Cloche and Dagger (17 page)

The screen switched to a photo of Vivian and a dark-haired man. The man was in profile, so I didn’t get the full-on smarmy face of Lord Ellis, who’d been here just days before with his wife. I could tell by the hairstyle Viv was wearing that the picture was from her days at the university when she’d gone through an unfortunate bang phase.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, that photo has to be ten years old,” I cried. “Where the heck did they get it?”

“From someone who knew them then, who wanted some quick cash,” Harrison said.

The reporter continued with more rumors about Vivian and Lord Ellis’s alleged friendship, and at the end of it my headache had doubled in force because now I was gnashing my teeth.

“This is bad,” I said. “Really bad. They’re making Viv sound like a deranged ex-girlfriend. She’s going to be suspect number one.”

“Not going to be,” Harrison sighed. “She is.”

“Oh, good grief,” I said. I rubbed my temples, willing my headache to ease.

Harrison left the kitchen and returned from the bathroom connected to Viv’s room with a small bottle.

“Here,” he said and he handed me a bottle of Nuromol. I glanced at it. Ibuprofen tablets.

“That obvious?” I asked.

“You cringe every time you move your head,” he said. “I’m assuming headache?”

I gave a small nod and then regretted it. Harrison put a mug of coffee in front of me and I loaded it with sugar and milk and used it to chase two tablets down my throat.

“Crying always does that to me,” I said.

“Well, you’d better pace yourself,” he said. “They’ve announced the viewing hours for Lady Ellis. It’s going to be Monday next. Still want to go?”

“Yes, definitely,” I said. “How can it be that early? Don’t they have autopsy and toxicology reports to perform?”

“Apparently, Lord Ellis has put the pressure on to solve the case and has insisted his wife’s body not be left overlong in the morgue. I expect the funeral will be held on Tuesday,” he said.

I sipped my coffee. I wondered how Inspectors Franks and Simms were doing today. It was Saturday. I didn’t imagine they would be enjoying it as such, however. Then I remembered that Saturday on Portobello Road was market day.

Normally we would prop open the front door and, weather permitting, put some racks of merchandise out on the sidewalk to lure the people swarming to the stalls of the antiques arcades. Saturday was big business in Notting Hill, which was why we were always closed on Sunday and Monday. We needed it to recover.

Today, I would not be participating. I took my mug of coffee and crossed the pale wood floor to the long, tall window that overlooked the street. There was a mob outside the store but it wasn’t shoppers. Instead, it was a horde of reporters and camera crews. Great, another day of feeling like a captive in my own home.

Harrison was busily cooking up eggs and toast. I would have told him not to bother, but I was surprised to discover I was starving. Maybe what I had was a hunger headache after all.

I resumed my seat at the breakfast counter and he pushed a plate to me piled high with fluffy eggs, some fried ham and buttered toast.

“Thanks,” I said. “You really shouldn’t have.”

“Yes, I should,” he argued. “You’re too thin.”

“So, my mother called?” I asked. I didn’t bother to temper my sarcasm.

He grinned. “Eat.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. He took the seat beside me and plowed into his own plate while we switched channels and noted that most of them were reporting much the same thing and from the same location below.

Only one reporter went so far as to mention me, and that would be the same one that Harrison had tossed out on his patoot. His report had pictures of me, a nice short clip of my meltdown, pictures of Viv, Lady Ellis and one of Viv with Lord Ellis.

“I should have tossed him out on his head,” Harrison growled.

“You did dump him on the location where he obviously keeps his brains,” I said. “Not your fault.”

Harrison gave me an approving look. “Funny.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I could feel him watching me while I scraped my plate clean. “What?”

“You seem better today,” he said. “Stronger.”

“That’s because we have a plan,” I said. “I’m the managing type. I need to have a plan, otherwise I go bonkers.”

“I get that,” he said.

For a few brief moments, I felt like Harrison Wentworth and I actually understood one another. Then we had a fight.

• • •

“Scarlett, you can’t cold-call your clients and accuse them of murder,” he said.

We were standing in Mim’s kitchen, cleaning up together and discussing what I should do next, since it was obvious I wasn’t going to be able to open my doors today.

I had suggested that I call the clients known to be friends with Lady Ellis and let them know we were operating by appointment only and see if I could get any information out of them. Harrison was vehemently opposed.

“I’m not going to accuse them of anything,” I said. I wiped down the counter with a sponge.

“These are wealthy, titled ladies,” he argued. He put a stack of plates up into the cupboard. “You probably won’t get them to answer your call. It will be their personal secretary who turns you down flat.”

“No, they won’t,” I said. “I can work with a secretary.”

“Scarlett, you and Viv are tabloid fodder,” he said. “Trust me when I tell you that they won’t want to come anywhere near you now.”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “Of course they will.”

“Are you daft?” he asked. “How do you think you can possibly get them to want to have anything to do with you or the shop, given that there is a horde of reporters camped outside, Viv has been all but accused of murder and you are still tainted by the scandal you left back in the States.”

“You know, I’m actually very good with people, present company excepted,” I said.

He closed the cupboard and turned toward me. I met his green eyes without looking away. I was good with people. Usually. Just not him. He’d obviously never forgiven me for tossing him over, which was ridiculous given how young I was, and he probably never would.

“I know you’re good with people,” he said. “I’ve seen you in action. You can charm a honeybee out of his hive and get him to beg you to take his honey.”

His lips curved up in the corners and I had the distinct impression I had just been insulted.

“Are you calling me manipulative?” I asked.

“More like lethally charming,” he said.

“That doesn’t feel like a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.”

Ouch!
I broke eye contact with him. The rich emerald color of his eyes was distracting and I felt the need to put some distance between us.

So much for having a meeting of the minds; every time I felt like Harrison and I might find some friendly footing, he said something that convinced me we were not friends and never would be.

“I need to call a locksmith,” I said.

“Already done,” he said. “In fact, he should be here shortly.”

“Oh, well, thank you,” I said.

See? And then he did something nice for me like sleeping on the couch, cooking breakfast and arranging for a locksmith, and I was more confused than ever.

“I’d better get dressed then,” I said.

“I’ll meet you downstairs.” He switched off the TV and headed for the door.

“Thanks,” I called after him and he nodded.

Okay, that was getting old. I really didn’t want to be indebted to someone who was obviously not a fan of mine. Somehow I needed to tip the scale.

I mulled it over in the shower but nothing brilliant came to me. I would just have to bide my time and see what I could do to repay the many ways Harrison had helped me when the opportunity presented itself.

I didn’t bother putting on makeup or styling my hair. It wasn’t as if we were going to open today, and I didn’t want Harrison to have to wait any longer for the locksmith when he probably had better things to do, like catch up on the sleep he had missed while babysitting me.

The sound of voices grew louder as I entered the back room. An older gentleman in coveralls with the company name “Titan Alarms” stitched on the left front was talking to Harrison.

“All three floors?” the man was asking.

“Yes,” Harrison said.

“Hello,” I said as I joined them.

“Scarlett, this is Mac. He’s putting in the alarm system,” Harrison said.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, and shook Mac’s hand. It was rough with calluses but also warm and surprisingly gentle. “What alarm system? I thought we called a locksmith.”

“I’m that, too,” Mac said. He had a deep voice and his accent was Scottish, with a nice thick brogue flavoring it like salt in a good stew. “I’ll fix up your locks and alarm your windows and doors so no one will be breaking in here anytime soon.”

“I don’t think that’s—” I began but Harrison interrupted me.

“Don’t you think Mim would want her two granddaughters safe?” he asked.

“Of course she would, but we’ve never had any reason to—” I began and he interrupted me again.

“Which is why you were almost suffocated last night,” he said. “With the alarm, the police would be here before the attacker reached you.”

“And you called me manipulative?” I asked. “You’ve got a one-two punch of guilt and fear going here.”

Mac glanced between me and Harrison as if trying to figure out if there was going to be an argument.

Harrison met my gaze and had the grace to look embarrassed.

“I’m not above a little good, old-fashioned manipulation, especially if I know it will keep you and Viv safe,” he said.

“Bee charmer,” I accused and he winked at me. Again, with the confusing signals. Was I ever going to understand him?

I turned back to Mac. “I suppose the alarm system would be for the best. Thank you.”

As he walked away, I whispered to Harrison, “Can we afford this?”

“Yes,” he said. “I have it all factored into the operating budget.”

“Okay, then. Won’t Viv be surprised?”

“Serves her right,” he said. He turned and studied me and picked up a damp strand of hair. “You look younger like this, like you did when we were children.”

A burst of warmth hit me right in the middle and my voice was still a whisper when I asked, “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

His gaze met mine and a smile tipped the corner of his mouth when he said, “A good thing.”

I noticed his voice was whisper soft, too.

“Harrison,” Mac called, breaking the moment between us.

He dropped my hair and walked away, and I had the craziest urge to grab his hand and stop him, but I didn’t; that was probably a good thing.

Harrison left shortly after that. He said I was in good hands with Mac and his crew, but I got the feeling he wanted to put some distance between us. I couldn’t say that I blamed him. The combination of exhaustion and stress was undoubtedly causing us both to feel things that weren’t entirely appropriate, given that we were business partners of sorts.

Fee arrived at midmorning. She looked startled to see Mac and his crew.

“What happened?” she asked.

I told her about the break-in, pleased that my voice didn’t crack. In the light of day, it was refreshing to find that instead of feeling weak and vulnerable, I had a nice steam of rage blowing out of me.

Although I tried not to make it sound overly dramatic, there was no way to tell her I had almost been suffocated than to just get it out. Fee’s eyes went wide and she slumped onto a chair.

“Bloody hell, Scarlett, you could have been killed,” she said.

“But I wasn’t. And now we’ll have a lovely alarm system to keep us safe and sound.”

Fee gave Mac and his crew a dubious look. She looked scared and I felt bad that she was frightened.

“If you want to take a leave of absence until everything calms down, you can,” I said.

“No!” Fee shook her head. “I won’t leave you in the lurch. It’s just, well, I really wish Viv were here. I’m worried about her. I heard on the news today—”

“I know,” I said. “I heard it, too. You know she had nothing to do with Lady Ellis’s death.”

“Of course, I know,” Fee said, looking indignant. “But it doesn’t look good for the business, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” I agreed. “So the best thing we can do is try to take care of business until she returns.”

“That’s aiming pretty high since we can’t even open our doors, and on market day,” Fee said.

“One Saturday closed won’t kill us,” I said. “Why don’t we dig into some of the special orders and see if we can use the downtime to get ahead.”

“It would be nice to get ahead,” Fee agreed. “Do you have any experience blocking hats?”

“Not any good ones.”

Fee tucked her lips in as if she were trying to keep from laughing.

“What?” I asked.

“Come here,” she said.

She led me over to the supply cupboards where bolts of sinamay and felt in every color and the wooden forms used for blocking were stored. Fee pulled over a chair and stretched to reach the back of the top shelf. She pulled down a hatbox. It was one of Mim’s original boxes before Viv had updated the design and made them more eco-friendly.

Fee handed me the box and I gave her a questioning glance.

“Open it,” she said.

I put it on the worktable and wiggled the lid off. Nestled in pale blue tissue paper was a hat in an eye-searing pink adorned with feathers and flowers and gobs of sparkly crystals, you know, because the feathers and flowers just weren’t enough.

“Holy hats,” I said. “I made this!”

“I know.” Fee clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud, no doubt.

I lifted the eyesore out of the box and studied the hideous shape, the sad tuft of feathers and silk flowers.

“Poor Mim,” I said. “She had such high hopes for her granddaughters after her own daughters had been such a bust as milliners.”

“How old were you?” Fee asked.

“I’m not sure, but it had to be about the same time I painted my bedroom that hideous pink. What was I thinking?”

Fee laughed and I joined in. The workmen looked over at us and I quickly put the hat on and gushed, “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

One look at their horrified faces and I could tell this was the equivalent to “Do I look fat in this?” for them. They were clearly afraid to answer. Fee and I busted up in the face of their confusion, which caused them to turn back to their work with the speed of mice fleeing a hissing cat.

“You did a nice job on the brim,” Fee said. Her eyes were kind.

“I remember this was when Mim was going through a huge sinamay phase,” I said, referring to the material my hat had been formed from. “Stephen Jones brought it back from Japan in the eighties and, boy, didn’t it take over in hats?”

“It’s probably the most common material used now,” Fee agreed. “Especially for fascinators.”

“I can’t believe Viv kept it all these years.”

“She said she’d never bin it,” Fee said. “She said it gave her hope.”

“I think she needs to raise her expectations a bit higher than this.”

“I think she meant it gave her hope that you’d come home.”

I took the hat off and studied it. Home. All my life I’d had dual citizenship, but I’d spent most of my time in the States. I’d always thought of myself as American, but when the going got tough, where did I run to? Mim’s.

Maybe Viv was onto something. I put the hat back in the box and put it back on the high shelf. I didn’t have the heart to toss it either.

The workmen headed upstairs to alarm the rest of the house. Fee was checking the work orders and pulling the needed wooden blocks from the supply shelf.

“You sure you don’t want to help?” she asked. “I have three hats to form today,”

Her dark brown eyes were twinkling and I knew she was teasing me.

“I think we’ll spare our customers the horror,” I said.

She laughed and cleared off a section of the large worktable and set to work. I watched her for a bit. She moved with the same confidence Viv had. She cut two large pieces of gunmetal-gray sinamay and then moved to the sink to soak them in hot water for a few minutes to soften the material. Next she would pin the fabric to the wooden brim form, stretching it as tightly as she could to keep it from creasing. She would then paint it with a fabric stiffener and let it dry for twelve hours. She would do the same with the fabric on the wooden crown form.

Despite my own ineptitude, I was always amazed at the process and truly loved watching the hats come to life under the nimble fingers of a talented milliner. I was pleased that Viv had taken Fee on as an apprentice since she obviously had the same love for the art and definite skill.

While Fee set to pinning the softened fabric to the wooden form, I moved over to the desk in the corner.

It wasn’t that I was ignoring Harrison’s concerns, exactly; it was more that I planned to completely disregard them. With the shop being closed, it presented me the perfect opportunity to reach out to our customers, and if one of them happened to have something to say about Lady Ellis’s murder, well, who was I to stop her?

I opened up the files on Viv’s computer. Logic dictated that the best plan would be to call the clients she had most recently been working with. I scanned the list of invoices that were in her file by date.

I left a message for the first two, but the third one answered on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“Good morning,” I said. “May I speak to Claudia Reese?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Scarlett Parker with Mim’s Whims—” I began but she cut me off.

“What do you want?” she asked. Her voice sounded suspicious.

“I wanted to inform you that in light of recent events, we’re going to be open by appointment only,” I said.

“You’re ‘the party crasher,’ aren’t you?” the woman asked.

“I—”

“I’ve seen the video. You looked demented,” the woman continued. “And your cousin Vivian murdered Lady Ellis! To think I let her measure my head!”

Claudia Reese said it with such horror. She made it sound as if Vivian had tried to lop off her head while taking her measurement.

“She did not murder anyone!” I argued. My usual way with people was abandoned as I choked back the anger in my throat like a dry biscuit.

“Of course, you’d say that,” the woman said. “You’re a nutter.”

“I am not!” I snapped. “And if this is how you feel about my cousin and me then may I suggest you take your business elsewhere.”

“Count on it!” Claudia snapped back and hung up.