by V. M. Burns
Holding out his hand, the policeman introduced himself. “Mrs. Washington, I’m Detective Brad Pitt,” he said in between chomps on his chewing gum.
Detective Brad Pitt was absolutely nothing like the famous actor of the same name. Detective Pitt was short, fat, and balding. He wore polyester pants about an inch too short, a too-tight polyester shirt, and aftershave that was too strong.
Unable to stop myself, I grinned, thinking how totally opposite two people could be.
Detective Pitt raised his hand in the rude talk to the hand gesture popular with my high school students about five years back. “Spare me the jokes. No. I don’t know Angelina Jolie or Jennifer Anniston.” He flipped through his notebook without making eye contact.
I believed he’d asked a question, but I was so angry I didn’t hear. It might have been his rudeness that rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it was the way he spoke to me while chewing gum like a cow with a cud. Or, maybe it was my lack of coffee or the memory of him trampling my flowers. Whatever the reason, the teacher in me rose to the surface. I threw back my shoulders, straightened my back, and lifted my head. Looking down my nose at Detective Pitt, I gave him the glare that never failed to produce silence in the classroom and held out my hand. I waited. Silence could be a powerful weapon.
Detective Pitt deposited his gum in my hand.
He mumbled an apology.
I dropped the gum in the trash, walked over to the desk, and indicated he should sit. When he did, I took my seat behind the desk.
“Now, I believe you wanted to ask me some questions?” I didn’t spend over a decade teaching rambunctious, unruly teens, as well as some of the brightest and most caring kids in the nation, to be disrespected by a man whose salary was coming out of my tax dollars, especially in my home.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Detective Pitt asked.
“Well, I don’t really know. It must have happened last night when I was asleep.”
“Did you know Mr. Parker well?”
There was the question I dreaded.
“No.” I paused. “Not well. We met a few months ago when I purchased this building. He was the listing agent.”
Detective Pitt scribbled in his notebook. I thought the note taking was purely for show since I’d repeated the same thing I told the last two officers, who asked the same question....
“Were you expecting Mr. Parker last night? I understand you had a party. Was he one of the guests?”
“No!”
Detective Pitt raised an eyebrow. My response might have been too emphatic.
“Look. Clayton Parker and I weren’t friends. Neither do I believe we were enemies. He listed this building for sale and I bought it. In my opinion he was a spoiled, pampered, arrogant, self-centered bigot.”
“Sounds like you two must have gotten pretty close for you to have formed such a strong opinion.”
“I learned about his true personality after my offer was accepted. At first all was well. But, as we got closer to the closing, he changed. He claimed he had another buyer with a higher offer.”
“How is that possible? I thought the sellers were under contract with you?”
“Exactly. But to Parker, the fact the sellers were already under contract with me didn’t seem to matter. He claimed his buyer was simply submitting a backup offer in the event my deal fell through. Apparently there is nothing illegal about that. However, the shady part came later. Parker then did everything in his power to sabotage my ability to close on the property, including sending e-mails to my banker questioning my ability to afford the mortgage. He even tried to prevent the inspector from completing the building inspection, which was the final condition on the loan.”
“What did you do?”
“I got fed up with all of the delays and the double-talk. I ended up hiring an attorney who forced the sellers to meet their contractual obligations, and I was eventually able to close.”
“That must have made you angry.” Detective Pitt leaned forward, as though he were about to pounce. It dawned on me he actually thought I murdered Clayton Parker.
“Hold on. I’ll admit the entire experience left me angry and bitter. But, I didn’t kill him.”
Detective Pitt wrote in his notebook, but he looked as though he wasn’t buying my explanation.
“Look. Clayton Parker lacked integrity. But ultimately, I won. I closed on the building. I’ve moved in and that is that. I didn’t kill him.”
Detective Pitt flipped through his notes and scribbled. “You told Officer Klein Mr. Parker showed up at your door last night. Why?”
I was sorely tempted to ask if he meant, “why did I tell Officer Klein that Mr. Parker showed up at my door? Or why did Mr. Parker show up at my door?” I didn’t think I should antagonize the police too much.
“I have no idea.”
“Well, what did he say?” Detective Pitt asked as if he was speaking to someone who was a bit daft.
I was losing patience. “As you know from my statement, I never opened the door. It was late. I was tired, and I didn’t want to talk to Clayton Parker. So, I pointed to the sign, indicating I was closed, and walked away.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that!”
“Was Mr. Parker distressed?”
“What do you mean distressed?” This was getting redundant. He asked questions and I responded with the same question but different emphasis.
“Well, was he asking for help? Did he seem afraid in any way? Did he behave in a way that might indicate he was being pursued or in danger? Was he looking for help?”
His questions humbled me. Was it possible Clayton Parker came to my door in search of aid? And I, who professed to be a Christian, turned my back on him? Was there a chance I could have saved his life if I’d opened the door? The thought crashed down on me like a load of bricks and settled in my stomach. Add the image of Clayton Parker’s bloody corpse to the equation and the result was a mad dash to the bathroom. I barely made it to the porcelain throne in time. I hadn’t eaten, but the dry heaves felt worse than if I had. When I finished, I cleaned myself up. Although I still looked a little green, I rejoined Detective Pitt in my office.
“Are you okay now?” Score one for Detective Pitt.
I nodded and returned to my seat. In that moment, I made the decision to do anything and everything I could to find the person who left Clayton Parker to die on my patio. I knew nothing would bring him back, but perhaps, in some small way, I could make amends.
“Okay, Detective Pitt. I’m ready to answer your questions now.”
Chapter 4
I moved in with my mother in the tiny villa she moved to after my father’s death. As the saying goes, after three days fish and company both begin to stink. My mother was exceptionally kind and accommodating, but two toy poodles, two grown women, and eight hundred square feet would be a bad combination under the best of circumstances. It was worse in my case.
After four hours in my mother’s presence, I transformed. The change was subtle. I rarely saw it coming until it was too late. At some point, I ceased to be the confident, intelligent, independent woman who could quail a classroom of disorderly youth with a single glare. I turned into the awkward, unsure, immature teenager who locked herself in the bathroom and cried because neither life nor her parents were fair.
After three days, it was time to go.
“There is no homicidal maniac lurking in the alley just waiting to stab me as he or she did Clayton Parker.” I repeated my mantra over and over as I drove over the bridge from my mother’s South Harbor villa to North Harbor, where I belonged. For the first time, I found myself wishing I had bigger dogs, like pit bulls or German Shepherds, rather than the cute but totally ineffective for protection poodles I lived with. If attacked, the best I could hope for was Oreo’s incessant barking would give me fair warning, and the killer would stumble over Snickers as she lay at his feet on her back, waiting to have her belly scratched.
My firs
t few hours home, I jumped at every noise, every car horn, and every voice I heard on the street. Strange how acute your hearing became when you were waiting to be murdered. My nervous energy made Snickers and Oreo even more skittish than normal.
“This is crazy,” I said, glad to hear my voice break the silence. “I can’t live like this.” Out loud, the words sounded solid and rang true.
“I need a distraction.”
I made a cup of Earl Grey tea, turned on the jazz station, and decided to lose myself in the English countryside.
Wickfield Lodge, England—1938
“You have got to be kidding!” Victor’s face reflected the utter incredulity of his words. “That’s it? That’s your grand scheme?”
Penelope’s neck colored. Her eyes flashed.
“Forget it.” She spat the words and rose to her feet, knocking over the table and Victor’s drink. She stomped out of the room.
Victor ran to catch her and barely missed knocking over a waiter on his way to clean up the mess she’d created.
He caught up to her on the terrace and grabbed her arm. “Look, Penny, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it as an insult.”
Penelope turned away, but not before a tear made its way down her cheek.
“Go away! You want her. Good luck!”
“Penny, I just meant, that, well, I was expecting something a bit more . . . well, a bit more complicated. That’s all. I didn’t mean any disrespect to you.” He handed her a handkerchief.
She flung it back at him.
Penelope faced the stone wall of the house and refused to turn around. She shivered, but he wasn’t sure whether from anger or the cool summer evening. He draped his jacket over her shoulders. She didn’t toss it to the ground. That was a good sign.
Even as a child, Penelope had a short fuse, but she was also the last person to hold a grudge. Her temper ignited, and then extinguished as rapidly as it started. Daphne, on the other hand, was slow to anger, but once she was angry, she remained so. As children, Victor made a comment about Daphne that angered her enough she refused to talk to him for a full six months. It was the quality he liked least in her, but she was so incredibly beautiful, one small flaw was easy to overlook.
“Look, Penny. I just don’t see how your plan can work. I mean—”
“But that’s the beauty of my plan. It’s so simple.”
“How are we going to make Daphne jealous? Honestly, I doubt she cares enough about me for that,” he said.
“Oh, she cares. Trust me. But, she’s never had to wonder what life would be like without you. You’ve always been there, steady, reliable, and ready to marry her whenever she snapped her pretty little fingers.” Penelope’s voice held a slight edge. “If she thought you weren’t going to be here, at least not for her, if she thought there was a chance that you could love someone else, especially if that someone else was me . . .”
Daphne and Penelope had a fierce sisterly rivalry. Penelope excelled with books and sports, while Daphne was the most beautiful debutante of the season and more popular, especially with the boys.
“Besides . . .” Penelope pointed.
Victor followed the direction of her finger to the rose garden. Charles Parker and Daphne stood under the moonlight, engaged in a passionate embrace.
“—what have you got to lose?”
At the sight of his beloved in the arms of another man, Victor swallowed hard. “Okay. How do we go about this?” His voice faltered.
For the remainder of the night, Penelope and Victor danced only with each other. Victor was Penelope’s ever-present, ever-attentive companion. They were inseparable. The hardest part was trying not to notice Daphne. He had his doubts the strategy would work until he prepared to take his leave.
At the door, Daphne approached him, her beautiful lips in a pout. The expression made her look young and irresistible. Victor’s stomach did a somersault.
“You certainly have been inattentive tonight. You barely spoke to me all evening,” she whined.
His heart fluttered. Could he go through with the plan? Penelope had warned him to not capitulate too early.
With all the strength he could muster, he shrugged and laughed. “Well, I know when I’m beat. Far be it for me to stand in the way of true love. I guess it’s time for me to move on. You two make a rather good match.”
At the look in her eyes, his knees almost buckled. Had Penelope not joined them at that moment, he would have given in.
“You were about to leave without your hat.” Penelope pulled his hat from behind her back and put it on his head at a rakish angle. She beamed, bright and confident.
“Perhaps I was hoping for an excuse to come back,” Victor said.
Daphne’s gaze was fierce. If looks could kill, both Penelope and Victor would have dropped dead on the spot.
“You don’t need an excuse. You’re always welcome,” Penelope spoke softly and stared into Victor’s eyes.
Heat rushed to his face. Here he was, a grown man of nearly thirty blushing like a schoolgirl.
Daphne stamped her foot.
“You’d better go,” Penelope whispered into his ear and gave him a quick hug.
“Good night, ladies.” Victor tipped his hat and walked off. He thought long and hard about the look in Daphne’s eyes and concluded he hadn’t been mistaken.
“This plan might just work,” he muttered to himself. With a smile and a whistle, he strode to his car.
All week Victor made daily visits to Wickfield Lodge, the estate of Lord William Marsh, the 8th Duke of Hunsford, and home to Daphne and Penelope.
Lord William was the firstborn son and therefore inherited the title and the land of the estate. Daphne and Penelope’s father was Peregrine Marsh, his younger brother. Daphne took after her fair-haired and dashing, spoiled and accustomed to having his way, but friendly and likeable father. Penelope resembled her dark-haired and dark-eyed mother, Lady Henrietta Pringle. Their union was a happy one, albeit rather short. Not long after Daphne’s birth, both were killed in an automobile accident.
Victor’s home was about three miles down the road from Wickfield Lodge, where he found an excuse to visit nearly every day. Not unusual, considering he often visited when he was home on leave from the military. For the past year, he was stationed in West Africa. He took a bullet in the leg and required several surgeries but was on the mend. Now that the empire was enjoying a moment of peace, Victor was thankful to be home with only a slight limp and a few nightmares.
He’d spent so much of his life chasing Daphne he was practically a permanent fixture at Wickfield Lodge. The unusual part was he now spent his time with Penelope, rather than fawning over Daphne. He poured all of his attention onto Penelope. Charles Parker was there to adore and worship Daphne. Strangely enough, Victor caught Daphne glancing at him much more than she had in the past. She seemed much less enamored of Parker and much less inclined to laugh at his jokes. She was also short-tempered and pouted and complained a great deal more than he remembered.
He enjoyed his time with Penelope more than he imagined he would. She was intelligent and well read, not normally traits a gentleman expected a woman to possess, but quite refreshing nonetheless. He found her conversation stimulating. She was a good sport and listened. She enjoyed riding and didn’t care if the bottom of her frock got muddied or her hair mussed. She was kind, thoughtful, and pleasant. Victor found the time they spent together pleasant. Perhaps if things had been different, but no, it was only a game, and a game that he might stand a chance of winning. Daphne was showing distinct signs of jealousy.
Penelope and Victor sat together in the parlor after dinner. Victor leaned in close and whispered, “Why is Daphne in such a foul mood?”
“Some tragedy about her maid’s inability to style her hair in a way she’d seen in a Hollywood magazine.”
Daphne was curt, petulant, and sulky. Parker tried to please her. He was attentive and eager to fulfill her every whim. He threw out compliments at t
he speed of a train. Nothing helped. Daphne was determined to be unhappy. Penelope and Victor ignored her and enjoyed a game of cards, which Daphne declined to join.
“You will be here tomorrow evening?” Penelope peeked sideways to make sure their conversation wasn’t overheard.
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“I’ve been thinking. I think it’s time for something big.” She absentmindedly placed cards on the table.
“What do you have in mind?” He made sure Daphne and Parker were still out of earshot.
“Well, I think an announcement is in order.” Penelope blushed.
Even though they had discussed it, he was a bit surprised she was still willing to go through with that particular part of the plan. “Are you sure? Won’t that be a . . . well, won’t it be awkward for you?” Victor knew it was old-fashioned, but he worried that breaking an engagement would make him appear a cad and Penelope rather pathetic.
“You’re worried about me? Well, don’t be. We’re in this together, and if we’re going to do this, then we need to do it properly.”
Penelope had a unique ability to read his mind. “What do you mean?”
“You must put your heart into it. No wearing the mask of the wounded lover. We must be convincing. Daphne may not be an Oxford scholar, but neither is she a fool. She’ll see right through you unless you’re careful. You’ll need to guard yourself.”
“Don’t worry about me. If you’re able to keep up the charade, then I am too.”
The night of the ball was especially beautiful. The weather was cool but pleasant. The drawing room at Wickfield Lodge was brilliantly lit and exquisitely decorated. Lady Elizabeth, Lord William’s wife, had excellent taste and threw wonderful parties. The orchestra played lively tunes from the Jack Hylton band and other American jazz favorites and drew people to the dance floor.
Daphne was a goddess in a soft white gown that flowed like gossamer. Penelope wore a gown of rich red that contrasted with her skin and hair. Normally, Daphne was the center of attention, and men swarmed around her like moths to a flame. That night, things were different. Daphne was beautiful, like a marble statue, cold and distant. Penelope looked like a Gauguin painting, fiery, vivacious, and alive.
