Whilst Acton was content to engage in this mundane conversation, Officer Gabriel took the opportunity to draw a folding chair over, and settle in next to Doyle. “Listen, I’ve been meaning to tell you that I owe you one. Remember when you warned me that you thought I was headed into a trap? It made me think twice about some evidence I’d come across that seemed a little too convenient. Good thing.”
Doyle nodded, not at all surprised. “You were bein’ set up by the ACC, then?”
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“I think so.”
He offered nothing more, and so she prompted, “Was it evidence that Acton was runnin’ a weapons-smugglin’ rig? They tried the same thing with Munoz, but she didn’t fall for it, either.” A bit absently, his gaze rested on the group by the
punchbowl. “A ludicrous notion, of course.”
This was not true, and she had the distinct feeling that he was trying to gauge whether or not the fair Doyle knew that it was not a ludicrous notion at all. Therefore, she decided to change the subject, and referenced the odd assortment of persons who were assembled at the punch bowl. “Are you worried that Tasza is goin’ to step out on you?”
He smiled. “Not particularly. Are you?”
She quirked her mouth. “I just think you’re a very tolerant sort of boyfriend—Drake has that reputation, you know.”
“I’m no match for him,” he agreed, and it was not true. “Well, Munoz should be here, soon, and then you can noodle
up to her, and wage a counter-attack.” Over the past few weeks, Doyle had garnered the strong impression that Gabriel very much admired the fair Munoz, but was constrained by events from acting on this admiration. Not to mention that the fair Munoz did not seem remotely interested in him, which was a drawback, all-in-all.
Gabriel smiled. “More like she’ll elbow her way in for some Drake-action.”
“It’s hardly fair,” Doyle teased. “Drake’s in no shape to handle all of them—he should share.”
“He does look a bit stressed, doesn’t he?”
Doyle could sense a nuance beneath the question, and again, decided she’d best change the subject—irritating, that stupid Gabriel was making her feel wary, when she was always inclined to let her guard down around him. In a small measure of
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revenge, she decided to throw her own dart. “What does Tasza do for a livin’? She’s LEO, I think.”
To his credit, he hesitated only for a barely discernable moment. “Yes, she’s law enforcement. She specializes in forensic accounting.”
Doyle made a face. “Mother a’ mercy, but that sounds hideously dull. I’d be longin’ for my days at the fish market.”
He smiled. “Now, I’ll have to white-knight it, here, and tell you that she’s not hideously dull at all—far from it.” He paused, then added fairly, “Although I can’t imagine she’d do well in a fish market.”
But Doyle had decided that she may as well throw another dart. “Well, she’s got a crush on my husband, so there’s that.”
Amused, his eyes slid toward hers. “So does Lizzie Mathis.” Not to be outdone, Doyle countered, “So does Munoz.”
He laughed aloud. “I can’t condemn any of them; I’d have a crush on him too, if I were so inclined.”
There—it felt as though they were back on their old footing, and Doyle was relieved; she liked Gabriel, despite his mysterious ways. Smiling, she teased, “No, Gabriel—you think Acton is that frightenin’ hound, from that famous story.”
Amused, Gabriel shook his head in disagreement. “Not Acton—it’s Savoie, who’s the hound. Everyone’s terrified of him.” Doyle followed his gaze to Savoie, and was much struck, since this—of course—was exactly what Acton had intended. It would not do at all if the blacklegs were to discover that the illustrious Chief Inspector himself was the one who was terrorizing all and sundry, and so a stalking horse in the form of
Philippe Savoie had been put into place.
Doyle’s gaze rested on the notorious Frenchman for a moment, as he sent Emile over to eat his cake with Mary and Gemma. There was no denying that Savoie was an out-and-out villain, but in this case, he was only serving as cover, and she had
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to admit that whatever her husband’s scheme was, it had been brilliantly executed, so that no one realized who was actually pulling the levers, behind the curtain.
Thoughtfully, she turned her gaze back to Gabriel. “You don’t seem terrified of Savoie, though.”
Gabriel tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Only because Acton seems to have him in check, somehow.”
As Doyle was well-aware of the reason Savoie was held in check, she hastily changed the subject. “Well, now that he’s coolin’ his heels in prison—most days, anyways—he’s not so very terrifyin’, anymore.”
“I suppose that remains to be seen,” Gabriel replied thoughtfully, and Doyle noted that Tasza had looked up to meet his eyes, even though Doyle couldn’t discern the message. Frustration, thought Doyle; I think she’s frustrated, for some reason. Join the club, Tasza; I’ve a plottin’ husband who can’t seem to resist sowing seeds of destruction, willy-nilly.
“Are you expectin’ bloodshed?” She was only half-teasing. “At a confirmation? I hope not. Although in that famous film
there was plenty of bloodshed taking place during a baptism, and I think there are definite parallels.”
“You’ve lost me,” Doyle admitted. She didn’t have a chance to ask him to explain, however, because she’d caught a sudden flare of emotion from him, and, looking for its cause, she saw that Munoz had entered the room.
Oh-oh, she thought, and braced for the Spanish girl’s reaction when she realized that Savoie was wandering about at large, but hadn’t informed her of this fact.
Munoz, however, casually took an assessing glance about the room, and then made her way over to where Doyle was seated. “Up,” the girl instructed Gabriel, and with a mock-deferential gesture, he relinquished his seat to the newcomer.
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Not surprisingly, Munoz offered Doyle an insincere smile, but said in an accusatory undertone, “Did you know Savoie was going to be here?”
“No, Munoz—truly I didn’t. He’s out on a day pass of some sort.”
After a moment’s consideration, Munoz shrugged a resigned shoulder, and sat back. “Leave it to him to manage it—the rules never seem to apply to him.”
As Doyle was well-aware why the rules never seemed to apply, once again she hastily changed the subject. “Good on you, Munoz, for keepin’ your dignity. The likes of him doesn’t deserve the likes of you.”
Glumly, Munoz glanced around. “Where’s Williams? I need someone to flirt with.”
“Williams may have left already—he’s churched-out, I think. And I’ll withdraw my recommendation that you flirt with Drake—he’s a wreck of his former self.”
Munoz slid her gaze over toward the punch bowl. “I think he’s drunk, which isn’t a good look for him.”
Doyle followed her gaze, and it did seem as though Drake was swaying a bit on his feet, scowling as Father Gregory spoke urgently in his ear.
“Well, Gabriel’s at hand,” Doyle suggested with an overly-casual air. “He wouldn’t mind bein’ your flirt-target, I think.”
The beauty’s dark eyes assessed Gabriel, who was leaning against the wall and watching Drake. “I can’t, Doyle—his girlfriend’s here.”
“Oh. Does that stop you?” Doyle was genuinely curious. Munoz made an impatient sound. “In this case, it does. She’s
a little scary.”
Doyle regarded her companion with surprise. “But not as scary as you, Munoz.”
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With narrowed eyes, the other girl contemplated Doyle for a moment. “I appreciate that, Doyle—always good to have a reminder.” With no further a
do, Munoz stood and moved over toward Gabriel, smiling her sultry smile, and never for a moment glancing in Savoie’s direction.
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“But let justice roll on like a river.”
A cton had finished up his conversation with the other men, and bent to inquire, “May I fetch you a glass of punch, Kathleen?”
“How about coffee?” she suggested hopefully.
“Punch, perhaps,” he repeated, and made as though to move toward the punchbowl.
Almost without conscious volition, Doyle grabbed at her husband’s hand. “Michael,” she said in an undertone, and then wasn’t sure why she was worried. “Let’s not start a ruckus.”
He squeezed the hand in his, gently. “Drake is not himself. I will see that he is taken outside.”
This was true, and with a sense of relief, she let him go, scolding herself for jumping at shadows.
As Acton approached, Drake angrily pushed Father Gregory away, and then turned to confront Savoie, who’d made some comment to him, but now backed away, holding up both hands in a placating gesture.
Drake seemed drunk indeed, and as there’d been no alcohol served, this might have been a surprise save for the fact that Doyle had seen this play once before, courtesy of Lizzie Mathis, who was not-so-coincidentally here today. On that fateful night at Trestles, when Acton had taken down the corrupt DCS, Doyle suspicioned that Mathis had given him an assist by slipping some sort of poison into a coffee cup.
Acton took Drake’s elbow, and spoke quietly into his ear. Whatever he was saying, however, did not seem to have a
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soothing effect, as Drake angrily lunged toward Savoie. “You— you bastard; don’t think I don’t know—”
“Hold,” said Acton in a firm tone, placing a restraining arm around Drake. “Let’s take this outside.”
Drake wasn’t having it, though, and yanked himself out of Acton’s grasp to advance on Savoie, only to pause as he contemplated the switchblade in his own hand, blinking in surprise.
There was a collective gasp, and Savoie held out a warning hand. “Non-non; stay back; there are children—”
Warily, Acton moved to stand behind Drake—boxing him in—and command in a voice that brooked no argument, “Drop it.”
Drake, however, was past listening, as he dropped the blade, and then staggered into the refreshments table, clutching at its edge as he collapsed to the ground, and pulling a stack of plates along with him.
Doyle could hear Nellie’s sound of dismay as the crockery crashed, and then there was a rush of action, as Acton rolled Drake on his back, and the bishop and Father John hurried over to offer their assistance.
“He’s breathing. Please call an ambulance,” Acton instructed the deacon.
“On its way,” Gabriel called out, as he moved to stand behind the others, watching them loosen Drake’s tie. “Anything else?”
“Please check to see whether Dr. Hsu has yet left.” Fortunately, the coroner was found outside, and his
expression was a bit grave as he knelt, and asked the others to help prop Drake into a sitting position. “Heart,” he explained succinctly. “He’s had a heart condition for some time.”
This wasn’t true, but that came as no surprise to Doyle, who no longer wondered why the coroner had attended Acton’s
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confirmation ceremony, even though the Chinese man wasn’t remotely Christian.
After taking Emile by the hand, Savoie retreated to stand at the back wall beside Doyle, which necessarily brought him next to Munoz. “Hallo, Isabel,” Emile whispered to her, his eyes wide. “Is the bad man dead?”
“Which one?” asked Munoz.
Savoie chuckled, and Doyle devotedly hoped that it wouldn’t come to cuffs between the two—she didn’t know if poor Nellie’s sensibilities could survive any more broken plates.
Fortunately, Munoz’s temper was not put to the test, as Gabriel, after taking an assessing glance toward their group, approached to say to Munoz. “Would you mind? I’ve got to go flag down the EMTs, and I could use a hand.”
Doyle thought it interesting that Gabriel hadn’t bothered to recruit his girlfriend, but then she realized that Tasza seemed to have disappeared.
Munoz left with Gabriel, and whilst Savoie crouched down to speak in a quiet voice to Emile, Doyle noted that Drake had not died—yet—and that everyone had discreetly backed away so as to allow the coroner to minister to the patient, not realizing, of course, that the patient’s fate was sealed, and that he was being ministered straight into the morgue.
The EMTs arrived, and in the flurry of activity, she thought over this carefully-choreographed misdirection murder, wondering what it all meant—that it meant something seemed obvious, but she was at a loss. Acton had shielded Drake from prosecution in the corruption case, but now it seemed plain as day that he wanted the man well-and-thoroughly-dead. And not only well-and-thoroughly-dead, but in a public venue, so that this turn of events could be witnessed by the right people. A threat? A warning? But to who?
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After a grey-faced Drake was wheeled away, the guests spoke in the subdued voices of people who didn’t want to make a hasty retreat, even though such was their inclination. Acton and Father John approached them, and the priest apologized to Savoie. “I’m that sorry the fellow attacked you, Mr. Savoie. And to think you risked your own safety, to come tell us what you knew.”
“De rien,” disclaimed Savoie, in all modesty.
“It was indeed unfortunate,” said Acton, in a classic understatement. “But we mustn’t leap to conclusions.”
“No—of course not,” Father John agreed hastily. “Perhaps the less said, the better.”
“I must go.” Savoie bent to kiss Emile on each cheek. “Au revoir, mon fils.”
“Au revoir, Papa.”
Emile’s face looked a bit stricken, as he watched his Papa make his way toward the door, and almost immediately, Mary appeared beside him to take the boy’s hand in her own, and speak of their planned visit to the treat shop.
During the discreet exodus of the guests, Howard came over to take his leave. “Never a dull moment,” he offered, with a wry smile. “Sorry for it.”
“We are fortunate no one was hurt,” Acton replied, bowing his head in acknowledgment. “A regrettable situation.”
“Quite.” The man’s gaze strayed over to Mary, as she spoke in a cheerful tone to the two children.
With a smile, Doyle asked, “When’s the weddin’? Have you set up a date?”
“Oh—oh, no. No date, as yet.”
The bishop approached to draw Acton’s attention, and while the officiate took his leave, Howard turned aside to speak with Mary. “Pardon me; pardon me, but I was wondering—I suppose I was wondering if you are Mrs. Savoie?”
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“Oh, no,” Mary smiled. “I’m Lady Acton’s nanny.” There was a small silence, as she and Howard looked into each other’s eyes, and were mated for life.
Doyle caught her breath in wonder, rocked to the soles of her shoes. I am a matchmaker, she thought—it’s only that I keep matching up the wrong people. And poor Williams is outflanked, yet again—not to mention Howard’s well-bred fiancée; she’ll have to go to the next Ascot Gala all by herself, poor thing.
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Trouble; she was angry with him. She must have guessed.
W hen their party returned to the flat, Mary helped the children change out of their best clothes in preparation for the promised outing to the treat shop, and—rather defiantly—Doyle announced her intention to join them. “I’m goin’ to the treat shop, husband, because if anyone is
Murder in Misdirection: A Doyle & Acton Mystery (The Doyle and Acton Scotland Yard series Book 7) Page 12
