“You do have expensive taste. Yes, we stock a few bottles. We don’t sell a lot of it. When someone does buy it, they’re generally showing off. It’s too expensive for most. It’ll be over here.”
He walked past the rows of shelving and headed down the last row to the farmost corner of the cellar. “We keep the good stuff tucked away down here. Here it is.”
He bent down and pulled a bottle out of the rack, holding it carefully in an angled position, so the neck pointed slightly upwards. A piece of the puzzle clicked into place. The bottle and label were identical to the doctored wine delivered to Drew Portland.
Le Claire said, “We’ll need to have details of the stocktaking for this particular make. I need to know the amount in stock and that all bottles’ usage has been accounted for. Can you do that?”
“Yes, of course. We can check the dates we sold any of these bottles from the computerised records.”
Dewar passed across her card. “Give me a call when you have the information.”
They followed Justin Le Mahe out of the cellar, and as they exited the door, Le Claire asked, “Is this door usually unlocked?”
“Yes, the wine staff are in and out of here all the time. We don’t have the time to waste on unlocking and locking the door. It’s right next to the kitchen, so we’d notice anyone going in who shouldn’t be there.”
Le Claire would reserve judgment until they had accounted for all the bottles. This sounded like an accident waiting to happen.
They headed down the corridor, but before they reached the reception area, they heard anguished sobs that raised the hairs on Le Claire’s arms.
Le Mahe jumped back, startled. “What the hell is that?”
Dewar pointed to a door marked staff only. It was slightly ajar. She pushed it wide, and they saw a girl hunched over as she sat on the first step of a flight of service stairs. She wore a black skirt and white blouse and lifted her head when she saw them. She took one look at Justin Le Mahe and jumped to her feet. “Sorry, Justin, I needed a moment.”
Her voice was hoarse, her face blotchy and her eyes red-rimmed. Her kohl and mascara were smudged, and her lipstick looked as if it had been chewed off. Her fair hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and Le Claire could see she was attractive despite her obvious distress.
Le Mahe spoke, “I told you all yesterday, Cathy. It’s an upsetting time. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”
She rose, a determined look on her face. “No, I need the tips. I’ll tidy myself up, and I’ll be fine” Her voice wobbled.
“Okay, go and freshen up, but seriously, we can’t have the servers crying all over the place, so please go home if you can’t control yourself.”
She nodded and ran up the stairs as Le Mahe grimaced. “Sorry about that. The staff has been pretty upset. I guess Cathy knew Drew well since her husband—well, actually, they’re separated—is a friend of Drew’s. It’s Peter Frobisher, who Drew had lunch with on Wednesday.”
#
Sophie carefully looked at her oldest friend. “Are you okay? You seem distracted.”
“I’m fine. It’s only a bit of man trouble.”
“You’re seeing someone?”
Diane’s laugh was short and sharp. “No, I’m not, and that’s the problem. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Will you tell Louise everything?”
The change of subject was abrupt and pointed. Whether Diane was seeing someone or not was none of Sophie’s business, so she sipped at her glass of chilled rosé and considered the question “There’s no need now, is there?” Sophie glanced at her drink, twirled the wine around the glass while she thought. “You never explained why you didn’t say anything to Louise yourself. She is your aunt.”
Diane’s smile was swift, yet her eyes were sad. “You know Louise and I have had our ups and downs. And it would never have worked, me speaking to Drew. He had little time for me and even less respect. No, you talking to him could have sorted it all out. Stopped it in the tracks, so to speak.”
“I guess. Anyway, bit of a shocker, but Louise called me earlier. It seems the police have been to see her, and they are saying Drew’s death is suspicious.”
Diane opened her mouth and then pressed her lips tight together as if trying to stop the words from escaping.
“Come on, spit it out.”
She shook her head, and her red-gold curls bounced on her shoulders. “I can’t believe Drew is dead. I mean, it all seems too good to be true, doesn’t it? Now he won’t be around to interfere with what you’re due, will he?”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means be careful. If the police are looking for suspects, you’d probably be top of their list.”
Sophie’s reply was as dry as her wine. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I’m not saying I think you did anything. I’m saying the police might.”
“Thanks again. Oh, talk of the devil.” Sophie was looking over Diane’s shoulder and quickly looked away. “The police who interviewed me are here. They’re with Justin. Shit!”
Diane quickly turned around. “That detective’s hot. I wouldn’t mind him interrogating me.”
“Be serious for once.”
“Ignore them. You only found the body, for chrissake. It isn’t a crime.”
“No, but lying to them is. I panicked and didn’t tell them straight away that I knew Drew.”
“So the police know you lied to them?”
“Yes—I mean no, I didn’t really lie. I simply didn’t mention I knew him.”
“Knew him? Jesus, Sophie. He spent years spending money like water that was rightfully yours. He replaced your father in Louise’s bed within months. You despised him.”
“No one else needs to know that.”
Diane drained the last of her wine. “Sod it, I’m taking the afternoon off. The girls can manage the shop. Let’s have a bottle. I’ll order.”
Sophie sipped at the last of her wine as Diane’s head swivelled as she tried to catch the attention of the service staff. She idly glanced around the room as her friend waved her hand in the air a few times and heard the deep sigh as the harried workers ignored her. Suddenly, Diane stilled, and her hand fell as her mouth pursed in apparent disapproval. “It’s her.”
“Who do you mean?”
“That girl, the one clearing plates at the table by the window. That’s her. Cathy Frobisher.”
#
Cathy’s shift was due to end in an hour; she was going to go home and collapse into bed. She’d love a huge glass of white wine to numb the mess she was in, but it would only make matters worse.
She’d cleared the table her diners had vacated and thankfully taken the £20 tip. All cash should go into the tips pot and be shared amongst everyone, but she needed every penny she could get her hands on. The restaurant manager’s voice broke into her thoughts, “Cathy, you have a new guest at table seven.”
“Oh, okay, thanks.” She collected a menu and headed across the restaurant floor. She’d almost reached her destination, a professional smile on her face, if not in her eyes, when she halted, and her heart raced as the room seemed to stand still.
“Don’t just stop there, Cathy.” One of the waiters brushed passed her, and she quickly apologised.
The sole diner at table seven raised his head and caught her glance. His eyes looked haunted and his face drawn. Drew Portland had many friends, and there would be a lot of people with grief etched onto their faces. She took a deep breath and approached him. “What do you want? We agreed you wouldn’t sit at any of my tables.”
Her estranged husband shook his head. “Don’t, Cathy. I don’t have the strength to argue, not with my mind all messed up about Drew. I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Nor can a lot of people, Pete.” She could hear the weariness in her voice. It wasn’t only grief she saw in Peter’s eyes. There was a wild look that came from too much alcohol in a short space of time. “I can’t do this today. I’ll
get someone else to come and look after you.” She turned away, but his hand shot out, his rough fingers encircling her wrist, squeezing hard.
“I deserve more than a few seconds of your time. Sit down.”
“I can’t. I’m working.”
“Then serve me. You used to be good at that.”
She ignored the crudeness of his words and handed him the menu. “I’ll be back in a moment to see what you want.”
“No need. I know what I want. I want my wife. So why don’t you stop this nonsense and come back home to me?” He looked away. He still held her wrist, but his grip loosened. She pulled back to disengage herself, yet he held fast. “Cathy, he’s gone. You can come back to me now.”
His voice was a plea, and she froze. A light layer of sweat dampened her blouse, and she glanced away from him, stared at the table. Her voice was quiet. “I don’t know what you mean, Pete. Please don’t make a scene. Let me go and get you some food. You want a nice glass of wine as well?” Anything to shut him up.
He jerked on her arm and pulled her across the table so she was awkwardly perched on tiptoes as he pressed his face closer until she could see spittle forming in the corner of his mouth and fire raging in his eyes. “Don’t try and humour me. You both must’ve thought I was a fool. He’s gone now, and there’s nothing to keep us apart.”
“Don’t. Please don’t do this. Come to my place later. Let’s talk there.”
“You don’t deny it, do you? I was right, wasn’t I?” He pushed her away, and her stomach lurched. She lost her footing and crashed to the floor as he stood. His next words silenced the room. “You were fucking Drew Portland. Did you laugh together? Make a mug of me? Snigger about how you’d told me you needed some space, wanted to be alone, when you were screwing my best mate? Bitch.”
She placed her hands protectively across her stomach as she pushed herself back along the floor. “Don’t, Peter. Please don’t hurt me. Please.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Le Claire and Dewar had left the terraced area and were headed for the main foyer when they heard a tremendous crash. They looked at each other for a split second and then pelted into the restaurant. The mention of Drew Portland’s name stopped them in their tracks for a moment, before Le Claire ran across the room, elbowing the chattering onlookers out of the way.
He flashed his badge as he pushed through the crowd of diners and headed towards the man who seemed to be causing all the trouble.
“Calm down, sir. We’re the police.”
“Bollocks to you; I’m talking to my wife.”
The man moved closer to the woman who was cowering on the floor. Le Claire grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him round as he kicked out and swept the man’s feet to the side, causing him to fall. A few deft moves and Le Claire had him in an arm-lock and kneeling on the floor, head slightly bent.
Justin Le Mahe stood to the side, an anxious look on his face. “That’s Peter Frobisher, Cathy’s husband. He’s accused her of having an affair with Drew Portland.”
Le Claire looked at the girl on the floor. It was the same waitress they had seen crying on the stairs. She was ashen-faced, trembling and clutching her stomach.
“Are you all right? Have you been hurt?”
“No, I got a shock and I fell. I’m fine.”
“Okay, we’ll get you looked at. Sorry, what’s your name again?”
“Cathy Frobisher.”
“Dewar, call this in and have someone come down and sort things out. Please get Mrs Frobisher some medical assistance, and then we’ll need to have a chat.”
So Drew Portland had been having an affair with one of the waitresses, or at least that’s what the woman’s husband thought. They’d need to find out all about it.
Justin Le Mahe opened his mouth to speak and then looked at the far corner of the room and paled. “Oh Christ, I hope she didn’t hear.”
Le Claire turned around and saw Louise Portland standing in the doorway, grasping onto the doorjamb for support. The colour leached from her face, and she stumbled. He’d hazard a guess she had been a witness to the whole scene—or at least the pertinent parts. A hand steadied her. Tom Mathison. The doctor didn’t appear to spend much time at his day job; he was never far from the new widow’s side. He quickly steered her out of the room.
Le Claire glanced at Dewar, “You deal with matters here, and I’ll be back soon.”
He followed Louise Portland along the corridor. Her face was pale, her eyes bleak. “You’re chasing after me, Detective. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like a quick word.”
She sighed and nodded. “Come into my office.” She opened the door to a small room, furnished like a lounge but with a small antique-looking spindle-legged desk facing the bay window. She turned to Tom Mathison. “I’ve kept you from your own business enough for today. On you go. I’ll call you later.”
“Are you sure? I can stay for a bit.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She waited until the doctor turned to walk away before closing the door. “Sit down, Detective.”
He looked around. Everything was chintzy and floral, small and delicate. He chose the least fragile-looking chair and was alarmed when it creaked as he sat down. Louise Portland settled herself on the small sofa. She stared at him, waiting for him to speak, so he obliged. He kept his voice neutral. “Apparently, Peter Frobisher accused his wife of having an affair with your husband. Is it true?”
She stared at him for a long time, her expression unreadable. When she spoke, her voice was weary. “Isn’t the wife always the last to know? If you are asking if I knew for sure, I would have to say no. If you’re asking if I suspected anything, that is a different matter.” She briefly closed her eyes, and a shadow crossed her face. “Drew spent more and more time on the boat. He was evasive when I asked where he’d been. I suspected he must be seeing someone. Little things, yet when you add them up, you get a whole mess of something else.”
“So you didn’t know your husband was unfaithful?”
“I still don’t know that. I have Peter Frobisher accusing his wife of being unfaithful, and with Drew, but I don’t know if it’s true.”
“Perhaps I was too literal. Do you believe it’s true?”
She looked away for a moment. “Yes, I do.”
He asked the question that was foremost in his mind. “You didn’t tell me you were an expert in foraging.”
“I can’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“Your husband likely died from ingesting poisonous mushrooms.”
“You have got to be kidding. Drew eats something dodgy, and you blame me?” She flashed him a sharp look. “You’re not going to pin this on Ginelli’s. He didn’t even bloody like mushrooms, so he’d never have ordered them.”
Her voice had risen, and Le Claire wasn’t surprised when the door was flung open, and Mathison rushed into the room. “What the hell is going on? Are you all right, Louise?”
“Yes, I’m fine, seriously. However, the detective was asking—indirectly, of course—if I fed Drew poisoned mushrooms.”
“He didn’t like mushrooms.”
Her voice was dry. “I know. That’s what I said.”
Le Claire held his hands out in supplication. “I didn’t mean that, Mrs. Portland. It seems odd you didn’t mention your foraging menu when I told you the cause of death was most probably deadly fungi.”
“I’m sorry. I’m on edge at the moment and wasn’t thinking correctly. The foraging is harmless. We take people along to a couple of beaches and country areas and pick wild rocket, edible flowers and the like.”
“What about mushrooms?”
“Yes, we pick those. I can assure you we don’t go anywhere near anything except the common edible varieties. Why would I be so stupid as to kill my husband in a manner that has such a glaring link to me?”
She did have a point, but a devious mind could throw shade on an investigation by making themselves look like the prim
e suspect and then claim it was surely too obvious to be them; that it must be a frame.
She looked down, stared at her hands, and her shoulders drooped. “It was such a shock to find out Drew had been sleeping with Cathy Frobisher, his best friend’s wife, and one of our waitresses. I knew we weren’t as connected as we had been once, but I didn’t think Drew had found comfort so close to home.” Her voice broke on the last word.
He gave her a considering look. “Let’s leave it there for the moment. We’ll be back in touch soon.”
#
Diane had changed her mind and gone back to work after the commotion. She’d made her apologies and was out the door before Sophie could blink. At a loose end, she headed to the bar for a quiet space to try and make sense of the scene she had witnessed, which was where Justin found her.
“Is there room in the booth for a little one?”
He was anything but little, and Sophie let a smile escape as she slid along the velvet-covered seat. “Sure, come and tell me all about it. What’s happening now?”
He ran a hand through his hair; the resulting ruffled mess made the years disappear, and he was once again the boy she’d known—and loved. “Ah yes, I saw you in the restaurant. What a nightmare. I take it you heard?”
“Oh yes, I heard all right. Drew was doing the dirty with the waitress.”
“Did you see Louise?”
She placed her glass on the table with too heavy a hand, and some of the amber-coloured wine slopped onto the tablecloth. “Christ, no, I had no idea she was there. Is she okay?”
“I don’t know. The policeman, Le Claire, was talking to her in her office. He’s gone, and Tom Mathison is with her now.”
“What gives there? Mathison seems to be very close to Louise. Anything going on?”
“Who knows? Tom’s always been part of their crowd, but the last couple of months he has been like Louise’s shadow. So you’ve been proved right, about Drew being a bastard. Sorry to speak ill of the dead.”
“Don’t go there, Justin. I am not that petty. I don’t want to see Louise hurt, and I don’t want to malign Drew now he’s gone. I guess whatever he did doesn’t matter now.”
Blood On The Rock: Treachery, desire, jealousy and murder (A Jack Le Claire Mystery) Page 7
