Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1) (32 page)

“Huh!” Anne’s snort was very unladylike. “There are some people you just can’t like no matter how hard you try, and then there are those you wouldn’t even bother trying to like. I don’t see how anyone could. Little gold-digger. I wondered when Peter would wake up and realize she only wanted his money.”

“You don’t think Peter—?”

“Of course I do. Who else could have done it?”

“Well,” Ellen said without malice, “I rather thought it might have been you.”

With some difficulty, Lorry cleared the bed and then got Shauna into it and stayed with her until she fell asleep. Then she turned her bedside light on and sat reading for a while. Her mind was whirling, but one thought was uppermost. Shauna couldn’t simply be sent back to her family and her job without first getting some help. But how could Lorry do anything? Perhaps she should talk to Peter in the morning. It seemed unfair to burden him with Shauna when he’d just lost his wife, but who else was there?

Lorry looked down at the page she had been reading in her Bible. She had begun reading the book of Philippians the night before. Now, several verses stood out.

For I know that this shall turn out for my deliverance through your prayers and the provision of the Spirit of Jesus Christ, according to my earnest expectation and hope, that I shall not be put to shame in anything, but that with all boldness, Christ shall even now, as always, be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death. For to me to live is Christ and to die is gain.

“This shall turn out for my deliverance,” she repeated, looking over at Shauna. Could Jillian’s death result in Shauna’s deliverance from the state of fear and oppression in which she had lived her life?

Deep in thought, Lorry was startled by a soft rap on the door. She got up and opened it.

Nick was there. “I was hoping you were still up,” he whispered. “How is she?”

“Sleeping.”

“Do you want to come down for a while? It’s beautiful out on the patio. Kendall and Hildy and Bart and Ellen and I are just sitting out there.”

She looked back at Shauna, who was breathing evenly. “Maybe for a few minutes.”

As they went downstairs, Nick said, “I wanted to come up earlier and see how it was going, but I didn’t think I’d be much help. Is she taking it hard?”

“Well,” Lorry answered, wondering how much she should say, “she’s pretty upset.”

“I guess they were close, eh?”

“I guess. So, what have you been doing?”

He grinned. “Not much. No pun intended, but it’s like a morgue here.”

She didn’t reply.

“I guess that wasn’t funny.”

“Not especially.”

“I wasn’t trying to be smart. The truth is I don’t want to think about it. Only I can’t stop.”

“It was pretty awful.”

“It was—words are inadequate.”

She nodded.

They had reached the patio. Nick went to get Lorry a Coke while she sat down next to Bart.

“Nothing potent, I hope,” Bart said when he saw Nick hand Lorry the glass. He slurred the words.

“No,” Lorry replied.

“Too bad. I was hoping maybe this had unsettled you enough to get rid of your religious pretense.”

“Bart, you are offensive,” Ellen said. “I would assume it’s because you’re drunk, except I’ve never known you to get that drunk. Or rather, I’ve seen you drink a great deal, but never seen it affect you.”

“Maybe I’m losing my grip as I get older,” he answered, “because I feel drunk.”

“I’m sorry, Lorry,” Ellen apologized. “This certainly hasn’t been the weekend I intended when I invited you here.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“You’ll just have to come again, Lorry,” Kendall said, “when things are back to normal.”

“Will they ever be normal again?” Bart asked of no one in particular. “Speaking of which, I need another drink.”

“I think you’ve had enough, Bart,” Kendall said.

“You do, do you?” Bart began to get up, but Nick was before him and pushed him back into the chair.

“Lorry, when I asked you to come downstairs, I didn’t intend you to have to listen to a drunk.”

“I’m okay,” she said. “Everyone’s upset. I think maybe we should all just go to bed.”

“Yes,” Ellen stood up. “Let’s end this terrible day and hope tomorrow this will all be solved and we can put it behind us.”

Hildy followed Ellen inside and Kendall took Bart’s arm. “I’ll take him over to his room. Be back in a minute.”

“Better tell
him
where you’re going.” Nick nodded toward the police officer who was trying to make himself inconspicuous at the far end of the patio.

At Kendall’s insistence, Bart got up and allowed himself to be directed to his apartment above the garage.

Lorry began to stand.

“Don’t go,” Nick said quickly. “Who knows when I’ll have a chance to talk to you alone again.”

“I—”

“This is kind of strange,” Nick said. “I don’t quite know what to say. But I don’t want you to disappear on me. We’re just starting to get to know each other.”

She looked at him. His unruly black hair and bright blue eyes made her think of a mischievous little boy. But his handsome face and the white shirt with several buttons undone, revealing the tanned, muscular line of his neck and shoulders, quickly reminded her that he was a man. She caught her breath. “Nick, I don’t—”

His fingers touched her lips. “Don’t say it. I already know we have virtually nothing in common. Isn’t that why they say opposites attract?”

“I have an engagement ring in my purse.”

Part III

A man always makes his troubles less

by going to meet them

instead of waiting for them

to catch up with him,

or trying to run away from them.

—RALPH MOODY

TWELVE

Try as he might, George Brodie could never sleep past six-thirty. And he couldn’t lie in bed once he was awake. Consequently, on Monday morning he’d been in his study for over an hour before he came to the breakfast nook to see if Mrs. Winston had his breakfast ready.

A few minutes past eight, he was putting the finishing touches on bacon and eggs with toast with jam and two cups of coffee. He wasn’t looking forward to the rest of the day, but for a few moments at least, he felt at peace with the world.

Mrs. Winston came in to clear up. “I expect Mr. Martin would like a tray in his room, do you think?”

“You’re likely right. Perhaps you should have Crystal take a cup of coffee up and see if he’s awake.”

“Yes, I will, sir. At least…”

“Anything wrong?”

“No, sir. It’s just that she hasn’t come up yet.” She continued hastily, as though suddenly worried that her employer might be unhappy. “Not that it’s a problem. I haven’t needed her yet this morning. I will a little later, when there are more up for breakfast. Perhaps I’ll just go down and make sure she’s up. She’s one for watching a movie on TV late at night when she should be asleep.”

George said nothing, so Mrs. Winston went back to the kitchen and then descended the back stairs to her daughter’s room. From there, she checked the bathroom and the small lounge reserved for use by the servants. Returning upstairs, she stood in the middle of the kitchen floor for a few minutes before returning to the breakfast nook. But George had already gone to his study.

She thought for a moment, her forehead wrinkled, eyes narrowed. Finally, she walked along the hall to the door of George’s study and knocked.

“Come in.”

She peeked around the door. “Mr. Brodie, I expect I’m being foolish, but with what happened yesterday and all, well—”

“What is it, Mrs. Winston?”

“Crystal’s not in her room. Her nightgown is on the end of the bed, and her bed’s not made. She’s not in the kitchen and she’s not in the basement.”

“Perhaps she’s upstairs.”

“No, sir, I don’t think so. I’ve been in the kitchen since seven o’clock and she’s not come up the stairs. I know her. She never gets up earlier than she has to.”

“Have you looked outside?”

“I suppose she could be out there.” Her doubtful tone belied the words.

“There’s a police officer outside. Ask him if he’s seen her. Likely, she’s had an early swim and she’s in the change room.”

“Yes, sir.” She left the study.

George shook his head. Women! Let one little thing go wrong and they started imagining all sorts of horrors. Well, perhaps he was being unfair. Jillian’s murder wasn’t exactly a little thing. But still. There was no reason to assume the worst!

When Mrs. Winston opened the back door, she saw the policeman sitting in a patio chair at one of the tables, his back to her.

“Excuse me, officer,” she called.

He remained still.

“Excuse me,” she called louder.

No response.

She stepped outside, moving toward the prone figure.

His arms were hanging at his sides, chin on his chest. She opened her mouth to scream, then saw his chest rise and fall. She shut her eyes in relief. He was asleep, then. Not dead.

“Officer!” Still no response.

“Officer!” She shook him and was rewarded as he raised an arm slightly. She shook him again, calling “Wake up!” in his ear.

His eyes came half open and he shook his head. “Wha—?”

“You’re not supposed to sleep, you know.”

“Who are you?” He looked around. “Where am I?”

“You’re guarding our house, and doing a lousy job if you ask me! Have you seen my daughter?”

“Who?”

“My daughter, Crystal. Have you seen her?”

“I don’t—my head. Is there anyone else here? Can you call someone?”

“I’ll call someone all right. And I’ll report you.” She turned to go back to the study to tell George, but a new thought made her walk instead toward the four-car garage. As she walked, she glared up at the window of the apartment Bart was using. “If he’s involved—!” She mounted the stairs and knocked on the door.

After a couple of minutes, the door opened. Bart stood there, shirtless and barefoot. The black pants he wore were rumpled, as though he’d slept in them. His chin was unshaven. And his eyes were bloodshot.

“I’m looking for Crystal,” the housekeeper said, folding her hands across her chest.

“Crystal?”

“My daughter, and don’t bother pretending you don’t know. I want her.”

“My good lady, your daughter isn’t here. As a matter of fact, no one’s daughter is here. Unfortunately, I’m completely alone. Except for you, of course. But somehow, I don’t think—”

“Mr. Brodie, this isn’t funny. I can’t find Crystal. I just want to know she’s safe. If she’s here, you tell me right now!”

For answer, he stepped back. “You can search the place. She’s not here.”

“Was she here? Mr. Brodie, I know what you’re like. You can’t fool me. Was she here?”

“Why does the woman persist in thinking I’m lying?” he asked the door.

She strode past him and looked through the three rooms. She checked under the bed and in the closet and shower. Bart’s only companion appeared to have been the empty bottle of Scotch on top of the bedcovers.

She was holding back tears as she returned to the entrance.

Through his hangover, Bart finally sensed her panic. “You’re sure she isn’t around?”

“She’s not in her room or the kitchen or anywhere I can think of.”

“When did you see her last?”

“She went downstairs about eleven last night. I haven’t seen her since.”

He sighed. “Let me get some shoes and I’ll help you look.”

By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, he’d thrust his feet into loafers and thrown on a shirt. He buttoned the shirt as he went down the stairs, and heard about the sleeping policeman as they walked across the lawn.