Cloche and Dagger

by Jenn McKinlay

  His eyebrows shot up in surprise. No doubt at the surety of my voice.

  “Why not?”

  “Because the person was wearing gloves, my gloves,” I said.

  I described the missing items, the only things that had gone missing in the shop, and Inspector Franks took notes.

  “Would you happen to have a picture of them?” he asked.

  “I doubt it,” I said. “Mim always carried accessory items, and she was partial to the vintage ones, but we’ve never kept a photo record of them like we do with the hats. The only possibility would be if Fee is offering the items for sale in our online store.”

  “Can you look into it and get back to me?” he asked.

  “I’ll ask her,” I said.

  “I’m going to have the place examined anyway,” he said. “If they took the gloves after they broke in then they might have left some prints behind, at least on the door.”

  I nodded. Having a pillow held over my face to the point of suffocation was terrifying, hugely terrifying. But somehow having the gloves taken felt like more of a violation, or maybe it just meant that the killer was creepy enough to have broken in and then used the shop’s own gloves against me. I didn’t know; either way, it left me feeling more rattled than ever.

  I checked the safe. It was fine. At least, as far as I knew, nothing had been touched. Honestly, I hadn’t looked in the safe since I’d arrived so I could only judge by the neatness of the contents, which seemed as tidy as one would expect.

  “If you hear from your cousin and she can verify the contents of the safe, that would be greatly appreciated,” Inspector Franks said.

  I nodded. Two hours later the police took their leave. Harrison had brewed a pot of non-caffeinated tea and we sat at the workroom table in the back while we drank.

  The adrenaline that had kept me going finally departed, leaving me a soupy mess. My exhaustion must have shown because Harrison took my cup and put it aside.

  “Come on,” he said as he helped me up by the elbow. “Up you go.”

  We had propped a chair under the door handle to the back door. Not the greatest lock, but it would have to do until a locksmith could come.

  I had thought Harrison would see me to the door that led upstairs and then take his leave, but instead, he walked me up to Viv’s new room.

  “Sleep here,” he said. “I’ll bunk on the couch in the sitting room and watch over you while you sleep.”

  That did it. The sobs I’d been holding at bay took me out at the knees, and before I could even attempt to hold them back, my shoulders were shaking, I was hiccupping and tears were running down my face as if I’d been uncorked.

  Harrison didn’t say a word. He just pulled me into his solid warmth and wrapped his arms around me while I cried. A couple of times I thought I’d cried it out, but no. There was always just one more puddle to wring out of my middle. Finally, I ran dry.

  “You don’t have to stay,” I mumbled into the soft cotton of his shirt. “But it was really nice of you to offer.”

  His hand was running absently up and down my back. I was tucked in against him with my head nestled under his chin, a perfect fit.

  “I’m not offering,” he said. “I’m telling you I’m staying. How could I live with myself if something happened to you?”

  I looked up then to see his face. His green eyes crinkled in the corners as he gave me a small smile.

  “Viv would kill me if anything happened to you,” he said. He was joking, but it hit me like a splash of cold water.

  What was I doing snuggled up against him when he and my cousin were obviously close? How close I didn’t know, but obviously much closer than he and I were. I felt my face get hot.

  “Viv would do you an injury, a severe one,” I said, trying to joke my way through the awkwardness that suddenly felt as thick as a London fog.

  He tucked a strand of hair back behind my ear. “Go get some sleep. Things will look better in the morning, I promise.”

  I gave him a brisk nod and fled to the big bedroom, Viv’s bedroom. I paused only to fetch a spare pillow and quilt from the linen closet and hurriedly thrust them into Harrison’s arms before I disappeared into Mim’s old room.

  I curled up on the bed, feeling like a perfect idiot. I had just cried all over a man who couldn’t stand me, who had some sort of relationship with my cousin, although I wasn’t exactly sure what it entailed, and whom I didn’t completely trust. It was just mortifying.

  Why didn’t I trust him? I wondered. I didn’t really believe that he had anything to do with Viv’s disappearance. In fact, I was getting the feeling that he was feeling as irked as I was with Viv.

  No, it was because I felt like he wasn’t telling me everything. That was it. When I thought about how I felt around him, it was this feeling that he knew things and he wasn’t sharing them with me. I had no proof of it, but it was a feeling I couldn’t shake.

  I supposed I couldn’t really blame him for not telling me everything. Here I was, this scandal-ridden American who had arrived to claim my half of an inheritance I had all but ignored until my life fell apart and I had no place else to go.

  I rolled onto my back. There was a faint scent in the room of Lily of the Valley. It was the scent I always associated with Mim. Abruptly, I was spiked with a sharp spear of grief, right in my chest, and I missed her with a longing that left me bereft.

  In my mind, I could see her hands, spotted with age, twisting ribbons into delicate braids of color to adorn one of her spring garden hats. She had the ability to make even the simplest hat look elegant and charming.

  I wondered what she would make of this situation we found ourselves in now. Despite her own scattered artistic temperament, Mim had been very practical in her outlook on the world. She tended to see it for exactly what it was and didn’t take it too seriously.

  She had a silly sense of humor that frequently made itself known in her more whimsical designs. But mostly, what I missed about her was that whenever I was with Mim, there was nothing that couldn’t be managed with a hot cup of tea and a hug.

  Maybe that was just because I was so much younger and my problems smaller then. I knew deep down that part of the reason I had cried all over Harrison’s shirtfront was because being here made me miss Mim and his had been the only warm body present to fill the void. I tried not to dwell on what a nice warm body he had, instead remembering that tomorrow I would have to go to the police station and be fingerprinted. I was dreading it.

  If the reporters got wind of this, well, I couldn’t even imagine what sort of sordid tales they would weave about me, because I certainly hadn’t had enough of that.

  A soft snore sounded from the other room. It was followed by a grunt and another snore. I wasn’t sure why this made me smile, but it did. Harrison snored. I liked knowing this about him. I was still smiling when I fell asleep.

  • • •

  The lovely smell of coffee brewing roused me from my sleep. For a moment, I thought I was back in my apartment in Florida with my coffeepot on the timer, brewing a perfect two cups that I would then put in my travel mug before I headed out the door to the hotel I helped to manage.

  The low rumble of voices busted through my happy daydream like an elephant stampede, and I snapped to a sitting position. This was a bad plan, as my head felt like someone had used it for an ax holder. The pain was deep in my skull, throbbing from my sinus cavity up through my hair follicles. It was the crying. A good crying jag, and last night’s had been a doozy, always left me with a scorching headache.

  Knuckles wrapped on my door.

  “Scarlett, you’d better come out here,” Harrison said.

  “Be right there,” I said. I sighed. No good-morning greeting made me suspect bad news awaited my arrival. Bleh. I was so over the bad news.

  Harrison was in Mim’s kitchen. Her tiny TV on the counter was on and programmed to the local news. It took me a minute to realize that the reporter speaking live was standing in front
of the shop, which meant she was out front right now.

  “What?”

  “Shh,” Harrison hushed me as he turned up the volume.

  “This is the hat shop owned by Vivian Tremont, the former girlfriend of Earl Ellis of Waltham,” the brunette was saying. “While it can’t be confirmed, word has it that Ms. Tremont has fled the country in the wake of Lady Ellis’s grisly murder and neighbors along the street here on Portobello Road have confirmed that Ms. Tremont has not been seen in days. No arrests have been made in the murder of Lady Ellis as yet, but the police were called here late last night. There is no word as to whether Ms. Tremont has returned and been brought into custody or not.”

  Chapter 29

  The screen switched to a photo of Vivian and a dark-haired man. The man was in profile, so I didn’t get the full-on smarmy face of Lord Ellis, who’d been here just days before with his wife. I could tell by the hairstyle Viv was wearing that the picture was from her days at the university when she’d gone through an unfortunate bang phase.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, that photo has to be ten years old,” I cried. “Where the heck did they get it?”

  “From someone who knew them then, who wanted some quick cash,” Harrison said.

  The reporter continued with more rumors about Vivian and Lord Ellis’s alleged friendship, and at the end of it my headache had doubled in force because now I was gnashing my teeth.

  “This is bad,” I said. “Really bad. They’re making Viv sound like a deranged ex-girlfriend. She’s going to be suspect number one.”

  “Not going to be,” Harrison sighed. “She is.”

  “Oh, good grief,” I said. I rubbed my temples, willing my headache to ease.

  Harrison left the kitchen and returned from the bathroom connected to Viv’s room with a small bottle.

  “Here,” he said and he handed me a bottle of Nuromol. I glanced at it. Ibuprofen tablets.

  “That obvious?” I asked.

  “You cringe every time you move your head,” he said. “I’m assuming headache?”

  I gave a small nod and then regretted it. Harrison put a mug of coffee in front of me and I loaded it with sugar and milk and used it to chase two tablets down my throat.

  “Crying always does that to me,” I said.

  “Well, you’d better pace yourself,” he said. “They’ve announced the viewing hours for Lady Ellis. It’s going to be Monday next. Still want to go?”

  “Yes, definitely,” I said. “How can it be that early? Don’t they have autopsy and toxicology reports to perform?”

  “Apparently, Lord Ellis has put the pressure on to solve the case and has insisted his wife’s body not be left overlong in the morgue. I expect the funeral will be held on Tuesday,” he said.

  I sipped my coffee. I wondered how Inspectors Franks and Simms were doing today. It was Saturday. I didn’t imagine they would be enjoying it as such, however. Then I remembered that Saturday on Portobello Road was market day.

  Normally we would prop open the front door and, weather permitting, put some racks of merchandise out on the sidewalk to lure the people swarming to the stalls of the antiques arcades. Saturday was big business in Notting Hill, which was why we were always closed on Sunday and Monday. We needed it to recover.

  Today, I would not be participating. I took my mug of coffee and crossed the pale wood floor to the long, tall window that overlooked the street. There was a mob outside the store but it wasn’t shoppers. Instead, it was a horde of reporters and camera crews. Great, another day of feeling like a captive in my own home.

  Harrison was busily cooking up eggs and toast. I would have told him not to bother, but I was surprised to discover I was starving. Maybe what I had was a hunger headache after all.

  I resumed my seat at the breakfast counter and he pushed a plate to me piled high with fluffy eggs, some fried ham and buttered toast.

  “Thanks,” I said. “You really shouldn’t have.”

  “Yes, I should,” he argued. “You’re too thin.”

  “So, my mother called?” I asked. I didn’t bother to temper my sarcasm.

  He grinned. “Eat.”

  I didn’t need to be told twice. He took the seat beside me and plowed into his own plate while we switched channels and noted that most of them were reporting much the same thing and from the same location below.

  Only one reporter went so far as to mention me, and that would be the same one that Harrison had tossed out on his patoot. His report had pictures of me, a nice short clip of my meltdown, pictures of Viv, Lady Ellis and one of Viv with Lord Ellis.

  “I should have tossed him out on his head,” Harrison growled.

  “You did dump him on the location where he obviously keeps his brains,” I said. “Not your fault.”

  Harrison gave me an approving look. “Funny.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I could feel him watching me while I scraped my plate clean. “What?”

  “You seem better today,” he said. “Stronger.”

  “That’s because we have a plan,” I said. “I’m the managing type. I need to have a plan, otherwise I go bonkers.”

  “I get that,” he said.

  For a few brief moments, I felt like Harrison Wentworth and I actually understood one another. Then we had a fight.

  • • •

  “Scarlett, you can’t cold-call your clients and accuse them of murder,” he said.

  We were standing in Mim’s kitchen, cleaning up together and discussing what I should do next, since it was obvious I wasn’t going to be able to open my doors today.

  I had suggested that I call the clients known to be friends with Lady Ellis and let them know we were operating by appointment only and see if I could get any information out of them. Harrison was vehemently opposed.

  “I’m not going to accuse them of anything,” I said. I wiped down the counter with a sponge.

  “These are wealthy, titled ladies,” he argued. He put a stack of plates up into the cupboard. “You probably won’t get them to answer your call. It will be their personal secretary who turns you down flat.”

  “No, they won’t,” I said. “I can work with a secretary.”

  “Scarlett, you and Viv are tabloid fodder,” he said. “Trust me when I tell you that they won’t want to come anywhere near you now.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “Of course they will.”

  “Are you daft?” he asked. “How do you think you can possibly get them to want to have anything to do with you or the shop, given that there is a horde of reporters camped outside, Viv has been all but accused of murder and you are still tainted by the scandal you left back in the States.”

  “You know, I’m actually very good with people, present company excepted,” I said.

  He closed the cupboard and turned toward me. I met his green eyes without looking away. I was good with people. Usually. Just not him. He’d obviously never forgiven me for tossing him over, which was ridiculous given how young I was, and he probably never would.

  “I know you’re good with people,” he said. “I’ve seen you in action. You can charm a honeybee out of his hive and get him to beg you to take his honey.”

  His lips curved up in the corners and I had the distinct impression I had just been insulted.

  “Are you calling me manipulative?” I asked.

  “More like lethally charming,” he said.

  “That doesn’t feel like a compliment.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  Ouch! I broke eye contact with him. The rich emerald color of his eyes was distracting and I felt the need to put some distance between us.

  So much for having a meeting of the minds; every time I felt like Harrison and I might find some friendly footing, he said something that convinced me we were not friends and never would be.

  “I need to call a locksmith,” I said.

  “Already done,” he said. “In fact, he should be here shortly.”

  “Oh,
well, thank you,” I said.

  See? And then he did something nice for me like sleeping on the couch, cooking breakfast and arranging for a locksmith, and I was more confused than ever.

  “I’d better get dressed then,” I said.

  “I’ll meet you downstairs.” He switched off the TV and headed for the door.

  “Thanks,” I called after him and he nodded.

  Okay, that was getting old. I really didn’t want to be indebted to someone who was obviously not a fan of mine. Somehow I needed to tip the scale.

  I mulled it over in the shower but nothing brilliant came to me. I would just have to bide my time and see what I could do to repay the many ways Harrison had helped me when the opportunity presented itself.

  I didn’t bother putting on makeup or styling my hair. It wasn’t as if we were going to open today, and I didn’t want Harrison to have to wait any longer for the locksmith when he probably had better things to do, like catch up on the sleep he had missed while babysitting me.

  The sound of voices grew louder as I entered the back room. An older gentleman in coveralls with the company name “Titan Alarms” stitched on the left front was talking to Harrison.

  “All three floors?” the man was asking.

  “Yes,” Harrison said.

  “Hello,” I said as I joined them.

  “Scarlett, this is Mac. He’s putting in the alarm system,” Harrison said.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, and shook Mac’s hand. It was rough with calluses but also warm and surprisingly gentle. “What alarm system? I thought we called a locksmith.”

  “I’m that, too,” Mac said. He had a deep voice and his accent was Scottish, with a nice thick brogue flavoring it like salt in a good stew. “I’ll fix up your locks and alarm your windows and doors so no one will be breaking in here anytime soon.”

  “I don’t think that’s—” I began but Harrison interrupted me.

  “Don’t you think Mim would want her two granddaughters safe?” he asked.

  “Of course she would, but we’ve never had any reason to—” I began and he interrupted me again.

  “Which is why you were almost suffocated last night,” he said. “With the alarm, the police would be here before the attacker reached you.”