When she pocketed the phone, I loudly cleared my throat. She jumped and turned to face me, meeting my gaze with concern clouding her wide hazel eyes. “Ms. Webber, you startled me.”
“Sorry, I just saw you there and wanted to ask if you were doing okay. I know the investigation must be very stressful.”
“It has been, yes.” Honor rubbed her hands together as if she had a chill.
I looked her up and down. It was a warm spring day, but she was wearing a brown cardigan sweater over her plain ivory blouse and plaid skirt, along with short brown boots. Strangely, the boots were caked with dried mud, which spoke of either her distraction over her boss’s death or a recent foray into a garden or field. “Have you been forced to stay here since the party?”
“Forced to?” Honor fiddled with one of the earpieces of her glasses. “No, not really. I just thought it was more convenient, what with the authorities pulling me in for questioning several times. And Oscar—Mr. Selvaggio, that is—had given me some money in an expense account for this trip, so I’ve been able to stay at the local inn.”
“That’s good.”
Honor’s gaze darted from left to right and back again, as if she expected to see someone else appear. “It’s been useful. I’m trying to put Mr. Selvaggio’s affairs in order. I didn’t really have any other place to go, so I thought staying at the inn was as good a home base as anywhere else.”
“Didn’t he have an office somewhere?”
Honor’s laughter stung, sharp as needles. “Oh no, he was always traveling. Never stayed in one place too long. We did business out of hotel rooms all the time.”
“I see,” I said, and honestly, the fuzzy picture I had of her boss’s business practices became clear. Oscar Selvaggio had probably chosen to move around because it would make it harder for anyone to track him down. Sure, he was well-known in artistic circles, but if he was always here today, gone tomorrow, it would’ve made it more difficult for any disgruntled buyers to locate him. Especially if many of his sales were transacted overseas.
“I hadn’t worked for him that long, you know. Only six months or so.” Honor twisted one of the buttons on her cardigan so hard that it popped off in her hand. “We were in San Francisco and then Chicago before we came out here,” she added, shoving the button into the pocket of her skirt.
“I hate to pry, and I’m sure you’ve already explained all this to the sheriff’s department, but did you notice anything suspicious before Mr. Selvaggio was poisoned?” I held up my hands. “It’s just that my brother mentioned seeing you when he was walking outside not long before my fiancé and I discovered the body. The authorities seem to be looking at him as a suspect, and I thought if you’d seen someone else, like maybe a bony, dark-haired man …”
Honor cut me off with a sharp swipe of her hand through the air. “I saw no one. Not even your brother.” Her fierce expression melted to sadness as she gripped the edge of her cardigan. “I was only outside so I could make some private calls. It was time-sensitive stuff related to Oscar’s business interests. I wasn’t paying attention to anything else.”
“I see. Well, like I said, I don’t want to pry,” I said, although of course I would’ve loved to do so, especially if it would help Scott. “I bet you were trying to lock down the purchase of the Kelmscott Chaucer. That would’ve been a coup.”
“Um, sure. That was part of it.” Honor squared her hunched shoulders. “It was something Oscar wanted, of course. To be able to announce that he’d bought the Chaucer out from under Kurt Kendrick.”
“A perfect way to trump him,” I said, noting Honor’s eyelashes fluttering behind the lenses of her glasses. I’d always heard that rapid blinking meant someone might be lying. Which wouldn’t surprise me in this case. Honor Bryant was as edgy as a cat facing a vacuum cleaner. “But sadly, someone had other plans.”
“I think it was Mr. Kendrick,” Honor said, refusing to meet my inquisitive gaze. “Oscar rushed off after getting a text, you know. That’s how he must’ve ended up in that shed—someone demanded he meet them there. And who else would know of the existence of that outbuilding along with wanting to confront my boss? Anyway, Oscar warned me to be on my guard around Mr. Kendrick. He said he was a dangerous adversary.”
“Maybe in terms of business transactions, but I honestly can’t imagine him poisoning a guest at his house,” I said, examining the young assistant’s face for any sign that she might’ve seen more than she was letting on.
“I don’t know about that.” Honor’s expression hardened into a stony mask. “People saw Mr. Kendrick give Oscar a drink, you know. Maybe that was how he was poisoned.”
I saw you carrying a glass too, I thought, but the remembrance of Adele Tourneau in the butler’s pantry forced me to keep silent. No use pointing out everyone who might’ve had the opportunity to slip poison into Selvaggio’s beverage. “Did you see Mr. Selvaggio after that?”
“Not after he got that text.” Honor shoved her unruly bangs away from her forehead. “I headed outside right after that, but in the opposite direction. Oscar said he didn’t need me right then, and I had those calls to make …” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin as she looked straight into my eyes. “Anyway, since Oscar was poisoned, and I understand there was cognac in his system … Well, I expect the sheriff’s department has marked Mr. Kendrick as the primary suspect.”
“He’s on the list, from what I hear,” I said dryly. “But you know, any number of people could’ve slipped that poison into a drink and handed it to your boss.” Even you, I thought, but I didn’t think it wise to voice this idea aloud.
Honor crossed her arms over her chest. “I still believe Mr. Kendrick is the killer, and sooner or later the authorities will prove it.”
I looked her up and down, noting how tightly she’d hugged her arms to her body. “If he was responsible, I’m sure they will. But fortunately, Brad Tucker and the rest of his team are not inclined to jump to conclusions. They’ll conduct a meticulous investigation before they arrest anyone. Which should be what you want. I mean, you do want the right person punished for Mr. Selvaggio’s death, I assume?”
“Of course.” Honor’s gaze flitted to something she’d glimpsed over my shoulder. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Not the actual murderer, I suppose, but yeah, everyone else.” I glanced at my watch. “I’d better get a move on. My lunch hour is just about over.” I considered the fact that I hadn’t eaten anything but the sample hors d’oeuvres but shrugged this off. I could sneak a snack in the workroom if I got hungry later in the day. “Anyway, Ms. Bryant, I hope for your sake that this is all cleared up soon. I imagine you’ll be happy to leave Taylorsford.”
Honor grimaced. “Yes, although I’ll have to start looking for another job. But I’d like to be able to do so sooner rather than later.”
“I’m sure. Good-bye, and good luck with your job search,” I told her before I strode away.
When I reached the library, I noticed that Cynthia Rogers had not moved from her spot on one of the concrete benches under the maple trees that shaded the front yard of the building.
“Still here?” I asked as I approached her.
“It’s a pleasant place to sit and catch up with some old friends,” Cynthia replied, holding up her cell phone. “I’ve neglected a few people for far too long, and when you get older, they have the unfortunate habit of disappearing on you if you don’t keep in touch.”
I studied her calm face. It sounded like she was on some mission to reconnect to her past, as I’d guessed. “I imagine you’re right. Anyway, it is a nice day to be outside.”
“Absolutely,” she said, taking in a deep breath. “Such lovely weather calls for it, don’t you think?”
“If you can, for sure. But for now I must get back inside. Talk to you soon, but please”—I held up one hand—“don’t get your hopes up about that painting.”
“All I request is that you ask,” Cynthia said.
As I turned
to head into the library, I noticed a car parked across the street, a few buildings up from the library. A glossy black sports car.
What is Kurt doing here on a Monday? I thought, shading my eyes with my hand to try to determine if anyone was sitting in the car.
Cynthia Rogers stood and crossed to stand beside me. “Someone you know, or just admiring the beautiful vehicle?”
“It’s certainly not something I see in Taylorsford every day,” I said, keeping my tone light. Cynthia might just be a nosy visitor, and maybe she had even met him in the past, but I knew how Kurt valued his privacy. His connection to the pricey car wasn’t something I felt I should share with a relative stranger.
“Well”—Cynthia laid her fingers on my bare forearm—”I think I’ll head over to the diner and grab something for lunch.” Her fingers tapped against my skin, drawing my gaze to her pleasant face. “Even if your aunt doesn’t want to talk to me, which I sincerely hope she does, we still need to arrange that luncheon date sometime before I leave town.”
“What? Oh, right,” I said, distracted by my realization that someone was sitting in Kurt’s Jag. “Maybe we can talk about that when I call with any information on my aunt’s response to your request.”
“I look forward to it,” Cynthia said, lifting her hand and giving me a cheery wave before she strolled off.
I glanced at my watch again. I was going to be late, but I had to do one more thing before I headed inside. Striding across the quiet street, I reached Kurt’s car and rapped my knuckles against the driver’s side window.
The glass slid down. “Spying on me now?” I asked, refusing to be intimidated by his stern expression.
“One of my many hobbies,” he replied, before adding in a lighter tone, “Who was that woman?”
“Just some visitor,” I said. “Cynthia Rogers. Ever heard of her?”
Kurt looked down at his fingers, which were clutching the steering wheel tight enough to blanch his knuckles. “I’m not familiar with that name.”
“Honestly, she’s a bit nosy, but she did give me a rather sizable donation for the archives, so I decided to overlook her tendency to ask a lot of personal questions. It seems that she’s one of those people who likes to learn all they can about every place they visit.”
“A donation?” Kurt looked up at me, his blue eyes glittering like sapphires. “That’s rather unusual, don’t you think? Some unaffiliated person just deciding to give you money.”
I almost mentioned my suspicion of her connection to Uncle Andrew but thought better of it. I had no proof, after all, and I hated mentioning anything concerning my uncle’s romantic past to a man who’d loved him as much as, if not more than, my aunt had.
“Not me, exactly. The library.” I shrugged. “I got the idea that she has plenty of money and doesn’t mind spending it.”
“In other words, she likes to buy things.”
I frowned. Kurt’s typical sardonic smile appeared particularly fierce in the filtered light of the car interior. “You should understand that compulsion.”
“I do. In fact, I understand it all too well.” Kurt’s hand shot out, and his fingers encircled my wrist. “As I’ve told you on many other occasions, you need to be careful who you trust, Amy.”
“Most people would say that includes you,” I said, shaking off his fingers and taking a step back.
“And they wouldn’t be wrong.” Kurt looked away to stare out his windshield, his gaze focused on something up the street. “Speaking of visitors, there’s someone I really am keeping an eye on—Selvaggio’s little assistant. Quite the church mouse, isn’t she? Oscar did like to hire quiet types for his assistants, but she takes that to a whole new level.”
I followed the trajectory of his gaze, observing Honor Bryant walking away from her hiding place in the forsythia bushes. “I just spoke with her. She seems to think you should be considered the primary suspect in Mr. Selvaggio’s death.”
“I’m sure she does,” Kurt said, his voice so low I thought he might be talking to himself. He turned his head to look at me again. “I was Oscar’s main rival, of course.”
I twisted my hands together at my waist. “She told me that she’s aware you gave him a drink. Something that could’ve held the poison that killed him.”
“Ah, I see. Well, she isn’t wrong, at least about me handing Oscar a drink. Despite being rivals, we were united in our love of a good cognac.” Kurt placed his hands back on the steering wheel. “But I assure you there was no poison in that snifter.”
“I suppose that’s something the sheriff’s department will have to validate,” I said.
Kurt’s bushy white eyebrows disappeared under the thick hair falling over his forehead. “It’s my understanding that a few other people supplied Oscar with drinks, including little miss mousy over there. Anyway, the glass in question has not yet been located, and I suspect it may never be found.” His bright-blue eyes narrowed. “Glass shatters, and the woods are dark and deep,” he added, in a tone that reminded me of someone quoting poetry.
I took another step back, my heels falling off the sidewalk and onto a patch of grass. “That sounds like you know what actually happened.”
Kurt flashed me a wolfish smile. “I may have an inkling. But never fear,” he added, “justice will be served, one way or the other.”
I eyed him dubiously. “I need to get back to work, so I’ll overlook the implications of that remark. For now.” As I turned and headed back to the library, I heard him call out. Pausing on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, I watched the passenger’s side window roll down.
Kurt, leaning across the front seats, pointed his forefinger at me. “Watch your step, my dear. Don’t jump into water that might close over your head.”
I waved him off and headed into the library, realizing he was right on at least one point—when it came to Kurt Kendrick, I could never be sure what I was dealing with.
Chapter Twenty
On Tuesday, facing a slow afternoon at the library, I decided to do some additional internet sleuthing. I was curious to see what I could find out about the two women I’d spoken with the day before, Honor Bryant and Cynthia Rogers.
Also, since my aunt had informed me that she absolutely refused to consider selling any more of Andrew’s paintings, to Cynthia Rogers or anyone else, I knew I had to deliver that bad news sooner rather than later. But before I did so, I wanted a little more information on a woman who, I suspected, had thought her generous donation would ensure my cooperation in her quest to acquire at least one of Andrew’s paintings.
I expected to find information on Honor, since she was younger and likely to have an expansive digital footprint. But the hits, once filtered to remove other people with the same name, were actually rather sparse. She had no website or blog, and there were just a few mentions of her in posts from her university’s art history department, along with a handful of appearances in group photos with friends. She didn’t seem to have accounts on the main social media sites either. A private person, I thought as I scrolled through the group pictures that had tagged her. Surprisingly, she looked very different in these photos—much more vibrant and stylish. It seemed that she had adopted her rather dowdy appearance after college.
Or perhaps, I thought, chewing on the end of one of the golf pencils we provided for our patrons, she chose to dress differently when she went to work for Oscar Selvaggio. Which is odd, since Selvaggio moved in trendy circles. But then again, as Kurt mentioned, he apparently preferred assistants who didn’t draw attention to themselves. I smiled as another thought occurred to me, based on my brief acquaintance with the art dealer. He undoubtedly didn’t want anyone to pull the spotlight off himself.
Tossing the gnawed pencil in the trash, I turned my attention to Cynthia Rogers. Despite using varied search strategies, in this case I found nothing. Oh, there were plenty of mentions of people with that name, but none matched the woman who had introduced herself as a visitor to Taylorsford. It was
like she didn’t actually exist.
Of course, I told myself, not everyone uses computers, much less has social media accounts.
I drummed my fingers against the pitted wood surface of the circulation desk. Cynthia Rogers obviously had some deeper connection to the Taylorsford area that she hadn’t as yet divulged. There was nothing wrong with that, of course, unless …
Unless she’d had a relationship with Andrew Talbot that was more than a friendship, which wasn’t impossible. Andrew had been five years older than my aunt. He could’ve easily dated Cynthia at some point before Aunt Lydia was even old enough to catch his interest. There would’ve been nothing wrong with that, but I knew how fiercely protective my aunt was over her memories of her late husband. The last thing she’d welcome was some old girlfriend turning up to reminisce about my uncle.
I gnawed on the inside of my cheek. I knew my aunt could take care of herself, but I still wanted to spare her more anxiety, especially now, when she was concerned about Scott’s disappearance and conflicted over her relationship with Hugh. To shield Aunt Lydia, I’d have to be blunt with Cynthia Rogers, despite her generous donation. I’d just have to tell her that there was no chance of her buying one of Andrew’s paintings, so there was no point in me connecting her with Aunt Lydia. It did feel a bit rude and wasn’t a conversation I looked forward to, but I’d do it for my aunt’s sake.
Samantha came in to relieve Sunny around five, but since she and I were the only staff, paid or otherwise, working until eight, I didn’t get a chance to head out to the archives to look for any mentions of a Rogers family living anywhere near Taylorsford. I decided it could wait for another day. Or maybe never, I thought, my enthusiasm for this research waning as I realized that Rogers could easily be Cynthia’s married name. Which meant I didn’t have enough information to conduct a successful search anyway.
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