
I unclenched my jaw slowly. “Those women?” I prompted.
Lila studied her blood-red pinkie nail, intently looking for some divot in the sleek perfection. “Some women just court trouble and have no idea how to get themselves out of the mud once they fall in.” She trailed off, turning back to take a long drag on the cigarette in her other hand.
“They seem to be admirably brave women from where I’m sitting, but then again, I’ve only just started to work with the Rest. All this is new to me. I just wanted to find out a bit more about Jenny. I didn’t get the chance to really get to know her before she died.”
Lila looked me in the eye for a long moment, as if trying to assess where I was going with this. I noticed that the artfully placed pink smudges on her cheeks suddenly stood out in greater relief against her pale skin. “It was suicide from what I understand,” she remarked.
“Really? I understood the police hadn’t committed yet. How did she seem to you when you last saw her?”
Lila rolled her eyes. “I don’t know the woman. How the hell would I know how she was?” She took another drink from her glass that was now being waved around with abandon. “Besides, she was leaving when I arrived home. We barely crossed paths.”
“You and your husband weren’t out together?” I said in mock surprise.
She scowled, giving me a disdainful look. “Not if we can help it.”
“And he didn’t say anything to you about Jenny?”
“Ms. Logan, my husband and I lead very separate lives. I don’t speak to him any more than I have to.” Lila took two large swallows from her glass.
“Do you ever worry about your husband being alone here with these young women?” I prodded.
“These women are childminders. By definition they are here because we are not. I don’t know what you are trying to suggest, but I would think very carefully if I were you before going down that path.” Lila rose from the settee unsteadily and moved across the room to yell out the door. “Maria, where the hell are those donations?”
I heard a voice from down the hall say, “I left them on the bench in the foyer.”
“Well, get in here and help Ms. Logan to her car. She’s leaving now.”
On that dismissive note I rose and followed Lila out into the hall. She handed me off to Maria with a curt goodbye before turning and heading back upstairs.
That interview had gone south quickly. Clearly, Duncan Ross’s exploits were a sore subject on the home front.
Maria grabbed half the pile of clothing that was spilling onto the marble floor. I grabbed the other half and we struggled our way through the front door, trailing layers of garish tulle, sequins, and leather behind us. We’d probably do better to sell the clothing and use the money to purchase some useful items for the shelter.
Maria helped to stuff all the finery into Hope’s tiny trunk and backseat.
“Thanks for the hand,” I said with a smile. “That’s a lot of stuff.”
“Plenty more where that came from,” Maria murmured.
“I’ll bet. I suppose we can always sell them on eBay and make use of the cash.”
Maria continued trying to contain the overflowing fabrics to avoid trapping them in the car door.
“Were you here on Monday night?” I asked.
Maria shot a quick glance back at the house and continued to slowly fold a particularly slippery satin gown. “I told the police. Mr. Ross gave me the night off. He usually does when they have a sitter in. I went to the pictures.”
“What time did you get back?”
“Nine thirty or so.”
“Was Mr. Ross home?”
“No, I saw him come in around ten o’clock.”
“And Jenny, the sitter, did she seem alright when he came back?
“I don’t know. I saw Mr. Ross come home from over there.” Maria nodded in the direction of a wooden bench adjacent to the entrance to the park about twenty feet away. “I’m not allowed to come back to the house when one of the girls are there unless the porch light is on.”
> Convenient arrangement, not to mention creepy. “And the porch light wasn’t on when you came back?”
Maria shook her head.
“So you have to just sit here and wait?” I tried my best to keep the anger from my voice. “Did you tell the police about this arrangement?”
Maria took a step toward the house. “I must go back.”
I reached out to touch her arm. “Just one more quick question, please. What time did Mr. Ross leave to drive Jenny home?”
“He didn’t. Mrs. Ross drove her home.”
“Mrs. Ross?”
“She got home about twenty minutes after Mr. Ross. She’s usually out much later. Next thing I knew the porch light went on, so I hurried in. It was starting to rain.”
“What was going on when you came into the house?”
“I’ve talked too much already. Mrs. Ross is probably watching.” Maria turned and fled across the street and back into the gated yard.
I would love to have been a fly on the wall for the conversation that ensued when Lila Ross returned home the other night. Did she blame her husband for the scene that greeted her? Or did she blame Jenny? Based on what I’d just heard, I’d bet she put the blame on the victim. So why would she bother to take one of “those women” home and not just stuff her in a taxi and be rid of her?
I climbed into Hope and headed back to Balfour. No one wanted to talk about what happened to Jenny at the end of the night. Maybe her blood work would give us some clues. As I headed out of town on the motorway, I found Hope leading me in the direction of Stirling; it was time to call in a favor.
* * *
—
In less than half an hour I was sitting on a bench in front of Stirling’s lone organic bakery, warming my hands around a cup of tea, and watching Detective Inspector Ian Michaelson walking down the street toward me. He strode with purpose, head held high, eyes darting from side to side taking in the details of his surroundings as he passed. Steely, tenacious, scrupulous. He was a first-class policeman and over the past year, during the course of several unanticipated entanglements, we’d become friends.
Died in the Wool Page 8