by Shéa MacLeod
“Why? I’ve seen... I’ve seen bodies before.” People, not dogs, but still. I needed to know what had happened.
“It’s too shocking,” Mr. Singh murmured. “Poor little devil.”
I shoved my way between them and stared down. There, lying on the flagstones, was a blue collar studded in rhinestones. I recognized it instantly as the one Peaches always wore. And smeared all over it was something red. Red spattered against the stones. Blood.
I suddenly felt a little woozy. “Are we sure it was Sir Eustace?” I whispered to the men.
“Who else?” Chaz said grimly. “Elenore wouldn’t do such a thing.”
If Elenore was even alive. Which I doubted. “But why leave the collar here for us to find?” A collar covered in blood. What sort of monster would do such a thing?
“To send a message?” Chaz suggested grimly.
“I will clean it up immediately,” Mr. Singh said. “It is too distressing for Mrs. Pennyfather.”
I nodded, and he disappeared inside to collect whatever it was he needed. I returned my attention to the blood splatters on the paving stones. Sure enough, they led to the villa next door. I suddenly felt cold and wished I’d brought a wrap with me. “What sort of message do you suppose he wanted to send?”
Chaz raised a brow and gave me a meaningful look. “Perhaps that we should mind our own business.”
I stiffened in outrage. “Are you saying it’s my fault he murdered Peaches?”
“No. I’m saying he wanted to make sure we stayed out of his business. I doubt he even knows you’ve been watching him.” He ran a hand through his dark hair. “However, Aunt Butty and Louise have been poking their noses over the bushes, and of course Peaches kept digging in his garden. So...” He shrugged helplessly.
“There is no way I’m letting him get away with this,” I snapped.
“Ophelia,” his expression was deadly serious, “I think you should leave it alone. Next time, it could be one of us.”
“We just can’t sit back and do nothing,” I argued.
“That’s exactly what we must do.”
“But he’s a killer,” I hissed. “He killed his wife and now he’s killed poor Peaches!”
I realized I’d gotten too loud when Louise let out another wail. Aunt Butty shot me a dirty look. I felt bad. I hadn’t meant to upset Louise even further.
“We have no proof,” Chaz reminded me gently. “Remember, we saw Elenore just yesterday. I’m certain she’s fine.”
“You could be wrong,” I said stubbornly. “We haven’t seen her in hours.”
“Let’s assume I am wrong. Where’s the body?”
I clenched my jaw. “I don’t know.”
“Without a body, there’s no crime. You know that, don’t you?”
I wanted to scream in frustration. Probably he’d shipped the body to London. But of course, I reminded myself, we’d seen Elenore since then. So he couldn’t have. But she could still be dead. Plenty of places to hide a body around here. “Very well. No body. No proof. But Peaches—”
“Peaches is—was—a dog. Let’s say Sir Eustace did... harm him. The courts won’t care. Peaches continuously trespassed onto Sir Eustace’s rented land and damaged his property while Louise, the dog owner, refused to secure him properly. No one will care that Sir Eustace did what he must.”
“What he must?” I squawked.
“That’s how the law will see it. You know it. To us, he was a sweet, loving member of Louise Pennyfather’s family. A faithful companion. To them, he was a dumb animal. A nuisance.”
I swallowed hard as hot tears pricked my eyes. “It’s not fair.”
“Perhaps it’s not. But that’s how it is. You know this.”
I sank down onto a nearby chair as Mr. Singh returned carrying a dust bin and cleaning products. Aunt Butty hustled Louise in the house as Mr. Singh collected the collar into the waste bin.
Louise stumbled to a halt as they reached the door. “I want that collar.” Her voice was wobbly, but her tone was firm.
Mr. Singh gave her a little bow. “It shall be done.”
She nodded and sailed into the house ahead of Aunt Butty who paused and gave Mr. Singh a look.
“Not to worry, my lady. I will clean it first.”
Aunt Butty disappeared inside, assured that Mr. Singh had everything under control.
My gaze focused on the little red spots dotting my veranda. There was something not quite right about them, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. So instead I simply watched numbly as Mr. Singh scrubbed at the blood until it was gone. Not a trace left. He was quite good at his job, Mr. Singh. Could always be counted on.
Once he was done, he bowed to me and Chaz before following the older women into the house. For a long while neither Chaz nor I said a word. There was simply the swish of the wind in the trees and the occasional bird call to break the silence.
Finally, “Care for a drink, old thing?”
“Yes, please Chaz. Make it a double.”
A sad smile quirked his lips. “I plan on it.”
I BARELY SLEPT THAT night, and when I did, my dreams were haunted by splashes of blood and a barking dog. I finally climbed out of bed about the time the sun did, washed, and got myself into a simple housedress. My entire body sagged with exhaustion, but I managed. I could have rung Maddie, but I didn’t see the point in us both being awake at the crack of dawn.
I made my way cautiously down the stairs, feeling rather like a wet noodle. There was a great deal of white knuckling on the bannister.
Cook had already set out an urn of coffee in the morning room which overlooked the water below. It was a magnificent view, so I helped myself to a cup and managed to make it to the table without sloshing any on myself or the carpet.
Mr. Singh had set out the morning English version paper, but I ignored it. Instead, I focused on the view, sipping my coffee slowly. It was almost meditative. I allowed my mind to wander over the events of the past few days, remembering that odd feeling I’d had about the blood spots. Something had been off. But what?
Bright blood. Bright red blood against a blue collar.
Wait.
When blood welled from a fresh cut it was bright red. Red as a poppy. But when blood dried, it wasn’t red anymore. It was a rusty brown. In fact, it didn’t look much like blood at all. One could easily mistake it for a number of other stains.
Mr. Singh had picked up the collar covered in bright red blood. Which meant it had to be fresh. Fresh blood would have got all over Mr. Singh’s white gloves—gloves he always insisted on wearing regardless of the heat, even when Aunt Butty told him it was nonsense and he should take them off and join the twentieth century—and turned them pink. Except it didn’t. His gloves remained pristine. At least until he started scrubbing the flagstones with cleaning solution. Which meant that the blood on the collar was dry. Which meant it couldn’t have been blood at all.
I jumped to my feet so fast, my chair toppled backward with an almighty clang. Mr. Singh rushed in immediately.
“My lady, are you well?” The slightest frown line creased his brow, but he was otherwise as implacable as ever. In fact, he still held a plate of fresh croissants perfectly still. I sniffed the air hungrily and he set the plate before me along with a pot of butter and another of jam.
“Mr. Singh, have you cleaned the collar yet?” I asked as I slathered a croissant with strawberry preserves and crammed it in my mouth without bothering to rescue my chair. Heaven!
“Of course, my lady. I cleaned it last evening as promised. I plan to return it to Mrs. Pennyfather when she rises this morning.”
Drat. “Did you find anything odd about the collar... the blood?”
The frown line deepened, but only slightly. “It was quite dry. It took some scrubbing...”
I nodded. “Dry. Yes. But still bright, am I correct?”
“Yes. Still—” His brow unfurled as his dark eyes widened. “But it was still bright red. Like fresh blood.”
“Indeed. Except if it was dry, it shouldn’t have looked like that, should it?”
“No, my lady,” he said quite firmly. “It should not.” Something about his expression told me Mr. Singh was very familiar with blood.
I filed that away for future reference and carried on. “It couldn’t possibly have been blood, could it?”
“I would think not, my lady.” He was very nearly almost smiling.
“So what was it, do you think?”
“My guess would be paint. Something water soluble since it came off easily with soap and water,” he said as he righted my chair.
“Yes, yes, that would make sense.” I gave him a grateful smile and plopped back down. “And you would have noticed the smell if it were, say, nail varnish or something of that ilk.”
“I would have thought so, yes.”
“Sir Eustace wanted us to think Peaches was dead. Wanted to make some sort of point, so he made it look as if the poor little thing had been brutally murdered. But I’m guessing Peaches isn’t dead at all. Otherwise he wouldn’t have had to stage such a gruesome scene. He would have left Peaches’s body for us to find.”
“I find I am in agreement with your logic. More coffee, my lady?”
“Please. Thank you.”
He took my cup over to refill it. “The question would be, where is Peaches now?”
“Yes.” I tapped my chin. “That is a conundrum, isn’t it? Where is Peaches? Still, I think it’s safe to assure Louise that her pet is likely very much alive. We do not want her fretting any more than she has to.”
“She will still fret. At least until Peaches is found,” Mr. Singh reminded me.
“Yes, but it won’t be so terrible, will it?” I sipped my coffee and let out a sigh. “But that leads me to wonder, what exactly is he up to?”
“Peaches?” Mr. Singh asked.
“No. Sir Eustace. I’m telling you, that man is up to no good.”
“No doubt you are right about that, my lady. Is there anything else you require?”
“No, thank you Mr. Singh. Although, when you give the collar to Louise, please tell her what we discussed if I haven’t seen her first.”
“Of course.” He sketched one of his little bows and glided from the room on cat feet. I watched him go, curious. He was a man of mystery, our Mr. Singh.
I tucked a second croissant into my pocket for later and made my way to the stairs. I debated going outside to enjoy the sun or heading to the library to read. But I was still fizzing with my new-found facts. So instead I climbed the stairs to my room where I proceeded to fix my hair and put on a bit of makeup. I felt immensely better. Almost human again. Almost.
I sat in the chair next to the window and munched on my croissant, allowing thoughts to flit through my brain. Perhaps something would come to me. Something that would break the case wide open.
And that’s when I saw him. Sir Eustace in his shirt sleeves standing in his washroom, sponge in hand, scrubbing at the walls. Wearing his hat.
I frowned. Weren’t the maids supposed to handle that sort of thing? Then again, I didn’t think I’d seen a single maid about the place. But why would Sir Eustace bother to scrub bathroom walls? And with his hat on. It seemed ridiculous. Unless...
My breath caught in my throat. Could it be? It seemed preposterous. Beyond belief, although Aunt Butty herself had suggested it. Why wasn’t anyone up yet? I needed to tell someone immediately! I needed to alert the authorities before the evidence was destroyed!
Only no one was up, and the authorities weren’t interested in what one hysterical Englishwoman had to say. So I sat helplessly and watched as any evidence of the crime went down the drain.
Chapter 12
“Penny for your thoughts.” Chaz sank into the chair next to me. The sun shone off his dark hair and his eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. He smelled of the soap from my guest bathroom.
“What makes you think I have any?” I asked somewhat coyly.
“You’re staring at Sir Eustace’s villa so hard, I can practically see the smoke roiling from your ears. What gives?”
I fiddled with a pair of field glasses I’d liberated from Aunt Butty’s room. She may or may not have had a propensity for spying on her neighbors. I suppose the apple doesn’t fall that far from the tree.
“If you must know, I think I’ve figured out how he did it.”
“How who did what?”
“Don’t be dense, darling. How Sir Eustace got rid of his wife’s body.”
“Still on that, are we?” He pulled out a cigarette, tapped the end on his monogrammed silver case, and lit it. He took a deep drag, then said, “I’ll bite. How’d he do it?”
I perked up instantly. “It’s the night of the big storm, right? And Sir Eustace finally has it. He offs his wife.”
“How?” He sounded only mildly interested.
“I don’t know. Poison? A hammer to the head? Take your pick. It’s not important.”
“I’m sure it was to her,” he said blandly.
“She’s dead either way,” I insisted. “In any case, he bumps her off. But now he’s got a body, right? How’s he going to explain that? How’s he going to get rid of it in a way no one will know she’s gone until it’s too late?”
“And you figured it out.”
“Yes! He chopped up the body and stuffed it in the trunk.”
“We already went over that. We saw Elenore after the trunk was shipped.”
I waved him off. “I know. I know. The trunk was a red herring.”
Chaz blinked. “I’m not following you, Ophelia.”
I grinned. “I know because it’s so brilliant! He used the storm to cover his movements.” And the sound of his sawing no doubt, but I didn’t point out that gruesome fact. “He didn’t plan on me being awake to watch him. Or maybe he did.”
“You aren’t making any sense.” Chaz rubbed his forehead.
“No,” I admitted. “I’m not. Which is exactly how he wanted it.”
“Okay, if the body is in the trunk, tell me this. Why did he go out the night of the storm?”
“I haven’t figured that out either.” Which was annoying. “I’m still putting the pieces together, but it makes sense, right?”
“Not in the slightest,” he said, taking a deep drag before stubbing out his cigarette.
“Good,” I said rather smugly.
He eyeballed me but said nothing. Probably thought I’d lost my very last marble.
“What we need,” I said, “is to dig up that rosebush.”
“What rosebush?”
“The one Peaches was so fond of digging under. We need to get over there and dig it up. Look for clues.”
“Of course, we do,” Chaz said dryly. “Although he’s likely to be irked if he finds us crawling around his property, destroying his precious roses.”
“Then again, what he doesn’t know won’t irk him, will it?”
He gave me a look. “What’s going on in that twisted little brain of yours, love?”
“Chaz, we need a distraction.”
He groaned. “Here we go. What sort of distraction?”
I smiled a little wickedly. “Something big.”
“I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.”
We were sitting at the bar in a cafe in Nice. I had insisted on coming along, despite feeling a bit rough around the edges. After all, I wanted to hear everything.
“That’s right, Sir Eustace,” Chaz continued. He’d a white handkerchief over the receiver to muffle his voice and was faking a slight French accent. “I know.”
There were several more beats of silence on Chaz’s end. I could hear Sir Eustace’s strident tones echoing out of the borrowed telephone, but I couldn’t make out what was said.
Finally, Chaz cut him off. “I know who you killed!”
A squawk from Sir Eustace.
“Meet me at The Americana tonight at ten or I’ll go to the police.” Then Chaz hung up.
“That went rat
her well,” I said as the bartender collected the ‘phone. “What did he say exactly?”
“There was a lot of sputtering. He called me several names, none repeatable in mixed company. Then he demanded to know what I wanted.”
“Perfect!” I crowed. “He’ll be at the club tonight for sure. When Hale gets here, I’ll ask him to keep an eye out for Sir Eustace and ring us when he leaves the club. That’ll give us plenty of time to dig up the garden.”
“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Chaz muttered.
“Please. You practically begged to do it.”
The barman returned with two plates of steak and frits, placing them in front of us. It was simple and delicious in a way only the French can manage. We were halfway through our luncheon when Hale arrived, gave me a swift peck on the cheek, and took a seat next to me at the bar.
“I’ve only got a few minutes,” he said, waving off the barman. “What’s up?”
I told him about our plan, finishing with, “I just need you to watch for him at the club tonight and ring us when he leaves. Will you do that?”
He shook his head. “That’s the craziest—never mind. Fine. I’ll do it. But be careful, will ya? If this man’s done what you think he has, he’s dangerous.”
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him. “It’ll be Chaz over there doing the digging.”
“Say what?” Chaz gaped.
“You volunteered, darling,” I teased him.
“I didn’t know I’d be the one doing the digging,” he muttered.
Hale just laughed. “Alright then. Like I said, be careful.” He swung down from the stool, gave me another peck, and sauntered out.
I watched him go, confused. His attitude had been almost... brotherly.
“Have the fires of passion cooled?” Chaz asked, his gaze following mine.
“So you noticed it too?”
“Hard not to. Back at the house I could chalk it down to our elders being present. Not that Butty would care, but Louise... he doesn’t know her. But this...” He flipflopped his hand between him and me. “It’s just us. And this is France. They’re used to displays of affection. I’d excuse it if he were British, but he’s American.”
