The Scarlet Wench (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Was I ever unkind to you when you were alive?”

Charles: Act
I
, Scene 2

1:55 PM

Lunch at the corner table had never been so quiet, Declan decided while watching Nora pick at her food. He’d calmed down, but she wasn’t getting off lightly.

  Maeve tried to get Simon to chat about the sights Kate and Ian would see in Paris. From her conversation, it appeared the couple might be planning a trip to southern France. But Simon seemed morose and suddenly interrupted Maeve, leaning in to ask Declan a question.

  “Were the morning interviews—useful?” Simon’s brow was furrowed.

  “I wish I had a solution, Simon, but nothing hangs together yet.” Declan knew Simon was worried about the murder and the lodge’s reputation.

  Nora didn’t take part in the conversation. Guilty conscience or sulking? Either way, he let her be. He’d been furious with her. She didn’t realize she was jeopardizing the case. She hadn’t even asked him if he’d got through to Kendal. He couldn’t condone her snooping when it interfered in the proper way things should be done. There was a reason for procedure. Besides, she could be putting herself in danger. She didn’t understand the volatility of their situation: a closed environment, no electricity, people getting on each other’s nerves, and everyone eyeing each other with wariness and suspicion.

  He wanted to resolve this for Simon, too. He didn’t envy the man, trying to run a business with a killer on the premises. Declan had never felt so pressured to bring a case to a quick close.

  When it seemed everyone had finished eating, he stood up. “Thank you for your patience this morning.” Declan’s voice was naturally commanding, and everyone turned in his direction. “I’ve spoken to Kendal, and they hope to have a duty police surgeon here later this afternoon, or they’ll ask the pathologist to do the honors since he lives in Windermere. In the meantime, please continue to use only the downstairs bathrooms until your rooms have been cleared.” He deliberately didn’t glance at Nora. “You may also use the library or stay in the dining room. Burt, you’re up next.”

  Conversation broke out around the long table. Nora cleaned off Sean’s face and lifted him out of the high chair. “I’ll just change him and get my notebook.” She didn’t meet his eyes. She left the room carrying the baby, who waved gaily at the table. Lydia reached out to tickle Sean’s leg as he passed.

  “Let’s clear lunch, Maeve.” Simon pushed back his chair. Maeve nodded, squeezed Declan’s arm as she passed by him and grabbed a large tray from the serving table.

  No one was more surprised than Declan when Fiona spoke up.

  “Actually, I’ll help in the kitchen.” Fiona rose from her place. “If I don’t move around, I’ll start to grow roots in that chair.” She gave a weak smile and looked to Declan for permission.

  “That’s fine.” He motioned to Burt, who followed him into the drawing room. By unspoken agreement, the two men walked over to the set of French doors and out onto the terrace while they waited for Nora. The clouds had cleared to the north, and Declan could see a few patches of returning blue sky in that direction.

  “Be all over by tomorrow,” Burt pronounced.

  “Kendal says a couple of rivers to the north broke their banks.” Declan appraised the man standing next to him. Early seventies, he decided. He knew the man’s wife had died a few months before and didn’t envy him spending the rest of his days in a solitary existence. Burt Marsh didn’t strike Declan as the kind of man who would be comfortable browsing SinglesOverSixty.co.uk. This play must have been a welcome diversion for the widower.

  “Expect the Scotland trains all cancelled,” Burt said.

  Nora joined them on the patio, notebook and pen in hand. She refused to look Declan in the eye. Still pissed off at being caught? His heart softened. He had been in the right, but maybe he’d spoken too harshly. He would find a way to set things right with her later.

  “I hope we get the electric back before dark.” She looked out over the lake.

  “All set to begin?” Declan kept his voice level.

  Nora finally looked at him, chin raised. “Sean’s in his high chair in the kitchen with Maeve, and would you believe it? Fiona Church is peeling potatoes.”

  They walked inside, and Declan shut the door against the breeze. They took seats, and Nora flipped her notebook open.

  “Burt, can you tell me your movements yesterday evening?”

  Burt looked him right in the eye. “You mean after you left me in your bedroom?” His dry tone was not lost on Declan.

  “Yes. Hear any noises, anyone moving around during the night?”

  “No, I was out like a light.”

  “And you didn’t get up to use the bathroom all night?”

  “Oh. Well.” Burt’s face broke out in a rare smile. “Caught me out then.” He tapped his navel. “Prostate a bit big at my age. Got up to the loo once.”

  “You don’t know the time?”

  “Nah, before any light, middle of night I’d say.”

  “When you were up, you didn’t hear any footsteps?” Declan persisted.

  “Not until dawn. Must have been Lydia Denton going out to the hall.
Then
I heard her shrieking all right.”

*

2:45 PM

The baby cooed when he spied Nora entering the kitchen on a break between interviews. He waved his keys at her in delight as she picked him up and snuggled him.

  “He’s been jabbering away.” Maeve handed a colander of peeled carrots to an aproned Fiona, who started to slice them into circles.

  “We’re trying to get him to say ‘Mum’ but he hasn’t cooperated.” Simon ran the water to fill the pan of peeled and cut potatoes.

  “You know your way around a kitchen, Fiona.” Nora watched her deft use of the chef’s knife.

  Fiona gave Nora a hollow smile. Purple circles under her eyes showed the strain of the last few days. At least one person seemed moved by Gemma’s death, and the most unlikely one, to boot.

  “I worked in a Thai place in Soho between acting gigs,” Fiona said.

  “Yum,” Maeve pronounced. “I bet you ate well.”

  “It sounds like a lot of work,” Nora said.

  “Yes to both of you: a ton of work but I never went hungry.” Fiona wiped her hands on the apron and picked up another carrot.

  “Do you have any tricks to quickly defrost frozen chickens?” Simon turned over the unwrapped chickens, sitting in water in the deep sink.

  “Without a microwave? Afraid not.”

  “Then I’m afraid dinner will be late tonight.” Simon wiggled a giblet packet, trying to work it out of the cavity of one of the chickens.

  Nora left them discussing the meal and carried Sean into her room. She checked his nappy. “Still dry in there, mister.” She gave him a good long cuddle and laid the baby in his cot, turning on his mobile. “Sleep tight.” She handed him his bunny and walked away before he could protest.

  She paused to run a brush through her hair and clipped it back in a low ponytail. God, she hoped the electricity would come back on before dark. No bath or shower if it didn’t. Besides the lack of hot water and heat, she didn’t fancy lying in the dark with Gemma’s body upstairs.

  Nora mentally reviewed the interviews. So far, the only thing of interest had been the footsteps Helen insisted she’d heard, something no one else acknowledged. Did that mean they were heavier sleepers or liars? Or was Helen mistaken? She might have taken her Madame Arcati role a bit too far, inventing footsteps in the middle of the night.

  Of course, there was also the bombshell that Helen was Grayson’s mother, but Nora didn’t see how that provided a motive to murder Gemma. There had to be something else they were missing, some piece of the puzzle just out of their reach.

  She bit her lip as she walked back toward the dining room. Declan probably wouldn’t appreciate her use of the plural when it came to the case. She hated the friction between them, but too bad if it prickled like a thorn and made him uneasy. She had a vested interest in finding the killer under their roof with her child there, and he didn’t seem to get that. She knew the play was wrapped up in this somehow.

  Grayson hadn’t made an announcement yet, but she assumed the play would be canceled. How could it possibly go on without Gemma?

  She had a glimmer of an idea.

  A quick look inside the library showed her Poppy and Helen, an unlikely duo, had moved on from their Scrabble game and were playing cards with Burt. The Dentons sat in chairs near the fireplace, reading books from the lodge’s shelves.

  Grayson was sitting in the drawing room next to Declan when she took her place.

  “Who won your Scrabble game?”

  “I did.” The director’s tone was such that she should never have expected a different outcome.

  “If we can get started.” Declan took control of the interview. He took Grayson through his actions the previous evening once again.

  Nora pointedly ignored him and started a new page. She had to keep her ears peeled; this might be the most important interview they did all day.

  Grayson’s tone was languorous and stiff; Nora suspected he’d topped up his pills after lunch.

  “I told you this before. I went to my room, and Gemma helped me undress. She gave me a sleeping pill that I washed down with two of my painkillers. Then she helped me in the bathroom and into bed.” Tears filled his eyes.

  Nora hoped the emotion was genuine. The couple had been intimate, and the woman had died a horrible death. Then again, if Grayson was her killer, it was good to remember the bottom line: He was still a trained actor, no matter how poor his notices had been.

  “How did she die?” Grayson’s tone was softer.

  Declan raised an eyebrow and caught Nora’s look. If Grayson wasn’t her killer, he wouldn’t have the details of smothering Declan had shared with her. Or was this merely a good dodge? She wondered how Declan would answer.

  “I’d only be guessing. We have to wait for the duty police surgeon.”

  Grayson shook his head, and Nora marveled at Declan’s perception with his next question.

  “Were you perhaps thinking of Maggie Denton, afraid Gemma took her own life?”

  Grayson’s face darkened; he spoke slowly. “I had no idea Maggie Denton was suicidal—” He accompanied his protest with a glance across the hall to the library where the young woman’s parents sat reading. “I still think it was a tragic accident.” He bowed his head.

  Nora caught Declan’s eye and tilted her head toward the door. He nodded, and she got up and slid the drawing room pocket doors closed. If this wasn’t real sorrow, Grayson was a better actor than she’d credited.

  “You seemed cool enough about it this morning when Rupert accused you,” Declan reminded him.

  “Bluster for the parents. Hard enough having them around as a constant reminder.” He drew himself up and rested his cast along the back of the chair next to him.

  “Then why give them the roles?” Declan was persistent.

  Nora paused in her note-taking to catch the director’s demeanor as he answered.

  “Didn’t seem fair to rule them out just because of Maggie. Maybe I felt I owed it to them, fair enough. Small price to pay after what they’ve been through.” He wiggled a finger at Declan. “Not because I was at fault. Besides, I knew they’d do a damn fine job in the play.” He gave an elaborate shrug.

  Nora decided Grayson Lange was definitely a narcissist. It was all about him. He and Gemma had been a better match than she’d originally thought.

*

4:05 PM

Simon helped Maeve finish setting up for dinner in the dining room.

  “The chickens will be ready to go into the oven in plenty of time.” Maeve put fresh napkins beside each plate.

  “We’ll roast the living daylights out of them,” Simon agreed. “The only casualties so far have been the ice cream and sherbet, had to throw those out. Any ideas for pudding?”

  “Taken care of.” Maeve’s voice had an imperious lilt. “I defrosted Agnes’ secret supply.”

  Simon put salt and pepper pots down the middle of the table next to the freshly filled hurricane lamps they’d need tonight. “Agnes has a secret supply?”

  “Yup. She keeps two different kinds of cake all baked and frozen. I took out the almond one, and it will be perfect by the time we need it. We can spoon those berries we’ve had macerating in wine over it.” She tucked her brown hair behind an ear. “God, I’d kill for a hot shower.”

  Simon winced. “Please, no reference to killing.”

  “Sorry.”

  Across the hall, he noticed Poppy Braeburn sleeping on the prop sofa. “Why don’t you take a nap?”

  “Why don’t you join me?” she countered.

  “Thanks, but Declan said the duty police surgeon will be here shortly, and I need to be on hand.” He saw disappointment cross Maeve’s face and disappear. “Go and have a lie down.”

  “You can wake me,” she said over her shoulder as she left the room.

  “Deal.”

  Simon put his hands into his pockets and stood in the drawing room doorway, careful not to disturb Poppy. Once Declan released them from the room, the Dentons headed for the patio, braving the breeze in their sweaters, holding hands and talking. Helen roamed about, deadheading the surviving flowers in the planters and boxes spread around the patio and railings. Everyone was getting restless, cooped up inside, and Simon couldn’t blame them.

  He went into the library to check on the others, ever mindful of his role as host. He’d felt a crush of responsibility on his chest, weighing him down since Gemma had been found. The car accident had been bad enough, but murder? He’d go seriously crazy if this wasn’t sorted soon. There was no doubt the play had to be canceled. He’d never make his money back. And he’d promised Provence to Maeve, but could he even afford it?

  Grayson Lange and Burt Marsh sat in the chairs by the fireplace vacated by the Dentons. Burt flipped through a nature magazine. Grayson dozed, an open book across his chest, his cast propped on a pillow on the arm of the chair, the swollen fingers poking out. It must be painful. The director would have to be an incredible actor to throw suspicion off himself by deliberately causing his own accident as part of a plan to kill Gemma. Simon didn’t think Grayson was quite that good or that smart.

  He caught Burt’s eye and made motions of a drink. Burt nodded, put his magazine down and silently joined him.

  The two men went into the kitchen, where Simon pulled two beers from the cooler. Simon opened them, and they knocked cans. He took a long pull. He opened the back door and stepped outside to survey the damage from the wind. Burt joined him on the threshold.

  “Mostly twigs and branches to clean up once it dries out a bit.” Burt looked around.