by Shéa MacLeod
“Because she didn’t need them anymore,” I said darkly. “I’ll bet he chopped her up in little pieces, stuffed her in that trunk, and shipped her off to rot somewhere.”
“Dear Lord, that’s dark.” He turned a little green. “Your imagination is in overdrive. I blame your aunt.”
“Leave Aunt Butty out of this. She has nothing to do with it.” For once. “I know something nefarious is going on over there. Someone needs to do something. We need to bring in the police.”
“I don’t think the French police will investigate based on our say so.”
“They’ll consider me an hysterical English woman, you mean.” My tone could have cut ice.
“It’s simply wild speculation. Without some evidence,” he shrugged rather Gallicly, I thought, “there isn’t much any police force can do.”
“They could search his home.”
“They’d need a warrant. You know that. Be reasonable.”
If smoke could have come out my ears, no doubt it would have. He must have sensed he was in imminent danger of having a jam pot thrown at his head for he held out a placating hand.
“Tell you what, I’ll ask about. Maybe someone knows the local authorities. Mr. Singh, perhaps. Or Hale. One of them could have a contact here. Maybe we can run your ideas by them.”
Clearly, he was not willing to put his reputation on the line and admit he agreed with me. At least not in this instance.
“Fine,” I huffed. “You do that. And you’d better hurry. I’m certain he’s destroying the evidence as we speak.”
LUNCHEON WAS AL FRESCO again, naturally. It was hard to think of eating inside when the sun beckoned as it did.
I managed to make my way down. I was sure I was feeling better, even if I was still sneezing my head off.
Hale had joined us, and he was looking rather dapper in a cream linen suit with a straw boater’s hat. He greeted both Aunt Butty and Louise Pennyfather with chaste cheek kisses, Chaz with a firm handshake, and me with a light peck... again on the cheek. How annoying. Not that I blamed him entirely. I must look like death warmed over. And he did not need to contract a cold just because I had one.
Over a simple repast of cold meat tarts, finger sandwiches, tomato salad, jam puffs, and ginger cake, I caught everyone up on what I’d spied over at Sir Eustace’s and my suspicions that he murdered his wife.
“Nonsense,” Louise said stoutly. “More than likely, Lady Scrubbs went back to London. Probably got tired of him. I know I would. Simply can’t abide blustery men.”
“It’s a reasonable supposition,” Aunt Butty said. “He’s not a very agreeable man. I’d be more inclined to think she’d murder him than the other way ‘round.”
“Still, it’s all very suspicious,” I insisted. “All the strange comings and goings over there. And it’s been a full day since I’ve seen Elenore. I think the police ought to investigate.”
Chaz turned to Hale. “We were going to ask if you knew anyone in the local constabulary we could speak to. Someone friendly. I already asked Mr. Singh. No joy there.”
“’Fraid I can’t help you there,” Hale said, dashing my hopes. “I keep well away from johnny law. Don’t pay to mess with them.”
“I might know someone,” Louise said, surprising everyone.
“You know the police?” I asked, astonished. Though I don’t know why I should have been. The woman had run afoul of the London police more than once. Not always her fault entirely. The last time it had been because her handbag had been stolen. The time before that, however, she’d broken into Evelyn Carter’s townhouse when the woman was out of town. Louise claimed it was because she’d dropped an earring at Evelyn’s last soiree. Personally, I think it was because she wanted to get a look at Evelyn’s gown for the Havisham’s ball. The two women were known to be bitter rivals.
“Well, he’s not really a policeman,” Louise admitted. “But he was in the military and he knows many people. I’m sure he could help us.”
“You’re not talking about Pierre are you?” I asked suspiciously. The last thing we needed was a gigolo lounging about the place.
“Of course not,” Louise said, as if I’d made an outrageous assumption. “He owns a small villa not far from here. I’ve met him several times at various parties and soirees. He’s some sort of comte or something. Younger son, didn’t expect to inherit, that sort of thing. But we all call him by his first name, Enzo. He won’t have it any other way. Very casual.”
“If you think he can help, then please, invite him over,” I insisted. “As soon as possible.”
Louise pursed her lips. “He’s a very busy man, but as all French tend to be, he’s inordinately fond of cocktail hour. I’ll see if he can pop ‘round tonight.”
“Please,” I pressed. “It will be such a relief to have someone in authority looking into this thing.” Especially since I was more or less out of commission. Surely this Enzo person would see things my way.
Once luncheon was finished, Hale made his excuses, gave me another quick peck, and left. Was it me, or was he hurrying rather more than necessary? I watched him leave, troubled by the doubts that crept in unbidden and unwelcome.
I reminded myself I was ill and probably not at my best, and also that whatever it was that Hale and I had was a casual, likely temporary thing anyway. Regardless of what did or didn’t happen between us, life would go on. But that didn’t help. I remained uneasy the rest of the day.
Chapter 8
Enzo arrived that evening for cocktail hour. He looked nothing like a man of the law, and every inch the dapper he was supposed to be. His skin was tanned dark from the Riviera sun which looked rather well with his silver hair and hazel eyes with flecks of gold like the sun glinting off the Mediterranean.
He wore a pale gray suit that showed off surprisingly broad shoulders and an ascot that almost matched his eyes. He was still quite fit for a man of sixty-something. No surprise that Louise would dredge up an Olympian god to come to our aid. Zeus himself come down from the mountain. Minus the beard, of course.
He bent over my hand as we were introduced and there was a distinctly naughty twinkle in his eye. “How do you do, my dear Lady Rample?” he purred.
“Very well, thank you.” If I’d had a fan, I’d have smacked him with it. Yes, I’d been right to compare him with Zeus.
“Charles Raynott.” Chaz thrust out a hand. “But you can call me Chaz.”
They shook hands in that way men have, pretending to be polite while really sizing each other up. Most annoying. But while the comte may have been trying to assert manliness, Chaz had another motive entirely. Poor boy. He was already smitten. Again. I repressed a sigh. Chaz had the habit of falling in love with unsuitable men.
“Won’t you be seated,” I waved vaguely to a free chair across from me where I could get a good look at him. “Tonight’s signature beverage is the rose cocktail.”
Mr. Singh appeared, as if by magic, carrying a silver tray of cocktail glasses filled with rose pink liquid.
“It was a very popular drink in Paris in the 20s,” Aunt Butty said as Mr. Singh passed the glasses around. She would know. She’d spent a great deal of time both before and after the Great War in the City of Lights. Sometimes she hinted she’d even been there during.
Louise—who was wearing a backless peacock-colored evening gown, far too elegant for this occasion and leaving far too little of her to the imagination—lifted her glass. “To Enzo, for coming to our rescue.”
We all followed suit before sipping our beverages. It was a delicate concoction with floral notes and a hint of raspberry. Although, if I were perfectly honest, I preferred a highball.
“I’m happy to assist,” Enzo said, setting his glass carefully on the coffee table between us, his eyes fixed with uncomfortable intensity on my face, “but how?”
Everyone turned expectantly to me. “Ophelia,” Aunt Butty prodded. She, at least, had been somewhat conservative—at least for her—in her dress tonight. She
wore a simple cocktail dress in rose colored silk and a giant hairpin with cherries dangling from it stuck in her carefully waved iron gray hair.
I fidgeted a moment, unsure how to proceed. Mulling it over in my head earlier, I’d realized it all sounded rather ridiculous. In fact, I’d almost told Louise to cancel. Still, this might be the best chance we had of discovering the truth.
“I think our neighbor murdered his wife, cut her up in little pieces, and shipped her,” I blurted.
Enzo stared at me a beat. It seemed everyone held their collective breaths. Then he leaned over, picked up his drink, and drained it. “Tell to me what you know.”
His face was impassive, so I had no idea if he thought me an hysterical Englishwoman or not. But he hadn’t laughed, so that was a start. At least he was willing to listen.
As Mr. Singh refilled our glasses, I told Enzo of everything I’d seen over at Sir Eustace Scrubbs’s villa.
When I was finished, he leaned back, steepled his fingers, and ruminated for a long moment. Finally, he said, “I can see why you might come to the conclusion this Sir Eustace killed his wife.” Was he humoring me? Or did he mean it? “Let me propose another scenario.”
“All right,” I said slowly.
“What if Lady Scrubbs is finally tired of her husband’s abuse. You yourself tell to me how this man is terrible to her. Or perhaps she is simply tired of travel and wants to go home. So she packs up an overnight bag and leaves.”
“But I would have seen her,” I protested.
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “Or perhaps no. You have slept at least some of the time, non?”
“Oui,” I sighed. He was being annoyingly logical.
“Then she could have left at a point in time while you were asleep. Or perhaps distracted. You have been, as you English say, under the weather.”
“He’s got a point there, love,” Chaz murmured.
“Shut up, darling,” I said, but gently. “I suppose you’re right, I could have been asleep and missed her leaving. But what of the rest of it?”
“The trunk... it is easily explained. He packed her things and shipped them to her in England.” Enzo took out a cigarette, lit it, and began smoking in that sexy way only French people can carry off. And I don’t even like cigarettes. Nasty, foul things.
Naturally, Chaz had to pull out his own cigarettes. I rolled my eyes. He ignored me.
I sighed. “But surely she would have said something. She was a very pleasant woman. She was our neighbor. We had lovely conversations. We had tea!”
“Do all your neighbors inform you of their comings and goings?” Enzo asked.
“Well, no,” I admitted. I lived in London, after all. People were... busy.
He made a gesture as if to say, There you have it.
“I really think something odd is going on over there,” I pressed. “I have a very bad feeling.”
Enzo raised one eyebrow. “A feeling? Madame, police do not investigate based on feelings.”
“I know that,” I said somewhat snappishly. I didn’t need him to explain such things to me. I wasn’t an utter ninny. “But, well, I have some experience in these matters.”
“The matters of husband and wife?” he queried.
My aunt snorted at that. “The matters of murder, more like. She’s solved several of them.”
This seemed to impress our guest. He lifted an elegant brow and peered at me with interest. “This is so?”
I nodded graciously. “I have assisted the police in their investigations in the past.”
“Nonsense,” Chaz said heartily, sending a spiral of smoke into the evening sky. “More than once when the coppers have arrested the wrong person, she’s not only figured out who actually did the crime but assisted in their arrest.”
“Impressive.” Enzo blew a smoke ring.
I wasn’t entirely sure he really was impressed, but I’d take it. “I always follow my feelings. Mixed with logic, I find them very useful. It’s how I’ve doubled my husband’s fortune.” Slight exaggeration, but I had certainly grown it, and it impressed the comte.
He stubbed his cigarette out in a glass Art Deco ashtray Mr. Singh had provided. I hadn’t even known we had such a thing. “Very well. I will do a little—how do you say?—research into this matter.”
“You’ll let us know what you find, of course.” Louise’s tone was mild, but her eyes brooked no argument.
Enzo gave her a tight smile. “But of course.”
As he took his leave I wondered just what Louise Pennyfather had on the French comte that he’d do her bidding without question. Then I thought perhaps it was best not to ask.
HEAVY POUNDING ON MY door jarred me from what had been something of a waking dream. I was being chased ‘round the veranda, Sir Eustace hot on my heels, brandishing a giant key. He’d been shouting something about croissants and cigarettes. Meanwhile, Hale and his band stood in the door of my villa, playing a lively jazz tune. Through it all, Peaches—with a wreath of roses around his neck—had yapped his little head off.
After Enzo’s visit, I’d returned to my room where I’d had a light supper in bed. I’d been determined to stand watch over the villa next door, but I’d nodded off almost as soon I was finished eating.
“Come in!” I pushed myself groggily up on the pillows, hoping I didn’t look too mussed.
Aunt Butty popped her head in. “Ophelia, have you seen Peaches?”
“Why would I have seen Louise’s dog?” I asked, cranky at having been rousted from my slumber. “I’ve been up here alone for hours.”
“Don’t be cross. It’s just Peaches seems to have wandered off, and Louise is quite distressed.”
“I’m sure the little fluff ball will wander back, darling. I wouldn’t worry.” Wasn’t that what dogs did? Wander off after some rabbit or squirrel, causing all sorts of fretting, then returning covered in filth as if nothing were amiss.
When I was growing up in Chipping Poggs, the local squire’s wife had had such a dog. She lost it at least once a week. Her panic would result in half the village searching for it. Inevitably, the thing was down at the pub, being fed leftover bits of sausage by the publican’s wife.
“Peaches isn’t in the habit of wandering off,” my aunt assured me.
I snorted at that. “He’s done nothing but since he got here. Have you forgotten his many trips to Sir Eustace’s garden? In fact, he’s likely there now, digging under the rosebushes.” Which did make one wonder what was so attractive about those particular rosebushes. “I recommend asking Sir Eustace if he’s seen the dog.”
“Good idea!” The door slammed, and I could hear Aunt Butty striding down the hall with great purpose.
I crawled into the chair at the window and watched her exit the house, cross the veranda, squeeze through the bushes, and into Sir Eustace’s garden. He was not about, so she marched up to the door and rapped on it. A few moments later, a very surprised Elenore answered the door, looking a bit rumpled.
My jaw dropped. Elenore was alive? I felt suddenly embarrassed. I’d blown this whole thing out of proportion. I’d have to ask Louise to ring the comte for me, so I could explain my stupidity.
I couldn’t make out what was said, but I could certainly hear Aunt Butty’s strident tones, accompanied by her enthusiastic gestures. In response, Elenore was cheerful as a canary, but there it was again, that feeling that something was... off. Something around the eyes, perhaps. Something cold. It sent a chill of unease through my stomach, and I shivered.
Then I told myself not to be an idiot. Elenore was a lovely woman.
She was now shaking her head and making assuring sounds. Finally, Aunt Butty turned and marched back to the house. Once again, I heard her footsteps on the stairs before my door popped open once again.
“I saw Elenore. She’s perfectly well.”
I sighed. “Yes, I saw.”
“You’ve let your imagination run away with you, Ophelia.”
“Yes, Aunt,” I said in a
subdued tone. “I promise I will call Enzo and apologize.”
“In any case, Elenore claims not to have seen Peaches, but promises to keep an eye out.”
“Well, that’s all she can do, I suppose.” But not for the first time, unease settled around me like a shroud. There was something very not right about this. If only I could figure out what that not right thing was.
Chapter 9
I woke the next morning to discover that Peaches was still missing.
“Louise is terribly distraught,” Chaz informed me. He’d brought my breakfast tray up himself and was currently sneaking bits of my toast.
“You sound awfully cheerful about it.” Was it just me, or did it sound like I had cotton wool stuffed up my nose?
“Oh, I’m not. Not about that. Poor old thing.” He eyed me. “Enzo is coming ‘round today. He rang earlier.”
“You do realize you’re not exactly his type.” I felt the need to point it out just in case he hadn’t picked up on the clues.
“Darling, I’m everyone’s type.” He gave me a smirk which made me laugh so hard I nearly choked on a bit of egg.
“Then I wish you the very best of luck,” I said, smearing jelly on a piece of toast.
“Thank you.” His tone was smug.
“But I do think you’ll have to beat out Louise for his affections,” I couldn’t help but add.
“Louise is a married woman and she won’t brook any of his nonsense.”
I shrugged. “Since when did that ever stop anyone?”
“True,” he sighed, “but I’m quite certain I have far more appeal than Louise.” He preened a little, and I had to admit he was definitely prettier than poor Louise.
Beside which, I had a strong feeling that the true nature of Louise and Enzo’s relationship was nothing to do with sexual attraction and everything to do with something else altogether. Perhaps it had something to do with whatever her husband did for the government. Still, I couldn’t help but tease Chaz. He practically begged for it.
