by Ellen Jane
Heather caught her arm as she turned away. “Let me just go home quickly. I’ll check on the dogs and meet you there.”
Sinéad shook her head and pulled her arm free. “No. You stay home. There’s no need to be involved anymore.”
“I don’t think you should go alone,” Heather insisted. “If Tracy really is behind this, she knows you too well. She might really be out to hurt you.”
For a moment, a pained expression crossed Sinéad’s face, but then it softened. “Heather, please. Just stay home. I never should have involved you in the first place.”
Without waiting for a response, Sinéad turned away, leaving Heather standing alone by the door.
Chapter Seven
The dogs were, as she had hoped, completely unscathed from their ordeal and dutifully ecstatic that she had returned home from another day away. She scratched Bear’s ear absentmindedly as she put the kettle on, wondering why the thought of leaving Sinéad to handle this on her own left such a sour taste in her mouth. It was more than clear Sinéad could look after herself, but every time Heather pictured her talking to Patricia, she kept imagining some faceless woman dressed in black creeping up from behind and stabbing her.
The sound of Christmas bells jingling up the drive broke her out of her misery, and she looked up in time to see Barbara knocking at the kitchen window. She blinked in surprise and hustled the three dogs into the living room, where they couldn’t cause trouble, and shut the door. Then she crossed the room to let her in, eyes drawn to the sight of two enormous bells dangling from each ear.
“I’m so pleased I caught you!” Barbara hefted a large basket onto the kitchen bench and began to rummage around inside. “I was just delivering my biscuits, and I thought I saw you come inside.”
She retrieved a package of shortbread from the basket and held it out triumphantly. Heather stared at it, noticing that it was quite a bit smaller than the other packages.
“I’m not on your biscuit list,” she said after a moment’s pause, when she failed to come up with a more intelligent way to communicate her confusion.
Barbara trilled and waved her hand. “Biscuit list? What biscuit list? What are you talking about? You’re an odd one, Heather.” She crossed the room, laughing, and pulled the kitchen curtains shut tight.
Before Heather could object to the strange behaviour, Barbara had spun on her heel—all trace of geniality gone from her expression—and begun to whisper.
“Have you found them yet?” she hissed.
“What?” Heather said, alarmed. “The killer? No, of course not. If we’d found them, they would have been arrested.”
Barbara sniffed. “So, you haven’t spoken to Patricia, then?”
Heather inwardly groaned. “Look, I know you think she has an idea who did it, but we can’t base our investigation on rumours and hearsay. Just because you think she was acting strangely, doesn’t mean—”
“If you got down off your little high horse for five seconds, you’d find that what I have to say is actually very valuable!” Barbara interrupted.
Heather shut her mouth and quietly fumed, waiting for Barbara to compose herself and get to the point.
“Patricia loves her girls,” Barbara said, her lips pressed so tightly together they had turned white. “She would do anything for us, and she always believes the best in people, bless her.”
Heather wondered if she had ever met the Patricia that Barbara was describing, or if that woman was purely a figment of her admirers’ imaginations.
“But I know her, Heather. She knows something.” Barbara straightened up and grabbed her basket from the counter. “Speak to Patricia. I’m confident you can make her see reason.”
“Fine,” Heather said, unable to keep the note of irritation out of her voice. “Is she staying at a friend’s, or is she at the Shepherd’s Inn?”
“She’s staying at the inn, but she’s popped by the house this morning to make sure the investigation hasn’t interfered with her prized tangerines.” Spinning around with a flourish, she flung the curtains open and beamed at Heather. “So lovely to see you. Do enjoy the biscuits!”
With that, she was gone. Heather flopped down at the kitchen table just as Lucifer worked out the door handle and the three dogs came barrelling in.
“Settle down,” she said, smiling at them despite her new fears.
It certainly looked as though Sinéad’s ex knew something she wasn’t telling, but did that mean she was the killer or just an uncomfortable stalker? What if Patricia really did know something?
But the point was moot; Sinéad didn’t want her there.
She stood up and went back over to the kettle, pouring herself a cup of tea. Sinéad had made it clear that she thought Heather didn’t have the strength or bravery or whatever to pull this off. Heather wasn’t exactly sure when common sense had turned into a lack of courage; she must have missed that memo.
She stirred honey into her tea, only distantly aware of the sound of the spoon clinking against the porcelain. She threw it into the sink, where it landed with a clank, and then crossed the room to sit back down at the kitchen table.
Maybe it wasn’t common sense to stay away from this case. Maybe Sinéad was right.
She turned to Lucifer, who for once sat calmly at her feet, and wrinkled her nose. “Why can’t things just be obvious?”
Lucifer shifted his front paws and said nothing.
“I mean, it’s not like running headlong into danger is a smart thing to do,” she continued, staring into his brown eyes. Her thoughts went, for a moment, to Sinéad’s dark brown eyes instead. She shook her head and kept talking. “If we just told the police what we know, it would be so much simpler. They’d probably catch the killer in a few hours.”
Lucifer whined. Heather looked away, her eyes falling on the smooth wood of the kitchen table. She ran her fingers along it, remembering the way her mother had sanded back the tabletop, casting magic as she went so that no matter what was spilled on it, the colour never stained or faded.
Her mother would have known what to do. She could read people like the open pages of a diary, and she had never shied away from using that gift to do what she knew was right.
Heather took a sip of her tea, wrinkling her nose at the cold liquid. How long had she been sitting here? Lucifer had wandered off, and she could hear Teddy and Bear chasing each other up the stairs.
Lacking anyone else to talk to, she looked up at Sinéad’s business card on the fridge. The woman winked at her, and Heather couldn’t help but grin in response.
“Am I really going to sit here and do nothing?” she murmured, watching the woman straighten her hat and resume her pose.
There was a crashing sound as Teddy barrelled into a piece of furniture. It made her remember the sound of the thief last night, and the sight of him lying there with Sinéad standing over him. Heather stood up with a start.
“No, I’m going to go,” she said, before grabbing her coat and running out the door.
Patricia’s drive was empty of police this time, and Heather made her way up the path to the front door, where the police tape neatly cordoned the area off as an open investigation. She nearly knocked, but then she remembered what Barbara had said and walked down the side of the house instead.
She found Patricia standing beside the orchard, her hands tucked neatly into her fur muff. She didn’t look like she was ready for gardening.
Footsteps sounded on the path behind Heather, and she turned to see Sinéad walking up to her.
“Took me a while to find her,” Sinéad said, nodding her head towards Patricia. “Everything all right?” She looked Heather up and down, the warm expression in her eyes sending a shiver up Heather’s spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
“Everything’s fine,” Heather said. “I just didn’t want you to keep going alone. Plus, I had a visit from Barbara. She insisted that Patricia knew something she wasn’t telling.”
Sinéad raised an eyebrow, e
xpressing exactly what Heather thought. Then a small cough broke the silence, and they turned to see Patricia glaring at them.
“I presume you have a reason to trespass,” she said, turning to watch them with beady eyes. “Shall I call the police immediately, or would you like to entertain me with your excuses first?”
“Put your pitchfork away,” Sinéad said lightly, walking up to Patricia and facing her head on. “We just wanted to talk to you.”
Patricia tilted her nose into the air. “Oh? What do you think I might possibly have to say to you?”
“Did you invite Tracy Wainwright to the party?”
Patricia blinked. “Who?”
Heather noted the genuine surprise on her face and repressed a grimace. If Tracy hadn’t been invited to the party, how did she know about the painting?
“Short girl,” Sinéad continued. “Black pixie-cut. Soft-spoken.”
A flicker of recognition crossed Patricia’s features, and she mumbled something under her breath.
“What was that?”
“She was out back,” Patricia said, her shoulders slumping forward. “I saw her in the kitchens and thought she was just one of the cook’s cousins. They often bring help in with them; it’s not unusual. I didn’t think anything of it until just now—” She shook her head. “You’re saying she’s a suspect?”
Heather thought that if she hadn’t been watching Sinéad very closely—hadn’t learned these past couple of days how to read her a little better—she would have missed the pain in Sinéad’s eyes. It was there and gone in an instant, and then she held herself a little straighter.
“She could be,” was all Sinéad said.
Heather grimaced as she realised that Barbara had been right after all, even if her aim had been a little off.
“Barbara thought you suspected someone in your ladies group, and you just didn’t want to confront the truth of it,” Heather said.
Patricia blinked in surprise. “One of the ladies? Of course not; they would never do this.” She grimaced. “Though, that explains her messages.”
“Her messages?”
“She kept asking if I was sure I hadn’t seen anything suspicious. She was very insistent about it; anyone would think she was investigating it herself.”
Heather frowned. It all fit, but something wasn’t right. Sinéad grabbed hold of her elbow and steered her away.
“Thank you for your time,” Sinéad said over her shoulder. “We’ll see ourselves out.”
The second they were out of sight, she whispered to Heather, “What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Heather looked up into Sinéad’s concerned brown eyes and tried to catch hold of the thought that eluded her. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just feel like there’s something we’re missing.”
“Yeah,” Sinéad said with a huff, “we’re missing my nasty ex, who’s going after her boss and trying to frame me for it. When I get my hands on her, I’m going to—”
“No, not that,” Heather insisted.
She looked over at the windows down the side of the house.
“Can you give me a boost?”
Sinéad looked over at her in surprise, and then at the windows. She blinked. “I… suppose?”
“Great.”
Heather ducked quickly off the path and over to the bushes. “I just need to see something.” She waited until Sinéad cupped her hands awkwardly beneath the window sill, then she balanced herself on Sinéad’s shoulder and climbed up.
“What are you looking for?” Sinéad asked, stifling a little grunt as Heather nearly wobbled and fell.
“I don’t know,” Heather admitted. “Something isn’t right.”
She peered into the darkened room, blocked off with tape, but it was hard to see anything. The easiest thing to make out was Sinéad’s painting, its bold colours standing out against the stark propriety of the room. Looking at it now, she felt a strong surge of peace flood through her—peace and love.
“What did you say your spell was again? The one you put on the painting?” she asked.
“Platonic love,” Sinéad answered with a grunt. “She was presenting it to her sisters, so she wanted love and a touch of an apology for all the dresses of theirs she’d ruined over the years. Is this really important right now?”
“No,” Heather murmured vaguely. Then she realised what was bothering her. “The kitchens were far away from the drinks table,” she said. “For Tracy to get all the way to the other side of the room, stab the Earl, and get all the way out, someone would have spotted her. She’s too conspicuous, and we were with the nosiest group of women in the entire town. Someone would have mentioned seeing her there at the time of the murder.”
Sinéad stumbled, and Heather fell to the ground, sending them both crashing down onto their backs. They lay there for a moment, staring up at the sky.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Sinéad said drily, a little breathless.
Heather looked over with a smile, and her breath hitched as Sinéad’s gaze met hers, her eyes dropping briefly to Heather’s lips and then back up again. Sinéad pushed herself into a sitting position and reached down to help Heather up, sending a flood of warmth through her where their hands met.
“It’s still suspicious,” Sinéad said. “Even if she didn’t stab the Earl herself, she shouldn’t have been at this party, and she somehow knew about the spell on the painting.”
“You’re right,” Heather conceded. “Do you think it’s time we told the police? Or do you want to talk to Tracy first?”
Sinéad hesitated. “I want to believe she didn’t do this and give her a chance to explain, but with everything we’ve found, I’m worried this really would be withholding evidence if we don’t go to the police. What if we spooked her and she ran away?” She sighed. “I think we should tell them. It’s too late to go by now; let’s drop in first thing in the morning.”
Heather nodded in agreement, her heart racing at the thought. They checked to make sure no one was watching and slipped back down the side of the house onto the driveway. The snow had stopped, leaving behind that strange blanket of stillness that always made Heather think of Christmas and the sweetness of waiting for presents. She moved to say goodbye to Sinéad, but Sinéad caught her hand and pulled her back.
“Thank you,” she said, the cool, professional mask dropping away so that her face was filled instead with warmth and light.
It suited her, and Heather’s breath momentarily escaped her at the sight.
“You’re welcome,” she said, somehow managing to find the words.
Sinéad’s eyes dropped again to Heather’s mouth, a question there, and before Heather could think about it too deeply, she leaned forward in the still, quiet night and caught Sinéad in a kiss. Sinéad’s lips curved into a smile, her hands warm where they caught around Heather’s waist, and when they finally pulled back, Heather felt a little giddy.
“Thank you,” she said stupidly, before she could catch herself.
Sinéad laughed, a soft musical sound. “You’re welcome.”
Chapter Eight
The sound of Michael Bublé crooning Christmas carols filled Heather’s kitchen as she finished getting ready for the night. She hummed along, stacking dishes and trying not to trip over the dogs as she made sure everyone was inside and ready for bed.
The insistent feeling that something wasn’t right still bothered her, but it kept fading away beneath the dizzying flood of lightness that filled her every time she remembered the kiss.
She paused in front of the cupboard, realising that she had been piling the plates into where the mugs should go. With a little blink, she noticed she had accidentally pushed her parents’ mugs all the way to the back. She normally kept them at the front, where she could see them through the glass. She fixed them up, and for once, she didn’t feel the little cloud of unhappiness that always lurked whenever she thought of her parents.
Lucifer barked, the sound
muffled around the toy he held in his mouth. It broke through her thoughts and signalled it was time for bed. She led the way up the stairs, the three dogs following along behind, and it wasn’t until she was halfway up the staircase that the wallpaper began to whisper.
Gee, woke me up from a right good sleep, that one.
Heather stumbled to a halt and looked over at the embossed rose in horror. The three dogs bumbled past, unaware and eager to get to bed.
“You’re not meant to talk!” she said.
You’re telling me, the rose agreed.
Typical high-class snots—don’t spare a thought for the lives of the people they’re interrupting, the trailing ivy added.
“What are you talking about?” Heather steadied herself against the rail. “Who’s high class?”
That geranium up at the manor. She was in such a state, I could hardly make out the words she was saying.
Heather felt a little like the world was spinning around. “The geranium? What—at Patricia’s house? She shouldn’t be able to talk still! You shouldn’t be able to talk at all.”
When it’s the only way to shut her up, I think you’d find anyone can learn how to string a few words together, the rose grumbled.
Ignore her, the ivy interrupted, she’s just mad that it’s the first chance at conversation she gets in a decade and she had to spend it trying to get her little sister to stop crying.
“Little sister?” Heather could hear the faint note of hysteria in her own voice.
Then she remembered that the same artist who had produced the wallpaper in her landing had also done Patricia’s lounge. She had a brief image in her mind of a single piece of paper torn in two.
“You’re,” she paused, “connected?”
We’re in the same garden, yes, the rose said with a sniff. So changes in the soil at one end of the bed tend to carry to the other, so to speak. Mind you, I still could have ignored a little conversation charm if she hadn’t been yelling so loud it woke the rest of us up.
She was distraught, the ivy pointed out. She would have woken up for you if you needed her.