Good Deed Bad Deed : A Novel Mystery

by Marcia Morgan

  “Not a problem. I didn’t intend to take you to your local ‘chipper.’”

  His attempt at humor made Olivia relax a little, and she responded amicably, “Of course I knew that. But there could be a happy medium.”

  “No, it’s Princi. No changes. Why don’t I meet you there at eight? I’ll call for a reservation. I’ll probably use my GPS so I won’t be late. You won’t have far to go, will you? I could pick you up, if you like. I’d prefer that.” He gave her no chance to answer before asking, “Where exactly is your flat?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation Olivia told him quite specifically where she lived, but still chose to meet him at the restaurant— a must for a first date, if this was truly a date. They ended the call, and she ran up the stairs, already thinking about what to wear.

  Olivia reached the door of her flat and began to fumble with her purse, reaching deep inside for the key. Her fingers soon found it, and as she put it into the lock, the house phone began to ring. Once inside, she dropped everything on the entry floor and rushed to catch the call. Just as it went to voicemail she picked up the receiver and said, “Hello, Olivia here.”

  “Oh, you’re there. Good. I wasn’t going to leave a message. It would have been too long. Well, I guess I could have just said to call me.”

  “Is that you, Valerie? It’s been so long I can’t quite recognize your voice.” She was glad to hear from her ex-sister-in-law, but didn’t want to gush. “Why didn’t you just call me on my cell?

  “I don’t know. I just figured the call might be more pleasant if you weren’t out somewhere and trying to hear over the din of cars and whatever else.” Valerie sounded on edge, anxious.

  “To what do I owe the honor of this call?” Olivia asked, making a meal of the whole ‘out of touch’ thing.

  “Are you trying to be clever or just being snarky?” Valerie said, sounding impatient.

  “Maybe a little snarky,” Olivia replied. “But I am glad to hear from you, finally. I’d wondered if you’d ‘crossed the pond’ for an extended stay with your parents. Is everything all right?”

  “Well, if I visited my parents right now, we’d be at each other’s throats. There’s no chance I’ll ‘cross the pond’ to see them until I’ve made some changes.” Valerie voiced an audible sigh before continuing. “For the most part, things are all right. At least I’m all right.” Her tone had been meek, but when she continued, it became almost arrogant. “And about our lapse in contact? The phone works two ways!” Valerie waited for a response from Olivia, but none came. Suddenly concerned that she might antagonize her further and ruin the plan, she said, “My shop girl, Chloe, is somewhat less than all right.”

  Sounding concerned, Olivia asked, “What happened to her. Is it bad?”

  “I’d never known anyone who was hit by a car, but now I do.” Valerie’s voice was becoming more agitated as she got into telling the story. “Chloe had just stepped off the curb and was hit by an SUV rounding the corner too fast. It’s hard to understand how anyone could miss seeing her. And even worse, the person took off, making it a hit and run. She’s in the hospital—concussion, broken ankle, torn ligament in her knee. Of course it could have been worse. A car that size could easily have killed her.”

  “Poor Chloe. She’s so young to have such a close call. Well, actually, age has nothing to do with close calls, but it sounds as if she will be okay…eventually.”

  At this point Valerie paused while she prepared just the right words. She wanted to ask or, if necessary, manipulate Olivia into taking time off from her job in order to accommodate the temporary closing of Boutique Le Bijou.

  Before she had a chance to broach the subject, Olivia spoke, breaking Valerie’s concentration. “I would really like to talk longer—catch up—but I have a last minute date and not much time to get ready. We should have lunch soon, or I could call you tomorrow.”

  Valerie could tell that she was unlikely to get a positive response from someone in a hurry to prepare for a date, so she feigned interest and asked one more question. “Is this someone new? Last time we spoke you weren’t seeing anyone—said you were off dating for a while—fed up with their ‘modus operandi’ and general annoying nature.”

  “You caught me at a low point when I said that. You remember that lay-about who tried to move in with me at Christmas time last year?”

  “Phillip, or something like that?”

  “Yes. When I said those things he was bringing out the worst in me. It was no small thing, getting rid of him. I was attractive to him because I had a job. I pity the next poor cow to fall for that charm. But really, I have to go. Talk soon.” Without waiting for Valerie to say goodbye, she rung off and hurried into her room.

  Once freed from her conversation with Valerie, Olivia quickly tended to the ablutions involved in preparing for a date. She pulled several outfits from the closet, settling on an Indian gauze skirt, printed in a palette of blues and greens, and a white silk camisole. She slipped into ballet flats and then pulled her copper colored hair back into a small chignon before adorning herself further with long turquoise and silver chandelier earrings and the usual assortment of bangles. Olivia was very individual in her tastes, or bizarre, as her mother referred to them. She owned the obligatory leather jacket, but hers was a vivid cyan blue and cropped to the waist.

  Olivia pulled the jacket from the closet, scooped her bag off the hall table, and headed out to meet Mr. Clive Warren. She was running late due to Valerie’s call and decided to hail a cab for the short ride to Ristorante Princi. In order to avoid glaring looks from the driver she doubled the fare. ‘Clive’ was waiting for her in the restaurant foyer and smiled with seeming delight as she entered. He had procured a table at the edge of the patio that would afford a pleasant view of the potted palms and flower boxes. Just as he declared that she looked ‘smashing’ the maître di’ approached, menus in hand, ready to lead them outside, where overhead electric heaters kept the coolness at bay.

  Once they were seated, a waiter appeared immediately and stood at attention, looking back and forth at the two. “May I take your drink order?” he asked, readying his pad and pen.

  In a tone that both questioned and suggested, Gareth asked, “A glass of champagne to launch our evening?”

  “I don’t mean to be a spoil sport, and I do like champagne, but it invariably gives me a hateful headache, and I have work tomorrow.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” he said, “Then is there something you would enjoy, maybe a glass of wine?”

  She looked up at the waiter and said, “I’ll stick to my usual glass of chardonnay, and since I’m sure you feature more than one, I’ll depend on you to choose.” The waiter nodded and then looked toward her companion, who ordered a gin and tonic. With a short bow he turned and walked away.

  The drinks arrived, and before ordering they settled into a comfortable exchange that touched on current events, the weather, and other general subjects that require no declared opinions or revelations. Eventually they attended to ordering the meal and found it outstanding. There was more talk over coffee and biscotti before Olivia suggested that it was late, considering that she had work the next day. He had been a perfect gentleman all evening and continued by pulling out her chair and helping her on with the leather jacket. As they stood outside the restaurant, breathing in the temperate night air of mid-summer, Olivia began to feel self-conscious, wondering as always how to navigate that awkward moment of parting. She began by thanking him for such an enjoyable meal, and that he had been an interesting dinner companion. He seemed to be tongue-tied by her compliment and looked down at the sidewalk. Rather than respond to what she had said, he hailed her a cab and she climbed aboard. After the exchange of a few words he closed the door, she waved and was gone.

  Ten minutes hadn’t passed before she was at the door of her flat. The comfort and familiarity of her surroundings seemed unusually welcome. The leather jacket ended up on the edge of a chair, the skirt and shoes were pudd
led on the floor where they were shed. She removed her jewelry, loosened her hair and splashed water on her face before turning off the light. The bed was as she had left it that morning and she all but dove into the middle, grabbing a pillow to stuff behind her neck. She lay on her back, staring back and forth from shadows on the ceiling to pale light from streetlamps beyond her window.

  Regardless of emotional fatigue, sleep was evasive. An evaluation of the evening seemed unavoidable. Comprehensive education or no, Olivia had found her dinner companion to be quite charming, given his rather rough appearance. It seemed almost incongruous that his clothing was perfectly tailored and seemingly of designer quality. She had also found that rough appearance to be in some way attractive. She asked herself why. Perhaps his obvious willingness to butt heads, jump into the fray, tackle the biggest rugby player on the field—if he had played rugby—was a sign that he would also be a protector of those close to him. Although she made the assumption about his playing rugby, not football, she couldn’t see him standing still for a mugging. Upon further contemplation of the man’s slightly crooked nose, muscular build, and square jaw with just a hint of beard, Olivia realized conversely, and with a little guilt, that all of these same characteristics could also indicate that he was dodgy. The answer is in the eyes, she thought.

  As often happens on a first date, she had avoided looking into his eyes. And in spite of curiosity about his age, she didn’t ask, and was glad that he hadn’t asked her to take a guess. That guess would have been mid to late thirties. In fact, she had not questioned her date about anything personal—his place of birth, his schooling, interests, or his business. However, he had been full of questions, asked with interest and enthusiasm. Olivia had been urged to tell much of her life story, as well as what was taking place in her current life. He asked about her friends, whether they lived close by, where her parents lived, if she had siblings. She felt a wave of attraction hit her when he leaned across the table and asked about aspirations for her future life. It all seemed innocent enough— his questions—a way to pass the time, keep the conversation going. Before the tables were turned and she had an opportunity to give as good as she got, question-wise, they had finished their meal and there was no longer a reason to linger.

  It had been a comfortable evening, surprisingly, and Olivia was glad she had given in to her boredom and agreed to meet him. ‘Clive’ had put her in a cab, holding the door open until he could ask if she would see him again. He also slipped the driver some money—she couldn’t see how much. She didn’t have to think about it. Her answer was yes. On the ride back to her flat Olivia had considered her questionable judgment in dating a client. She knew it was inadvisable, but this was the first evening she had experienced in a long time where she was made to feel special, interesting. It would be just a bit of fun—nothing serious—and she would make it clear to him that it didn’t include favors when it came to pricing out his office redecoration—or any other favors he might have in mind—at least not yet. Her next thought was about how much she would enjoy bringing him to meet her parents. She could just see their faces. Olivia could be a slightly evil child.

  * * *

  Valerie knew that Olivia would not have the funds to flit away with her on a last-minute vacation. In fact, Valerie had no idea where she wanted to go. It just had to be as far away as possible from London and the responsibilities that now seemed to be made up of insurmountable problems. She had been saving for a trip back to the states, but seeing her parents with things in their present predicament had become less and less desirable. They always made her feel like a child, yet with the recent revelations foist upon her by Dr. Kate, she realized that being treated that way may have been of her own doing. For the time being her father had committed to paying rent on the shop, and her credit card still had a decent amount available. She figured that if they shared a room, were careful and kept to a daily budget, they could probably squeeze out a couple of weeks away. Perhaps Olivia could contribute a little, but Valerie expected to take care of the bulk of expenses. She knew that Olivia took no substantial financial help from her parents, a quality that she admired but seemed unable to emulate. Olivia’s job as a decorating assistant didn’t pay a lot, and from what Olivia had shared, Valerie thought they took advantage of her enthusiasm by working her too hard.

  She curled up in the corner of her sofa, picked up her phone from the side table, and although it was too early for her date to be over, dialed Olivia. It went to voicemail, so Valerie left a message requesting that she get back to her, regardless of what time she came in. Before fixing a light supper, she showered and turned on her radio to a classical station, always her preference. She insisted that listening to the flow of music by the masters was like a Zen experience for her—always relaxing. Hours passed with no call from Olivia. Eventually she gave up and went to bed to continue with what she had hoped would be a good book. Less than a few pages into chapter two she nodded off, lights still on, music still playing softly in the background. When the phone startled her awake she had no idea of the time.

  She said hello and heard Olivia’s voice. “Well, you said to call no matter how late I got home.” The silence on the other end made her pause before asking, “Were you asleep?”

  “Yes, I had dozed off with my book. I know I told you to call, even late. It’s fine.” As Valerie spoke, she was already thinking of how to broach the subject of a getaway.

  “So what was so important that it couldn’t wait until morning?” Olivia waited for her friend’s reply.

  Valerie hesitated a moment then jumped in. “You remember about the possibility of having to close the shop?” Olivia answered that she did remember, and Valerie continued. “I’ve definitely decided to close it … temporarily. In a couple of weeks I’ll see how Chloe is doing, and then advertise for a temporary replacement, although I think that will be a problem. I’ll probably have to resort to hiring a schoolgirl.”

  “I guess you don’t have too many choices right now, but what does this have to do with me?”

  Valerie had thought too much about how to present her idea to Olivia, so rather than the rehearsed version of her plan, she began to ad lib. “I need very badly for you to take a trip with me. Don’t worry about money. This is something I’ve been considering for a while, and I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather share it with. Chloe’s accident could never be called fortuitous—it’s awful—but I can’t deny that the timing is in my favor. What do you think? Do you have any vacation time coming?”

  “I have a week, but if I took longer, it would be without pay. I’m not sure I could weather the storm of a week without pay.” The banter stopped as both women thought about what to say next.

  Valerie spoke first. “We’ll work it out. I’ll find the money for you. I’m sure there’s some way to get it from my mother. She doesn’t really pay attention to how the boutique is doing.”

  “That doesn’t seem right, Valerie. I won’t consider it unless you tell her the truth about the trip.”

  The wheels were turning as Valerie responded to Olivia’s sense of right and wrong. She thought it best to appear contrite, and to acquiesce to the demand. “All right, we’ll do it your way. Now, since you’ve all but agreed to go, let’s meet for lunch tomorrow and decide on our destination.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ana had never seen such darkness. There was no moon, and it seemed the only light in the world came from the small lantern that served as a guide to the front door. Ben turned toward her and smiled, then without a word got out of the car. His steps crunched the gravel as he came around to escort her from the car to the house. She emerged rather stiffly, the drive having been long and confining. As they approached the portico, the door opened and Paris walked forward with arms outstretched, her expression both loving and excited. Directly behind her was Ben’s father, Hugh, hands in his pockets and a broad smile on his face.

  Paris immediately threw her arms around Ben, planting a motherly kiss o
n his cheek. She then turned to Ana and extended both of her arms, taking her lovely guest’s hands into her own. Not only her words, but also the warmth in Paris’ expression assured Ana that she was truly welcome. Paris had retained her beauty well into middle age, and Ana could see that Ben had his mother’s eyes, both in shape and color—an ocean blue that at first sight of Ben had drawn her to get lost in them. His mother was very feminine in a flowing maxi skirt of gray silk and a gauzy white shirt, tied at the waist. Ana admired the carved silver pendant that hung from her neck on a delicate chain.

  They all went inside, and Ben’s father took the opportunity to welcome Ana as well, taking her hand in his and planting a quick soft kiss on each cheek. Hugh McKinnon was tall, like his son, and looked the perfect specimen of a robust sixty-something. His face was handsome, with the cragginess and healthy color of an outdoorsman. The gentleman’s hairline had receded slightly, a fact well disguised by a very close-cropped cut. Ana found him very dapper in his khakis and navy v-neck sweater, and she could see a resemblance between father and son. Their coloring was the same, and Ben had inherited that smile—the one that could make you think that either man could be enjoying a private joke. But when it was Ben smiling, she found it extremely provocative.

  Paris ushered them into the sitting room. Ana found the décor surprisingly chic for the country, yet it was well worn enough to be inviting and comfortable. Hugh offered aperitifs and busied himself at the antique sideboard that had been converted into a bar. Paris approached Ben, reaching up to touch his injured shoulder, and the two spoke quietly while Ana walked around the room, taking in every detail.

  The walls held a diverse collection of paintings: a large nineteenth century English landscape, several small portraits, probably family, and a pair of highly colored modern abstracts. Ana was impressed to find that such an eclectic mix could be so complementary. A tasteful touch of bric-a-brac, as well as a few small sculptures, graced both the low table in front of the sofa and those beside several overstuffed chairs. In a corner, near the room’s largest window, a baby grand piano stood proudly displaying a large cloisonné vase filled to overflowing with pale pink cabbage roses. A large Persian rug of muted colors, all soft tones of green and rose-tinted terracotta, anchored the furnishings. The fireplace face was constructed of a dark, richly grained mahogany, and the mantle was edged with intricate carvings of flowers and vines.