Murder Is a Must

by Marty Wingate

  “When?” My voice was weak. “When did you make this arrangement?”

  “Wednesday.” He held out his phone, and I glanced at the text exchange between him and Oona that proved his point. In the distance, I heard a police siren.

  * * *

  * * *

  I haven’t done anything!” Stuart complained as he stood surrounded by police. “I didn’t know she was dead until you told me this minute.”

  “But we have been trying to reach you, Mr. Moyle,” Sergeant Hopgood replied mildly. “On a number Mr. Arthur Fish provided, and we have had no luck.”

  “That isn’t my fault. Arthur probably doesn’t have my new number. My old phone was stolen, you see, and I lost all my contacts.”

  An epidemic of lost mobiles. Did Stuart’s run away with Clara’s? I didn’t make this observation aloud—I was trying my best to fade into the solid wall of Bath stone behind me, unnoticed by police and especially by Bulldog.

  “Nevertheless,” the sergeant said, “now that we have told you what has happened to Ms. Atherton, I’m sure you won’t mind coming to the station and answering a few questions for us.”

  “But I didn’t know her.” Bulldog eyed the uniforms on either side of him. “I’d never even met her. I’m sorry for what’s happened, but it’s nothing to do with me. Why would I know anything about her murder when I’d never even met her and we’d only exchanged messages?”

  “Well, our chat won’t take any time at all, then, will it?” Sergeant Hopgood held open the door of one of the blue-and-yellow-checkered police cars. Moyle shrugged and got in.

  “Ms. Burke,” Hopgood said, “we’ll be in touch.” He gave me a nod before getting into his own, unmarked car, and I watched as the two vehicles pulled away.

  What I thought most notable about Bulldog’s encounter with the police was that he spoke in complete sentences. Did fear do that to him? What did we really know about Stuart Moyle? Little—but Arthur Fish, our inaugural literary salon lecturer, knew him. It occurred to me that I needed to give Arthur a ring—to thank him for his lecture, ask about book sales. That sort of thing.

  But first, as I was already here—

  I walked round the corner into the main entrance of the Charlotte, and one of the watercolorists recognized me. “Looking for Naomi? She’s a busy one today.”

  One flight up to the first floor, Naomi Faber sat in front of her computer with a frown clouding her brow.

  I tapped ever so lightly on the doorpost. “Hello. I hope it’s no bother that I’ve popped in.”

  “No, certainly not, Hayley. I’m terribly sorry I haven’t got back to you. Here, sit down.” She pulled a chair closer to her desk. “Tea?”

  “Ah, no thanks. It’s about what’s happened—”

  “Dreadful,” Naomi replied. “But it looks as if the police presence has been confined to the . . . er . . .” She nodded her head in the general direction of Oona’s office. “Now, as to your question. There’s no problem with continuing as long as you can find a manager—I can’t have another exhibition run by committee. I was a fool to let the watercolorists try that on me.”

  “Yes, we’ll certainly have a manager.” Just not Oona. Nor Zeno. Who? “And so, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll need a new key to the street on our side. Police have kept all of Oona’s things as evidence at the moment.” Naomi paused long enough for me to worry. “We’ll be keeping that door locked from now on.”

  She nodded and opened a desk drawer that housed a small, built-in combination safe. I looked away as she twirled the dial. When the door popped free, she rummaged through a loose collection of keys, and over the clattering of metal, I added, “Now that I think about it, I’ll need two—one for the . . . manager and one for me.”

  Naomi’s hand hovered over the jumble before it dived in and came up with two keys on the same ring and handed them over. There was one thing out of the way.

  “Clara Powell came to see me this morning,” Naomi said.

  “This morning?”

  “She, too, seemed quite confident that the exhibition was a go. But I got the impression she was casting herself in the role of manager. Really, Hayley—she’s quite young. What sort of experience does she have? You can’t expect her to do it all.”

  “Clara isn’t our exhibition manager. She probably gave you that impression because she’s eager to get on with things.”

  “Yes, such enthusiasm,” Naomi said, but with a smirk I didn’t care for.

  “When was it you worked with Oona?” I asked.

  That did the trick—the smirk disappeared to be replaced by a hard line and a flushed face.

  “A year or so ago. In Plymouth—an exhibition on gin sponsored by a distillery. Oona created one of those living paintings—tableaux vivants, they call them—out of Hogarth’s Gin Lane print. Caused a bit of controversy, but it turned out a huge success.”

  “But, only a year ago—and yet she didn’t remember you?”

  Naomi shrugged and turned back to her computer screen. “I was one of many. As a manager in high demand, Oona couldn’t keep up with every worker, I’m sure. So, Hayley, you’ll let me know if you need a hand with anything. Once you have your own manager in place, of course.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I returned to Middlebank with nothing to show for my day.

  The dates for the exhibition were safe, but only until Naomi discovered I couldn’t find a manager. Could we get one lent to us? I had worked at the Great Western Railway museum in Swindon until Dinah and I moved to Bath eleven years ago—perhaps someone there could help. If anyone remembered me.

  No clues had jumped out at me from the binders at the police station. I would need to go through them again. Oona’s death had something to do with the signed first edition of Murder Must Advertise—didn’t it? The book was key, not only to solving Oona’s murder, but also to our exhibition’s success. A rarity. No—a one-of-a-kind. Oona had found a clue and so I should be able to find it, too.

  I worried about Clara. What was she doing in Bath at the weekend when she’d agreed to go back to Shepton Mallet until Monday? She had agreed to that, hadn’t she?

  At Middlebank, I made myself a cup of tea in the kitchenette and took it to my desk. Bunter hunkered down on the arm of the wingback chair and watched me, his radar ears turning this way and that. We were both out of sorts, and eventually I realized what was wrong—it was Saturday and I wasn’t meant to be at work. I should’ve been visiting my mum in Liverpool or—this weekend—away with Val at the seaside. As far as I could see, the only good thing to come from staying put was the chance to meet his daughters, who were due in for dinner in twenty-four hours. I wondered how the housecleaning was progressing.

  “Polishing the floors?” I asked when Val answered my call.

  “Squirrels,” he replied, his voice weary. “I haven’t got to the cleaning yet, because I noticed a corner by the window in the girls’ room had been gnawed straight through. And only since Christmas. Didn’t take them long, the little buggers. I’ve been plastering.”

  “Housecleaning tomorrow, then, and I’ll help. When you’ve finished with repairs, come straight over and I’ll cook us a meal, and you can have a bath.”

  “Don’t you want a bath, too?” he asked, his voice brightening.

  “Oh, so—not as knackered as you’re making out to be, is that it?”

  * * *

  * * *

  I lit a small fire in my office, which Bunter thought a fine idea. He stretched full out, tummy turned to the heat, and I tucked my toes under him and picked up my copy of Murder Must Advertise. Still no sign of the murderer in the book. Sayers’s sleuth-in-disguise—known as Death Bredon at Pym’s Publicity Ltd.—had certain ideas in his head, which he wasn’t terribly forthcoming about. I was sure to find out who did it in the end, and so instead of trying to fo
llow his line of thought, I read for enjoyment.

  The door buzzed, and to save Mrs. Woolgar dragging up from her lower-ground-floor flat—if she was even home—I put down my book, slipped my toes from under the cat, and padded out to the entry.

  I opened the door to Zeno Berryfield in his teal suit, Smarties tie, and high-shine black oxfords. This dapper attire stood in direct contrast to his sagging shoulders and woebegone look.

  “Please, Ms. Burke,” he said in a rush with his hands up as if to ward off a blow. “You have every right to slam the door in my face, but I beg you, give me one moment to offer an abject apology for my uncalled-for, unprofessional, and unfeeling reaction to your plea for help yesterday.”

  I had more manners than to slam the door in his face—although it had been my first inclination. But if he wanted to apologize, then I would let him have his say.

  “Fine. Come through, Mr. Berryfield.”

  In my office, Zeno deposited his bag and unbuttoned his jacket as he took in the room. Bunter had retreated to a corner, but now crept forward and sprang to the mantel, where he wrapped his tail round his legs and regarded us with golden eyes.

  “Oh, look, a cat,” Zeno observed. “And, you’ve taught him to hold still just like one of those statues—that’s a good trick.”

  “Cats don’t do tricks, Mr. Berryfield,” I said, gesturing to the wingback chair as I sat at my desk. “Not unless it’s their idea.”

  For a moment, Zeno watched Bunter watch him. Then the man blinked and the cat, having won the staring contest, yawned and licked the back of a paw.

  I rested my arms on the desk and with a kind and attentive, but businesslike, look said, “Now.”

  “Yes, right.” Zeno sank into the chair and looked at the floor. With what appeared to be great effort, he raised his gaze and only then did I notice his red-rimmed eyes. “Well, there’s nothing else for it, Ms. Burke, but to apologize wholeheartedly for my behavior. It is not usually my way to be caustic or unfeeling. I can only blame my reaction on shock at hearing such horrendous news about Oona. Dead.” He sighed. “I still can barely take it in. After all we shared.”

  Had they jointly managed an exhibition? I didn’t see that as likely—not the way Oona had reveled in ordering people around. I remembered her mocking comment about Zeno. Perhaps he had started as her PA.

  “Had you and Oona worked together?”

  “Worked together?” His dark eyes were vacant. “I suppose you could say we did—and we didn’t. Oona was my wife.”

  12

  Your what?”

  A totally inappropriate response on my part, but it burst out before I could stop it. Oona Atherton and Zeno Berryfield married? I couldn’t comprehend.

  “That is,” I rushed on, “I had no idea. You weren’t—married—five years ago when Oona put on the exhibition for the Jane Austen Centre. Were you?”

  “No . . .” He dragged the word out like a moan. “We met barely three years ago. But, although our life together may have been brief, it was all-consuming.” He looked up to the ceiling of my office and waved his arm in an arc. “We were like two bright objects in the sky, colliding in a fiery explosion and burning hot and fierce until we had consumed each other’s energy and fell back to earth, mere shells of our former selves.”

  I tried to imagine Oona devastated by the ending of a relationship—any relationship—and I have to say, I couldn’t quite picture it.

  “And so, Mr. Berryfield, the two of you are still married—were married—when Oona was killed?”

  “No,” he said, rolling his shoulder to adjust his jacket. “We divorced six months ago. There was nothing left of us—apart from our physical relationship.” He smiled and gave a quick nod. “Never anything wrong in that department.”

  For a moment, I wondered how I had managed to get into a conversation about Oona’s sex life two days in a row, then I shook myself free of all that and said, “Yes, well, I’m sorry for your loss. And thank you for coming to explain. I certainly understand now how the news could’ve hit you.”

  “And for me to turn your offer down in such an abrupt manner,” Zeno said, as if picking up on a previously unfinished sentence. “Tsk. How rude. But I have recovered from my shock, Ms. Burke, and so now I am perfectly capable of having a reasonable conversation about your exhibition—Lady Fowling: A Life in Words. A lovely title, I may say—so evocative.”

  “Are you saying you want the job after all?”

  “What I’m saying is”—Berryfield offered a chagrined smile—“in my emotional state yesterday, I may have overlooked your need for a swift and effective solution to your difficulty, and so if you are still seeking to fill the post, please do consider me.” He bowed his head.

  What an act. Of course he wanted the job—he always had. How much did he want it? It occurred to me that I’d better check on his whereabouts on that particular Thursday afternoon. The police, that is—the police should check on his whereabouts. Would they consider him a suspect? Did I?

  Hiring Zeno would solve a few sticky problems on my end—namely, Naomi Faber’s insisting we have a manager in order for the Society to keep the exhibition dates at the Charlotte. And, apart from his crazy ideas for displays, Zeno knew the basics of exhibition management, something I needed to learn. I could use him for my own purposes. Until Sergeant Hopgood told me otherwise, I saw no reason why I couldn’t take advantage of the situation.

  “Yes, Mr. Berryfield, we are still looking, and as you know, time is short—although that doesn’t mean I don’t have time to check your references. But I do want to make it clear that if you join us, you would be working for me, and I would have the final say on all decisions.”

  “I would have it no other way, Ms. Burke. Quality is what you seek, and quality you shall have.” The gleam returned to his dark eyes, and once again he turned into that friendly man behind the fish counter at Waitrose—both competent and accommodating. “And may I say that you are gaining quite a reputation as curator of the First Edition Society and its library. I hear good things. Heigh-ho!”

  No need to overegg the situation, Zeno. “The board will need to be notified,” I continued, “but I’ll take care of that. And so, barring any unforeseen complications, shall we say you will be here Monday morning at ten?” I shifted papers round my desk as a signal the interview was finished. “Oh, and one more thing. Oona had hired a young woman as her personal assistant. We’ll be keeping her on the project.”

  “A PA?” Zeno asked. “My, my—Oona was flying high, wasn’t she?”

  As I saw him out, I asked, “Remind me when you arrived in Bath, Mr. Berryfield.”

  “Oh, a fortnight ago. Three weeks? It’s been a whirlwind—one day blending into another as I consider my options.”

  “Had you seen Oona since you’ve been here?”

  “No.” He shook his head, and there was a catch in his voice. “That will be one of my great regrets. Our last parting was full of emotion, of course, but also frustration and a sense of something left undone. If only we’d had one more chance.”

  * * *

  * * *

  There—an exhibition manager. Of sorts. Zeno Berryfield had better beware, though, because I would brook no funny business when it came to this event.

  “It was perfectly reasonable of me to ask him if he’d seen Oona,” I told Bunter upon returning to my office. The cat had dropped back down to the hearthrug with his back to the dying embers. “Sergeant Hopgood can’t accuse me of sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong. I’m hiring Zeno, I should know what he’s been up to.”

  I left myself a reminder to tell Hopgood about Zeno, Arthur Fish about Bulldog, and the entire board about our new exhibition manager, and then gave up for the day.

  “Right, cat, I’m quitting work. Mrs. Woolgar will give you your dinner, won’t she?”

  An ear twitched i
n response. I took my copy of Murder Must Advertise and went up to my flat, where I dropped it on the coffee table, stretched out on the sofa, and promptly fell asleep, waking at six. I stretched, brushed my hair out, and had the minced beef simmering in a tomatoey sauce by the time Val knocked.

  I called that it was open, and there he stood in the kitchen, already cleaned up and with a bottle of wine under his arm. The aroma of the spaghetti Bolognese filled my flat, and I saw him hesitate, caught between kissing me or lifting the lid on the saucepan, but—fortunately for him—kissing me won out. He set the wine on the table, drew me close, and pulled up the hem of my loose shirt. He slipped a hand underneath, massaging the small of my back.

  “Hello,” he whispered. “How was your day?”

  His lips, warm and soft, worked their way down my neck, and I could not think of a single thing about my day before the present moment. I reached down and tugged at his belt buckle.

  “Oh, you know—this and that. Yours?”

  “It was . . . er . . . what?”

  So much for good conversation.

  * * *

  * * *

  Later, as the pasta boiled and we drank wine, I did actually remember details about what I’d been doing, and as Val wasn’t really moved to discuss squirrels, I laid out my day.

  “Back to the station on Monday,” I said. “A second time through those binders should do the trick—there’s got to be something there.”

  “Do you want me to go along? Two pairs of eyes on it?” he asked.

  “Not with your Monday,” I said. He had classes all day and into the evening on Mondays and Thursdays. Although my entire job was as curator of the First Edition Society, Val already had a full-time job as a writing teacher at Bath College to which he added the Society’s projects. The college was happy with the arrangement. Our collaborations were good publicity and cost them little.