Authors: Marni Graff
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Della Wetherby tripped up the somewhat imposing steps of her sister’s Commonwealth Avenue home and pressed an energetic finger against the electric-bell button.”
—
Eleanor H. Porter,
Pollyanna Grows Up
9 AM
Louisa Evelyn Rogan stacked clothing onto her carved four-poster bed, adding her journal to the large pile of books she was taking to Oxford.
She enjoyed spending time with Val, who was super-cool, and looked forward to comforting her. Even though her mother hated it, Louisa loved it when Val called her “Lou,” and she’d been trying to convince her friends at school to use the nickname.
Louisa thought she understood how much her sister had cared for Bryn Wallace. Poor Bryn, to die in such an awful way. Murdered, her mother had said, not providing any additional information, but she’d heard her mother tell a friend while talking on the phone that Val’s paramour had been stabbed. An online search of the Oxford papers had given few details, other than that the killing had taken place in Bryn’s apartment. That didn’t stop Louisa from filling them in with her vivid imagination. She wondered if Bryn had felt pain or fear as she faced her killer, picturing different scenarios of her death. Bryn had been one of the most beautiful women Louisa had ever seen in real life, just walking around normal-like and not a bit stuck-up. If she’d been stabbed in her heart, would it have hurt worse or just caused her to die faster? What was her last thought as she lay dying, or did she faint, not knowing she wasn’t going to wake up?
The girl shivered and started sorting the clothes into piles, switching her thoughts to the trip to Oxford. This trip would definitely be a chance to get closer to Val. Although Val had been away at school for much of Louisa’s early childhood, she remembered shared holidays with long walks in Kensington Gardens with their father. They would search out Peter Pan’s statue, where Lloyd Rogan would pretend to swipe one of the bronze rabbits for her. She missed her father, who had called Louisa his Little Princess and Val his Big Princess. It was something she and Val had in common, this sadness over missing their father. Now she would be sad for Val, too, and would share her hurt over Bryn’s death. Shared pain lost some of its sting, Louisa decided in a moment of adult clarity. She desperately wanted to show her sister she could be more to her than just a kid.
There was a soft knock on the door, and her mother came in, smiling at the sight of Louisa’s industriousness. May Rogan nodded, approving of the neat stacks of clothes, then hesitated, taking in the high pile of books.
“Do you need to take so many books, dear? I don’t think we’ll be in Oxford for more than a few days.”
Louisa’s face fell. “But Mum, Val needs us now. We should be there for her—it’s the only chance I’ll get to be with her before term starts. I can leave half of them home if that helps.” She started to sort through the books, rationalizing she could always buy more in Oxford if she ran out. Anything to keep her mother in good spirits about going to see Val.
“Take them, darling, we’ll manage them somehow if they’re important to you.” Louisa recognized her mother’s martyr-like smile as she patted Louisa on the shoulder before leaving the room. The girl sighed and turned back to her packing, diminishing the number of books slightly in a compromise, for she was fond of her mum. But she wondered if her mother knew just how foolish she seemed to others at times. Or maybe everyone else didn’t see her mother the way she did.
She sat heavily on the bed. Sometimes she felt as if she had some kind of special vision, an intuition about people and their inner feelings. “Hidden agendas” one of the psychology books she’d read had called it, when a person said one thing but really meant something entirely different. Maybe she could use this talent to seek out Bryn Wallace’s killer. Then her mother would have to stop treating her like a child, and Val—well, Val would be so grateful, Louisa would have her eternal respect and loving thanks. Louisa wanted more than anything to be accepted for something she had done to help someone else, something unselfish and totally daring.
She reached for her cell phone, hitting the speed dial for her best friend.
“Diana, guess what? I’m going to Oxford to find a murderer.”
Chapter Thirty
“‘I’m afraid there’s been a change of plan,’ Mr. Eliot said.”
—
Susan Minot,
Folly
9:30 AM
Nora hung up her phone in relief.
“That was Janet,” she told Simon. “Val’s home. She took a shower, gobbled down some tea and toast, and was asleep before her head hit the pillow. She has to see the solicitor this afternoon. Janet’s insisting on going with her. I guess that’s a good idea.”
“I agree,” Simon said, drying his hands on a towel after washing their breakfast mugs. “Val could do with a little mothering right now.”
“And Janet will love doing it,” Nora added. She’d been sitting at the table after breakfast, jotting notes and trying to recall what Val had mentioned of the other tenants in Bryn’s building.
Simon looked around her sitting room. “I guess we could start packing up some of this.” He walked down the hallway to the large closet. “You said there’s packing material in here?”
Nora was intent on her notes. “Um-hmm—tape, brown paper and flat boxes we can tape up.”
“Good idea.” Simon returned with a load that he dumped on the floor, startling Nora and causing her to look up. “As long as you don’t lift anything heavy.” He held up his hand to stifle her outburst. “Enough notes. You take the tape. Where do you want to start?”
Nora reluctantly closed her notebook and cleared the table. “If I put a sticker on anything I’m taking, could you wrap or box it? Especially the artwork; you’ll know how to do that better than me. Anything without a sticker I’ll store.” She pulled a pack of colored stickers from her bag.
“Very organized,” Simon said. “I don’t suppose you have any of Lottie’s shortbread tucked away to speed the process? A man needs to keep his strength up.” Simon took down a framed vintage movie poster and a small watercolor Nora had tagged and moved them to the table.
Nora shook her head doubtfully. “I know I need to feed you to get work out of you, Simon, but I don’t have any left.” Nora’s mind turned ideas over quickly. “Lottie’s covering Val’s hours at the co-op today, and she always has some with her. We could always stop in there on the way to Bryn’s building.” She knew this would not be seen as enough of a compromise, and she was right.
“And we would go to Magdalen Road because—?” he asked, starting to wrap the poster in bubble wrap.
“Just to poke around.” Nora said this lightly and very reasonably, pushing her glasses up her nose.
Simon looked up at her. “You’re joking, right?”
Nora’s chin came up. “Not at all. I think we should talk to Bryn’s neighbors and see if anybody heard anything. And we could try to talk to that boy downstairs who found the body.”
Simon set his mouth in a straight line. “I think we should leave the detecting to the police.” He attacked the bubble-wrapped package with a roll of packing tape.
“Because they’re doing such a bang-up job,” Nora retorted, immediately regretting her annoyance with Simon. Why couldn’t he see they needed to be proactive and not sit around filling boxes? “You can stay here and pack. I can go to Magdalen Road.”
Simon’s retort was cut off by the ringing of his cell phone. “Ramsey,” he said, listening hard. Nora saw his face light up and thought it must be his sister, Kate. “That’s great … yes, I have the number. How’s Darby? … I see … I’ll let Nora know … ”
Nora used the loo while Simon filled Kate in about Val’s predicament. When Nora returned he was off the phone, looking through his wallet.
“Everything okay?” she asked. “What were you to tell me?”
“Darby misses you, the little traitor. Kate had to take him to her room to sleep. But the news is—aha!” He triumphantly held up a business card. “Nigel Rumley called.”
Nora’s stomach lurched. Nigel Rumley was the publisher who’d expressed an interest in her book. She and Simon were to meet with him later in the week. If he took on her books, she could relax about finances a bit. “He called on a Sunday?” She held her breath.
“He wasn’t certain when we were coming to town, and once Kate told him we were already here, he wanted to up our meeting.”
“Oh,” Nora breathed out. “I thought you were going to say he decided not to meet us.”
“To the contrary. He wants to run up to Scotland to see his daughter in a play and asked if we’d meet him at his office today.”
“Great!” Nora said. “We’ll go see Rumley. And then we can go straight to Magdalen Road.”
Chapter Thirty-One
“‘It’s a fake,’ said the Russian leader, staring down at the small exquisite painting he held in his hands.”
—
Jeffrey Archer,
A Matter of Honor
10 AM
Watkins found The Artists’ Co-operative without difficulty, walking up St. Aldate’s and turning right onto High Street after Carfax Tower. Located in the undercroft of the University Church of St. Mary the Virgin, the downstairs area once had held the university’s centre for administration and ceremonial events. It drew visitors to climb the one-hundred-and-eighty-eight-foot spire-topped tower, which dated to the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. Many would linger to catch their breath by visiting the co-operative downstairs.
The detective was directed by signs and the sound of the Beatles singing “Lady Madonna” to a huge rectangular room where rows of stalls ran along each wall and a center cube held twelve more stalls. Wide walkways separating the rows made browsing easy, while clerestory windows near ground level let in a surprising amount of light. Each stall established its individuality with brightly painted walls and gay displays in a visually startling jumble of color and texture. One stall displayed landscape watercolours and one was hung with the usual still-life bowls of fruit in oils on canvas, but that was the extent of traditional art forms.
The other stalls held a profusion of handmade items: blue, green, and yellow pottery, sponged and glazed; loomed shawls in soft, fluffy wool and angora; wood carvings of small animals and larger pieces designed as outdoor sculpture; tooled leather belts and soft, capacious backpacks. A display of wind chimes by the door tinkled gently in the breeze from a ceiling fan. Some were fashioned from strips of copper and steel, others from tiny metal tubes that plinked off-rhythm from the Beatles’ CD. Julie, his wife, had mentioned she’d bought gifts here last Christmas.
Watkins turned to a checkout desk next to the door, and the rather plump woman who sat behind it, tapping her foot to the insistent beat, looked up, laying aside the tray of colored beads she was sorting, her foot still in motion. The woman wore her black, wiry hair tied away from her face with a calico bandanna, emphasizing the roundness of her features. Her tight denim skirt was decorated with shiny beads sewn in a paisley pattern, and tooled leather slides on her surprisingly small feet, with neatly painted pink toenails, rapped in time to the music. Her red T-shirt was a size too small, hugging her large breasts, drawing the sergeant’s eyes to the outline of her prominent nipples.
“Can I help you?” She stood, scrutinizing his warrant card as she sized him up, her foot still snapping to the beat. “I’m Charlotte Weber, and please, no spider jokes, I’ve heard them all,” she said with a giggle, shaking a handful of beads. “Call me Lottie. How can I help you?”
“I understand Valentine Rogan is one of the owners here?” Watkins asked.
“Yes, but she’s not here right now.” Lottie Weber jiggled the beads she held and swayed to the music. “There’s been a death in her family.” She stopped moving and raised her hand to her mouth. “Of course, that’s why you’re here.”
“I’m trying to get background information on Miss Rogan and her relationship to the deceased. How many of the people here knew Bryn Wallace?”
“I’ve met Bryn, of course, since she and Val were partners, and I’m Val’s partner, too, here at the co-op.” Lottie scanned the room. “Perhaps Alicia knew her, down there at the end by the silver jewelry, or Justin, with the wire sculptures.”
“And those who are not here today?” asked Watkins.
She shook her hand again, the beads making a soft clicking sound against each other. “I’m not certain. She came by sometimes to meet Val after work. Bryn had a show here a few weeks ago, so everyone saw her work but didn’t necessarily know her personally.” Lottie dropped the beads back into a bowl and reached under the counter. She brought out a red plaid tin, lined with foil and containing shortbread, the buttery sweet smell hitting the air as she opened it. “Any news about who might have killed her?” She offered him a piece, one hand rapping a beat lightly on the counter.
Watson shook his head. “Not yet.” The detective dipped into the tin. “Thanks.” The buttery confection almost melted in his mouth. “Tell me your impression of Miss Rogan’s relationship with Bryn Wallace,” Watkins said, chewing on his shortbread.
Lottie picked up a broken corner from a cookie and ate it with gusto. “I’d say Val was totally smitten with Bryn.”
“Did you notice any change lately? Any cooling off or negative remarks about Wallace?” he asked. “This is great stuff. Thanks.”
“My trademark.” Lottie waited while he took another piece then slid the lid back on the tin. “No, I didn’t see or hear anything to indicate there were any problems at all.” She picked up a pen and tapped on the counter with it. “I need to get back to work if we’re done here.”
*
McAfee finished reading over the HOLMES report, then walked into the hall, where he ran into Watkins just coming back into the station. McAfee asked the sergeant about the co-operative and Lottie Weber.
“Bit of a Mexican jumping bean, that one, but an excellent baker,” Watkins said.
He described speaking with Justin and Alicia; neither artist had more than a nodding acquaintance with Bryn Wallace, although both spoke highly of her photographs. Watkins showed McAfee the listing he’d come away with of the other members of the co-op. “I’ll go divvy up the work between the team members.”
McAfee nodded. DI Barnes was still out, and McAfee felt at odds. He stopped at the computer desk and leafed through the printouts of background checks that had been compiled. Detective work was often such a grind, routine interviews conducted for any bit of information, slim leads followed up in hopes of a break in the case. Nothing much here, he thought, flipping through and scanning pages. Then a name and an alias caught his eye, and he smiled in satisfaction. Today’s gold star was staring him right in the face.