by Shéa MacLeod
The music reached a crescendo as Peter whirled Toni out and then back and into a deep dip backward. It was at that precise moment that I swear I felt something whoosh by my cheek. Tippy must have felt it, too, for he let out a disconcerted “Woof.” We both turned to look behind us, but it was too dark by now to see anything.
The crowd gasped, though this time it was not in excitement, but in horror. A woman screamed. I whirled around to find Toni, still in Pete’s arms, staring up at him in horror. Meanwhile he was looking down at his chest. At the feathered shaft imbedded there.
Blood seeped onto his white shirt, staining it crimson. Toni slid from his hands and thumped onto the veranda with a shriek. And Pete, poor Pete, crumpled to the ground stone cold dead.
Chapter 3
Without thinking about the fact that someone could easily send more arrows shooting into the crowd, I dashed up the steps and onto the veranda, dropping to my knees next to Toni. The pink fabric of my dress puffed up around me, so I had to bat at it wildly just so I could see her. “Are you alright?”
“Y-yes.” Her face was sheet white. “B-but Pete...”
I turned to glance at Pete’s still form, the arrow poking up like a macabre flagpole. Jack was already checking for a pulse. He glanced up and shook his head.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
Toni let out a wail. Tippy threw back his head and howled at the moon in his strange, throaty way that sounded more like a human voice than a dog’s. Next thing I knew, everyone else was sobbing and wailing and carrying on. I honestly don’t know why I wasn’t panicking, but it just seemed like a ridiculous thing to do under the circumstance. The man was dead. The police must be called!
“I have rung the police, madame.” Johnson appeared as if by magic, apparently having read my mind.
“Thank you, Johnson,” I said, since Toni seemed incapable.
He bowed low. “Perhaps we should move the guests to another location?”
“Good idea. Is there a room big enough?”
“I shall place some in the dining room and some in the sitting room.”
“That sounds perfect.” It was a relief to have someone as capable as Johnson around, even if he did look down his prominent nose at me most of the time.
While Johnson shepherded the guests inside and Jack stood watch over the body, Tippy and I got Toni into what had once been Lord Chasterly’s study. I suppose it was hers now, though it looked exactly the same, right down to the liquor cabinet which someone—no doubt Johnson—had locked.
“Do you know where the key is?” I asked Toni.
She stared at me blankly.
“The key? To the booze cabinet.”
She shook her head, her gaze hazy and vague. Some of her mascara had crept down under her eyes, but instead of looking like a startled raccoon, she looked like a dramatic heroine from a Charlotte Bronte novel.
Poor thing. She was in shock. I dug around in the desk for the key. No dice. And since I couldn’t pick locks—not exactly part of my skill set—I did the next best thing. I tugged off my right sandal and used the chunky sole to bash the flimsy lock to pieces.
Tippy stared at me accusingly.
“Don’t you look at me that way,” I muttered. “It’s an emergency.”
He sniffed.
“It’s for Toni,” I said.
That seemed to satisfy him, and he wandered over to nuzzle her.
With the liquor set free, I pulled my sandal back on and rummaged around to see what Lord Chasterly had left us. It was mostly whiskey, a bit of rum, and one unopened bottle of gin.
“Sherry,” Toni said, her voice sort of breathy and strange as if she was in the middle of a dream.
“What?”
“Sherry is good for shock,” she said, blinking. “That’s what I’ve got, isn’t it? Shock?”
“I’d say so, yes. Afraid we’re all out of sherry. Whiskey will have to do.”
“Yes,” she agreed, still in that weird, dreamy voice. “That will do.”
I pulled out a crystal decanter and poured her a large glass. Then I poured myself a glass, although with a lot less in it. I still hadn’t got used to the English penchant for drinking alcohol from dusk ‘til dawn. Well, perhaps that was a bit of an exaggeration, but not by much.
I handed Toni her glass, and she downed the stuff in three gulps. I winced in sympathy, but she didn’t seem phased by it at all. She just held out her glass. I took that to mean she wanted more. I wasn’t sure I should give her any. After all, the police might want to question her. Then again, it was probably better if they waited until she wasn’t so... well, out of it. I poured her another stiff one.
Tippy sat down next to her feet and she gave him an absentminded pat. In his own doggie way, he was trying to comfort her.
There was a rap at the door, and Jack poked his head in. “The police are here. How is she?” He whispered it sotto voce as if she wasn’t sitting right there.
“She’ll be fine. Eventually.” I said, taking a sip of my own whiskey. It burned like holy bananas. “She won’t be able to talk to them tonight, though.”
“Fair enough. And you?” He raised a blond eyebrow. His equally blond wave had fallen over his forehead giving him an almost rakish look. Which was amusing since he was about as far from rakish as they came. That was one of the things I liked most about him. His complete lack of rakishness.
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him. “But golly, this is wacked out. Like something out of a Raymond Chandler novel.” I was starting to think I read too many detective novels. My life was turning into one.
He slipped in and closed the door behind him. “A bit more exciting than your old job, eh?”
He was referring to my former profession in the secretarial arts. I’d never been good at it. Or perhaps he meant my days as a welder at the port in Portland, Oregon where I’d grown up. That had been during the war, and while I’d been better than any man, they’d let me go once the war was over and the menfolk came back.
But now I worked for his uncle, posing undercover as anything from an American heiress to a chamber maid in order to uncover secrets and reveal criminal activities. Only this time I hadn’t been undercover, and the criminal activity had happened right under my nose. It was embarrassing and infuriating all at once.
“Is Cobblepot here?” I asked.
Detective Chief Inspector Cobblepot was the local homicide detective. Well, in actuality he investigated any major crime in the area, seeing as how the police force in these parts was small, but the last time I’d run into him had been in this very same house but for a different murder.
“Afraid so,” Jack said, knowing Cobblepot wasn’t my favorite person.
Tippy let out an annoyed growl. The detective wasn’t his favorite person either.
Toni crooned to him wordlessly and scratched him under the chin. His growl turned to a whine of ecstasy. Oh, for a dog’s life.
“I’ll tell him Toni can’t talk,” Jack said softly.
“Thank you.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve only had a couple sips of this firewater.” I set the tumbler down on an end table.
He gave me a funny look but nodded. “I’ll let him know.”
“I can’t believe somebody shot Peter with a bow and arrow.”
“Does sound like something out of a Hollywood film,” Jack agreed.
“But why? Who would do that?” I mused.
“Jerry Miles,” Toni said, the dreaminess gone from her tone. “Jerry Miles did it.”
We both turned to face her.
“Why?” Jack asked at the same time I said, “That’s not possible.”
“Because Jerry threatened to kill Peter in public.”
“Why would Jerry kill Peter in public?” Jack wanted to know.
“Oh no,” she waved the hand with the whiskey, nearly sloshing half of it on the carpet. “They were in public when Jerry made the threat.”
&
nbsp; “That makes more sense,” Jack said. “But I still don’t see why Jerry would want to kill Peter at all. Weren’t they mates?”
She snorted inelegantly. “Hardly.”
We both waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, I said, “Come on, Toni. Spill. Why did Jerry threaten to kill Peter?”
“Because Peter stole his fiancé.”
I WAS ABOUT TO ASK Toni about this stolen fiancé business, but there was a banging on the door. Cobblepot had demanded our presence, and while Toni got out of it—seeing as how she was not only in shock, but three sheets to the wind—Jack and I had no such luck.
In typical fashion, Jack insisted that ladies should go first, which is how I found myself ensconced in the library with my favorite person (Ha!), DCI Cobblepot. Tippy sat at my feet, unusually protective. Normally he couldn’t care less, but apparently in this instance, Cobblepot was more offensive to his senses than I was. Bully for me.
For his part, Cobblepot ignored Tippy. Which was probably for the best.
“We meet again, Miss Martin,” Cobblepot sneered. Clearly he hadn’t forgotten me. Neither had he forgiven me having solved his case for him. Wonderful. Nothing like a bruised male ego.
“Detective Chief Inspector,” I said politely, hoping to smooth things over. “How have you been?”
“This isn’t a tea party, Miss Martin. It’s a murder investigation.”
“I’m painfully aware of that, Detective.” My tone was as tart as Mama’s gooseberry pie. Which, believe me, is exceptionally tart since the one and only time she made it, she misread the recipe and put in half a cup of sugar instead of one and a half cups of sugar. If you’ve ever had gooseberry pie, you know what a mistake that is. My lips didn’t unpucker for a week.
Cobblepot made a harrumphing noise. “Let’s get down to it, shall we?”
“Swell.” My tone was bone dry.
His pencil was poised over his tiny little notepad. “How do you know Lord Winstead?”
“Who?”
He glared at me. “The victim.”
“Oh, Pete. I don’t.”
His bushy eyebrows went up so high they nearly crawled off his face. “Don’t you? Funny that. You call him by his first name.”
I nearly rolled my eyes. Tippy actually did.
“He told me to call him Pete.” My tone may or may not have implied he—Cobblepot—was an idiot. “We only met for the first time tonight. I’d never even heard of him before.”
Which was funny since Toni and I were supposed to be friends and she’d never even mentioned his name. You’d have thought she’d have told me about him, seeing as how he was her escort. Then again, Toni went through men like most people go through hankies. I don’t mean that in a bad way, just that she has no interest in keeping one around on a permanent basis, so the minute one gets clingy, she’s off to the south of France or something.
Cobblepot’s look said he didn’t entirely believe me. “And what time did you arrive at the festivities tonight?”
“You’d have to ask Jack—John Chambers. He drove me, you see. I think we got here around eight, but it could have been earlier or later. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“I see.” His tone implied I was an empty-headed ninny.
“Do you.” My tone implied he was a jackanapes.
He harrumphed again. “Tell me precisely the events of the evening.”
I gave him the rundown from our arrival, to the start of the dancing, to the arrow in poor Pete’s chest. I finished up with Johnson telling me he’d called the police.
“Why didn’t you try to offer the victim assistance?” He eyed me accusingly.
“Because he was dead,” I said. “I have many skills, but raising the dead isn’t one of them.”
“And how did you know he was dead?”
Was the man truly that dumb? “Because Jack said he was dead. The arrow went straight through his heart.”
“Oh, really? Are you a doctor?” he asked snidely.
I barely refrained from doing something unladylike. Like poking him in the eye. “No, but I have been to school and understand basic biology. Plus, my father is a hunter.”
“Oh?” I could practically see the thoughts churning in his head.
“Not with bows.” I burst his bubble as quickly as possible. “He uses a rifle. And before you ask, I’ve never shot a bow and arrow in my life. Besides, if I whipped out a bow and arrow at the gala, it would have been more than extremely obvious.” I didn’t mention I was a crack shot with a rifle. He didn’t need to know that.
Cobblepot almost seemed disappointed that I likely couldn’t be the shooter. But not only did I not have the experience with such a weapon, I had been on the veranda with everyone else anyway. So he could stuff a sock in it as far as I was concerned.
“Have you found the murder weapon?” I asked.
“Not yet but give us time.” He puffed out his chest. “We’ll solve this crime right quick.”
I had my doubts. My previous encounter with the DCI hadn’t led me to trust his detecting abilities. Still, better to catch bees with honey, so I murmured, “I’m sure you will.”
He eyed me cautiously as if searching for sarcasm, but I gave him a sweet, ditzy smile. He settled back, confident that he was dealing with an idiot female. That’s the upside of misogyny, I suppose. A girl can fly under the radar of someone like Cobblepot as long as she doesn’t let on she’s brighter than he is.
I considered for a moment telling the inspector about Toni’s accusation of Jerry Miles but decided not to. After all, he’d been sitting right there next to the dancefloor. He couldn’t have done it. I was almost positive.
Giving Cobblepot a vacuous smile, I said, “Is that all, Detective Chief Inspector?”
“For now,” he said gruffly. “But don’t leave the area.”
“Oh, never fear about that,” I said. “Didn’t you hear? I live in Meres Reach now.”
The horrified look on his face made my day.
Chapter 4
After Cobblepot finished questioning him, Jack drove Tippy and me home. Since I lived in the village, Cobblepot couldn’t prevent me leaving Endmere, though from the look on his face as he dismissed us, he wanted to, if only to be contrary.
Jack was staying at the village pub, The Sullen Oyster, which had four rooms above the bar. I couldn’t imagine staying at a place like that. It was awfully loud and smoky. But Jack said it was comfortable, not to mention it was the only place in the village to stay since Meres Reach didn’t have a hotel or anything.
The guests that lived in London—or at some distance—were staying at Toni’s. Which was why, the next morning when I walked Tippy up to Endmere and cut across the lawn toward the back of the house, I found them all lounging around the veranda, wrapped up against the slight morning chill, drinking tea and wearing sunglasses as if they’d been up partying all night instead of being questioned by the police. No one seemed particularly perturbed by the fact that a man had been killed inches from where they were sitting.
Someone had put a record player in the window of the sitting room, and the melodious voice of Nat King Cole drifted out across the garden. The air was redolent with the scent of crisp autumn leaves mixed with the yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread wafting from the kitchen and the faintest hint of smoke from an open fire.
Alexander Malburn, handsome as ever, sat on the low stone balustrade, smoking a Turkish cigarette. His pomaded dark hair gleamed in the morning sun, and his olive skin was even darker than it had been that spring. His eyes were covered with dark glasses, giving him a mysterious and dangerous air, and his dark wool suit was perfectly tailored. He was near my own age of twenty-eight and was a professional gambler. Or, according to Toni, a professional cheat at cards. He was set to inherit a fortune on the death of his uncle, so between that and his good looks, no one minded that he was occasionally broke.
Lil—aka Lady Fortescue—on the other hand, while not exactly a beautiful woman, was not
exactly ugly either. Her face was a little too long and horse-ish, her teeth a tad too prominent, and her bottle-blond hair a touch too brassy. Her skin was smooth and alabaster, probably her best feature, but her crimson lipstick was a little on the orange side and clashed with her coloring. She should have worn pink or peach. Lil wasn’t a bad sort, just... edgy and a bit snooty. She was, after all, titled. Although she was poor as a church mouse and everyone knew it to her eternal shame.
The rest were new to me, although I recognized Jerry Miles, the handsome racecar driver Toni had accused of wanting to murder Peter. And, of course, the famous actress Vivien Moreton, whose blond hair looked far more natural than Lil’s and who could give Toni a run for her money in the looks department.
An older, well-heeled couple—the Olivanders—sat, chairs scrunched close together, eyeing the rest like someone might make off with the family silver at any minute. The final guest was a middle-aged gentleman, thinning on top and thickening around the middle, wearing a burgundy smoking jacket and matching Jaipur embroidered bedroom slippers. He puffed away at his pipe, eyes twinkling as if he found the whole situation amusing.
“Ah, if it isn’t our own Sugar Martin, Girl Detective,” Alex drawled from his spot against the rail. “Come to solve the Mystery of the Murdered Marquess?”
“Peter was a marquess?” I blurted. I actually didn’t know what a marquess was, exactly. Just that it was right up there with a count or a duke or something like that.
“Son of a marquess, actually,” Alex clarified. “His grandfather was Viceroy out in India and got awarded the title back in the day. Peter would have inherited. Now it’ll go to his younger brother.”
Peter had a younger brother? Now that was interesting. Had he been at the party? And would he be the type to kill in order to inherit the title? I made a mental note to ask Toni.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Alex said amiably. “Are you here to shine up Cobblepot?”
