Cloche and Dagger (2 page)

The platform of the underground was mobbed as the smokers hustled to get up onto the surface street to light up because the fumes in the tunnel weren’t enough of a rush for their lungs. I was pushed aside as I dragged my rolling suitcase behind me and couldn’t push back as I was weighed down with two carry-on bags as well. My Florida wardrobe was not going to cut it for April in London, so I had packed heavier than I usually did when I crossed the pond.

It had been three years since I’d come for a visit, which seemed an inexcusably long time now that I thought about it. Flying away from Tampa, I had to admit I hadn’t been sad to see the city growing ever smaller in my window. Like the fading taste of something bitter, I hoped the memory of my humiliation would diminish just as quickly as the city.

The climb up the stairs was dicey but I made it, feeling like a mole popping its head out of its hole when I reached the street. I parked my bags and glanced around the Notting Hill Gate entrance to the underground, looking for Vivian.

She was always easy to spot because she used any opportunity in public to promote the shop by wearing one of her hats. Mim had been an extraordinary milliner and Viv had inherited her gift but also had her own flare of irreverence that had garnered her loads of press and quite a lot of clients among the titled elite.

I looked for an orange plume of feathers or a bright blue burst of glittery fronds in the shape of lilies, but no, there was nothing. Viv was typically late, I supposed. She had said she would meet me at the Gate and I had given her the time of my estimated arrival on the underground from Heathrow Airport, which had been less than an hour after I claimed my bags. There was no sign of her. I tried not to feel disappointed.

Vivian was an eccentric who not only marched to her own drummer but was usually the drum major of the crazy parade, so it really was expecting a bit too much to think she’d be waiting for me when I arrived. I hefted one of my carry-ons over my shoulder and began to pull my big bag with the other carry-on perched on top of it toward the street that would lead me to Portobello Road, where the narrow three-story building that was home to Mim’s Whims was located.

I stepped off the curb when a tall man stopped in front of me and peered at a photograph and then at me and said, “Excuse me, are you Scarlett Parker?”

I looked at the man with all of my internal sensors on high alert. There had been quite a flurry of media attention after the cake debacle went viral. Even
Good Morning America
had wanted an interview. Honestly, did they really think I wanted to be a participant in my own humiliation? The morning after the video reached a million hits, I’d even found one lunatic with a camera on the balcony of my apartment trying to peer in my windows. Needless to say, I was just the teensiest bit paranoid about strangers who knew my name.

The man in question, however, was dressed in a sharply creased pair of khaki pants with a blue dress shirt and brown loafers. He was not hoisting a camera or a microphone and he seemed to be alone. He was also very handsome in an academic sort of way.

“Do I know you?” I asked.

“No,” he said. He looked irritated by the question, but continued, “But I know your cousin Vivian and she sent me to collect you. I’m Harrison Wentworth.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said. I shifted my bags so that we could shake hands. His grip was firm but not crushing, and his hand was warm.

“Here, let me get those for you,” he said. “I have a driver waiting.”

He gestured to the car parked at the curb as he took my rolling case from me and the driver opened the trunk.

“Wait!” I grabbed my suitcase back from him. “I’ve never heard Viv say your name before. How do I know she sent you?”

He raised one eyebrow, and the flash of irritation I’d seen before looked to go into full-on annoyed now. The air was damp and cold and his cheeks had a ruddy tinge to them. His dark brown hair was brushed back from his face in careless waves and I noticed that his eyes were a bright emerald green.

“Nice to know Viv thinks so highly of me that she tells her partner all about my financial wizardry on her behalf,” he said.

“Oy, I’m standin’ in traffic ’ere,” the driver called to us. “Are you comin’ or what?”

Harrison Wentworth frowned at him. He dug into his pants pocket and handed me a photograph along with a note scribbled in Viv’s distinctive handwriting, which stated the estimated time of my arrival at Notting Hill Gate. The photograph had been taken on my trip here three years ago. Viv and I had been sitting on the steps of our shop, wearing two of her outrageous hats. We had our arms around each other and were mugging for the camera with silly grins. I felt as if I’d aged a decade since that happy summer day.

“I’m surprised you recognized me from that,” I said. I handed it back to him.

He tucked the photo back into his pocket and wheeled my bags over to the driver, who popped them into the trunk. Then he held the door open for me and we climbed into the backseat together.

“My uncle, my mother’s older brother, is the one who took the photograph,” he said. “He was to your grandmother what I am to Viv, well, and you, I suppose, since you’re a proprietor as well.”

“Mr. Turner! That’s right,” I said. I remembered the jovial, white-haired man who had come into Mim’s shop almost every week to keep track of her books for her. Mim had had no business sense. “How is your uncle?”

“Retired,” he said. “So, in other words, happy.”

“Good for him,” I said.

At that moment the driver punched the gas and we shot out into the oncoming traffic, which was alarming not only because of the speed at which he was driving but also because I wasn’t used to being on the left side of the road. I kept thinking we were going to have a head-on collision at any moment and I kept flinching accordingly, you know, as if that would help.

The driver took a sharp turn onto Portobello Road and I slid across the seat, pressing up against Harrison like a puppy looking for love. Mortified, I grabbed my armrest and hauled myself back to my side. When I turned to look at him, I found him studying me with an undecided expression, as if he wasn’t sure what to make of me just yet.

“So, why did Viv send you?” I asked, trying to ease the awkwardness of the moment. “Did she have a client meeting and couldn’t come herself?”

“No, not quite,” he said. His face grew grim. “The fact is Viv couldn’t come because she’s missing.”

“Missing?” I repeated. “Define ‘missing.’”

“Succinctly, it means I have no idea where she is,” he said.

He did not look disturbed by this, a fact I found more than a little alarming. Granted, I’d been traveling for fourteen hours since I’d left Tampa yesterday evening and it was now a bit after midday, so my ability to process was impaired to say the least. Still, he seemed awfully cavalier about Viv’s whereabouts being unknown.

I pressed my cold palm again my forehead in an effort to clear my head.

“Don’t you think this is a cause for concern?” I asked.

“If it were anyone else, I might agree, but this is Viv,” he said. “It’s what she does.”

He shrugged as if resigned to the eccentricities of my cousin. Now I know Viv can be, oh, how do I say it? “Colorful” seems too nice but “odd” seems too negative, so she’s somewhere in between “colorful” and “odd.” I know this, but still it seemed wrong that she wasn’t here when I arrived and I couldn’t help getting a bad feeling about it.

“But she knew I was coming,” I said. “Heck, this was her idea. She even bought my ticket.”

“All I know is that when I was having my morning eggs and toast, a messenger came ’round with that picture and a note from Viv requesting that I meet you,” he said. “When I called to ask about it, she didn’t answer her mobile. I stopped by the shop on my way here, but it was locked up.”

I stared at him. He seemed awfully calm about the whole thing, like serial-killer calm. I felt alarm bells ringing in my head and I pulled out my cell phone and called my Aunt Grace, Viv’s mother. She lived up in the wilds of Yorkshire, but if anyone knew where Viv was it would be Aunt Grace.

It took a while for my phone to connect to hers and when it did, all I got was her voice mail. Drat. I left a message, hoping I didn’t sound as worried as I felt; no need to incite a panic in the upper generation after all.

We passed the Earl of Lonsdale pub and my sudden need for a pint almost overrode all other reason. Harrison did not look the type to drink in the middle of the day, but it was the middle of the night my time, so I really didn’t think I could be held accountable for my actions until after I was acclimated to the proper time zone.

The car pulled over to the curb with a lurch and bang. I gathered my purse and let Harrison hand me out of the backseat. The driver put my bags on the curb while Harrison paid him. I glanced up at the three-story white stone building with the jaunty blue-and-white striped awning and matching blue shutters on the windows of the two stories above.

Presently, the awning was tucked back against the building as Viv only put it out on market days or in the summer when every bit of shade was welcome. The large picture window boasted a new display. Wide-brimmed, white straw hats with cobalt-blue trim on the brim and matching hatbands on the crown were hanging in the window at all different heights and depths, making it look like a forest of floating hats. It lured me closer to the window and I longed to step through the glass and run through the hats, which I expect was just what Viv wanted passersby to feel.

I fished out my key. I’d had my own set of keys to the shop ever since I used to come over as a child. The door was the same bright blue as the shutters and on its wrought-iron-and-glass window the name “Mim’s Whims” had been etched in thick white letters.

Dear Mim, five years gone and still not a day went by that I didn’t think of her and miss her. I unlocked the door and pulled it open. The mild scent of lavender danced on the air like dandelion seeds, tickling my nose and making me smile. Viv believed the scent of lavender calmed her customers and so she always had lavender sachets tucked all about the shop.

The smell brought back memories of my last visit here and again I felt flattened by guilt that I hadn’t made time to visit more often. I knew Mim would have been disappointed in me, and the realization stung.

“Do you want me to carry these upstairs for you?” Harrison asked.

Since he already had all three bags and was headed through the door at the back of the shop that led upstairs it seemed a bit ridiculous that he was asking. Still, I called an affirmative after him, not that it mattered.

My eyes swept over the shop. Other than the hats that were on display, it looked exactly as I remembered it. Viv hadn’t changed a thing. The same cobalt-blue and white decorated the inside of the shop. Built-in display shelves lined the store with hats perched on pedestals in every shape, size and color that could be imagined filling the floor-to-ceiling shelves.

There were several sitting areas with stiff upholstered armchairs posed around glass coffee tables that boasted the latest issues of
Look
,
Vogue
and
The HAT
.

Beyond the main shop was the back room, which was Viv’s work area. It was a large space with windows that overlooked a tiny but lush garden in back. Viv was a birder, one of the many reasons she used feathers so much in her hat designs, and so the petite garden was filled with birdhouses, birdbaths and bird feeders. How had I forgotten being awoken every day to the cacophony of birdcalls? If it was anything like the last time, I’d have to get myself over to Boots, the pharmacy at Notting Hill Gate, and buy some earplugs.

A drafting table took up one corner with a desk and a computer beside it. From floor to ceiling were cupboards full to bursting with Viv’s supplies, which were anything from bolts of wool and sinamay to bottles of fabric dye to bags full of feathers, ribbons and beads. A large worktable filled the center of the room and on it were several hats in various stages of production. It did not look like the workroom of someone who planned to be away. Harrison’s words that Viv was missing sent a frisson of alarm through me. Surely she had just gone out unexpectedly to an appointment or something.

I returned to the shop to follow Harrison up the stairs to the flat above. My eye was caught by the large bulky object in the corner, Mim’s old wardrobe, which had stood in that same spot for as long as I could remember.

It was a tall piece done in dark mahogany with two doors on top of three drawers. It still had the old glass drawer pulls. The feet of the piece were carved to look like claws around wooden balls while above the seam where the two cupboard doors met, a bird’s head had been carved with its beak pointing straight out and its eyes watching me no matter where I stood. The top part of the wardrobe above the doors had been carved as if the bird’s two wings were outstretched.

I’ll be honest, when I was younger, the bird had freaked me out, but now it reminded me so much of Mim I was glad to see it. I ran my hand down the smooth front door, tracing the rich, red-brown grain with my fingers.

I heard a thump from upstairs and realized I should probably go tell Harrison which room was mine. With a last glance at the wardrobe, I turned to cross the room and go up the stairs. I stopped. Surely I must have imagined it. I turned back and looked at the bird.

“Don’t wink at me,” I said. I’m not sure if I said it aloud to reassure myself or to inform the bird that impertinence would not be tolerated; either way it wasn’t the bird who answered.

“Excuse me, but I’m quite sure I didn’t.”