Someone to Love

by Jude Deveraux

  Jace had to walk around to the other side of the car to get into the driver’s side. It was going to take him a while to adjust to the steering wheel being on the opposite side of what he was used to.

  He backed out of the garage, looked for the device to close the door but couldn’t find it. Out of nowhere, Mick appeared and pulled the door down. Jace put the window down, stuck his head out, and said, “Tell Gladys yes. Tuesday will be fine.” Mick smiled and waved thanks.

  On the road into Margate village, Jace’s cell phone—or mobile as it was called in England—rang. Nigel said that the owner had said emphatically that he’d never lent the house to anyone. “Thank you,” Jace said and hung up.

  Either someone was lying or Stacy and whomever she’d met had broken into the house. Or had they? Jace had no proof she’d kept her meeting. Maybe she’d gone to the house, waited for the person, but he didn’t show up. Maybe in despair she’d taken her own life.

  “But if she loved him so much, why was she marrying me?” he said out loud, then swerved to miss an oncoming car. Out of habit, he’d moved to the right side of the road.

  Jace pulled his Range Rover to the side, stopped, and put his head on the steering wheel. Short of taking Stacy’s photo into the village and asking questions, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. He’d read the reports on her death. No one had visited her at the pub that night. She’d arrived late, the owner’s wife said she’d given Stacy a key, and that she’d nearly fallen on her way up the stairs. The woman also said Stacy looked as though she’d been crying. The owner had asked if she could help. “No, I’m fine,” Stacy said. “I just need a good, long sleep.”

  When Jace had driven to the house before, he’d turned into Priory House before reaching the village, so he’d not seen it. Now he saw that it was quaint and cute, but then most English villages were. All the grocery shops were divided, so there was a butcher shop, a bakery, a fruitier, a greengrocer, and a wine shop. At one end of the main street, named High Street as it was in most villages, was a pub and another one stood at the other end of the street.

  Which pub was it? Jace wondered. His copy of the police report was hidden in the back of his photo of Stacy and he hadn’t thought to bring it. Maybe he could visit the place where Stacy had…died—he could hardly even think the word—and find out…Find out what, he didn’t know.

  When he passed a small brick building that said Margate Historical Library, Jace had an idea.

  He parked his car on the street and walked toward the library. Everyone he passed stared at him, then nodded. He had no doubt that they knew he was the latest owner of Priory House. He could almost hear their wanting to ask if he’d seen the ghost yet. He thought he’d answer, “Yes, but she got scared of me and vanished.”

  When he got to the library door, he realized he hadn’t so much as a pen with him. He couldn’t pretend to be an author doing research if he didn’t have pen and paper.

  Turning, he looked about the village, and across the street was a stationer’s shop. He crossed the street and went inside. As with most shops in English villages, it had two of each item rather than twenty-five of each as American stores carried, and there wasn’t a piece of Plexiglas in sight.

  “Here you are,” said a tall, thin, gray-haired woman from behind the counter as she shoved a box toward him.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “It’s all there,” she said. “Take a look.”

  “I think there’s been a mistake. I haven’t purchased anything.”

  “Alice Browne called and said you’d seen the ghost outside in the garden. No one’s done that before, so we knew your next stop would be the library to find out about her, and of course you’d be wanting something to take notes on, so here’s everything you need.”

  When Jace didn’t move, she pushed the box until it was about to fall off the counter.

  “Go on,” she said. “It’s been put on your account and I’ll send young Gladys Arnold a statement at the end of the month. Mind you, though, I don’t take kindly to her buying some of her supplies in Aylesbury. You can tell her from me that it doesn’t pay to antagonize the local vendors.”

  When Jace still didn’t move, she looked impatient. “Is there something else you want?”

  “No,” Jace said slowly, then took the box and headed for his car. Shoving the box onto the passenger seat, he got behind the steering wheel. He needed some time to calm himself. Even though he’d told Mrs. Browne that he had not seen the ghost in the garden, she hadn’t believed him. She’d called the local stationer’s shop and told the clerk that Jace would stop in there on the way to the library.

  His impulse was to call Mrs. Browne and tell her off, even to fire her. How dare she blab to the whole village what he was doing?

  After a few minutes of anger, it occurred to him that this was good. He wouldn’t have to work to make people believe he was interested in the ghost and thereby cover his real interest. No, it was assumed that Jace was just like everyone else.

  “Good,” Jace said. “This is good. A premade cover.”

  Relaxing his tight muscles, he looked at the box on the seat beside him and began to go through it, shaking his head in wonder. It was filled with all that a researcher could want: six black pens, four colored pens, two notebooks, one with lines, one without. On and on. There was even a little battery-powered book-light in the bottom.

  Jace took out a large paper wallet with a string tie, and stuck in the unlined notebook and two black pens, then headed toward the library.

  The librarian, a woman about the same age as the stationer clerk and Mrs. Browne, greeted him with, “I have everything you want right here.” She pushed a box toward him. “We call it the Priory House box and we don’t even put the books away anymore. I hope you have a video player. Alice said you don’t have much in the way of furniture, just the leftovers of the last owner. If you need video equipment, we can rent some to you.”

  “Thank you,” Jace said as sincerely as he could, but it was difficult not to make a smart retort. “I have video equipment on order.”

  “Oh? Alice didn’t tell me—”

  “Mrs. Browne doesn’t know everything about my life,” Jace said stiffly.

  The woman blinked at Jace a couple of times. “I see. Perhaps you don’t want these books,” she said and started to take them off the counter.

  In spite of his intentions, it seemed that Jace had offended yet another English person. “I very much want the books,” he said, picking up the box before she could take it away. “And it was kind of you to assemble this for me.”

  She didn’t soften. “I didn’t do it for you. I put them together for Mrs. Grant.”

  “Oh?” Jace asked, smiling, trying to ingratiate himself. “I don’t know her.”

  “Of course not! She was four owners ago.” The woman was glaring at him as though he was taking up too much of her time. “Now, if you don’t need anything else…”

  “Actually, I’d like to look around. At other subjects. If I might be allowed to do so, that is.”

  She didn’t answer, just turned away. Jace took the box and set it on a table. What he really wanted to see was a local newspaper for the day after Stacy died. He wanted to know what had been written about her and who had been involved.

  He knew the librarian could answer many of his questions about where to start looking, but he also knew she’d probably call Mrs. Browne five minutes later. And ask her permission? Jace wondered. Would the librarian ask Mrs. Browne if it was all right for Jace to look at three-year-old newspapers?

  He found what he wanted without asking and put the newspaper on the microfilm reader.

  The day after Stacy’s body was found, the headlines had been about the local garden contest, so her death was on the bottom of the second page. He felt some resentment that her death wasn’t front-page news, but he was also glad that speculation about Stacy hadn’t been made the center of attention. Her death had been dealt with quietly and with
dignity, he thought.

  The story was written by Ralph Barker. The paper was written, edited, and printed by him. He wrote the name and address down in his notebook.

  He knew he was dawdling to postpone reading the story. Taking a deep breath, he began. It was a straight news story, just the facts given, no melodrama, no speculation.

  At 3:00 p.m. on 12 May 2002, the body of Miss Stacy Evans, an American woman aged twenty-seven years, had been found above the Leaping Stag pub by the owner’s wife, Mrs. Emma Carew. Mrs. Carew told constable Clive Sefton that Miss Evans had come into the pub about midnight and asked if she could rent a room for the night. Mrs. Carew said that Miss Evans looked the “worse for wear” as her blouse was torn at the shoulder and she had makeup under her eyes as though she’d been crying. Mrs. Carew asked her if she was all right. Miss Evans said she was, just that she was very tired and wanted a long sleep. She asked not to be disturbed the next morning and said that if she had to pay for two nights she would. Mrs. Carew said she could smell liquor on her breath, so she figured the woman had been drinking and didn’t trust herself to drive. As Miss Evans went up the stairs, she tripped.

  The next day, when Mrs. Carew heard nothing from Miss Evans, she began to worry. Her husband, pub owner George Carew, told her to leave Miss Evans alone, but Mrs. Carew wouldn’t. She used her master key to open the door, but found it chained shut. She said she could see Miss Evans sprawled across the bed and her instinct told her the woman was dead. She called the police.

  Constable Clive Sefton arrived on the scene at 3:06 p.m. and he and Mr. Carew broke into the room. Miss Evans was dead.

  Constable Sefton found Miss Evans’s handbag, removed her passport, then called the number listed to be used in case of an emergency.

  The article said that, pending investigation, Miss Stacy Evans’s death was apparently a suicide.

  Jace fast-forwarded through two days of newspaper pages filled with articles and photos about the village garden contest. He noticed that there was no mention of his house or Mr. Hatch’s beautiful garden at Priory House in the contest.

  Three days after Stacy’s death, he found a second article, this time on page six, again at the bottom. It briefly recounted the original story, then said that Miss Evans’s married sister, Mrs. Regina Townsend, had flown to Margate to take the body home to the United States. When questioned, Mrs. Townsend told Constable Sefton that her sister had been despondent for quite some time, that she had committed to getting married, but was having second thoughts and didn’t know how to get out of her promise of marriage.

  Jace leaned back in his chair, feeling as though he’d been kicked. For a moment he couldn’t get his breath. At Stacy’s funeral, her family had vented their anger at him, but his family had protected him from the worst of it. Truthfully, Jace had been numb with shock, unable to comprehend what they were saying. Only later did he remember what they’d said, and then only partially.

  But here it was in print. Stacy’s sister, a woman he’d thought was his friend, had told the police that Stacy didn’t know how to get out of her promise to marry. “A promise to marry me,” Jace whispered.

  “Yes, Mr. Montgomery?” the librarian asked coldly. “Do you need something?”

  “No, I just…” She was looking at him expectantly and when she took a step toward him, he turned off the microfilm machine. He didn’t want her to see what he was reading.

  “I was wondering why Hatch didn’t enter anything from Priory House in the local garden contest,” he said as he rewound the microfilm and put it in the basket.

  “That’s what everyone wonders,” she said. “Whoever does win the competition is told that she, or he, would not have won if Mr. Hatch had entered his flowers. It is frustrating when one strives all year to be declared the best. Perhaps now that you own Priory House, you could speak to Mr. Hatch.”

  “I most certainly will, and I will say now that if the roses in the front of this building are any indication of your expertise, I’m not sure Hatch will win.”

  “I do my best,” Mrs. Wheeler said, obviously pleased by his observation.

  Smiling, Jace thanked her again, then went outside. For a moment he had to concentrate to be able to breathe. He put the box of books about the history of the house in the car. Now what? he thought, but even as he wondered, he headed down the street to the Leaping Stag pub. His uncle said that Jace might find out things he didn’t want to know. Was he going to find out that Stacy wanted out of the marriage? That she despised him?

  By the time Jace got to the pub, the last thing he wanted was more information. What he really wanted was a drink and to forget for a while.

  The pub was full of old beams and shiny horse brasses, a tourists’ vision of what an English pub should look like. There was a young couple at a table in a far corner, but otherwise, the place was empty except for the man behind the bar. He was tall, in his forties, and had an apron pulled tight across his big belly. He had an air about him that said he was the owner of the pub.

  “You don’t have any McTarvit single malt, do you?” Jace asked.

  With a half grin, he poured Jace a shot of the dark gold whiskey.

  “So,” the man said, “you’ve met ‘the three.’”

  Jace looked up in question.

  “Mrs. Browne, Mrs. Parsons at the stationer’s, and Mrs. Wheeler at the library, and now it’s time for a whiskey. Another one?”

  “Make it a double.”

  A pretty woman, about Jace’s age, with a good figure, came out of the back room. “Oh, my, you are a looker,” she said. “I was told you were, but my goodness.”

  “Hands off, darlin’,” the bartender said good-naturedly. “By the way, I’m George Carew, and this cheeky lass is my wife Emma.” He nodded toward Jace. “He’s just been through the trio.”

  Emma’s face changed to sympathy. “Poor thing. I’d offer to feed you up, but I imagine Alice has done that already.”

  “How much weight can a person gain in twenty-four hours?” Jace asked.

  “She’ll have cobbler for tonight—if she can find any raspberries, that is.” Her pretty eyes were twinkling in conspiracy.

  “How can those girls keep a secret like that in a village like this?” Jace asked, his voice low. The whiskey was relaxing him, but he knew he couldn’t have any more for fear he’d say something he shouldn’t.

  “Everything is done over at Luton,” Emma said. “The only reason I know about the fruit is because my mother started it all.”

  “And how is Mr. Hatch involved?” Jace asked.

  “His youngest sister is in it,” Emma said.

  “‘Young’ is a relative term. She has to be eighty if she’s a day,” the pub owner said.

  For a moment a look of love and such intimacy flashed between them that Jace wanted to grab the bottle of whiskey and drain it. He thought he’d had that with Stacy, but it seemed that he hadn’t. “Yes, I’ve heard of your wife,” Jace said before he thought, then realized he couldn’t tell them where he’d heard of Emma Carew.

  But the bartender just grinned proudly. “So you’ve already read the book.”

  “Yes, of course I did,” Jace said, but Emma was watching him. He felt sure she knew he was lying. He wanted to open his notebook and write, “Find book. Read about Emma.”

  “Mr. Montgomery—” Emma began.

  “Jace,” he said quickly.

  “Jace.” She smiled at him in a way that made him feel good. “How about a beer and some of your American chicken wings?”

  “Who made the beer?” Jace asked fearfully.

  “Don’t tell me you drank some of ol’ Hatch’s beer?” George asked.

  “A pint of it.”

  “And you’re still alive?”

  “And I had two cups of his wine in the same day.”

  “It’s a wonder you aren’t blind.”

  “No wonder you slept through dinner last night,” Emma said, then laughed at Jace’s expression. “Daisy told he
r mother, she told my mum, who told me. You’re the major topic of conversation around here. Big, gorgeous thing like you all alone in that giant house. It’s the general opinion around here that you need a wife. In fact, there are quite a few unattached women who are dusting off their high heels right now.”

  “Who needs a wife? Other than me, that is?” came a voice from the doorway.

  Jace turned to see a young man, late twenties, blond, blue-eyed, and strongly built. He was in a policeman’s uniform and Jace intuitively knew he was the man who had opened the door and found Stacy.

  He took a seat on a stool by Jace and ordered a lemonade. “On duty,” he said. “Clive Sefton. So why did you buy the house?”

  Jace didn’t crack a smile. “Loved the beauty of it.”

  The three of them groaned.

  “Mrs. Browne’s cooking? The gardens?”

  They groaned more.

  Jace took a drink of his beer, a nice, light-colored American-style beer, ate one of Emma’s fiery-hot chicken wings, and pushed the plate toward Clive to share. “Okay, so I made a little money from some good investments and I wanted a place to live so I bought a house.”

  “Why that house?” Clive persisted.

  “To write a book about the ghost, of course.”

  “You and everyone else,” George said.

  “Sorry, dear,” Emma said to Jace, “but you won’t last there. Too bad.”

  “Tell me,” Jace said, “exactly what does the ghost do?”

  “It’s all over town that you saw her in the garden this morning.”

  “What I saw were two girls stealing my raspberries. Mrs. Browne took it from there.” It wasn’t really a lie, but it also wasn’t the truth.

  Emma looked at Clive. “So tell him what you’ve been told.”