The Scarlet Wench (20 page)

  Higgins demurred. “Thanks, but I have to get back to the station.”

  Declan added: “And I have to return to Ramsey Lodge and catch a murderer.”

*

12:15 PM

Helen stood by the patio railing waiting for the others to gather for lunch. Simon had explained the stockist lorry wouldn’t arrive in time and had made arrangements for them at The Scarlet Wench Pub. A glass of something with alcohol in it might do her good. Across the road, a handful of hearty yachties braved the roads to check their boats. A few took advantage of the winds, gamboling about the edge of the lake, and she envied the freedom they must feel on the water. Bowness was still cleaning up from the storm but things were returning to normal. But could they ever again be normal after Gemma’s death?

  The first run-through had had the usual stumbles from Nora, with Grayson moving her around a bit, but by Act
II
, she’d hit her stride and lifted her chin and it had gone more smoothly after that. They’d see how she’d hold up in dress rehearsal this afternoon. This whole thing was taking its toll on Helen. She was finding it more and more difficult to stay in character, something she’d always found easy to maintain.

  Helen felt movement beside her. Burt Marsh stepped up to the railing and took in the view, nodding to her but not initiating conversation. She wasn’t comfortable with long silences; after a moment, Helen rushed to fill the void. “Finally the weather clears, Mr. Marsh.”

  “Burt.” More silence. Then briskly: “Must be difficult for you.”

  She pretended not to know what he meant. “Having a murder here?”

  Burt snorted. “Having a man like Lange for your son.”

  Helen opened her mouth to fire a retort, but nothing came out. In a moment of clarity, she saw the man had found her out. It was why she allowed her son to call her “Helen” and why she didn’t rush to acknowledge she was his mother. She simply didn’t like her only child.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“I can’t bear this for another minute … ”

Charles: Act
I
, Scene 2

1:30 PM

Nora stepped outside the pub to take Val’s call. Val and Sean were in Woodstock, approaching Val’s flat, just outside Oxford’s city centre. He’d had a nice nap, and Val had stopped once to change his nappy and grab a snack. They’d be settled in her flat within half an hour. Nora thanked her friend again for taking him away from the danger at Ramsey Lodge.

  “No worries, Yankee. How was rehearsal?”

  “It helped that I knew the role. I slipped into Elvira pretty quickly and only looked at my script a few times. We do it again with costumes and props this afternoon.”

  “Only two rehearsals before the big night?”

  “Grayson feels the actors need to rest the day of performance, but he said he’d work with me if I felt uncomfortable, or maybe we’d do another run-through without costumes tomorrow.”

  “Not you; you’ll be brilliant this afternoon, and then you can turn your nose to snooping properly all day. I’ll call tonight after Sean’s asleep, and you can tell me all about it.”

  Nora felt relieved and turned her attention to the play and the group inside finishing their lunch. The cast had split into factions when it came to seating: She’d sat with the Dentons and Burt at one small table; Helen and Fiona sat with Grayson and Poppy at a larger one. She thought of the reasons she was playing Elvira. It all seemed to revolve around Grayson Lange.

  As if she’d conjured him up with her thoughts, Grayson strolled out to meet her.

  “Here’s Elvira.” He slipped an arm around her shoulder. “You did a grand job this morning, and I’ve no doubt you’ll be even better this afternoon.”

  Nora tried not to stiffen at the director’s touch. “Thank you.” This was an opportunity to get information from him. He saved her from finding a conversation opener when he dropped his arm to massage his fingers.

  “How the mighty are fallen, eh, Nora?”

  “I don’t think the Old Testament has anything to do with this week’s events, Grayson.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, my dear. Everything man does can be traced to biblical times: war, jealousy, betrayal, revenge.” He adjusted the sling on his arm. “We keep repeating the same themes over and over—in our literature and in our actions.” He laughed. “You were the one who got away, Nora. Didn’t fall for the Lange charm.”

  Nora ignored the personal turn. She noted that of all the themes he’d mentioned, he’d left out love. “So what’s the motive behind your accident and Gemma’s death?”

  Grayson shook his head. “Don’t know. I’ve been trying to work that one out myself.”

  Nora persisted. “You must know who has a grudge against you or a score to settle.”

  He blew out a breath. “There are far too many people here who fall into that category. Even my own mother.” He turned to her. “Fancy a pudding?”

  “No, you go ahead.” She watched him walk back inside; he held the door open for Fiona. Here was another person to question.

  “Needed a breath of air.” The day had warmed a bit, and Fiona pushed up the sleeves of the cardigan she’d donned. “Lunch was better than I imagined.” She paused. “So were you.”

  “Thanks.” Nora consulted her watch, surprised by Fiona’s thaw. “Still have half an hour. Buy you a beer?”

  “Why not? Stella for me. I’m not the one Gray will be watching all afternoon.”

  They re-entered the cool, dim pub, redolent with the mixed odors of years of yeasty spilled brews, sweat and kitchen fat. Fiona wrinkled her nose. “I remember when the smoke from cigarettes covered all this.”

  A cheerful, plump woman wearing a damp apron waved to Nora. “Two Stellas please, Daisy.” Nora withdrew money from her pocket and left it on the bar.

  Daisy obliged, and Nora watched the foamy beer fill the glasses.

  “Reminds me of the smell of baking,” Fiona said.

  “Smells more like grass and sweet corn to me, but that’s my Connecticut background.” Nora had to find a way to question the actress.

  “That explains it.” Fiona nodded her thanks to the barmaid as Daisy placed the glasses on beer mats in front of them. “Grayson wants me. Thanks, Nora.” She picked up her beer.

  Nora touched her arm before she could leave. “Fiona, you know this cast better than most of us. Can you think of any good reason—anything at all—that would prompt everything that’s occurred?”

  Fiona’s face blanched. “Get off me—” She shook off Nora’s hand. “All I know is I want
out
of this place, and I never want to come here again.” She moved away.

  “Tut—no fighting, ladies.” Daisy wiped her hands on a bar towel and left Nora’s change. “What else can I get you?”

  Nora indicated the two tables. “You hear anything important from that lot before the accident the other night?”

  “Big brooding man and that blonde jiggling her bits all over him? They sat with the brunette and a few others. You were with that nice-looking gent.” She peered at Nora. “He the one you interested in?”

  Did the woman have ESP, or was her relationship with Declan that obvious? “Just wondered if they said anything out of order.” Nora took a sip of her beer.

  Daisy thought for a moment. “Not a good tipper. Same thing the first time he was in.”

  Nora shook her head. “When was that?

  Daisy put her head on one side. “Last autumn, just the three of them. The bad tipper, the blonde and that brunette you just bought the Stella. He had too much to drink that night, too.”

  “Keep the change, Daisy.”

*

2:55 PM

Declan drove along the A
591
past Staveley on his way back to Ramsey Lodge. He left Higgins sorting postmortem reports and supervising the civilian transcribing the witness statements into Kendal’s system. The detective had promised to notify him if anything else turned up. Higgins seemed like a person to follow procedure, and Declan had agreed. Obviously, one of the people he’d interviewed had been lying, but which one?

  He thought of what he’d learned. Gemma Hartwell had been in a deep, drugged sleep when someone entered her room, thrust a pillow over her face and held it in place until she stopped breathing. After being pressed, Milo Foreman admitted that once her oxygen levels dropped, there was a slight chance the young woman might have regained consciousness briefly to struggle weakly against her assailant, but more likely she had tried to get the pillow off her face, as there was no tissue under her nails. “Pure speculation,” Milo insisted but was firm on one point. “The murder could just as easily have been accomplished by a woman as a man.”

  Declan grimaced at the thought of Gemma waking, frightened and gasping for her last breaths, and hoped that wasn’t the case. They would never know. The method indicated the killer didn’t want to see Gemma’s face as she died. To Declan, that signaled he or she felt sorry but was compelled to commit murder. The grey-white hairs were the only positive gleaning. He thought of his suspects. Rupert, Lydia and Helen all had white hair. For that matter, so did Burt Marsh, and Grayson had silver-grey at the sides of his head. Thank goodness Agnes hadn’t been on the premises, and so he could at least rule her out.

  Declan examined them one by one as he drove along the curving road, his thoughts straying to Nora and her rehearsal. He’d been struck by how she’d transformed herself into the character of Elvira. And she wasn’t a trained actress. He smiled. Of course, she did have a way of stepping into a role when it suited her, as he well knew.

  Burt was on the premises, so Declan couldn’t automatically rule him out, but neither did he have a motive. Could Helen, in some twisted way, have thought killing Gemma would be a slap in the face to Grayson and ruin his play? It seemed there was little parental feeling between mother and son. That left the car accident. Somehow, he didn’t see Helen scooting under a car to tamper with brake lines.

  And what of the Dentons? They had a motive to harm the director, and Rupert could easily have caused the accidents. Up until Gemma died, Rupert had been his prime suspect, but murdering Gemma would only indirectly hurt Grayson. The same could be said for Lydia, unless they were in it together. But blaming Grayson for their daughter’s depression was one thing. Killing his current lover only to see her quickly replaced by yet another young woman under his spell seemed pointless.

  It would take too long for DNA results on the hairs if he had to wait for that. He didn’t have time to waste. There had to be another way to catch this killer, and he had to hope Nora would see or hear evidence that would lead to a solution.

*

4:45 PM

Fiona and Nora had their last lines and exited through the French doors, three pages before the end of the play. Fiona saw Nora shiver in her thin, gauzy costume as they stood on the patio, listening for the climax. She wore her own filmy dress for the last scene, and the breeze was cold.

  Burt Marsh stood with them, following the play, holding a monitor in one hand. “You should leave coats out here tomorrow night for the wait before curtain calls.” He wore a thick woolen jumper.

  Nora rubbed her arms briskly. “Good idea.” She checked her watch. “Two hours forty, right on schedule.”

  “Gray will be pleased, and you did well. I admit I’m impressed.” Fiona yawned. “Look, I’m sorry I was rude when you bought me that beer today. My nerves are frazzled.”

  “I understand.”

  “I wonder if you really can.”

  The two women locked eyes. Burt hit a switch, and Fiona turned at the noise of the vase breaking on the hearth. “Let’s watch.”

  Nora opened one of the doors, and they peeked in. Burt worked his computer. The painting that hung above the mantel crashed to the ground. The clock below it started to strike with increasing speed, causing Grayson to talk louder over it.

  The lid on the phonograph slammed open and shut; a figure
from a table fell over to the floor. Grayson delivered his last line, left the stage and joined them on the patio. He opened the door wide, and the three looked in. The curtains opened and closed erratically, and just as the phonograph played “Always” with increasing speed, Burt raised a remote in his hand. With one push of a button, the chandelier prisms hanging over the table fell with a spectacular crash all over the table and ground.

  Everyone broke into spontaneous clapping.

  “Well done, all!” Grayson pushed Fiona and Nora onto the stage before him. “Now line up for curtain calls.” The rest of the cast came in from where they’d been leaning against one of the doors into the lodge kitchen. “Tomorrow night, you’ll be in the kitchen, so come out after the crash when the waves of applause start. And mind the bits and pieces lying around, come nearer the front.”

  He had them line up and hold hands to practice how to bow from the waist. Then he had Nora and Fiona take a separate bow with him. He hugged Fiona and then each of the others in turn. At that moment, Fiona wished she were able to unfreeze her heart.

*

5:12 PM

Declan looked over Nora’s shoulder as her fingers flew over the laptop keys.

  “I’m glad dress rehearsal went so well.” He’d returned to watch Acts
II
and
III
and was impressed with the cast, and with Nora in particular. “You really became Elvira. And that dress clings in all the right places.”  He leaned forward and nuzzled her neck. She ignored him. “What are you looking up again that’s so important?”

chapter twenty-eight

  “I’d forgotten Grayson was here with Gemma and Fiona on a scouting trip in the autumn.” She brought up the website for
Cumbrian Chatter
.

  It was obvious he didn’t have Nora’s attention, and the feeling rankled him. This must have been what Anne had felt when he had been on a case. He moved a pile of clean sheets from the chair by Nora’s desk and pulled up next to her. When had she found time to change the sheets? “And this is important why?”

  “I was in the hospital that weekend. Sean was born Friday, October
29
th—” She scrolled through the news archives. “—so I didn’t see them then.”

  “This has significance because he didn’t tip Daisy enough? I’m all ears, Miss Christie.”

  Nora gave him a withering glance. “Don’t be impertinent.” She paged down through the weekend news.

  “Sorry, it’s just that your ideas often get you into trouble.” He had to admit he enjoyed teasing her. The truth is he was proud to see her in action.

  “Do you want to hear this or not?” Nora stopped on the Sunday listings. “Here it is—” Her face glowed with excitement. She read the article aloud:

In a hit-and-run accident, 69-year-old Bowness resident Estelle Marsh was killed Saturday night outside the Community Theatre. Mrs. Marsh, a retired teacher, was hit a glancing blow to the hip and thrown to the kerb. She died a few hours later of a head injury. Any witnesses are asked to contact the local police in Kendal.

  “My God—Grayson killed Gemma because she knew he was driving that night.” Nora sat back.

  “You have no proof of that, Nora.” Declan considered the scenario. “How do you know he was involved? And why would he cut his own brakes or have Fiona fall or any of the other silly pranks that happened here?”