That fact was what had finally drawn me back. If I were in the guesthouse nearby, I could keep Phoebe company. Just in case being a member of the privileged class was lonelier than I knew.
Yes, I’m a softy. So what? I know better than most that money doesn’t solve all problems. Sometimes it creates more.
An exclamation from the black cab driver startled me.
“Oi! What’s going on here?” He braked, making me sway.
My daily quota of tabloid papers almost slid off my lap. Their headlines screamed about Jeremy’s “TRAGIC MURDER!” so I’d grabbed several. Then I steadied my always-packed wheelie suitcase before it toppled to the floor, taking my duffel bag with it. Those two items were the entirety of my luggage. At least I hadn’t had to enlist the help of a burly porter before leaving the guesthouse/scene of the crime. I like traveling light.
With my things secured, I craned my neck to see outside the cab’s expansive windows. We’d arrived in Chelsea, in Phoebe’s exclusive neighborhood. Unlike the other evening, though, the area was anything but peaceful or glowing. Today, groups of distressed people blocked the street. Some of them carried homemade banners; others, posters and pictures of Jeremy. A middle-aged woman near the cab held a tall, unlit candle. Her daughter clutched a bouquet of flowers. Some people were crying.
Jeremy’s fans. I’d never been that attached to a celebrity, so I didn’t understand their grief. But their anguish seemed genuine. Their gathering had created as effective an obstruction as any roadworks project would have, too. We were jammed.
“That’s all right. Here is fine.” I handed the driver enough pounds to pay the fare, along with a chocolate bar. I always travel with them. Thanks to my job, I’m gifted with more samples than I know what to do with. “If you try to get any closer, you might not be able to get out again. Thanks!”
After trading “cheers!” with the driver, I grabbed my stuff and jumped out. Instantly, the sounds of the crowd swamped me.
Public mourning is a curious thing. Jeremy’s fans seemed to have been drawn here in the hours since his death. Being with other people who also missed and admired Jeremy probably comforted them. For me, their vigil felt weirdly moving.
Jeremy must have been quite a man to have stirred such a reaction, I couldn’t help thinking as I weaved my way through the bereaved fans. There must have been more to him than I’d realized during our three-minute, nice-to-meet-you conversation.
Spurred by that realization, I wanted to find his killer. Not just so that Phoebe and his family could find some peace. Not only so that I wouldn’t be under suspicion anymore. But just because, in that moment and in that place, it felt right.
“Eh! Get off ! Get away from my garden!” someone yelled.
I swerved to see what was going on. I’d followed the private alley path, just as I’d done on the night of Jeremy’s death. Now, from my vantage point near the Wrights’ garden gate, I glimpsed an elderly man, clad in neatly pressed trousers, a button-down shirt, and an argyle cardigan, wielding . . . a rake?
He swatted at some reporters with it. Paparazzi. Ugh.
They laughed and took photos. A few filmed videos, too.
“Leave, I say!” the man yelled. “This is private property!”
He was getting nowhere fast. I hurried forward, hauling my luggage. I plastered on a big smile. “Gramps! Grampsy! Wooo!”
“Eh? What’s that?” He peered at me suspiciously.
He didn’t recognize my clever plan for what it was.
“I’m so glad I got here in time!” I breathed. “Follow me!”
Then I pushed open the garden gate next to the Wrights’ and bustled us both inside, safe from the paparazzi swarm.
Three
For an elderly man in need of assistance, he didn’t take kindly to my rescuing him. The moment we got inside the garden, he irritably shook off my helpful arm.
“Who are you?” His suspicious gaze examined my usual working wardrobe—a pair of jeans, a gray T-shirt, comfy Converse sneakers, and a jacket. “Never mind. I can tell by looking at you that we’re not related.” He gave an imperious sniff. “‘Gramps,’” he mimicked. “I’ve never heard such nonsense.”
“You didn’t even look at me until I tried ‘Grampsy,’” I reminded him, still a little worked up from the hubbub.
He harrumphed. “You ‘woooed!’” he said with disdain. “Americans. Always whooping over this, that, and the other.”
I was a little surprised he identified me as such, given how muddled my accent was these days. I didn’t mind, though.
“We’re enthusiastic, that’s all.” I watched him with concern, half expecting a heart attack. He’d probably been out running some midmorning errands and had been caught in the mêlée coming home. With a rake. I nodded at it. “What’s that for?”
“For teaching those buffoons they need to show some respect, that’s what.” His white hair stood on end. He would have looked comical if he’d seemed the least bit lovable. But he only seemed irascible. “This neighborhood used to be respectable. It used to be orderly. It used to be peaceful and quiet, until your boss moved in next door with his monstrous friends and all-night parties. And now this! The press.” He flung up his hands. “It’s mayhem!”
I felt a glimmer of sympathy. Also, confusion. “My boss?”
I guess he assumed that no one else would be in the alleyway except Jeremy and Phoebe’s staff and employees? Or someone staggering home from one of Jeremy’s all-nighters?
I definitely wasn’t kitted out for a boisterous party.
He hooked his thumb toward the Wrights’ house. “All respect to the dead, you understand, but I was utterly fed up with that dreadful man before he turned toes up. Now I’m apoplectic!”
A gob of spittle flew from his mouth to prove it. Gross.
He also waved around his garden rake in a very threatening manner. He looked more than willing to use it to beat someone. Because he’d already used (and misplaced) his metlapil?
Doubtful. Jeremy’s next-door neighbor seemed hostile, for sure. But a murderer? Only if he could do the deed via proxy. I wasn’t sure he was hearty enough to bludgeon Jeremy to death.
Maybe he could give me some information, though. I stuck out my hand. “I’m Hayden Mundy Moore. Pleased to meet you.”
He ignored my offer of a handshake in favor of shooting death glares at my wheelie suitcase and duffel bag, both of which were temporarily parked near his garden wall. “Don’t get comfortable,” he grumped. “Your kind never last around here.”
I felt affronted on my own behalf. “I don’t—”
Work for Jeremy, I was about to say. But he cut me off. He glared beyond his brick garden wall toward the Wrights’ yard as though hoping to make it burst into flames.
“You can tell them next door that if things don’t change soon, I’ll sue. Nobody pushes around Ellis Barclay. There’ll be consequences. I’ve lived here more than forty years!”
“I’m sure this madness won’t last,” I soothed. I needed allies. I wanted to make friends with him. My only source of intel couldn’t be the chatty bakers at Primrose. Plus, if the killer came back, I might need crabby old Mr. Barclay from next door to rush to my rescue with his rake. “As soon as everyone has mourned Jeremy’s death, things will be back to normal.”
Another skeptical grunt. “They’d better be.”
“I’m sure they will be.” They had to be. Right?
Sure, the tabloid press was interested in Jeremy’s story now. But that fervor would naturally subside once he was buried.
Guiltily, I tucked my free papers more securely under my elbow. Yes, I was adding fuel to the fire by reading them. But I had good reason to follow the story. It wasn’t as though I was the only one, either. Jeremy’s death seemed to have brought renewed interest to the tabloids. They’d long been a fixture on the Underground (for instance), but lately commuters had shunned papers in favor of using their cell phones. I wouldn’t have been surprised if
tabloid circulation had plummeted in recent years.
The papers were probably delighted by Jeremy’s untimely death. Covering all the lurid details would boost readership.
Mr. Barclay gave me a suspicious look. “You’re not like the last girl. She was a mousy little twat. Always scurrying in and out of here, making sure things went smoothly for him.”
I didn’t appreciate his offensive language. Or his rampant sexism. But I bit my tongue. I wasn’t here to enlighten an elderly gentleman about modern times. I didn’t have to ask who he was referring to. “Was Jeremy difficult to work for?”
He sniffed. “Everything about that man was difficult. He didn’t belong here. We all knew it. Something had to be done.”
So you . . . bludgeoned him to death? “Something . . . ?” I led him.
“Yes. Something.” Mr. Barclay rolled his eyes in evident exasperation. “Legal action, perhaps. Or a community meeting.” He narrowed his eyes. “What are you, thickheaded? You won’t last any longer than the other girls. Not that you’ll need to.”
Now, lay unspoken between us. We both knew it.
He thought I was a (now) unemployed assistant. I thought he might be an unrepentant murderer. We were at a standstill.
I was curious to learn that Jeremy had cycled through multiple assistants, though. I wondered what that was about.
Beyond us both, the media stakeout continued. I heard journalists talking into their cell phones. Smelled cigarette smoke and takeaway coffee—maybe even from Primrose. The nerve.
“Is there another way to the Wrights’?” I asked.
“Only through the front door, and that’s far worse. I couldn’t even collect my copy of the Daily Mail this morning.”
I wasn’t surprised he read that notoriously scandalmongering paper. “Well, that would kick off a bad mood, wouldn’t it?” I asked sunnily, still trying to win him over.
“Bad mood?” He clenched his rake. “What bad mood?”
Uh-oh. I decided tomorrow would be soon enough to make nice. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Barclay. You have a nice day, all right? I hope to see you again sometime soon.”
Maybe without your rake next time.
He grumbled and watched me leave. I wrangled my suitcases.
“You’ll leave that house in tears!” Ellis Barclay shouted as I closed the gate behind me. “Same as the last girl did!”
Last girl. I hadn’t met Jeremy’s assistant, but I felt sorry for her already, if she routinely left work bawling.
Feeling grateful not to be working for Jeremy—or living next door to Mr. Barclay on a permanent basis—I weaved my way between the tabloid journalists outside, then opened the Wrights’ familiar guesthouse gate. Just as I stepped onto the tidy graveled path wending through the grass, though, I heard something crash. Then, a woman wailed. Phoebe. Oh no.
* * *
It took me maybe twelve seconds to abandon my luggage on the walkway and sprint across the garden to the terrace. Through the white-painted French doors leading from it into the Wrights’ expansive town house, I glimpsed Phoebe in the kitchen.
At least she was still standing. Thank God. I knocked.
She started. Her pale face flashed toward mine.
I couldn’t help blanching. She looked terrible. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks hollow, her brown hair askew. She’d twirled it into a haphazard updo, but the overall effect was less boho chic and more rat’s nest. Ordinarily Phoebe didn’t wear much makeup, but ordinarily she didn’t need it. Today, her appearance was disquieting. I’d never seen her so unkempt.
Commiseration shot through me. I gave a cheering wave.
During the few moments that Phoebe needed to cross the kitchen and reach the breakfast nook that lay beyond the French doors, I assessed the situation. From where I stood, I glimpsed kitchen implements and groceries strewn about the countertops. I saw Phoebe’s jacket and designer purse slung uncaringly over a chair. I saw dirty dishes on the table, dead flowers in a vase on the sideboard, and no sign of anyone there to care for her.
The situation was worse than I’d imagined. Poor Phoebe. I intended to do what I could, so I gave her a bolstering smile as she opened the door. The fragrances of stale perfume and burnt baked goods rolled out to greet me. I did my best not to recoil.
“Phoebe, I’m so sorry.” I took a step nearer, studying her face. Her lower lip wobbled. Full of sympathy, I opened my arms. I can’t say I wasn’t a little surprised when she stepped into my embrace. “I’m so, so sorry about Jeremy. This so awful.”
“It is, isn’t it?” She sniffled. “Oh, Hayden.”
Her moan of grief coincided with her full acceptance of my hug. Dropping her upper-crust façade altogether, Phoebe sagged in my arms. She felt like a sparrow, slight and skittish. I was afraid she might snap back into mannerly mode at any second.
I hoped she wouldn’t. Understandably, she seemed to need company. I wondered why no one else was there with her. Family? Friends? The timid assistant cranky Mr. Barclay had mentioned?
“I’m here for anything you need,” I promised. Her silk shirt felt ridiculously luxe beneath my fingertips. I’m not hard up for money, but I don’t tend to spend it on fancy clothes. In my line of work, nice things only get chocolate spattered and ruined. I inhaled, chancing a glance at the disarray beyond her. “Are you making some breakfast? I can do that. Here, let me.”
We parted. Glad to have something useful to do, I strode to the peninsula, then surveyed the kitchen. It was spacious, with white quartz countertops, white custom cabinetry, and hardware done in copper. It was obvious that no expense had been spared in outfitting it, from the glossy sealed teak floor underfoot to the professional-caliber appliances. But the farmhouse-style sink overflowed with dirty dishes. The quartz countertops were littered with bowls of batter, baking pans that had been dropped higgledy-piggledy, and ingredients ranging from chocolate chips to sugar.
I eyed three pounds of butter, arranged in a lopsided pyramid beside a carton of double cream, and realized this was no ordinary breakfast. It wasn’t even a supercaloric full English breakfast. Phoebe wasn’t making herself a fry-up.
She was baking sweets. For a hundred people, it seemed.
She caught my questioning look and gave a sheepish wave. “I’m just working out a few new ideas for the shop, that’s all.”
I raised my eyebrows. We both knew that Phoebe had neither the inclination nor the training to “work out ideas” in a culinary sense. She wasn’t a professional chef. She wasn’t an experienced baker. What she was, to put it kindly, was an enthusiastic hobbyist. She’d opened Primrose on a lark, hired talented bakers to work there, and chanced into wild success.
Her shop was both homey and welcoming. It was a place to pick up a loaf of good English wholemeal bread for a picnic and some muffins, besides. Primrose had sold handmade chocolates before anyone else in Chelsea had thought to do the same. The trouble was, the chocolaterie-pâtisserie had been coasting on its reputation for some time now. I suspected that tourists formed the bulk of its business. That was why Phoebe needed me.
Her hobby had hit a roadblock. It was threatening to run off course altogether. Now, with Jeremy gone, I wanted to make sure that Phoebe could count on Primrose to be there for her.
“Aha.” I tried to look reassuring about the disarray. Whatever she needed to distract her from her sadness, I figured. “That explains the mess in here. It’s creative fire.”
It was more than that, though, I saw. On the breakfast nook table were a laptop and a cell phone, a box full of knickknacks, and a travel mug bearing an image of the London Eye. Phoebe was cleaning house, I realized. Had those things belonged to Jeremy?
That seemed doubtful. The London Eye on the travel mug was bright pink, and the cell phone was in a bejeweled case. Hmm.
“It is a mess, isn’t it?” Phoebe blustered over to the other side of the kitchen as though hoping she could still carry off her baking charade. Her face crumpled, though
, as she stood helplessly over a blob of spilled batter on the floor. A broken bowl lay in pieces nearby, explaining the crash—and the wail—I’d heard earlier. “The truth is, I’m supposed to be doing a live baking demonstration on one of those TV chat shows ten days from now, and I’m not the least bit prepared for it, am I?”
“I’m sure they’ll postpone,” I soothed. “Won’t they?”
“I promised to do it ages ago, then what did I do? I forgot all about it, didn’t I?” Phoebe wailed again. “Now I’m completely up against it, with no idea how to manage.” She broke into raspy tears, then covered her face with her hands. The jeweled rings on her fingers glimmered. “It’s all fallen apart, hasn’t it? I thought I had so much more time than this.”
Her obvious despair moved me. “I know. We all did.”
Neither of us were talking about cakes and cookies.
“What am I going to make?” Phoebe stared at her kitchen. “Everything I try falls apart. I’m supposed to be demonstrating traditional British sweets in less than two weeks! I can’t even make a simple strawberry Eton mess or Victoria sponge, can I?”
“Those aren’t exactly simple dishes to do well,” I pointed out, grabbing a nearby tea towel. I crouched to deal with the spill on the floor while Phoebe helpfully moved out of the way. I couldn’t expect her to do it. She employed a cleaning service to come in twice a week. She’d probably not even recognize a mop. There. All done. “Why don’t I help you? I can teach you. Then, when the time comes, you can do the demo on TV.”
“Would you?” Phoebe gazed at me as if she were mentally outfitting me with a marble pedestal in Trafalgar Square. I was her hero. “That would be brilliant, Hayden! It really would.”
“I’m happy to do it,” I told her truthfully. Teaching people about chocolate and baking comes naturally to me. Plus, I like a challenge. I gestured at the mess. “If there’s anything else I could do, I’d be happy to do that, too, Phoebe. It looks as though you’re getting things sorted around here.”
The Semi-Sweet Hereafter Page 4
