Good Deed Bad Deed : A Novel Mystery

by Marcia Morgan

  Sensing her presence, he looked up, put down his spoon and said, “You always seem to clean up well. Was it a shower that took the tiredness off your face?”

  “Must have been,” she answered. “But I feel a bit too ‘casual’ for your parents. I’ll need to change before they come back.” She wandered to the window, and speaking toward the glass panes, she added, “At least you didn’t comment on my shirt again.”

  Ben laughed, yet said nothing. Ana turned back and came to join him. A note lay open on the table, and she could easily read what was written. Edith had wanted everyone to know that she had gone to the shops and would be back in time to prepare their ‘tea’—an English reference that Ana had learned meant dinner. She looked over at Ben and saw that he had almost finished what seemed to have been a very large serving of oatmeal.

  This surprised her and she couldn’t help but comment. “I haven’t had oatmeal since I left home. I’m a bit surprised to see you eating it, evidently with gusto.”

  “It’s best to indulge Mum’s need to ‘mother’ me. You don’t want to see her reaction if she comes back from London and sees it sitting there on the stove, all congealed and cold.” He waited for her to respond, but her answer was only a smile. Not quite through with the subject, he continued, “When I was a kid, this was breakfast—every day. Even if it was Christmas, or Pancake Day, we had oatmeal first.”

  “What in the world is Pancake Day?”

  “It’s part of Lent. Before Ash Wednesday there’s Shrove Tuesday, and in the UK it came to be called Pancake Day. It’s a day of feasting before the penitential requirements of Lent that start the next day, Ash Wednesday. Comprende?” Ana nodded, and then motioned with her hand for him to continue. “Shrove comes from the old English word ‘shrive,’ which means to confess. People are supposed to evaluate what in their life needs changing. You’re probably more familiar with the French version—Mardi Gras. And I’m sure you know that’s French for Fat Tuesday—again with the food.”

  Ben stood, finished his coffee in one gulp, and took his dishes to the sink, where he rinsed them along with Ana’s and put them in the dishwasher. Then he contemplated the pan of oatmeal still sitting over simmering water on the big Aga range. “Are you sure you don’t have room for just a little?” he asked.

  “No thanks. Maybe tomorrow,” she answered politely, and he carried the pan to the sink, dumping the remainder down the drain before turning on the disposal. “Mum will think we ate it all. Just as well. It will save a lecture.”

  Ana shook her head in mock disapproval, all the while continuing to enjoy everything he did and everything he said. She realized the moment had arrived for planning the day and wondered if they would lounge about, sit in the sun perhaps, read books, surf the net—or even sneak out for a walk. Or if one wanted to be practical, might this be a perfect time to return to the interview— the task that had put everything in motion? After all that had happened, it would be difficult to return to the intended basic format: a hint about his next book, his hobbies—his women. She hesitated to ask him about the latter, but her curiosity grew with every hour they spent together. It seemed valid to her that she learn whether or not there was someone in his life. Just because he flirted with her a little didn’t mean there was no one else. She knew how men could be—knew too well. Those questions had to be worked into the conversation, but she was truthful enough with herself to realize that the answers weren’t necessary to the interview. However, they were necessary to her, considering the feelings of attraction that continued to flourish in his presence.

  Ben broke her concentration by announcing his intention to shower, shave, and dress. He assured her that while performing those rituals he would try to think of a way to keep them both from a day of boredom. Leaving her to her own devices he headed upstairs. She wandered around the kitchen, cleaning up a few crumbs, emptying grounds from the coffee maker. She paused at the window above the sink and looked out at the all-encompassing green of the back garden. Ana remembered being cautioned to stay in the house, but the grounds beckoned to her. When they arrived she had seen only the black of night, dark shadows and lighted windows. She wanted to see the house from the outside and thought about sneaking out to take just a short look while Ben was upstairs. With quick steps she left the kitchen and found her way to the foyer. Just as she opened the front door, Ben appeared on the stairs and called to her.

  “Hey! Hang on there, Ms. Doherty!” He hurried down and all but dashed to the one open door, pushing it closed before leaning against it. “I don’t really think you’ve forgotten what my father told us, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t, but I was just going to stand in front of the house for a minute to take a look. Last night I saw nothing but darkness.”

  She looked down, and Ben was put in mind of a small child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. He hadn’t meant to sound angry, or to admonish her as a parent might, but she was his responsibility. Still leaning against the door, he relaxed his stance and crossed his arms. Ana turned away, but he went to her then held her at arm’s length. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to sound angry, but you gave me a scare. I brought you here to protect you, and that means you go nowhere without me. You really need to take this seriously.”

  “I can see that the McKinnon men know how to take the bull by the horns. I’m glad you’re on my side—both of you.”

  “Very funny,” he said, locking eyes with her. She returned his gaze and for a moment it seemed to be a standoff. The tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hall was the only sound for at least a minute before Ben spoke. “Okay. We go out together—just for a minute. You will hold my hand and do as I tell you.”

  Ana found his authoritative tone rather arousing and assured him she would acquiesce to his instructions. Ben opened the door, took her hand, and they crossed the portico, stepping down onto the gravel driveway and continuing to the round planted area with its stone fountain. She turned to face the house, shading her eyes with her hand. It was built of rich honey-colored stone, aged enough to have a few chips and holes well hidden either by lichen or moss. With the gabled roof and chimneys it reminded Ana of the houses in the storybooks of her childhood, and those she had admired in English films. The windows were made of leaded glass panes, and on either side of the portico, trellises of climbing roses displayed blooms of deep scarlet. To the left of the house was a wall of the same stone, covered here and there with Virginia creeper, its five-pointed leaves sprouting from a maze of clinging tendrils.

  In the other direction, a gravel pathway led through a carefully trimmed boxwood arch and around the other side of the house to a destination Ana could not see. The path was lined with white daisies and assorted colors of iris, and to the right, some yards away, was the entrance to what appeared to be a typical kitchen garden. The space was defined by a short wooden fence bordered with fragrant lavender bushes in the full flush of summer. A once-white gate stood ajar, and wild morning glory was making a valiant attempt to engulf the fence, its electric violet blooms more of a visual delight than a weed to be challenged. Ana took it all in, and she was charmed beyond all expectation. The early afternoon sun had somewhat diffused all the color that surrounded her, and she looked forward to seeing everything at its most vibrant—perhaps in the morning, or later when Ben’s parents returned.

  It had likely been only ten minutes, maybe less, when Ben said they should go inside. Now that she had seen what had been lost in darkness the night before, the outdoors drew her even more. She longed to wander the grounds, make discoveries, and encounter nature at the apex of the season. Practicality told her that this would be an unlikely endeavor, given the situation. Yet if Hugh had gained more information, learned something that would relieve all their concerns, she could be free to embrace the English countryside, which she had never expected to fall in love with so easily.

  Ben suggested that she get comfortable in the sitting room while he put a call in to his sister, Olivia
, to ask if she would like to come up from London for the rest of the weekend. Olivia had evidently not answered because she heard him leave a message. He returned to the sitting room and flopped down in one of the overstuffed chairs.

  “I’m not surprised that she didn’t answer. She must be at work and can’t take a personal call. I’ll try again later if she doesn’t call me back. Can’t believe I haven’t talked to her for months.” He paused, deciding how much to reveal to Ana. “The fact is, last time I saw her there was a bit of a ‘situation,’ and she ended the evening abruptly.” His expression revealed that he found his sister to be a challenge. “I’ve waited for her to get in touch with me. I didn’t want to push. She can be a bit petulant sometimes, but it’s probably our fault. We doted on her, and I always knew I’d end up being her protector. But at this point she’ll have none of that.”

  Ana made an effort to put him at ease. She was surprised he would speak so freely about his family, and she liked that he felt comfortable with her. But of course they were still off the record. “I’m an only child, but I was in my friends’ houses often enough times to know that there’s nothing simple about sibling relationships.” Ben nodded his head in agreement, but said nothing else. “When you see each other I’ll bet it will be like nothing happened.” She didn’t want to pry further about the specifics of the falling out between them.

  “I told you I’d find us a way to avoid boredom, but I’ve failed so far. I hate to think we’ll have to resort to surfing the net.”

  “Well… I did have an idea, but I don’t know if you’ll go along with it.”

  “Ah, that sounds interesting—or should I say a little mysterious.”

  “Neither, really. I just thought that while we have the time, we might get started with the interview that seems to have been the catalyst for this ‘snowball rolling down a hill’ situation we’re all involved in.”

  “I don’t see it that way. The interview was a completely separate thing. You see it that way because I had come to meet you, and it was part of the night I got attacked. You bear no responsibility for what happened, and your involvement was just coincidence. You must know that I would have preferred you not be a part of anything that happened.”

  “Yes, but as it turned out, it was a good thing I was there. I know, I know—they saw me. But if they know so much about you, or your family, they’d have to know that we weren’t a couple. Some woman you may have dated only once—that night—wouldn’t make much of a hostage. Unless you do have a girlfriend, and they mistook me for her.”

  Silence ensued. Ben looked at her—through her, really. At least that’s how it felt to Ana. As soon as the words left her mouth, she was afraid she had put her foot in it. Clearly the question would not be a part of the interview, when and if it happened. Her subconscious had betrayed her. However, it had been the perfect segue. Now she wondered if she was in trouble, either as a journalist or as a woman who couldn’t seem to escape her attraction to the subject of her assignment. Ana looked around the room, trying to be nonchalant, but her eyes continued to return to Ben and his expression. Very slowly a smile began to cross his face. It was ‘that’ smile. This time she was sure there was a private joke causing it. She could think of nothing to say and just waited for the smile to subside and for the emergence of either information or admonition for having broached the subject.

  “Very smooth,” he said, and then waited for her to speak.

  “I… I didn’t mean to pry. It was just conjecture.”

  “I’m just pulling your chain. Relax.” Ben turned in the chair, dangled one leg over its arm and put his hands behind his head. “For the record, I do not have a girlfriend at this time.” His tone was so formal that Ana had to stifle a laugh. But it seemed that was the response he was trying for. Their eyes met and they both began to laugh; the awkward moment having passed.

  “Well, since we’ve settled that, do you want to do some work on the interview? I can run upstairs and fish the tape recorder out of my bag. I can’t put off my editor forever. I’ve avoided checking my phone.”

  “Sure. I’d actually like to get it over with.” Ben sprung from the chair and said, “But first I want something to eat. I’ll check what Edith may have left lying around for us, and you run up and get your machine.”

  Ana nodded, got up, and headed for the stairs. The errand had taken only a few minutes and as she returned to the kitchen, she heard a scratching noise that seemed to be coming from the pantry. Ben turned from his sandwich making and said, “I know that scratch.” He wiped his hands on a towel and walked through to the small door that provided pantry access from the outside of the house. When the door was barely ajar, a husky black Labrador retriever pushed his way through and into the kitchen. He panted and danced around Ben excitedly, making small whimpering sounds. Ben squatted and took the dog’s head in his hands, looking him in the eye. This seemed to calm him, as did Ben’s voice when he spoke. “Sir Frederic, how have you been?” The dog sat down, and then with the speed of a lizard catching a fly in midair, he gave Ben an affectionate lick on the nose. Ben stood, used his sleeve to wipe away the wetness, and returned to Ana, who was standing at attention beside the table, not knowing what to expect when the dog saw a stranger in the house.

  “This is Sir Frederic—Freddie to his pals. We rescued him about five years ago, but it seems more like he adopted us. He got his name from acting like he was lord of the manor—still does.” Freddie approached Ana slowly and sniffed at her shoes before nudging her with his head. “He approves of you. That’s what he does after he makes a decision about someone.”

  Ana smiled down at the dog and gave him a scratch behind the ears. “He’s a big fellow. Formidable. I’m very glad he approves of me.” She slid into a chair at the table. Freddie sat rather near and stared at her. “I wonder what he’s thinking now,” she said.

  “When he stares like that he’s sending the message that he’d like you to give him a treat. But he’s out of luck because I don’t know where they are, or what he’s allowed to have these days. Mum mentioned she was trying to take some weight off him.”

  “He looks the picture of health to me.”

  “We didn’t see him last night because he sleeps in the garden shed, or sometimes in the pantry when it’s cold, but I don’t know where he was when we were outside just now. His usual habit would be to pounce on a newcomer with welcoming licks.”

  Just then Freddie got up and walked back toward the pantry door. He began to bark repeatedly and pawed at the door. Ben went to him and opened the door. The dog raced outside and about halfway down the stone walkway that led to the gardening shed. He then turned into the bushes, seeming to know where he was going. In a moment he emerged, carrying something in his mouth. He trotted back up the path and dropped his treasure on the stone stoop. A limp and bloody rabbit lay there, legs splayed, it’s fur wet with saliva. Ben was more than surprised and told Ana that Freddie was not a hunter, that he would sit and watch a squirrel or a bird with seeming interest, not as a matter of stalking.

  “I’m sure this is very distasteful to you. I’m sorry you had to see it.”

  “I just have to remember that I’m in the wilds of England, where nature rules and it’s survival of the fittest.”

  “That’s a bit of an exaggeration. In this case, the rabbit doesn’t even look mauled. If a dog had done it, it would be more disfigured.” Ben squatted to take a closer look at the unlucky rabbit. He carefully turned it over, moved the fur behind the neck and said, “Well, this wasn’t done by any four-legged animal—more like the two-legged version.”

  “What do you mean,” Ana asked, coming closer to see what Ben had found.

  “It’s been shot—right here behind the neck. See?” He pushed the fur aside to expose the bullet hole. “This rabbit wasn’t killed by a hunter. They use shotguns. We’d see numerous small entry wounds from the pellets if a hunter had done this. And if it were a hunter, he would have collected the animal, pro
bably taken it home for tonight’s stew.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll ever eat rabbit again… and the French do it so well.” Ana’s attempt to lighten the moment fell flat.

  She turned and walked back to the table while Ben went to the shed for a shovel to remove the furry carcass. Freddie had been quietly observing the scene, and although he would have liked the credit for having provided his family with the evening’s meal, he eventually lumbered off into the outer reaches of the back garden. When Ben returned from burying the creature, he had a serious look on his face. Ana questioned this and he told her that the bullet wound looked to have been from a medium caliber handgun, and that it would have had to be shot from quite a distance or it would have nearly blown off the rabbit’s head.

  They didn’t talk for a few moments, and then Ben said, “Who passes the time shooting at rabbits with a handgun?” He paused then shook his head, his expression one of disgust. “And why didn’t we hear it?”

  “Unless it happened yesterday when no one was home.”

  “We don’t have any neighbors who would do that. It must have been done on our property, or from the woods, because Freddie doesn’t venture beyond the field at the edge of the woods.

  “Are you sure he doesn’t sneak away?

  “As sure as I can be. And if he feels like chasing a rabbit, we have them on the property —too many some years. He may like to chase them once in a while but wouldn’t know what to do if he caught one. They have their way with the vegetable garden, among other things.”

  “He seems like a smart fellow, but dogs will be dogs. How can you be so sure?”

  “My father trained him to stay on the lawns and in the garden. He was concerned that some nearsighted old geezer who should have had his gun taken away might mistake Freddie for a fox. I can’t help but think it could have been Freddie who was shot today.”

  “I don’t know how far it is to the edge of the woods, but if the shot came from there, it might not have been heard at the house.” She looked at Ben, who was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, deep in thought. He didn’t speak, so after a minute or so she continued. “So you’re saying that the rabbit was probably shot on your property, which means there was a trespasser here at least long enough to deliberately shoot a rabbit—thankfully not a dog. And then Freddie found it and brought it to the garden, left it in the bushes—how long ago we don’t know. Then at some point he came to get someone’s attention before he retrieved it and dropped it on the stoop—some kind of offering?”