by Mary Birk
She made herself smile. “A little, but it’s all right. I just wasn’t expecting you to be here.”
Freddie stammered. “My father said he told you how I feel about you?”
“Yes.” Quickly she assessed her options—truth or deception?
Gingerly, put his arms around her. She felt him trembling and knew he was worried about her reaction. “Moira, I want to marry you. I know this is sudden for you, but I’ve loved you for so long.” She let him hold her while she thought, resting her head against his chest, nor did she protest when he started to kiss her neck.
She decided on deception. She couldn’t afford to alienate Walter or Frederick until she was safely away with her money. Making her voice affectionate, she said, “I feel the same way about you, Freddie.”
He blew out a breath of relief, then held her even more tightly against his chest. “I can’t believe it. I didn’t think I had much of a chance.”
She kissed him full on the lips. “Silly. How could I not love you, Freddie?”
Excitement all but bubbled out of him, and his words fell over each other on their way out. “I’ve got a ring picked out for you, but it’s being sized at the jewelers. I thought I’d have until tomorrow. Sooner is better, of course, but I’d wanted to propose with flowers, champagne, and a ring. This is wonderful!” He gave a hoot of delight.
“You’re so sweet.” Moira smiled, tracing her finger along his face, trying not to flinch when her finger passed over one of his many pimples. “I don’t need a ring tonight. I just need you.”
He grinned. “All right, but I want to do this right. I want to propose properly.”
She gave him a flirtatious look. “Okay, then, do it.”
“Moira Ramsey, will you do me the great honor of marrying me?”
She took his face in her hands and smiled. “Of course. I’ve been in love with you for so long. I just didn’t know how to tell you or what to do about . . . your father, or how you’d feel about . . . my past.”
He put a finger over her mouth. “That was another life. We’ll never talk about that again. I love you, and you’re going to be my wife.” His face looked transfixed with his feelings for her, and she felt a little guilty, but now self-preservation was her only concern.
“You’ll make love to me tonight, Frederick, won’t you?”
He blushed. “If you’re ready for that. I know this is sudden for you. I’ve wanted you so long, but I can wait a little longer, if it’s too soon for you.”
She untied his tie and started to unbutton his shirt. “I don’t want to wait a minute longer.”
Later, after Frederick was asleep, Moira carefully moved away from him to go to the bathroom and clean up. He’d been telling the truth; he’d obviously been wanting her. He hadn’t lasted two minutes the first time, and had been ready to go again ten minutes later. It was a funny sensation, being adored like that. With Walter, she’d been the one who loved, and he’d been the one who’d, sometimes grudgingly, allowed her to love him. She didn’t know which way was worse.
TUESDAY, APRIL 21
Chapter 88
REID HADN’T GOTTEN BACK to his flat until after three o’clock that morning. He was awakened not four hours later by the incessant ringing of the telephone. Fifteen minutes later he was on the way to Lynstrade Manor on the report that Frederick Von Zandt had been murdered, and that Moira Ramsey was missing, presumed to have done the deed.
The gates to Lynstrade Manor were open when he drove up. There were three police cars in the driveway as well as the coroner’s vehicle and a scene of crime van.
Frederick Von Zandt apparently had been killed by way of a large knife in the heart. He’d been found naked in bed in a room Reid was told had been occupied by Moira Ramsey. Blood thoroughly soaked the area of the bed near his chest. It appeared Frederick had been asleep and had likely not even known he’d been stabbed. The medical examiner had preliminarily opined that the man had been dead approximately six to seven hours.
Reid gave instructions to the scene of crime operatives, then gave the nod to the medical examiner to have the body removed after the photographing and videotaping was completed. He walked down the front staircase to join Walter Von Zandt in his study.
Von Zandt sat behind his desk. He appeared composed and motioned for Reid to sit down in one of the chairs opposite him. Reid’s eyes registered two other men sitting on the leather sofa, Henry Von Zandt and Von Zandt’s lawyer, Cyrus Rothman, and he nodded a greeting.
“I hadn’t thought to see you again so soon, Lord Reid. I trust Lady Anne is all right?” The man’s eyes searched his face, and Reid was startled to see what seemed to be genuine concern.
For Christ’s sake, Reid thought, realizing Von Zandt was more concerned for Anne than he was for his murdered son. “She’s fine. She won’t be coming in to work today, of course, with what’s happened.” He’d made a call earlier to make sure Anne was not driven to Lynstrade Manor today and to make sure she stayed at home.
“I hadn’t expected her today, in any event, after last night. I’ll have her things sent to the hotel, of course, as she asked. I would have had it done already, but . . .” Von Zandt gestured around him, indicating the chaos things were in.
Reid met the man’s gaze. “She won’t be staying there. I’ll take her things with me.”
Von Zandt pursed his lips, clearly unhappy.
Reid said, “I’ve been advised that your guests are no longer here. I’ll need their names. We’ll need to interview them about the events of last night.”
Von Zandt splayed his hands out in front of him in a gesture of helplessness. “They left right after dinner so I don’t think they’ll be able to help. However, we anticipated your questions and Cyrus has prepared a list of their names. I’m afraid I don’t have their addresses.” He passed a piece of paper across the desk to Reid.
“I understand they left by helicopter.” So, of course Reid’s people hadn’t been able to follow them. Reid had had cars waiting to follow Von Zandt’s guests when they left Lynstrade Manor, but when he’d gotten reports that a helicopter had come and gone in the middle of the night, he’d guessed they’d all absconded. Efforts to locate the helicopter had been futile. Of course, at that time, they hadn’t known Frederick had been murdered.
“Yes.”
Scanning the list of names, Reid realized they’d been fabricated. The names were close enough to the actual names so that if Anne had reported the names of the men she’d met, she’d be excused by a Westerner’s inability to distinguish one foreign name from another, but off enough so that it would have been impossible to locate the men using the fabricated names. Reid didn’t let on that he knew he was being deceived or press for the correct contact information, deciding to let Von Zandt think that his deception had been successful, and that Reid’s people would be chasing their tails looking for the wrong men.
He asked, “Why was your son in Moira’s room? In her bed? She was your mistress, wasn’t she?”
Von Zandt sighed. “Frederick was in love with Moira. When I realized that, I broke things off with Moira. He wanted to marry her. I believed Moira returned his feelings. I don’t know what happened between them last night.”
“How was his body found?”
“The housekeeper found him.”
“What time was that?”
“It was early. You need to ask her to get an exact time. She said she’d gone to get Moira’s dress so it could be sent to be cleaned this morning. She found my son, told me, and I called the police.”
“After you emptied the house of your guests.”
Von Zandt looked appalled. “Absolutely not. They’d left already. Otherwise, of course I would have insisted they stay.”
“Of course.” Reid barely bit back the urge to make a sarcastic remark. “Did you recognize the knife?”
“I did. It appears to have come from our kitchen. The cook has no idea why Moira would have it upstairs.”
There was
a knock on the door and, at Von Zandt’s permission, the door opened and a manservant came in with a tray of coffee. Reid declined, even though he badly needed the caffeine.
He stood up to go. It didn’t matter how many questions he asked. He was being fed a load of swill for answers. “We need to search the flat where Moira lives. I believe you’re the owner of record. Do you have any objection?”
“No, of course not. We want you to find the girl before she hurts anyone else.”
Von Zandt’s cooperative attitude rang false. He knew Von Zandt had taken control of this situation long before a call to the police had been made. Reid suspected he’d already had someone visit the flat to make sure the police didn’t find anything he didn’t want found. And perhaps to make sure they found what Von Zandt did want found.
“We’ll need to interview your housekeeper.”
“Of course. She’s available. A little shaken, but still here.”
“And the rest of the staff. Including the guards at the gate.”
He nodded. “They’ll cooperate.”
“Good. We’ll get on with it, then. Meanwhile, please have someone get my wife’s things together.”
Von Zandt narrowed his eyes, and for the first time that morning Reid felt like he was seeing the man behind the façade. “You don’t deserve her.”
Reid stared back, making sure his eyes were flat and cold. “Neither do you.”
* * * * *
Later, after the interviews of the household staff were completed and the search of the pertinent areas of the house finished, Reid touched base with Allison on the status of the search for Moira Ramsey. A watch had been put on her mother’s house as well as on the flat, but so far nothing indicated she’d been to either place. Reid wouldn’t have put it past Walter Von Zandt to have killed the girl and his son, and set it up to make it look like Moira had killed Frederick.
The search of Moira’s flat did bring some developments. A wig of dark, real, hair, was found to match the hairs found in Richard Ramsey’s car. Also, she’d apparently been unsophisticated enough to have neglected to delete two voicemails from DI Lawrence. One made the clear implication that he’d seen her go with her stepfather the night he’d been killed, and the other confirmed the meeting at which DI Lawrence ended up garroted.
Moira couldn’t have acted alone, though, and the more Reid mulled it over, the more it made sense that the young man besotted enough to buy an engagement ring for a woman who was still having sex with his father, would have been her logical accomplice. Any personal motive Moira might have had for killing her stepfather was unclear. Reid assumed it had been to stop him from giving evidence against Von Zandt. But the explanation that DI Lawrence was killed just because of the blackmail seemed a little too easy. Reid still suspected that Lawrence had been the leak that was feeding information to Von Zandt.
Everything made sense if Von Zandt was behind the killings, but without Moira, Reid had no evidence to support his theory. Frederick would not be talking, but Moira might if she were still alive, and if he could find her. Of course, Von Zandt would do everything in his power to make sure she did not tell what she knew.
They needed to find Moira Ramsey before Von Zandt did.
“Sir, come take a look.”
One of the young officers conducting the search pointed to a display over the fireplace. Two bullfighter’s swords were crossed in the center, and on each side was a shorter, narrow and rounded dagger. Reid remembered Moira talking about the trip to Toledo. Toledo, the Spanish city known for its high-quality swords and knives.
Reid shook his head. None were the right shape. “Not those. What we’re looking for will be long and thin.” He paused. “And it will be in her room.” Von Zandt would have made sure of that.
Minutes later, the officer returned, a deadly looking black and gold handled stiletto held between two gloved fingers. “This what you were thinking of, guv?”
He nodded. “Exactly that. Get it tested for blood, prints, DNA.”
The officer grinned and bounded out of the room, full of barely suppressed delight.
Outside the building, Reid found his car where he’d left it, parked in front of a fire hydrant. But now, a big grungy orange cat was perched on the bonnet, watching Reid with sleepy eyes. He stroked the animal’s back and looked around.
The slightly portly cop stationed at the door of the apartment building waved his hand to indicate the cat. “The lady who takes care of the building says it belongs to Moira Ramsey, but when she tried to take it back, the man that answered the door said it was a stray.” One of Walter Von Zandt’s men, no doubt.
Reid nodded, scooped up the cat and put it in the passenger seat beside him. He gave it one more pat before turning the ignition.
“If only you could talk.”
Chapter 89
MUCH OF WALTER VON ZANDT’S STORY seemed to check out. The jeweler who was sizing an engagement ring for Frederick verified that he’d had the order for a week and that the young man seemed excited about it. If they hadn’t gotten the account from Anne of what Moira had told her last night, and of what they’d talked about while Anne stayed at Lynstrade Manor, as well as what had been on the recordings, Reid might have been more likely to believe the version of facts being fed to him.
As it was, Harry, who’d called Anne, told him Anne was sure Moira had had no idea that she and Frederick were expected to get married. Armed with that knowledge, Reid was confident that he was still missing many of the facts about what happened to Frederick and to Moira.
He was enlightened, however, by a review of the seized accounts, and by the failed transfer from one of Von Zandt’s terrorist-feeding accounts to an account Moira Ramsey had opened under another name. From what they’d pieced together, the girl must have scheduled the transfer before she brought the flashdrive to Anne.
Moira would have to have planned on leaving Lynstrade Manor before Von Zandt found out what she’d done. But if she really was the one who’d killed Frederick, why? Perhaps it had been something as obvious as Frederick having forced himself on her and she tried to protect herself. Anne’s explanation about Moira promising to get the knife for her explained why Moira had the knife, but not why she’d used it. Reid tried not to think about how afraid Anne must have been to need to arm herself with a kitchen knife for protection, and the story about the paring knife she’d first planned to use had almost broken his heart.
Walter Von Zandt’s name had not been linked to any of the accounts on the flashdrive. In fact, they’d all been traced, through a labyrinth of other accounts and names, to accounts originating in Frederick Von Zandt’s name. Walter had apparently set up his expendable son to take the fall for him if the accounts were ever discovered. Even though Reid knew there was no way Frederick could have been behind the money laundering operation, every document and other piece of evidence led to Frederick. Reid wondered if Frederick’s death hadn’t been in Von Zandt’s mind all along—maybe not when it happened, but whenever it became necessary.
Walter Von Zandt’s laptop computer showed no trace of ever accessing the accounts, and Reid strongly suspected it wasn’t even the same computer the man had been using when Moira copied the account information. Perhaps the helicopter that escaped Lynstrade Manor had taken away more than just people.
Frederick taking the fall and dying before he could talk was a tidy solution for Von Zandt’s legal problems, but for his plan to work, Moira could not be allowed to testify. Moira was a dangerous loose end for Von Zandt and he couldn’t let her live.
When Reid went to talk to Barbara Ramsey about Moira’s whereabouts, Walter Von Zandt was just leaving. They acknowledged each other briefly as they passed, Von Zandt seeming to be as unwilling to cross swords at that particular moment as was Reid.
Barbara Ramsey was pouring herself a drink when the maid ushered Reid into the drawing room. He could tell from the woman’s wobbly movements that this wouldn’t be the first drink she’d had that day.
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“Mrs. Ramsey?”
Barbara Ramsey turned, apparently trying to focus on who he was.
“Terrence Reid,” he reminded her.
“Oh, yes, Lord Reid.” Her voice was vague. “Would you like a drink?”
“Not just yet, thank you. Can I have a few moments of your time?”
“Of course. I have nothing but time. Please sit down.” She plopped into a chair, slightly sloshing her drink over the rim of the glass.
He sat across from her, trying to get her eyes to meet his. “I want to talk to you about Moira. We need your help to try to find her.”
Barbara Ramsey shook her head. “No.”
“No?”
“Walter told me that Moira killed my husband.”
“We don’t know that for sure. There are things we need her to explain. If we find her, we can help her.”
She crossed her legs, taking a long swallow of her drink. “I don’t want to help her.”
“Has she tried to contact you?”
Barbara Ramsey shook her head, a little unsteadily. “Walter told me to tell him if she did, but she hasn’t.”
“Barbara, if Moira gets in touch with you, call me. Whatever you do, don’t let Walter Von Zandt know. This is police business.”
“Walter says he’ll take care of me. That I can trust him. He said that Richard made him the trustee of his estate because he trusted him to take care of me.” She giggled. “Makes sense. Trustee trusted.”
“Where is Bert, Mrs. Ramsey?”
“At work. But Walter says the company is his now.” She nodded. “So Bert works for Walter. Walter is going to take care of both of us.”
“I’m going to talk to Bert. Maybe I can find someone to help him stop Walter Von Zandt from taking everything your husband left.”
But Barbara Ramsey wasn’t paying attention. “Glynnis is gone, you know.”
“Gone?”
“She was supposed to go with Henry to that dinner Moira went to at Lynstrade Manor. But she didn’t go, and no one’s seen her since then.”
