by Sara Rosett
Torrie stirred her tea. “Not me. I slept so hard. It must be all this fresh air—and that run. The combination did me in. And Beth said she slept all night. She’s a bit of a night owl, but she turned in when I did. She didn’t say anything about noticing lights or movement in the other wing. Of course, anything beyond wedding veils and table decorations for the wedding breakfast are pretty much nonexistent for her right now,” she said with a shake of her head. “What about you, Amanda? You stayed up later.”
“Yes, I read for a bit, but the curtains were closed,” she said tilting her head, indicating the heavy brocade panels.
I moved to the window, my gaze running over the balcony then across the stretch of the courtyard to the other wing. The lights in the Rose bedroom glowed faintly. A movement in the room on the other side of the Rose bedroom, the last room in the wing, caught my attention. I stepped closer and saw it was Monique, pacing back and forth. Her hand was angled up to her head, and although I couldn’t see it, I assumed she was talking on her cell phone. With the police locking down the Mahogany bedroom, she would need another room. I watched her for a moment, then looked back at the balcony, stepping closer to the window.
“Do you mind if I go outside for a moment?” I asked.
“Go ahead.” Torrie offered the plate to Grace again, and I thought we better not stay much longer or Grace would spoil her dinner.
I unhooked the little latch and stepped outside. The rain seemed to have let up a bit. The roar of it coming down wasn’t quite as loud, but it still fell in a steady cascade, sheeting down from the overhang that protected the balcony.
I stepped carefully over the thin layer of water on the balcony to the corner. Like all the other balconies, this one had two potted boxwoods positioned on each side of the balcony. A lighter strip ringed one of these balusters, too. It looked exactly like the one on the balcony of the Mahogany bedroom. About an inch and a half of the stone looked as if it had been scrubbed or wiped, but on this balcony, the baluster with the unusual marking was not near the back of the balcony like the one on the Mahogany bedroom balcony, but near the front. Maybe it was some sort of flaw or natural striation in the stone? I turned around, examining the rest of the stone balusters, but none of them had a similar mark.
Amanda stepped onto the balcony, her teacup and saucer in one hand. “Find anything?”
“No,” I said slowly. “Not really.” Not anything I could take to the police.
“Sorry we’re not more helpful.” She glanced back inside at Grace then lowered her voice. “I can understand why you’d ask. I heard that Simon put the police on to you. That’s just low. And absurd. You didn’t even know Toby.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. Simon thought he was being helpful, I suppose,” I said, putting it in the best light possible. I still had dinner this evening to get through, and I didn’t want us dividing up into tribes or camps like reality show contestants.
I looked around the balcony one last time. “It is a shame that none of you heard anything. I’d half-hoped that there would be something, even a small thing. Anything that might help the police. At this point, it seems the person who got into the Mahogany bedroom must have either conjured themselves into the room or levitated onto the balcony.”
As I said the word conjured, a thought drifted into my mind…an association, but the sound of china clattering interrupted my thoughts, and I looked around to see Amanda righting her teacup. “I lost my grip on the handle. Good thing it didn’t break. So clumsy. It’s getting to be a habit with me. Let’s get inside.”
I followed her back into the room. Grace was dusting crumbs from her fingers. I thanked them for talking to us, and Grace nicely added her thanks for the tea, and we left, but the whole time I was trying to reach back to the thought that had flitted in and out of my mind so quickly.
Conjuring…that was it. Something had popped into my mind, something associated with the word…Sleight of hand or illusion… Grace’s voice penetrated my thoughts. I caught the word slacklining and realized she was back on that subject.
“…so anyway, that would be so much fun, don’t you think?”
I blinked and looked at Grace. “Slacklining? I don’t think Alex wants you doing that. Besides, it’s pouring outside.” We came to the gallery, and I saw Waverly moving at his sedate pace across the checkered tile of the entry hall below us.
And then I had it. As we moved down the grand staircase, I realized it was Waverly and his juggling and plate spinning that had come to mind when I thought of conjuring. Thomas had said Waverly had been in the circus and had performed as a magician. If anyone would know about sleight of hand and appearing and disappearing from locked rooms, it would be a magician, wouldn’t it?
Chapter 18
“HURRY,” I SAID TO GRACE, whose face had closed down when I mentioned that slacklining was still off the table. “I need to catch Waverly.”
“Who’s Waverly?”
“The butler.”
“You think the butler did it?” Grace whispered as we motored down the first set of stairs.
“No idea. It would be rather clichéd, I know.” I had pored over those bios of the guests, but completely ignored the staff even though they had been in the house, too, and had just as much opportunity as anyone else to get into the Mahogany bedroom. How many servants were there in Parkview? My heart sunk at the thought. Too many for me to make much headway, I was sure.
But I could start with Waverly.
We came to the landing and turned back to the entry, trotting down the last set of stairs. Waverly disappeared through a door on the far right-hand side of the room. We were half-way across the entry when I heard Jo’s voice coming from the library. “…sorry to intrude, but I must speak to you. It will only take a few minutes. If I could just have a minute alone with you, I think you’ll find it worth your while.”
My steps checked as we came even with the library door. Jo’s back was to me, but I recognized her smooth voice and her glossy black hair, which was twisted up into a chignon. She stood at one end of the worktable, where Sir Harold and Michael were seated side by side.
The worktable was strewn with open books, papers, and at Michael’s elbow, a laptop computer. I inched into the doorway and saw the books were open to gorgeous full-color illustrations of butterflies. A tall glass domed display case sat on the table between them. It was filled with several butterflies, but the most eye-catching one was a large one in the center with iridescent blue wings.
Sir Harold stood and blinked at Jo, clearly coming out of the world of butterflies. “Yes, of course. Happy to speak to you.”
I had moved into the room enough that I could see Jo’s profile. She smiled apologetically at Michael as she said to Sir Harold, “Somewhere private. It is a delicate matter.”
“I can leave—” Michael half stood, but Sir Harold waved him back into his chair.
“My office is this way.” He stepped out from behind the table and moved to a door at the far end of the room.
Alarm bells went off in my head. The question about the intended victim hadn’t been cleared up. If Sir Harold had been the target…no, I couldn’t let him go off alone with a woman whose name might or might not be fake. And she had lied—or at least had led everyone to believe she had a much lower profile job than she did. That was two deceptions—that I knew of. There could be more.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said.
Sir Harold half turned and looked at me over his shoulder. “Ah, Kate.”
“Why not?” Jo smiled, but her words had an edge to them, and I could suddenly picture her in an executive role. “It will only be a moment.”
“I’ll—ah,” Michael stood, looking uncomfortably from Jo to me. “I’ll just—umm—make a phone call.” He walked quickly out the door, shifting around Grace who had stopped on the threshold. She watched Michael leave then edged farther into the room.
I turned my attention back to Sir Harold. I blew
out a deep breath, then said, “I don’t think you should meet with her because I’m not entirely sure who she is. Her bio says her name is Jo Funderburg, but her picture is on Consortium Hotels Group’s website with her name listed as Jo Atal.”
Sir Harold’s eyebrows drew together as he muttered the name under his breath.
Jo closed her eyes and gave a tiny shake of her head. “I told my assistant to take care of that,” she said in a clipped tone.
Sir Harold’s face cleared, and he looked at Jo. “Jo Atal. You are Jo Atal? You’ve been emailing me, but your first name had the letter ‘e’ on the end of it.”
She drew in a breath and put the smile back on her face. Tilting her head slightly, in what might have seemed to be a conciliatory way, at least on the surface, she nodded. “Yes. I’m Jo. And Joe, with an ‘e.’ I’ve found that people take me more seriously if they think I’m a man.”
She turned toward me. “I can see there has been a misunderstanding, which considering the atmosphere and the events of the last day, is not surprising. You know me as Jo Funderburg, which is my married name. Jay is my husband. Atal is my maiden name. I’d used it for years, and it seemed smarter to keep using it after we married.”
She swung back to Sir Harold. “But I assure you, while my name may be a bit confusing—even misleading—I am who I say I am.”
“Which is it, then,” I asked. “A minor cog in the hospitality industry, which is what you led me to believe and what your bio in the welcome packet says, or are you the Chief of Global Development?”
She sent me a look that I’m sure she used to reign in her assistant, but—thankfully—I didn’t work for her. I’d brushed up against some pretty powerful shoulders in my work as a location scout, and I’d learned that once you backed down, once you ceded territory, you were done. I raised my eyebrows. “When we use formal titles at dinner tonight should we call you ‘chief?’”
“Of course not.” She turned her shoulder to me, an effort to cut me out of the conversation. To Sir Harold, she said, “Needless to say, this isn’t going how I’d hoped. However, the reason I’m here is completely aboveboard. I’d hoped to do this discretely, but since it appears that won’t be possible…Consortium Hotels Group is interested in Parkview Hall.”
A subtle change came over Sir Harold. He didn’t move, but his eyes became wary. “Is it?”
“Yes. It is a truly amazing property. We tried to approach you through regular channels, but since we haven’t been able to—er—reach you, I decided a personal visit during this house party weekend would be the perfect way to get to know you and broach the subject of acquisition.”
“Acquisition?” Sir Harold’s manner had definitely shifted. Instead of vague and bemused, he eyed Jo critically. “So you want to purchase it. You’re here to make an offer, despite us making it clear that we’re not interested in selling.”
“We could do amazing things with it, bring it back to its full glory. It would be an exclusive retreat with every luxury. We’d keep the house just as it is. Only slight modifications would be needed.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Grace drifting through the room. She went to the table and looked at the butterfly display, but didn’t touch anything.
Jo continued speaking, spinning out her pitch. “…and you have so much under-utilized land here. We could capitalize on that, building a resort center that would create jobs for the local economy.”
“Hmm…a resort center. That would be a hotel. A high-rise, I presume?”
“No, nothing so gauche as that. We envision a sprawling complex of modern cottages in keeping with the local style that could be rented out for weekends or entire seasons. Of course, transportation links would have to be improved. Bus service is simply not good enough. A rail line would have to be run, but think of the change that would make for Nether Woodsmoor. The industry, the commerce it would draw here. It would be a huge boon for the village.”
“And change it completely,” Sir Harold said.
Jo removed her phone from her pocket. “I have some artist renderings here. Why don’t you take a look?”
“No.”
Jo had been speaking smoothly, her voice rolling in gentle waves, but Sir Harold’s rather sharp tone halted her, but only for a second. “I’m sure you’ll see the benefit, if you consider it. Of course, you and Lady Stone would have a place here as long as you like. I understand you’ve already moved to the Lodge. We could arrange that it stays in your possession and—”
“No. As we politely informed you, we are not interested in selling. I’m sure you could do amazing things here, but Parkview is a trust, handed down from my father to me, and I’ll hand it down to my son. You have wonderful plans I’m sure, but your plans revolve around a bottom line—profitability, correct?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And that is why we won’t sell to you. Our plans do depend on some profitability, but our bottom line is preservation…of the land, of this house, of the village.”
Jo’s face was a mixture of perplexity and incomprehension. Sir Harold continued, his voice gentler, “Not everything has to be maximized, modernized, and exploited. I have no doubt that once the paperwork was signed those cottages would transform into something more extensive and intrusive than your present plan, possibly even a high-rise, an idea that I can see even you find a bit repugnant.”
“No, I assure you, it won’t be like that at all. If you’ll just discuss it with Lady Stone…”
“No, my dear. I don’t need to. She’s in complete agreement with me. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he checked his watch. “I believe we all need to dress for dinner.”
He left the room, and Jo sent me a furious, tight-lipped look. “That was poorly done. If you hadn’t forced my hand, I could have at least chipped away a bit at his reluctance.”
“I don’t think you can change his mind. He and Beatrice are set on what they want for Parkview.”
“Money can change anyone’s mind.” She swept from the room.
I looked toward Grace, who had watched her leave. “Wow, she’s worse than Mrs. Pottering. She’s the maths instructor,” Grace added.
“Well. At least that answers the question of why her bio and her website listing didn’t match. Come on, we better dress for dinner as well.”
Michael looked around the doorframe, and seeing that Sir Harold and Jo were gone, he ducked his head and ventured into the room. “Ah—laptop. I’ll—ah—just get this.”
I motioned toward the door with my head, and Grace followed me out of the room. On the stairs, she looked over the banister at the library door then whispered, “I wanted you to look at his laptop before we left.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a spy.”
Chapter 19
“A SPY?” I STUMBLED TO a stop on one of the stairs.
Grace grabbed my hand and dragged me up the rest of the steps. “He’s coming up behind us.”
“Not a James Bond kind of spy,” Grace said as soon as I shut the door to the Rose bedroom behind us. “A corporate spy.”
“A corporate spy? How do you know about those?”
She gave me a withering look. “Current events reports. I did mine on an article about corporate spying.”
“I see. So why do you think Michael is a corporate spy?”
“Because I saw his email. It was on his computer.”
She had been wandering around the library while I was focused on Jo and Sir Harold. I did remember Grace had lingered at the table where Sir Harold and Michael had been working.
Grace continued, “It was all there in a long list of things about this weekend—the food, the events, what the bedrooms are like. Even notes about the Wi-Fi. There were lots of pictures attached, but I didn’t get to look at them. The email was to Cresthill Towers.” She nodded as if that clinched her argument.
“Cresthill Towers,” I murmured. “I’ve heard the name, but can’t place it.”
“Because
it’s a big pile on the other side of Upper Benning. My friend Stacy lives near it. When I went home with her during a half-term break last year, her mom and dad took us there for the day. It’s not nearly as nice as Parkview. Can I borrow your laptop?”
“Ah—sure,” I said.
Grace settled on the bed with my laptop, her fingers racing over the keys.
“He’d left that email open on his computer?” I asked.
Grace wiggled and looked a bit shamefaced. “Well…it was minimized, down at the bottom. That’s snooping, and I know it’s wrong, but he was in the suspicious pile, so I felt I had to look.” She spun the computer around so that I could see a website page. “Now we know why he’s been taking all those photos of the house and food and stuff. Corporate espionage,” she said with relish.
I sat down beside her and read through the page. Cresthill Towers was undergoing a major renovation and would open to visitors next month, offering daily tours and weekend house party events for exclusive guests. “It does explain Michael taking so many photos, but why would Cresthill Towers feel that they had to send someone in undercover, so to speak? Couldn’t they just talk to Sir Harold and Beatrice? Surely they know each other? Why sneak around?”
Grace shrugged.
I closed the laptop. “We’ll certainly have several things to tell the inspector…whenever he is able to get back.” I looked toward the glass doors. The sky was still gray and dark and the rain had tapered off to a light drizzle. I tried to keep my voice upbeat for Grace’s sake, but I had the distinct feeling of being stuck in a ditch, going nowhere with wheels spinning away. Sure, we’d discovered some interesting tidbits about the guests, but nothing that changed the situation around Toby Clay’s death. We hadn’t found out anything that connected anyone in Parkview Hall to him in the remotest way. And we hadn’t found any person who made a better suspect than me.
