The Scarlet Wench (15 page)

  “You do have good hearing.” Declan hoped the compliment would jog her to remember more. “That first set, near
2 AM
, could you tell where they came from?”

  Helen closed her eyes in thought; the image of Madame Arcati going into a trance was hard to dispel. Declan looked sideways at Nora, who winked at him.

  Helen sighed. “No, no good. Can’t tell where they came from, just that they didn’t pass my door.”

  “That’s still very good, Helen, thank you.” Declan wrapped up the interview by asking about her background in relation to the others.

  “No, I’ve never worked with any of this cast before.” She fluttered her hands. “But we’re an incestuous bunch—we all know
of
each other.”

  “So I’m told.” Declan smiled back at her. He was aware of Nora flipping to the back of her notebook and drawing lines. “How long have you known Grayson Lange?”

  Helen’s tinkling laugh brought Declan and Nora to attention. “Why, all his life, dear Inspector. I’m his mother.”

*

11:20 AM

Helen wished she had a camera to record the surprised looks on both faces before her. Really, the delivery of that line was one of her best performances. She sat back, delighted with a job well done.

  “His mother?” Nora squeaked. “But he calls you Helen.”

  Helen nodded. “My rule. When we work together, I don’t want anyone thinking, ‘She only has that role because she’s his mum.’ Better all around. I’ve always used my maiden name on stage.”

  The detective composed himself. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

  “There wasn’t any reason I should have.” Helen felt placid and comfortable. “I knew he wouldn’t want me fussing over him when he broke his wrist. He had all those women to do that. He was never a mummy’s boy.” She hoped she had managed to keep the distaste out of her voice. He was still her flesh and blood. “He was a daring child. I was on a first-name basis with the casualty staff. He was fickle then, too, completely unaware of the feelings of others.”

  Declan asked, “Do you work together often?”

  Helen considered this. “If there’s a role I want, we do. Whose idea do you think it was for Gray to start this traveling troupe?” She sat back in satisfaction as they exchanged puzzled glances. Nora was making copious notes, flipping back and forth in her notebook. Let them document what they wanted.

  Declan cleared his throat. “I’ll bite. Why did you suggest Lange’s Traveling Theatre Troupe?”

  “It’s obvious he’s never going to be the next Olivier, darling. His notices were lukewarm at best. But the boy craves to be the center of attention. What started as confidence and assertiveness when he was a child had led to a certain ruthlessness I’ve ceased to admire. He’s a much better director than he ever was an actor. He adores telling people what to do.”

  “That’s an honest evaluation,” Declan noted.

  “I’m a pragmatist, Inspector. It doesn’t pay to wear blinkers about people we love when it come to their faults and vices.” Another great delivery. She did so love still being able to surprise people at her age.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“I long ago came to the conclusion that nothing has ever been definitely proved about anything.”

Madame Arcati: Act
I
, Scene 2

12:15 PM

Maeve accompanied Simon to the lodge kitchen to prepare lunch for the petulant crew who were griping to each other in the dining room. The cast was on edge. The Dentons sat at the round table with Maeve, playing with Sean, until Nora took him to her room for his lunch bottle. Maeve watched the Dentons move to the end of the long table, sitting stiffly and ignoring Grayson, until Burt engaged them in low conversation. Through the window, Maeve could see Declan’s head as he tried to get through to the Kendal Police Station now that the rain had stopped.

  “Maybe food will be a distraction. Their grumbling is getting to me,” Maeve complained. “Can you believe those bitches, Fiona and Poppy? First it was Fiona and Gemma scrapping, but now Poppy’s taking her place.” She opened the freezer and quickly withdrew three chickens, slamming the door. “We can roast these for dinner with carrots and potatoes tonight. Have to feed the howling masses.” She threw the chickens into the sink to defrost.

  Simon came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. His mood seemed to lighten as the rain receded. Maeve couldn’t handle a gloomy Simon along with those annoying women.

  “Maybe they’re irritable because they didn’t have the same kind of night we had.” He nibbled her earlobe.

  Maeve swatted him away, glad they’d had those few hours together in the middle of this mess. “Help me figure out what to feed these awful people. They remind me of cranky children.”

  Simon perused the pantry. “There’s always beans on toast.”

  “Be serious. We can do tuna and egg salad. There’s a bowl of hard-boiled eggs.” She opened the fridge and handed Simon the eggs, mayonnaise and celery. “And take these berries, Si. They’ll spoil if we don’t use them soon.”

  “Thank goodness for gas.” Simon turned on one of the ovens to warm the bread.

  Maeve washed and diced celery for the salads. “I hope Declan can make sense of things soon. I hate having a dead body upstairs. And knowing we’re feeding a murderer makes my skin crawl.”

  “I know.” He peeled the eggs. “I keep trying to pretend this isn’t happening.”

  “Poor darling. You don’t seem to be having much luck.” Despite the improvement in his mood, she saw the strain on his face. This couldn’t end well. Once news got around, business at the lodge was certain to suffer, and Simon would feel responsible. She added celery seed to the egg salad. Unless the publicity could actually help? In her opinion, people were basically ghouls.

  Maeve watched Simon flake pungent tuna with a fork. “Simon, when this is all over and Kate is back, I think we should have a holiday together.” His response would tell her a multitude of things. Would he warm to the idea or push her away?

  Simon looked up. “Where to?”

  She pretended to mull it over. She knew exactly where Simon would want to go. “I’ve never been to Provence. I could practice my French.” She was rewarded with a brilliant smile.

  “Something to hold onto, then. It’s a date.”

*

12:30 PM

With Sean’s bottle finished, Nora sat in her chair, turning the pages of a nursery rhyme book. He reached his pudgy fingers out to touch the page as she read “Little Miss Muffet” aloud. She couldn’t help connecting poor Miss Muffet with Gemma and wondered if the actress had struggled or cried out when that pillow had come down across her face.

  Nora squeezed her baby closer as she finished the rhyme. Sean, content to rattle and chew on his keys, made noises she echoed at times. Soon he would start speaking. What would be his first word? The events of the past few days had kept her mind from dwelling on Daniel Kemp’s forthcoming visit, but now she wondered again what his purpose could be. While she’d decided to call the Pembrokes before he arrived, with Gemma dead, now hardly seemed like the right time. But maybe this was exactly when she
should
call, before news of the murder went national. If only the weather would just cooperate.

  While she waited for that, there were more important things to consider, like finding out who had murdered Gemma Hartwell. Nora had a lot on her plate but couldn’t lose sight of the fact a killer was among them at Ramsey Lodge, just rooms away from where she sat with her precious child.

  She pictured the list at the back of her notebook and the lines connecting people. It was an incestuous group; she agreed with Helen on that. Gemma and Fiona had both slept with Grayson, and Poppy wanted to; his mother was here, as were the parents of his former lover who had died of a broken heart after he’d moved on. It all revolved around Grayson Lange.

  With a start, she realized her snooping in the guest rooms earlier this week had not included the director’s suite, something she needed to rectify.

*

12:40 PM

Declan entered the dining room, where Maeve and Simon were passing bowls of salads and warmed bread down the long table. The upper end of the table ignored him; only the Dentons smiled at him, and Burt gave a curt nod. He was used to that when he wore his detective’s hat. The round corner table was empty.

  “Where’s Nora?” he asked Simon.

  “Spending time with Sean. I haven’t called her yet.”

  “I’ll do it.” Declan walked the short distance to tap on Nora’s door. No answer. Maybe she was still feeding Sean in the alcove? He walked into the room, softly calling her name in case she was trying to get the baby to sleep, although it seemed early for his afternoon nap.

  Her chair was empty. Declan looked into the cot. Sean had rolled onto his side and was happily chewing the ear of his favorite rabbit. When he recognized Declan, he crowed and held his arms out to be picked up.

  Declan picked the baby up, chuffed the child recognized him. He looked at Nora’s bathroom door. It stood open and empty. He took the baby into the dining room and installed him in his high chair.

  “All set?” Simon asked. He and Maeve were seated with filled plates, and Maeve handed Sean a teething rusk.

  With a sinking feeling that quickly turned to burning rage, Declan knew exactly where he’d find Nora. “I’ll be right back.”

*

12:50 PM

Nora knew her time was limited and quickly inspected Grayson Lange’s room. The Royal Suite looked less regal in the weak light, and she threw open the heavy drapes to see well. Where to start?

  The closet revealed tweedy jackets with suede elbow patches and pants slung over hangers. Collared shirts and a stack of marled jumpers were thrown on the top shelf. She patted pockets, inhaling a scent that reminded her of a men’s fine haberdashery: oak, beeswax, leather and myrrh. She flashed on a memory at age eight, sitting on the dock with her father when he’d been banished from their summer cottage to smoke his pipe. Legs dangling from the itchy wood, bare feet browned from days on the beach, Nora had idolized her dad. She ached with longing for him and for Sean to know him; John Tierney would have been a wonderful grandfather. She seemed to be dwelling on him these past days.

  She closed the closet door softly to rifle through the dresser drawers. A boxer man, knits and silks thrown together in a jumble. Tees and socks. Nothing remarkable, nothing personal.

  On the bedside table, his fancy watch was tossed on top of a well-thumbed paperback of
The Picture of Dorian Gray.
The top drawer revealed a bottle of lubricant lying under a recent issue of
Mayfair
, Britain’s answer to
Penthouse.
Typical. Moving into the bathroom, she noted most of Gemma’s cosmetics were still spread out across the counter, along with the bottle of painkillers Grayson had been taking since his accident. Nora read the label: Co-Codamol
30
/
500
,
1
or
2
every
4
-
6
hrs pain. An added label cautioned driving and warned of constipation and/or dizziness as common side effects. Thirty pills had been dispensed. Nora spilled those remaining into her hand and counted. Nineteen left. That meant he’d been taking two every six hours or so, a number she supposed was reasonable with a fresh fracture.

  “Busted.” Declan’s quiet voice from the doorway startled Nora. She jerked her hand, spilling the pills all over the counter and floor.

  She bent down to retrieve them as her cheeks flamed. “I counted his pills to see if he could have given any to Gemma,” she whispered. She stood and scooped the remaining pills off the counter back into the bottle, taking care to remove a thread from a cotton towel.

  Declan’s whispered voice was sharp. “And you would be doing
what
that would be helpful? Since you’ve successfully managed to put your fingerprints on that bottle, we’ll have no way of knowing if someone else tampered with them.” His low sound made his anger all the more menacing.

  Nora’s mouth fell open. “Apparently nothing.” She closed the bottle with a snap. “Nineteen left, about the right number.” She replaced the bottle where she’d found it and tried to leave the bathroom but Declan blocked the doorway.

  “Yet you felt it was reasonable to snoop in his room because—”

  “Because Grayson’s at the heart of this, Declan.” Nora’s tone was insistent.

  “So despite having a trained detective on hand, you felt it was reasonable to destroy evidence while leaving your child alone, I might mention, with a killer in the house? Just to satisfy your curiosity?”

  Nora could see he was fighting to keep his voice quiet. He turned back into the bedroom. She looked down, her face hot with shame as she stepped past him. “I’m sorry, Declan, truly I am. But it wasn’t to satisfy idle curiosity. There’s a killer here, and we’re no closer to finding him. And because my child
is
here, then yes, I feel justified in doing anything I can to find that person.” She left the room before he could answer and hurried down the stairs, hoping Declan would close the door the way she’d found it.

*

12:56 PM

Poppy tried not to preen from her new place at Grayson’s side. Lunch was dull to the point of stultifying, people eating for sustenance, not with pleasure, pushing food around their plates. Awkward silences, too. Not much talking except “Pass the bread, please.” The old man shoveled in his food, she noticed. Burt must be happy to have someone else cook for him, lonely git. Even cold salads look like a treat when you live alone. She felt a streak of sympathy for Burt and hoped she never became like him.

  She wanted to ask Grayson if she should work on the costumes, then brought herself up short. Would the play even go on without Gemma? Her role as Elvira was the lead. Poppy didn’t want to be the one to ask the question.

  She picked at her egg salad and fruit and tried to beam whenever she caught Grayson’s eye. The play simply had to continue. She needed to be in his presence, to show him she was indispensable in any way he could want or imagine. Then she had a brilliant thought that provided the perfect solution.

  This would be her mission over the next few hours, dead body upstairs growing fusty and warm or not: she needed to convince Grayson he should keep the performances going—and even more so, that it was his idea that
she
replace Gemma. Nora could do her role of the maid, Edith. Nora knew the play and had acting experience, and Edith was only in a few scenes. She’d have to be cagey and lull him into a conversation she could manipulate.

  “Fiona, could you please pass the fruit bowl?” Helen was exceedingly polite, and Poppy thought she might have dropped out of character.

  Fiona acquiesced without comment. The Dentons hunched together at the end of the table near Burt.

  “Fruit, dear?” Lydia encouraged Rupert to eat. The man’s gauntness had suddenly become apparent.

  Poppy had thought of him as slim, but now he looked like an Ichabod Crane impersonator, his eyes sunken into his face, his hands shaking below bony wrists as he reached for an apple. God, she hoped she never got to be that pathetic. She thought about her tin of clippings and all the exhaustive research she’d done on Grayson. What was his favorite game? “Grayson?”

  “Yes, Poppet?” Grayson slathered butter on a piece of country bread, his pupils dilated.

  Good, painkillers on board would make him easier to manage. “Would you like to play Scrabble after lunch?”

  “I’ll play, too.” Helen gave Poppy a sly smile, insinuating herself into the situation.

  Poppy had the idea the old broad didn’t want her to be alone with Gray. How absurd—she was old enough to be his mother.

  A broad grin broke across the director’s face. “Capitol idea.”