“Mickelgate.”
“I just learned it’s Norse for ‘Great Street.’ It’s one of the city’s most ancient and important thoroughfares.”
“Someone’s been doing their research.”
“I like to know about places I visit.”
“I wish I’d done more reading about York.”
“There’s still time,” Erin said as they approached Mickelgate. “The Wi-Fi here is good. And the hotel has some interesting brochures.”
“Good idea.”
“Hello, ladies,” said Farnsworth, coming up behind them.
“Hiya,” said Erin.
Farnsworth smiled broadly. “So glad you could make it.” Erin couldn’t help noticing her friend’s proprietary air, as if she were the event hostess.
“Now that I’ve seen his book cover, I’m curious to hear this reading,” Khari said.
“It is rather provocative, isn’t it?” Farnsworth agreed, pulling a copy of the book from her handbag.
“That’s a different cover,” Erin said, studying it. This version showed a grinning wolf wearing a sheep’s skin as a “disguise”—it was still clearly a wolf—with a toothier version of the leering grin the satyr had worn. The object of the animal’s intention was a little girl in a red cape—clearly a reference to Little Red Riding Hood. In addition to roses, the wolf was presenting the girl with a box of chocolates, with a candlelit dinner table in the background.
“The one we saw had a satyr and a nymph,” Khari said. “Same idea, different characters.”
“Grant did mention the bookstore has an earlier edition,” Farnsworth explained. “Apparently this one just came out. It’s been updated and has new material.”
“I thought it was interesting that he thanked Barry in the Acknowledgments,” said Erin.
Farnsworth looked puzzled. “I didn’t notice that.”
“May I have a look?”
Farnsworth handed her the book. “Be my guest.”
Erin scanned the Acknowledgments for any mention of Barry Wolf—and sure enough, there was none. “That’s odd,” she said, handing it back to Farnsworth. “I’m certain I saw his name in the first edition.”
“Well,” Farnsworth said. “It’s time to go in.”
They shuffled in behind the gaggle of people already in line. Erin was impressed there were so many attending; often author readings didn’t generate much interest at conferences.
Grant was seated at a long table in the front of the room, a pile of books beside him. The purpose of the reading, of course, was to attract potential fans—ideally, he would sell every book on the table. In Erin’s experience, that only happened to celebrity authors, but Grant’s presence was so commanding that she thought he would do well.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said, pushing the microphone aside. He didn’t need it—his voice had the depth and resonance of a trained actor, easily filling the small room. “Some people, in seeing my book cover, may get the wrong idea. I’m not suggesting romance has no place in modern life, only that as a literary genre it sets up false societal expectations. Feminists such as Naomi Wolf and Gloria Steinem have praised my work. I say this not to brag, just to put it in perspective in the context of this conference. And naturally, I consider Jane Austen to be a deeply subversive feminist—but more about that later. For now, I’d like to read from the new edition of my book.”
Erin sneezed. And then she sneezed again. And again. After the fourth sneeze, she got up and crept out of the room. Fortunately, she was seated near the back, able to slip out without attracting much attention. She knew exactly what was happening—she was having an allergic reaction to something. It didn’t happen often, but she knew that once she started sneezing, it was anyone’s guess how long it might continue. There wasn’t much to do except take a Benadryl—it might take a while to work, but would eventually shut down her allergic response.
Erin headed toward the lobby, and as she passed the entrance to the dining room, she saw Peter Hemming charging toward her. His face was red, and he looked angry. Startled, she stopped walking. She didn’t have long to wait. He started talking while he was still several yards away—or rather, began shouting.
“What the devil were you thinking?”
“Excuse me?” she said, her stomach suddenly hollow.
“The details of a police investigation are not for the general public!”
“I don’t know—”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about! You tried to trick Sergeant Jarral into revealing things about an ongoing investigation.”
She felt shame rising, hot and dry, to her forehead. She hated being yelled at, especially by authority figures. It made her dizzy and confused, probably because her parents never yelled at her. She didn’t know how to handle it. “I—I certainly didn’t mean to get him into trouble.”
“What makes you thinks you have a right to classified police information?”
“I was afraid you would think Sam killed himself, but I know he didn’t.”
“You don’t know anything!”
“I know Sam, and I’m certain his death is connected—”
“There you go again! Certainty is impossible in the early stages of something like this—that’s why there’s an investigation.”
“Look, I just wanted—”
“I don’t think you appreciate how dangerous it is to meddle in police affairs.” He ran a hand through his thick blond hair, his face still beet red, but she could sense his anger was beginning to drain. “You don’t think about the repercussions of your actions! You just barrel along like a bull in a china shop, without stopping to consider the consequences.”
“I really am sorry,” she said humbly, meaning it.
“One of these days, you’re going to get yourself killed.”
So that was it, she thought. He was worried about her. She knew that didn’t fully explain his reaction, but it was some comfort knowing he cared about her.
“What can I do to make it up to you?” she asked.
“Back off. Let the professionals handle this. It’s what we’re trained to do.”
“But what about Barry Wolf? Have you done the tox screen?”
“The lab hasn’t gotten to it yet. But it isn’t your place to—”
“To ask about something that was my idea?”
That shut him up, at least momentarily. He wiped sweat from his upper lip, and ran a hand through his hair again. He truly looked tormented, and she sensed there was much more on his mind than this case.
“Are you going to tell his colleagues at the hotel?”
“Not until we’ve notified next of kin. His parents are on a Caribbean cruise, and we haven’t been able to reach them yet. So don’t you say anything to anyone, you understand?” he said sternly. “Not a word.”
“Right. I won’t.” Biting her lip, she tried a change of topic. “How’s your mother?”
He didn’t answer at once. “She’s all right,” he muttered finally.
“If there’s anything I can do—”
“What you can do,” he said evenly, “is keep from poking your nose where it doesn’t belong. I don’t want to have to worry about you on top of everything else.”
“But—”
“You asked me what you can do.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“I’m sorry my answer wasn’t what you wanted to hear.”
She was silent, fuming and embarrassed. Not that she had inserted herself into the situation, but that she had been caught. She wanted him to think well of her, and it was humiliating to think that he considered her merely an intrusion.
“I have to get back to the station house,” he said. “Please stay out of trouble.”
When he had gone, she pressed the lift button. While waiting for it to arrive, she thought about who might have given her up. Surely not Sergeant Jarral—he had promised her not to tell. The only others who knew were Henry and Shanise, and she w
as pretty sure it wasn’t Henry. That left Shanise—she had always felt the woman didn’t like her, and here, she thought, was proof.
The lift arrived, and the doors opened as the bell dinged. Stepping inside, Erin remembered why she was headed to her room in the first place, then realized something else: her sneezing fit had entirely vanished.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“I’m worried about Hetty,” Farnsworth said, pouring herself a second cup of tea. She and Erin were having lunch later that day in the sunlit dining room, the storm of the past few days having blown itself out. Erin gazed at the sun-splattered table, with its starched linen cloth and pale blue and white tea service. The Grand did nothing by halves—there was an air of elegance in all the details and furnishings. Farnsworth buttered another scone and took a bite, her eyes glazed with pleasure. “Oh,” she said. “I shall miss these scones.”
Erin had never known anyone who enjoyed food more than Farnsworth. It was a pleasure watching her eat. “Why are you worried about Hetty?”
“She was confused about who was joining her in the spa this morning. She thought she was meeting you instead of Prudence.”
“That’s not so unusual, is it? I mean, there’s a lot going on at the conference, and we did meet down there a couple of days ago.”
Farnsworth shook her head, her dark hair bouncing around her shoulders. It looked shinier than usual, and in the afternoon sun, appeared to have blonde highlights. Erin wondered if her friend had secretly paid her own visit to the spa salon.
“I just think we should watch out for her, that’s all. She eats like a bird—I shouldn’t be surprised if years of malnutrition has caused short-term memory issues.”
Erin had to smile. Farnsworth was perfectly content in her own body—at least officially—but Erin sometimes caught her watching the sylph-like Hetty Miller with something approaching envy.
Farnsworth took another bite of scone. “I’m just saying we should be aware, pet. In case there is something going on.”
“Fair enough,” said Erin, helping herself to a scone. “How did the reading go?”
“It was excellent. He’s a good reader, and he has a very … commanding presence, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I missed it.”
“What caused your sneezing fit?”
“An allergic reaction of some kind.”
“Any idea what it was?”
“Not really. My allergist says I’m allergic to a lot of environmental stuff.”
“There will be other readings, I expect. Maybe he could do one at your store?”
“Doesn’t he live in Cardiff?”
“Yes, but … he might spend a little more time in Yorkshire,” Farnsworth said with a secret smile.
“I see.”
“Speak of the devil,” Farnsworth said as Grant Apthorp approached their table.
“Hello, ladies,” he said.
“Please, join us,” said Erin.
“Just for a moment, thanks,” he said, taking the chair next to Farnsworth.
“Erin was just saying how sorry she was to have missed your reading,” she said. “She had an allergic reaction to something.”
“Ah, yes, I heard some sneezing in the back row—that was you?”
Erin nodded. “I went to get a Benadryl, but it usually takes some time to work.”
Grant shrugged. “Not to worry. I’m sure the reading was dreadfully dull anyway.”
“It certainly was not,” said Farnsworth. “And stop fishing for compliments. Oh,” she added, turning to Erin. “I thought I saw Detective Hemming’s car in front of the hotel earlier. What did he want?”
Erin looked down at her plate, not sure how much to reveal.
“Who’s Detective Hemming?” Grant asked.
“Erin has a bit of romantic intrigue with a York police detective,” Farnsworth explained.
“I do not have a—”
“He sent you flowers, pet.”
Grant smiled. “That sounds pretty romantic to me.”
“I have to go,” Erin said, rising. “I’m walking the wall with Jonathan at two.”
“Be sure to get back in time for dance class,” said Farnsworth.
“Dance class?”
“Judith’s conducting a demonstration of Regency dancing, remember? To prepare us all for the ball on Friday night.”
“Oh, right—I forgot it was today.”
Farnsworth raised an eyebrow. “Maybe Hetty’s not the only one with memory issues.”
“What’s she on about?” Grant asked Erin.
“She’s takin’ the Mickey outta me, luv,” she said in a Cockney accent.
Grant looked at Farnsworth, who batted her eyelashes. “Why, Miss Coleridge, I can assure you I would never endeavor to deprive you of any portion of your Irishness, should you indeed possess any,” she said.
“And I can assure you that any such ancestral identity I might be party to would entirely resist an assault on your part,” Erin replied. “Indeed, I should likely repel such an attack in kind, and dispossess you of any Hibernian roots you might have in your family tree.”
Farnsworth wiped her mouth delicately. “I welcome the opportunity to put your theory to the test.” “Do not desire it too dearly, or you shall find yourself wishing you had refrained from wishing quite so earnestly.”
Grant laughed. “You two should give lessons on Regency era speech.”
“Until this evening, then, Miss Coleridge?” said Farnsworth.
“I look forward to it,” Erin said, and headed toward the exit. She could hear Grant chuckling as she walked away; Farnsworth giggled in response. It did her heart good to see her friend so happy, and she hoped it would last.
As she passed the servers’ station, she noticed a couple of servers talking amongst themselves. Lunch was over, and it was some time before dinner, so the staff had some time on their hands—just enough for a few quick questions, she thought.
It was true that Detective Hemming’s words had cut her, but she had promised him nothing, and had no intention of following his commands, come what may. She had reason to believe he was off his game, and feared that if she did not step in, a murder—or two—might go undetected. And she reasoned that if someone was capable of two murders, they were certainly capable of more.
She approached a young blonde woman, a pale waif of a girl who looked barely old enough to have a job. Erin had seen her around, working in the restaurant and the 1906 Bar, alongside Sam and the other servers. She seemed a quiet sort, the kind of person who, in Erin’s experience, was often more observant than energetic, noisier types.
“Hello,” she said approaching the girl. “I wonder if you have a moment to talk—uh, Christine?” she added, reading her name tag.
Christine shot a glance at her colleague, a robust, curly-haired young brunette with thick calves and a pert, toothy smile.
“Can I help?” said the brunette—Bridget, according to her ID badge.
“I’d appreciate anything either of you can tell me,” said Erin.
“What’s it about, then?” asked Christine, fidgeting nervously with the linen napkin in her hands. Her accent was North London working class. Her red-rimmed, pale-blue eyes and timid manner reminded Erin of a pet rabbit she had as a child.
“It’s about Sam,” Erin said.
“Haven’t seen ’im in a few days,” said Christine. “Is he awright, then?”
“As far as I know,” Erin lied.
“You a friend of his, are you?” asked Bridget, studying her. Her accent was posher than Christine’s, possibly Surrey or Kent.
Erin felt herself flush, and coughed to cover her reaction. “I’ve known him a while, yeah.”
“What ya wanta know, then?” asked Christine.
“I was just wondering if he seemed like himself in the past few days.”
“Meaning what?” said Bridget, crossing her arms.
“Did he seem worried in any way?”
“N
ot really,” said Christine.
“He wasn’t anxious or concerned or anything like that?”
Bridget stared at her. “Has something happened to him?”
“No,” Erin said, feeling worse by the minute. She was about to drop the whole thing when Christine took a step forward.
“Wait,” she said. “There was something.” She turned to Bridget. “Remember what he said the other night?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Bridget. “Saturday, wasn’t it?”
“Right—the day that poor bloke had ’is heart attack.”
“What did he say?” Erin asked, her heart quickening.
“It was an odd remark,” said Christine. “Something ’bout the salad bein’ diff’rent, innit?” she asked Bridget.
“Yes, that’s it—something about the salad.”
“What salad?” Erin asked, trying not to seem too eager. If Sam had mentioned it to them, she wondered who else might have overheard.
Christine bit her lip. “A salad he was serving. He thought it looked wrong.”
“Wrong how?”
“The rocket looked funny. It was the wrong shape.”
“He said that?”
“Yeah, after that poor bloke dropped dead.”
“He kept saying it. Wouldn’t shut up about it,” Bridget added. “At first I thought he was jokin’—y’know, like it must have been the salad that killed him. Which is ridiculous, a course.”
“Did anyone else hear him say that?” Erin asked.
“Pretty much everyone, I’d think,” said Bridget.
“Yeah,” Christine agreed. “He even implied he mighta known who’d done it.”
“Done what?”
“Switched the rocket, like. Said he bumped into someone leavin’ the salad area.”
“But he didn’t say who?”
“No. At the time I thought maybe he jus’ wanted attention or sommit.”
He certainly got someone’s attention, Erin thought grimly.
“He was even talking about telling the police about it,” said Bridget.
“But he never did?”
“Not that I know of,” Bridget answered, looking at Christine, who shook her head.
“No,” she said. “If he did, he didn’t mention it to me.”
Death and Sensibility Page 15
