“Our mates jes’ took ’im away,” said the other medic, a pale young man with thinning sandy hair and pale eyes. He was sucking on an unfiltered cigarette; his accent was pure East End. The name “Henry” was stitched on his green jumpsuit. “They arrived jes’ before we did, but it was too late t’save the poor fella. ’Fraid he’s brown bread.”
Farnsworth stared at him. “That’s Cockney rhyming slang for dead,” Erin whispered to her. “Can you tell us anything about what happened?” she asked them, stifling a cough as a gust of wind blew tobacco smoke in her face.
“We are not allowed to comment to the public,” Shanise said sternly.
“Unless a’course you’re family,” Henry added.
“Indeed we are,” Farnsworth replied. “Barry’s my … cousin.”
“Sorry,” said Henry. “Tough, that, losin’ yer baker’s dozen.”
“Rhyming slang for ‘cousin,’” Erin told Farnsworth in response to her bewildered look.
“Yes, he was a good—uh, baker’s dozen,” Farnsworth replied. Henry nodded, but Shanise eyed them dubiously. “You see, we came here with him,” Farnsworth continued. “He adored travel, poor Cousin Barry.”
“What about you?” Shanise, peering at Erin.
“I’m his niece,” Erin said, meeting her gaze.
“Did you happen to see the body?” Farnsworth asked eagerly. “I mean, he was such a lively man. It’s hard to think of him—you know, as brown bread,” she added, dabbing at an imaginary tear.
“Yeah, sad, innit?” said Henry, taking a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. The smoke curled upward before dissipating in the cold air.
“So did you get a look at him?” asked Erin, moving upwind of him.
“We did, yeah. Our mates were already here when we arrived, an’—”
“Did you happen to notice anything unusual? Any signs of trauma on the body?”
“It’s all in the report,” Shanise interrupted. “It will be made available to family members.”
“Poor Cousin Barry,” Farnsworth said mournfully.
“Come t’think of it,” Henry said, “there was somethin’ a bit odd.”
“What was it?” said Erin.
“See here—” Shanise began, but Henry ignored her.
“Looked like he’d vomited quite a bit,” he said.
“That’s not unknown in sudden cardiac arrest,” Shanise snapped.
“So that was the cause of death? Cardiac arrest?” said Erin.
“That’s what it looked like,” said Henry, flicking a piece of tobacco clinging to his lips. “’Course that could change on the coroner’s final report.”
“What about the time of death?” said Farnsworth.
“Dunno, but looked like he’d been dead fer a while.”
“That’s enough,” Shanise said, stepping forward. “If you really are family members, you’d best contact the coroner’s office for further details.”
“Oh, we will,” Farnsworth said. “Dear Cousin Barry.”
“Thank you for your time,” Erin said. “We appreciate it.”
Henry nodded and tossed his cigarette into the gutter. “It’s hard losin’ a family member.”
“Uncle Barry was more than family,” said Farnsworth. “He was—”
“I thought you said he was your cousin,” Shanise said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“He wore many hats,” Farnsworth replied.
“Thanks again,” Erin said quickly, pulling her away. “We’ll just go slip on a pair of daisy roots.”
“What on earth are daisy roots?” said Farnsworth as they entered the lobby.
“Boots,” said Erin, wishing she was wearing hers.
“Where did you pick up so much Cockney rhyming slang?”
“From one of the books in my shop. Excuse me—uh, Harriet,” she said to the middle-aged woman with the kind eyes behind the desk. “I wonder if I could ask you something.”
“Yes, dear?”
“Would you happen to know which staff member discovered the … body?”
Harriet shook her head sorrowfully. “That would be Christine,” she said in a soft Scottish borders accent. “Poor girl, had to go home straightaway. Very upsetting, it was.”
“Christine—?”
“Christine Brooks. She came in early to set up the dining room for breakfast, and, well, poor thing was nearly hysterical.”
“And were the police here?”
“Aye, but not for long. They stayed less than an hour. Didn’t even mark it off as a crime scene.” She sighed. “Nice looking they were, too—handsome blond fella and his tall, dark sergeant. Very polite, he was—quite the cheerful lad.”
“Thank you,” said Erin. “I appreciate it.”
“Did you know the poor fella, then?”
“Yes,” said Farnsworth. “We did. He was our—”
“Well, I’m very sorry for your loss,” said Harriet as the front desk phone rang. “Excuse me,” she said, picking it up. “I’ve got to take this.”
“Thanks again,” said Erin, turning to leave. “Weren’t you laying it on a bit thick with the medics?” Erin said to Farnsworth as they walked through the lobby.
“Do you think they bought it?”
“Definitely not. You couldn’t even decide if he was your cousin or uncle.”
Farnsworth sighed. “Poor Barry.”
“You can knock it off now,” Erin said they approached the restaurant.
“I mean it. No one should die alone in a cloakroom.”
“We don’t know yet that he was alone—or that he died in the cloakroom.”
Farnsworth’s eyes widened. “You think—?”
“I don’t know, but I mean to find out,” Erin said with more conviction than she actually felt.
Chapter Six
It was too late for breakfast at the restaurant, so they agreed to return to their rooms and meet for an early lunch. Erin arrived at her room to find the maid had come and gone; the bed was neatly made, and fresh towels hung from the bathroom rack.
Tossing her key card on the bureau, Erin sat heavily on the edge of the bed, feeling unexpectedly melancholic. Her opulent surroundings, with a glorious view of York Minster, suddenly felt unimportant in the face of something as solemn as the passing of another human being. Her initial reaction to the news had been rather shallow but now that reality was sinking in, she felt ashamed. This wasn’t one of the mystery novels lining the shelves of her beloved bookstore—this was real. A man had been breathing and talking and going about his life, with perhaps no more thought than what to have for breakfast, and now he was no more. All that remained of what was once Barry Wolf was a cold and lonely lump of flesh on a bare metal slab somewhere in the bowels of the hospital morgue, awaiting the medical examiner’s knife.
Farnsworth was right, of course—Barry Wolf might have been an unpleasant person, vain and ignoble, but no one deserved to die alone in a cloakroom. That was the question, of course—did he die alone, or did he have help? A voice deep inside her insisted that his death was not a tragic medical occurrence, but something far more sinister. Yet what did she have in the way of proof? Merely an observation that Barry Wolf had a knack for making enemies, and a stray comment from a young EMT worker with a Cockney accent and an addiction to unfiltered cigarettes.
It would never hold up in a court of law. Her father’s voice flitted through her head; it was one of his favorite sayings, even though he was an Anglican minister, not a lawyer. But he also believed in trusting your instinct, and hers told her that something was not right. Erin gazed at the landline on the bedside table. If she picked it up and called Peter Hemming to tell him her suspicions, would he think her a fool? She could thank him for the flowers, and slip in a mention of Barry’s death—or would that be hopelessly maladroit?
Her mobile phone lay on the small desk along the opposite wall, still attached to its charger. Her father’s number was at the top of the Favorites list, and all she had to do
was press one button to speak with him. But what sort of advice did she long for, really?
“Get it together,” she muttered to herself, and reached for her mobile. But as if reading her mind, the phone chimed the first few notes of the Bach Fugue in B Minor, the ring tone reserved for her father.
“Hiya,” she said, flopping onto the bed after disengaging the phone from its charger.
“Morning, Pumpkin. Sleep well?”
“Very well,” she said, gazing up at a faint yellow water stain on the ceiling. It was probably her morbid imagination, but the stain reminded her of a forensic body outline.
“Is the place as nice as it looked online?” her father said.
“Even nicer.”
Now that he was on the phone, she was reluctant to mention Barry’s death, or her suspicions. Her father would only worry, tell her not to get involved, and no doubt remind her of what happened the last time she stuck her nose where it didn’t belong.
But he had the instinct of a bloodhound. “Something wrong?” he said.
She sighed. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to keep secrets from him.
“What is it?” he said. “What’s happened?”
She told him everything, starting with being awakened by Farnsworth, up to the conversation with the paramedics.
There was a pause, and then he said, “You read too many murder mysteries.”
“Perhaps from now on I should restrict my reading to the Old Testament. No violence there, surely.”
“Mind you don’t get involved in all this. Remember what happened last time.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“Sorry to be so predictable.”
“It is disappointing. One does hope one’s father will set an example.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“By being stodgy and predictable?”
“Now see here—” he began, but heard the call waiting beep on her phone.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’ve got another call.”
“You sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. I’ll call you later.”
“Erin—” he said, but she rang off and pressed “Answer”.
“Hello,” said a smooth, cultivated baritone with a tired, somber edge. It was the voice of Peter Hemming.
The sound him made her stomach tingle.
“Hello,” she replied, trying to sound casual. In truth, she felt unprepared, a bit giddy and nervous. They had not met since their farewell in front of her bookshop on that crisp fall day several weeks ago, and since then had spoken only a few times on the phone.
“Are you in York?” he asked.
“Yes—we arrived yesterday. How’s your mother?”
“Not so good.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Thank you for the flowers.”
“They arrived intact?”
“Yes—they’re beautiful. And not too Austentacious.”
“Sorry. I did warn you about my bad puns.”
She groaned. “That was definitely one of the worst.”
“Look,” he said. “About that poor fellow who died in your hotel. I just wanted to caution you—”
Not necessary here, I don’t think.
“To keep my nose out of it.”
“Or words to that effect.”
“The ME’s report should clear up—”
There was a knock at the door.
“Sorry,” she said, relieved. “I have to go—I’m meeting Farnsworth for lunch.”
“For God’s sake, stay out of trouble. Please.”
“I’ll call you later,” she said, ringing off before he could reply. Lurching for the door, she yanked it open to find Farnsworth, looking much more put together than earlier. Her dark hair was combed and curled, a brown wool cardigan neatly buttoned at her throat. Her linen cream pants looked freshly ironed.
“Come along,” said Farnsworth. “I’m starving. We’re meeting Hetty and Pru to decide what to do about the keynote address.”
“Don’t you look smart.”
“How kind of you to say so, Miss Coleridge. One never knows who one may encounter in a public restaurant, after all.”
“Nonetheless, you set a most admirable standard for sartorial splendor.”
“I endeavor to display appropriate dress at all times, but I fear you flatter me.”
“Your humility does you credit, Miss Appleby. Shall we make our way to the dining room?”
“By all means,” Farnsworth said. “After you.”
As they walked down the hall, Erin heard a door opening behind them, then closing quickly. It sounded like it came from the room across from hers, but by the time she turned around, it was too late to tell.
Chapter Seven
The dining room was nearly full, the servers scurrying around like squirrels gathering nuts for the winter. Apparently, the keynote speaker’s untimely death had not diminished the appetites of conference attendees. The air buzzed with the same heightened sense of anticipation she had noticed earlier. It was similar to the energy after a concert or play, the feeling that Something Important had occurred.
Hetty and Prudence had garnered a table near the window, and Hetty waved Erin and Farnsworth over as they entered.
“Have a croissant,” she said, holding up a basket of freshly baked pastries. The buttery aroma made Erin’s stomach contract with hunger.
“Is there room for us?” asked Farnsworth.
“Of course,” said Pru. “We just need to grab a couple of chairs.”
“I’ll do it,” said Erin.
“I’ll help,” said Farnsworth.
“You need to rest your ankle,” Erin said, pulling up the only chair she could find. Farnsworth lowered herself onto it gingerly.
“How is it feeling, dearie?” Hetty said, patting Farnsworth’s knee. She was clad in a bright pink dress, so tight Erin could see the outline of her bra strap.
“I’ll live,” Farnsworth replied.
“Oh, there’s that dishy waiter from last night,” Hetty said, peering across the room. She was nearsighted, but refused to wear glasses.
“You mean Sam?” said Farnsworth. “You think he’s dishy?”
Prudence speared a pat of butter and smeared it over her croissant. “If he has two legs and two arms, he’s a catch as far as Hetty’s concerned.”
“Have you forgotten that nice one-armed man I dated a few years back?” said Hetty.
“He was lovely,” said Farnsworth. “What was his profession again?”
“He was a tennis pro.”
“Overachiever,” Pru muttered. “Why are you still standing?” she asked Erin.
“I don’t see any other free chairs.”
“May I be of assistance, ladies?” Sam asked, approaching with a chair.
“The cavalry arrives,” said Farnsworth. “Well done!”
“It’s the least I could do after my clumsiness last night,” he replied, placing the chair with a flourish. “How’s your ankle?”
“Better, thank you.”
“Let me know if there’s anything else you need,” he said with a little bow.
Hetty sighed as she watched Sam’s slim hips swaying as he walked away.
“I thought you were seeing Reverend Motley,” Erin said.
Hetty wiped a bit of lipstick from the corner of her mouth with her forefinger. “We never said we were exclusive. And when the cat’s away …” she added with a wink.
“So does that make you the cat or the mouse?” said Farnsworth, studying the menu.
“You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, dearie,” Pru told Hetty.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s gay.”
Hetty snorted. “Ridiculous. I have the best gaydar in North Yorkshire.”
“You’d best get it checked, then,” Prudence remarked. “Because that lad is definitely playing for the other team.”
“How do you know? Did you chat him up?”
; Prudence smiled. “Maybe.”
“Excuse me for a moment,” Erin said to the others. Rising from her chair, she followed Sam to the servers’ station.
“Hello again,” he said, turning to see her. “What can I get you?”
“I was just wondering if you saw anything unusual yesterday.”
“How do you mean?”
“Anything out of the ordinary—suspicious.”
He frowned. “Do the police think that gentleman’s death was foul play?”
“They haven’t decided yet,” she said, which was technically true. “He might have been poisoned.”
“Now you mention it,” he said, “there was one thing. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but—”
“What was it?”
“When I went into the kitchen to serve the salads, someone bumped into me going out the swinging door as I was coming in.”
“Did you get a look at them?”
“No—they were in a big hurry. Nearly knocked me down. By the time I regained my balance, they were gone. And I didn’t linger—I had plates to serve.”
“Can you tell me anything about them?”
“Couldn’t even say if it was a man or woman. Sorry.”
“Do you think anyone in the kitchen saw this person?”
“Not likely. The salads are served from a little antechamber with its own refrigerator. It’s not really in view of the whole kitchen.”
“Did Barry Wolf have salad that night?”
“He would’ve done, yeah—it came with the entrée. Unless he had the soup instead.”
“Do you remember which it was?”
Sam thought for a moment. “His wife ordered the soup—I remember, because of her sexy accent. I liked the way she said ‘butternut squash.’”
“And Barry?”
“He had the salad.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Was there anything unusual about it?”
“Actually, I thought the rocket was a funny shape. I even said something about it at the time.”
Another young man poked his head into the servers’ station. “Oiy, Sam—you’ve got tables waitin’!”
“Sorry,” Sam told Erin. “Gotta go.”
When Erin returned to the table, Prudence gazed at her with one raised eyebrow. “So, did you get a date with him?”
Death and Sensibility Page 4
