by Cate Dean
“It wasn’t important. No, Maggie, it wasn’t,” he said, when she shook her head at him. “My family has nothing to do with us. I will send them an announcement, and leave it up to them to contact us. Or not.” He would hardly hold his breath, especially concerning his father. His brothers had already produced heirs to carry on the family name. “My family is here.”
“Oh, Martin.”
Maggie wrapped her arms around him, and he held her, already aware of the small changes. Soon, those changes would be visible to everyone.
“We will have to tell people, love.”
“I know.” Her voice was muffled. She squeezed him before she let go and stepped back, scrubbing at her face. “But I want to wait, until this thing with Spencer is sorted out. Speaking of that—let’s talk to Ian, find out what Spencer can have in the way of personal items.”
“If you’re ready, we will go find him.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to believe my best friend is a murderer.” She sighed, and turned to the door. “Even if Spencer won’t see me, he’s going to know I’m not leaving him alone. Not until he’s free.”
Martin followed her out of the interrogation room, worried that her optimism would be crushed before it had time to blossom.
Ian met them at the front counter. “All right, Maggie?”
“Much better. Thank you for the privacy, Ian. I have a question for you.”
“Let me have it.”
She took a deep breath. “Can Spencer have personal items while he’s here?”
“Basic toiletries, yes. Perhaps some food. But beyond that, I’m afraid not.”
“That’s what I was thinking of. Just a few things to make him more comfortable.”
“I will have to examine every item before it is allowed in holding.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything else.”
Ian studied her, and finally nodded. “Gather up what you like. But I have final veto.”
“Thank you, Ian.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed Martin’s cheek. “I’m going over to Spencer’s right now. I’ll be back.”
Martin followed her to the door, and stopped out front to watch her stride down the high street, toward Spencer’s building.
“Spencer is one lucky man, to have someone with Maggie’s determination on his side.”
“He is.”
“When are you going to tell people that she’s expecting?” Ian kept his voice low, but Martin jerked as if the man had shouted.
“How did you—” He closed his eyes, aware that he had just given them away.
“I am an inspector, Professor.” Ian looked after Maggie, smiling. “She moves differently, and I have seen my sisters pregnant often enough to recognize the signs. Also, she may not realize it yet, but she keeps touching her stomach, in a protective way. Quite common, if my sisters are any indication.”
“Maggie wants to wait, until Spencer is sorted.”
“Understood. I will keep the information to myself, and look suitably surprised when she tells me.” He clapped one hand on Martin’s left shoulder. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I am still in the ‘attempting to take it in’ stage.”
“Also quite common. Up for some strong coffee? We can wait for Maggie in my office.”
“That would be perfect.”
Ian led the way back into the station, stopping long enough to let Jackie know where he would be. Martin smiled at Jackie, letting it fade as he followed Ian to the small office just before the interrogation room.
He preferred tea, but the coffee would revive him. The conversation with Ian would help direct his mind, and his concern, away from Maggie.
If Ian were to be believed, Martin would be spending the next six months in a constant state of worry.
Fourteen
Making a mental list as she fast walked to Spencer’s, Maggie decided to add a note. If Spencer wasn’t going to talk to her in person, then she would write down her thoughts.
He may decide not to read them, but at least she would get them out of her head.
She took the lift, instead of climbing the stairs. Her body was telling her already to slow down. It might have been lack of sleep since the first murder, but for once, Maggie was going to listen.
When she stepped out of the lift, she glanced at Spencer’s door—and froze when she saw that it was open. As quietly as possible, her heart pounding, she inched closer, until she could see inside the flat. She almost sagged in relief when Grace came into view.
Maggie tapped on the open door, so she wouldn’t startle Grace, and stepped inside.
“Hi.”
“Maggie—what are you doing here?”
“I came to get a few things for Spencer.”
Grace shook her head. “I can’t believe it. I refuse to believe Spencer would do such a violent thing.”
“Are you packing?”
“My time here is almost up.” Grace turned away from her, and grabbed a few things off the crowded coffee table. “I wanted to say goodbye to Spencer, properly, but I suppose that will have to wait.”
“He won’t see anyone.” Maggie watched her carefully pack the items in the suitcase she had open on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living area, frowning when she thought she saw one of Spencer’s scrolls. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out, Grace. I hope we can still be friends.”
“Of course, Maggie.” She turned, a bright smile on her face. Maggie made sure she was looking directly at Grace—and not at the scroll. “Would you like some tea? I’m ready for a break about now.”
“That would be nice. Can you use the kitchen?”
“Oh, yes. DI Reynolds cleared it a couple of days ago. Didn’t Spencer tell you?”
“No. We’ve been a little preoccupied.”
“He’s getting so forgetful lately. I worry about him.”
Maggie wanted to defend him, until she remembered his lost time.
“I guess so.” She sat on the armchair at the end of the coffee table. As soon as Grace moved into the kitchen, Maggie would be out of sight, and she could take a closer look at the suitcase. “It’s already been a long day, and it’s not over.”
“I’ll put the kettle on.” She moved around the counter. “Any scones with your tea?”
“That would be perfect.”
Maggie waited until she heard the sound of water running, and stood, keeping her head ducked as she headed quickly to the open suitcase. The next part would be tricky; with the suitcase on the counter, Grace would see her snooping if she turned around.
After a quick peek over the counter, she confirmed that Grace was at the counter next to the stove, facing away from her. It would only take a few seconds to confirm that what she thought was a scroll was actually a scroll.
She carefully lifted the blue sweater, and fought the need to gasp. Anya’s distinctive handwriting confirmed her suspicion.
Why is Grace stealing one of the scrolls?
Maggie ducked back down and rushed back to her chair, leaning over to look at the contents on the coffee table. Several scrolls were stacked among the notebooks, piles of paper, and an amber jar. Maggie also spotted a copy of the book Spencer had devoured in the library before their fateful trip to Dell. Dell’s Wicked and Haunted Past.
He must have bought his own copy—for research, he’d tell her. She smiled, even as her heart ached at the thought of him locked in the small cell, his future uncertain—
“Here we are. Maggie?” Grace’s sharp voice jerked her out of her thoughts. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” She picked up the book. “I just noticed this, and was thinking about when we first saw it.”
“Spencer and his ridiculous theories.” Grace smiled, making it seem like a tease. But Maggie had heard the bitterness in her voice. “Pick your poison.”
She held the tray out, and Maggie took the cup with the small chip in the saucer. That had happened during one of their late night discussions, and S
pencer always made sure to hide it in the bottom of the cupboard when his parents came to visit.
The memories kept assaulting her. If she didn’t stop them, she’d turn into a tear-streaked mess, in front of Grace.
Maggie pushed away the latest one and sipped her tea, breathing in the heady scent of Earl Grey. After Grace set the tray on the edge of the counter, she sat on the sofa with her own cup and passed a scone to Maggie.
“Thanks.” It was one of Lilly’s, her cranberry orange. Maggie took a big bite, her stomach rumbling. “Haven’t eaten much today,” she said, once she swallowed.
“Events like this do tend to kill the appetite.” Grace took a much smaller bite of her scone, and smiled. “I will miss daily access to The Tea Caddy.”
“You’re staying with the tour company, aren’t you?”
“Of course. But I have arranged to work out of the London office, and book tours for a few months, instead of leading them. It will be easier to make the break if there’s distance between us, and I don’t see him for a while—I’m sorry.”
She set her cup on the coffee table and lowered her head.
Maggie put her cup and scone down, moving to the sofa. “I know it hurts right now, but you’ll be fine, Grace.”
“Yes.” She wiped her eyes. “Can you reach that bottle for me? The amber one? It is a tincture with lavender. I’ve been using it to help get me through.”
“Sure.” Maggie picked up the bottle, flinching when her fingers met the damp glass. “Careful,” she said, handing it over. “Some of it must have spilled down the side.”
Grace picked up a napkin, and took the bottle from her. “Thank you.”
Maggie reached for a napkin, and grabbed the table when a wave of dizziness caught her off guard.
“Whoa,” she whispered. “Hormones.”
“What?”
“Nothing. My lack of sleep is catching up, I guess. Just got a little dizzy.”
“It is working faster than I expected.”
“What—ˮ Maggie clutched her head, then the table again when the world took a nasty turn. “What did you—ˮ
“A harmless sedative, Maggie.” Grace eased her back to the sofa, brushing a stray curl off her cheek. “We have some talking to do, you and I. This was unplanned; I meant to invite you to dinner, in London, where we would have complete privacy, and I could find out just how much you thought you knew. But you spotting the scroll accelerated my plan, by necessity.”
“What are you—I don’t understand.” Maggie kept blinking, her eyes refusing to focus for more than a minute. “You drugged me.”
“Ah, there is the amateur detective. I admire your mind, Maggie. I was afraid it would stumble on to the truth before I could free myself from this place.” She shook her head. “I almost made it.”
“I’m going to—ˮ Maggie tried to stand, to get away. Freedom was only a few steps—
Grace easily pushed her back to the sofa. “It will only be a few minutes more, and you will sleep.”
“How—you offered me—either tea cup.”
“The scone.” Grace smiled at her. At least, Maggie thought it was a smile. Her face was starting to look—wavy. “I knew the sharp citrus would cover any taste of lavender. The bottle is always a little wet. Spencer was constantly moving it, or handing it to me when I ask. It made drugging him so much easier than I expected. Though he did adore my coffee, for late nights at the museum. My nutmeg hid the lavender quite well.”
“You—killed—ˮ
“Regina. Yes. Sleep now, my dear Maggie. There will be plenty of time for questions once we reach our destination.”
Maggie fought the approaching darkness, fought to ask one more question. But the sedative won, and dragged her under.
***
Martin paced the tiny waiting area, glancing at his watch every other minute. Maggie should have returned by now. It wouldn’t take more than half an hour to pack a few personal items, no matter how much she deliberated on what to take.
If she didn’t arrive in the next five minutes, Martin was going to phone her, and ask why she as taking so long.
Ian strode out, interrupting his latest turn around the waiting area. “Martin. I just received some information. Will you join me?”
“Of course.”
He followed Ian past the front counter, down the narrow hall, and realized they were heading to the holding cells. Spencer leapt to his feet when he saw them, panic on his face
“I told you I didn’t want anyone back here, Ian. Don’t let—ˮ
“Maggie is not behind us. She has gone to your flat to gather a few things for you. I brought Martin, because I have news, and I wanted to say it once.” He ran one hand over his short hair. “I received a call from Dr. Smith. He ran your blood test, and found traces of a strong sedative in your blood.”
Spencer lowered himself to the bunk. “I was drugged.”
Ian nodded. “According to Dr. Smith, the sedative could account for your missed time. It causes temporary memory loss.”
“Who...” He stood, and named Martin’s suspicion. “Grace. But why? Because I broke up with her?”
“Women have done more damage for less,” Ian said. “Years in London showed me that much. Do you know where she is?”
“London. She told me she was going to come back and pack up the rest of her things this week... Wait, what day is it?”
“Thursday.”
Spencer’s face paled. “Today. She was going to pack today, since I’d be at the museum. Maggie—ˮ
“Is there right now.” Martin sprinted for the front door.
By the time he reached the sidewalk, Spencer and Ian joined him. All three ran toward Spencer’s building, Martin’s dread growing with every step. If Maggie had been harmed, in any way, he would not be responsible for his actions.
They pounded up the stairs, and found Spencer’s door open. Spencer got there first, shoving it open and running inside.
“She’s not here. But Grace was.” He pointed at the open suitcase. “That wasn’t here when I left for the museum.”
Ian focused on the coffee table, and Martin joined him. Two cups of tea and two plates sat among the other items crowding the table. Ian reached for a small, amber bottle that sat in the middle.
“Don’t touch that,” Spencer said. “It leaks, and you’ll smell like lavender for the rest of the day.”
Ian glanced at Martin, and pulled an evidence bag out of his pocket, using it to lift the bottle. “I will have this sent to Dr. Smith.” He felt the side of the closest tea cup. “It’s still warm. If Maggie was here with Grace, they left within the last ten minutes.”
Martin paced, forcing down his panic. “Where would she take Maggie?”
“I don’t—ˮ
“I know where they went.” Spencer held up a scroll. Martin recognized it; he had seen one at the museum, on Spencer’s cluttered desk. “Grace took her to Dell.”
Fifteen
A throbbing headache woke Maggie.
She held still, her eyes closed, and waited for her stomach to settle. What Grace had drugged her with left her on the edge of nausea. Maggie had a feeling if she turned her head too quickly that she would throw up.
Footsteps approached her, muffled by the rug Maggie felt under her hands.
“Open your eyes, Maggie. I saw you move.”
Swallowing, Maggie obeyed, and found Grace bent over her. Sweat streaked her face, and she had taken off the silk scarf she normally wore. When she straightened, Maggie’s gaze followed her—and she froze, knowing exactly where she was.
Anya’s portrait was visible, just over Grace’s shoulder.
The portrait that hung in her manor house.
In Dell.
Maggie hadn’t seen the painting for more than ten years, but she would never forget it.
What startled her more than realizing where Grace had taken her was Grace’s startling resemblance to Anya.
“You’re—” She coughed, fl
inching at the renewed throbbing in her head. “You look like her.”
“Anya? Yes. I discovered the family tie after my aunt passed, and left me a journal. I never thought about my unusual birthmark, since all the women in my family had it.” She pulled back her collar, revealing the distinctive heart-shaped mark. The same one Anya had, on the right side of her throat, just under her jaw.
“How did you hide that from Spencer?”
“Clever wardrobe, and waterproof makeup,” she smiled at Maggie, “when I couldn’t wear any clothes. I told Spencer on our first date that I didn’t enjoy having my throat kissed. He took me at my word, the sweet, naïve man.”
“Did your aunt’s journal tell you about Anya?”
“Just enough to pique my curiosity. But after I learned the truth about Anya, I began to research.”
“And you learned about Spencer.”
She shrugged. “He was a means to an end. I needed the scrolls, to find the answers to my questions, my heritage. You introducing us made it so much easier to insert myself into his life.”
Maggie cursed silently. This had been her fault.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Grace said, and slid her arm under Maggie, helping her sit. Maggie grabbed the rug as the world took a slow, nasty spin. “Slow, deep breaths. It will wear off.”
Maggie did, feeling a little more stable. The glamour she remembered from her time here was gone. No power whispered along her skin. That meant what she saw was real—from the furniture, the rugs, and the fresh plaster to the silver candlesticks flanking Anya’s portrait. Grace had been renovating the manor house.
Grace’s voice jerked her back to the moment. “I would have found a way to meet Spencer, even without your help. I did my research, learned his type, and made myself over.”
She touched her short blonde hair, and Maggie noticed the dark roots. “You’re not a blonde,” she whispered.
“Far from it, though I have become attached to the color. I just might keep it.” She stood, crossing her arms. “I was minutes away from leaving, Maggie. Why did you have to stick your nose in?”
