The Scarlet Wench (8 page)

  Nora got down on her hands and knees and lifted the white eyelet dust ruffle that hung around the bed. At first, she could only see the trundle bed, but as her eyes got used to the dark shadows, she picked out an object thrust near the head of the bed. She reached in and pulled out a large tin with pictures of the Twelve Days of Christmas. Turning it over, she read the label across the bottom:
St. Kew English Cookie Assortment
.

  Nora opened the tin. Inside were photos, newspaper clippings and magazine articles, all carefully scissored. It took only a moment for Nora to realize the subject of each item was Grayson Lange. And was that a used disposable razor?

  Now Nora understood why Poppy was so charming one second but became possessive of anything to do with the play. It all revolved around her infatuation with Grayson Lange.

  She heard footsteps and quickly closed the tin and thrust it back under the bed in the same spot. By the time she reached the door and opened it, basket over her arm, Callie was reaching for the handle, a clean tub mat over her arm.

  “Oh, Nora, didn’t realize you were still in here.”

  “Didn’t want to get in your way. What rooms have you finished?”

  “This one and the Dentons’ suite.”

  “Fine, I’ll do theirs next.” Entering the Morris Suite, Nora quickly perused Lydia and Rupert’s room after dealing with their flowers. Their suite showed signs of habitation, but all their clothes were neatly hung. Both nightstands had books, and Nora noted their choices: Ian Rankin’s newest police procedural would be Rupert’s; she decided Alan Bradley’s Flavia de Luce offering was more Lydia’s style.

  A framed photograph stood on the dresser and drew her close attention. Its highly polished silver frame indicated the care it received, and the photo showed a much-younger Lydia and Rupert. Between them stood a pretty, young woman with Rupert’s lean frame and Lydia’s porcelain skin and sweet smile.

  The Dentons must have a daughter. Nora didn’t recall either of them mentioning her. She’d Google that later today.

  Callie was next door in the Lewis Carroll Suite. Fiona had left a few items of clothing draped over a chair, and the amount of makeup on her counter would supply Nora for a year, but she didn’t see anything unusual at first glance and could hardly open drawers with Callie there making up the bed.

  Nora changed the water from the vase and cut the stems down. She followed Callie to Gemma’s room to repeat the process. In contrast to the other rooms, this one looked like someone had opened a suitcase and dumped the contents around.

  “Not the tidiest person, is she?” Nora looked around as she cut stems. It would take more time than she had today to sort through anything unusual in this mess.

  Callie made a face. “I’ll set most of this to rights, and it will look the same again tomorrow. And she only slept in here last night for a few hours. A lot of her stuff is in the Royal Suite.”

  Nora remembered the pile of Gemma’s perfume and cosmetics in Grayson’s bathroom. “Helen’s room done?”

  Callie nodded. “Yes, but she asked for extra towels. That woman’s plain weird.”

  Nora laughed. “She likes to stay in character. But then I’ve never met her out of character, so I’ve no idea what she’s really like.” A thought struck Nora. “Callie, you didn’t by any chance leave my blue robe in Helen’s room the other day?”

  Callie frowned. “Why would I do that?”

  Nora shook her head. “Not a clue. But she found it and returned it.”

  “That’s even stranger. Maybe she liked the color and wanted it for a turban.” Callie laughed and shrugged the matter off.

  Nora accompanied Callie to the linen closet. They heard the washer buzz. “You want to put that load in the dryer? I’ll take the towels to Helen’s room.”

  “Sure thing.” Callie skipped down the back stairs.

  Nora piled up clean towels and pushed open the door to Helen Mochrie’s room. She fixed the flowers and put her basket down. Inside the yellow room, the full flavor of Madame Arcati was on view. A vibrant, rose-patterned scarf was thrown over the table lamp; three turbans in a rainbow of colors stood lined up along the deep windowsill. The closet door stood open to reveal a violet broomstick skirt competing with a sapphire quilted jacket.

  Nora placed the extra towels in the bathroom. She peeked into a round cosmetic case. A smattering of makeup, brushes and deodorant filled it. A thick, pungent odor came from a large bottle of musky cologne that stood on the counter, its heavy scent permeating the whole suite.

  She quickly scanned the closet and under the bed. Not a dust bunny in sight. Nora reached for the top dresser drawer when a voice from the doorway stopped her hand in mid-flight.

  “You wouldn’t be about to open that drawer, Nora?” Declan Barnes stood in the doorway, his dark hair catching the sunlight pouring in the from the hallway skylight.

  Nora snatched back her hand. “Just checking for dust.” She ran her finger over the top and turned it toward him. “Clean as a whistle.”

  She saw him bite the side of his cheek to avoid a smile.

He crooked his finger and motioned her toward him. “Then you’ll be able to leave and close the door behind you.”

  And he waited while she did just that.

Chapter Thirteen

“I was the victim of an aberration.”

Charles: Act
II
, Scene 1

10:12 AM

Declan led Nora down the back stairs. He could hear Sean banging on a pot in the kitchen. When Agnes had told Declan that Nora was upstairs, he’d instinctively known that the news that Grayson’s brake cables had been cut had brought out the redhead’s insatiable need to put her nose where it didn’t belong. He stopped suddenly in the middle of the staircase and turned around. Nora was on the stair behind him; they were eye to eye, close enough for him to see the gold flecks in her green eyes and to catch her lemony scent.

  “What?” She gave him a wide-eyed look.

  He resisted the impulse to shake his finger at her again, remembering Sean’s reaction the last time. He was not her father. “Don’t pretend innocence with me, Nora.” He lowered his voice so Agnes wouldn’t hear them. “I know damn well you would have opened that drawer if I hadn’t stopped you.” To her credit, Nora looked down and didn’t argue, which frustrated him even more. How could she have scruples one minute and none the next?

  He grabbed her neck and pulled her toward him, kissing her firmly and letting go.

  “What was that for?” Her eyes shined.

  “Because you frustrate the hell out of me.” He continued down the stairs.

  “Then I should do that more often,” she said briskly as they entered the kitchen.

  Sean sat in a corner of the kitchen on an old rug and babbled away, hitting a pot with a wooden spoon, his back supported by a rounded cushion.

  “There you two are.” Agnes stood at the counter peeling a huge pile of carrots. “Simon sent Callie to the market.”

  “Upstairs is all done.” Nora tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear.

  Declan hoped his color wasn’t as high as Nora’s, but Agnes either didn’t notice or chose not to comment. Christ, he felt like a schoolboy with back-stairs stolen kisses. He pulled himself into professional mode.

  “I’ve spoken with Detective Sergeant Higgins in Kendal.”

  “We know him from last autumn,” Nora said.

  “He’s in charge with Ian away. Anyway, he feels I need to let everyone on premises know about the brakes to be on alert for any other kind of sabotage.”

  “What brakes?” Agnes’ eyes were as big as saucers.

  Declan filled her in on the cut cables.

  “And here’s me thinking he had too much to drink.” Agnes started viciously chopping the carrots.

  “That, too,” Nora murmured. “And I guess that blows your cover.”

  “I suppose,” Declan agreed.

  Nora frowned as she picked up Sean. “I’m going to put him down for his nap.”

  Declan watched her leave the kitchen, nuzzling Sean’s head, her brow furrowed in thought.

  Agnes put her hand on a plump hip. “You think this is more than pranks now, don’t you? I tried to tell Nora this would come to no good.”

  “My instinct tells me this person is deadly serious, Agnes. We should all be on our guard.”

*

10:15 AM

“And so there was nothing for it but to obey the beckoning finger of adventure and take to the road again. … ”

  At least Helen Mochrie had her lines down pat. Gemma would give the old bat that. She stood outside the French door on the patio, waiting for her entrance cue. She didn’t appear until Scene
2
in Act
I
, and as the actors droned on through the first séance scene, she wrapped her shawl tighter around her. There was a breeze off the lake that kept the morning air cool, although she had to admit it looked pretty enough. Boats made her seasick, and Gemma was happier to be on dry land, enjoying from a distance.

  She yawned loudly. Not enough sleep last night after that stupid accident. Her neck felt a bit sore, but the Accident & Emergency doctor had assured her they hadn’t been going fast enough for her to have sustained serious whiplash and had been stingy with the pain pills. She could kill for a fag, but Grayson didn’t approve, and so she snuck them here and there when she could get away with it and could brush her teeth and use mouthwash. Those moments were more and more difficult to find, and soon she’d be a nonsmoker whether she wanted to give up cigarettes or not.

  “Filthy habit,” Grayson had pronounced soon after they’d met, and Gemma instinctively had known that if she wanted to wrest him away from Fiona, the smoking had to go. It was one of the many things she had done to suit him. Gemma wondered if this liaison would really further her career the way she’d hoped. Here she was, stuck in an old, musty house playing to the sheepherders, and Grayson acted like it was the West End.

  A far cry from her beginnings, though, and wouldn’t her old dad be chuffed to see her now, wearing fancy clothes and having men drool over her. Although he’d never laid a hand on her, Dad had always been a bit too much full of sex talk with her, especially when he’d had a few, which was fairly often. At least that had made her easy with her own body, although she used it more for attention than for actual sex. She wasn’t promiscuous—she could count her lovers on her hands without repeating fingers, a rare occurrence in this modern age, she thought. Still, her mum had always complained about her dad’s overfamiliarity.

  “You treat her like a mate,” she’d complained, and Gemma had agreed, but who else had he had, with her mum keeping the little family to itself, not making friends and suspicious of every neighbour’s overture as gossip hunting. It had put a wedge between her and her mum, that was for sure, and now that her dad was dead, all that remained between mother and daughter was a cool distance and an occasional phone call.

  Maybe that’s why I look for attention, Gemma thought, and congratulated herself on the rare moment of insight. Getting Grayson Lange into her bed had proved less of a challenge than she’d thought. Her body easily distracted him. She didn’t give a toss about the sex, although he was competent enough once she looked past his overblown ego.

  Lately, he’d been complaining about her too-frequent headaches, which she knew meant she was stressed. “Bloody hypochondriac,” he’d had the nerve to call her as they’d set off for Cumbria. With this accident, she had a perfect right to have a headache or two.

  Now the tables had turned. With his plaster cast and painkillers on board, he wouldn’t be bothering her nightly to prove his virility, and she might even get a few decent nights’ sleep.

*

10:18 AM

Nora drew the blinds in Sean’s alcove to darken it as his mobile tinkled away. He was getting better at falling asleep without rocking, and she allowed herself a discreet pat on the back for sticking to a schedule with him.

  She sat at her desk and opened her laptop, minimizing the notes she’d been making for further story ideas. She slipped in some ear buds and hit her iTunes playlist, a mix of her U.K. and U.S. favorites. If Sean fussed, she didn’t want to jump up. He had to learn to fall asleep on his own.

  Nora knew Declan wouldn’t catch the underlying significance of Grayson’s brake cables being cut. In the play, that’s exactly how the ghost of Condomine’s first wife manages to kill his second. She would tell him, but she could already hear him calling it a coincidence. Perhaps, but it bore further looking into.

  Everything seemed under control in the lodge, and she needed to steal a few minutes for herself. She opened a new browser window and started a Google search on Rupert Denton and Lydia Brown.

  By the time Adele was rolling in the deep of her heartache, Nora had learned the couple’s careers had started in Shakespearian theatre, where they’d met and married, then branched out to acting in popular plays and revivals independently, with a stint on a television soap opera where they had played lovers married to other partners. Their daughter had been named for their friend and mentor, Dame Maggie Smith, who still acted in the popular
Downton Abbey
series.

  There was little mention of Maggie after their daughter’s birth in
1983
. By all accounts, they’d kept her out of the limelight except for one publicity photo Nora found as Maggie had neared her teens, attending opening night of her parents’ performance in a revival of
The Lion in Winter
. It showed Rupert and Lydia dressed as Henry
II
and Eleanor of Aquitaine with the tall young woman between them, grinning shyly for the camera, awkward but lovely in her long gown.

  Nora took a drink from her water bottle and rose to check on Sean. Fast asleep, clutching his bunny. His mouth worked a phantom nipple. What was it like to be brought up by parents who were actors? The rehearsals, late nights at the theatre, jostling for good parts would have been foreign to Maggie’s normal schoolgirl friends. Had the Dentons been emotional at home with histrionic arguments and dramatic moments? Had Maggie’s care been given over to a nanny all day long? Or perhaps just at night when the Dentons had been at the theatre? Had they strived for an ordinary childhood for their only child?

  Nora thought about the warm and gracious couple she’d met. They seemed more likely to have been overprotective of their daughter, the kind who would try to give her a sense of normality, but this was nothing more than a hunch on her part.

  The next mention of Maggie Denton came in an article in
Cheers!
magazine about her graduation in
2004
from the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. The accompanying photo showed her wedged again between her famous parents, both older and graying but with proud smiles. The article described the couple as semiretired, taking parts in regional theatre where they could act together, and noted they had attended all of their daughter’s performances at RADA as her career began its rise.

  So Maggie had fallen under the influence of the theatre and had followed her parents into an acting career. Nora pulled up the website of her former employer,
People and Places
magazine, and clicked on the archives of their Notable pages. Nora had edited longer feature articles, not this page that contained snippets of information about births, death, marriages and other happenings in the lives of celebrities. She searched and found an article on Maggie Denton that described her death a scant two years before:

Maggie Denton, 26, actress daughter of acting scions Rupert Denton and Lydia Brown, was found dead last week, a suspected overdose. Police are investigating, but initial reports suggest no evidence of foul play.

  The photo showed Maggie dressed as Sarah in a touring production of Shaw’s
Major Barbara
, her last role. In contrast to her blooming healthiness five years before, Maggie’s face had been drawn and thinner. Grayson Lange had directed the play.