Ask Me No Questions

by Shelley Noble

  The door finally closed on them, and Philomena returned to Bev. The room was filled with mountains of dirty glasses and plates and overflowing ashtrays. A shambles.

  She turned to find Tuttle standing in the doorway. “We’re expecting the police detective in the morning.”

  “Yes, my lady. I will make certain the maids pay particular attention to the cleaning and airing.”

  “Thank you, Tuttle. That will be all.”

  Bev poured two more glasses of champagne and sank onto the sofa. “I thought they would never leave. Did you ever find your mystery man?”

  “No,” Phil said thoughtfully. “He must have left before the others.”

  “Poor Phil. I’m sorry to have ruined your first day in America.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Hmmm.” Bev closed her eyes.

  What a mess, thought Philomena. She crossed to the French window and looked out into the night. She should be out there making her way in the world, going to the theater, taking New York by storm.

  A light flared on the street. Someone lit a cigarette, leaned against the lamppost, and … stared up to her window. She peered back at him. Surely it was the man from the party. But what was he doing there?

  A thief who planned to come back and burgle the house? He’d not get past her. She marched to the front door. The footman scrambled out of his straight-back chair to open it for her.

  She stood on the stoop looking up and down the street. It was empty. The man, of course, was gone.

  3

  Birds. Lady Dunbridge swore she could hear birds.

  “No!” She stuffed the pillow over her head. So it hadn’t been a bad dream. She was at the grouse shoot at Henley-on-Thames.

  And she actually thought she’d made it to New York. The bit about the murder and the wake must have been the delectable dream.

  “Madam.”

  Madam?

  Phil turned over and pulled the pillow off her face. Blinked against the light streaming through the window of … Bev’s guest bedroom. She sat up, dislodging the pillow to the floor.

  “Oh, thank God!” she said with a sigh of relief.

  Lily stood at her bedside, holding a cup of hot coffee.

  “It’s Lily,” Phil said with enthusiasm.

  “And who else would it be?” Lily handed her the cup and Phil leaned forward while Lily replaced the pillows behind her back.

  “No one at all. Excellent. It must be morning.”

  “It’s past nine o’clock. And old slouch face has been sitting in a chair outside your door since seven.”

  “Who?” Phil asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Mr. Pr-r-reswick,” Lily said.

  “Now, Lily. It’s thanks to Mr. Preswick that you, and I for that matter, are starting life in the United States.”

  Lily looked at the floor.

  “He may be slow and not quite up-to-date in his thinking, but he’s very loyal, even to you. That’s the best quality you can have in a friend or a servant or a master.”

  Lily looked up through long black lashes. “I have to like him?”

  “Yes.”

  “He thinks I’m a wh—”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t. But—did you say past nine? Good heavens.” Phil set down her cup and pushed the covers away. “That unkempt policeman is going to be arriving here soon. Tell Preswick I’ll talk to him later. I must get dressed. Is Bev up? Tell him to ask the butler—the other butler—what’s his name … Tuttle, to have—Oh, it’s too complicated. Find me something to wear. The maroon-and-eggplant China silk, I think. I’ll be right back. I have to make sure Bev’s awake.”

  “But you hate that dress.”

  “I’m meeting the police. I need to look formidable.” She slid off the bed, pushed her arms into the sleeves of her dressing gown, her feet into her slippers, and rushed out of her room, past Preswick, who sprang from the straight-backed chair that had been placed near her door. To guard her chamber? There wasn’t an even remotely interesting male in the house.

  She sped down the hall to Bev’s room.

  A quick knock and she opened the door. As she suspected, Bev was fast asleep in a gigantic four-poster bed beneath a persimmon satin comforter. Phil strode to the bellpull and rang for Bev’s maid.

  “Wake up, Bevvy,” Phil cajoled, using her school days nickname.

  Bev moaned, turned over.

  “Come on, Bevvy, look alive. It’s time for morning prayers.”

  “Nooo. Madame Floret will make us write ‘I am a sinner’ one hundred times if we’re late. Tell her I’m sick.”

  “Bev. Wake up. That police detective will be here any minute and we haven’t even breakfasted.”

  One of Bev’s eyes opened. She saw Phil and closed it again. “I’d rather face Madame Floret than your rumpled filthy policeman.”

  So would I, Phil thought, but there was no hope for it. “Oh, good. Here is Elmira.”

  “Yes, my lady?”

  Better manners than her own servant, who refused to say “my lady” and when forced to do so, managed to roll the words despite the absence of any r’s.

  “Please see that Mrs. Reynolds gets dressed and comes downstairs immediately. I’ll be in the breakfast room.”

  Elmira curtseyed and turned to Bev.

  Philomena left them to it.

  * * *

  But Phil was not allowed to breakfast in peace. She dressed in the despised maroon gown—why she’d let herself be talked into buying it was beyond her memory—and descended the stairs to find two butlers standing in the foyer.

  If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with Reggie’s death she would have foreseen this problem. Preswick was not about to cede his duties to his mistress even in someone else’s house under the control of someone else’s butler.

  She attempted to nod once, taking in both men.

  “Preswick, the police should be here any minute, but we shall speak later. Tuttle, I’ll be in the breakfast room if he arrives before Mrs. Reynolds comes downstairs.”

  “Yes, my lady. This way, please.”

  They hadn’t gone two steps before the doorbell rang.

  So much for breakfast or even a cup of coffee.

  Preswick started automatically toward the door. But Tuttle turned on his heel and caught up to him.

  They stood eyeing each other while the doorbell rang again. Tuttle gave the extraneous butler a sharp look intended to put him in his place. But Preswick wasn’t so easy to intimidate. And while the two butlers stared at each other, the footman opened the door.

  Phil saw it all, and though she tried to duck into the parlor before the detective entered, the butlers were blocking her way. So instead of standing at the French window of the parlor looking formidable when the detective entered, she was caught running across the middle of the foyer floor.

  She froze and straightened up to her most dignified manner as he stepped into the hall. She was relieved to see that he was wearing a familiar but clean overcoat and hat.

  “Detective Sergeant Atkins,” Tuttle announced superfluously.

  “Good morning, Detective.” Phil smiled graciously, in a manner any dowager would be proud of. Her stomach growled, echoing through the foyer with humiliating clarity.

  The detective nodded slightly. “Lady Dunbridge, I’m afraid I’ve interrupted your breakfast.”

  “Not at all.” She hadn’t even had a full cup of coffee.

  He removed his hat and handed it to Tuttle.

  All thought of breakfast flew from Phil’s brain.

  My, my, she thought. Could this possibly be the Detective Sergeant Atkins from the wharf? That detective had been a dirty, uncouth derelict. This detective looked like one of the rugged Wild West cowboys on the covers of the imported dime novels that were so popular among the staff at Dunbridge Hall.

  He was tall with a firm jaw, thick hair, something she was particularly fond of, and clean shaven, something else she was extremely fond of. All that was m
issing was his faithful steed, and she was tempted to take a peek out the window to see if perhaps …

  He shrugged out of his overcoat, which he gave to the footman. Beneath it, he wore a well-cut suit.

  Her stomach growled again, but she didn’t think it was over eggs and toast.

  “Shall you use the parlor, my lady?” Tuttle asked, stressing “my lady,” for the policeman’s benefit, Phil was sure.

  She led the way, the skirts of her train rustling with superiority. Really, he was the most gorgeous man. Too bad he was a policeman. Yet, this was America. Much more democratic in their notions than the English.

  Come to think of it, the possibilities were endless.

  “Lady Dunbridge, I must apologize if I frightened you yesterday. I was in the vicinity on another case. ‘Undercover,’ as we say in the force, and that is why I was called to the docks to take charge of the situation.”

  “But you are here today.”

  “Well, the Reynoldses’ address is in my jurisdiction.”

  “I see.” So they were not to be rid of this troublesome detective, a delightful and frightening circumstance. A sliver of panic put an end to any notion of the policeman’s charm, leaving only the fright. What was she thinking? Why had she overslept? Why hadn’t she refused the guests from last night?

  What if there was still evidence of the wake? She quickly glanced around the room and saw that Tuttle had been true to his word. The room was clean; there was the merest lingering odor of tobacco, but that might be normal for American drawing rooms.

  “Please be seated.” She indicated the wing chair and seated herself on the couch.

  The detective sat without hesitation and looked totally comfortable. Well, he was extremely appealing and he did have the upper hand, she had to admit. She sincerely hoped that Tuttle was informing Bev that the detective was here and waiting for her to make an appearance. Phil didn’t think it was her place to play hostess in a murder investigation.

  She waited. Something she’d learned from her father, not the kindest of that breed, but a consummate master of wielding power. Never speak before your petitioners. Let the weakest begin the attack.

  “I see the Reynoldses’ servants did an admirable job of cleaning up after last evening.”

  Phil blinked. Well, she hadn’t expected that approach. And how the deuce did he know? She lifted an eyebrow.

  “You received quite a number of guests last night.”

  Well, Papa, what now? He’s doing all the talking and I feel like the person of weakness.

  The detective sergeant cocked his head.

  “There were a number of close friends who wished to pay their condolences.”

  “Quite a number of friends.”

  “Mr. Reynolds was a popular man; he had many friends,” Philomena answered. This inanity could go on all day and she’d hoped to get some idea of what he wanted before Bev arrived.

  “Evidently, and very lively ones.”

  Phil gritted her teeth. He was goading her. Well, let him goad. “Do you make a practice of spying on the bereaved?”

  His expression didn’t change, but Phil hadn’t existed in society for nearly a decade without learning to recognize the change in temperature. And the air around him had definitely gotten cooler.

  “I had men watching the house … for your safety.”

  “Do we need protecting?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to ascertain.” He smiled, but it wasn’t reassuring in the least. “I was hoping to speak to Mrs. Reynolds this morning.”

  “I’m afraid she’s still deeply in shock.”

  “Good morning, Detective Sergeant,” Bev said from the doorway. She looked ravishing in a midnight blue tea gown shot with silver strands and embellished with a filigreed shoulder cape.

  She glanced at the policeman, then to Phil, and widened her eyes.

  Phil could have kicked her shins but had to settle for a meaningful look, which she was afraid Bev missed completely since she seemed smitten with the detective sergeant.

  “I’m so sorry not to be down to welcome you, but I…” She finished the statement by lifting the back of her hand to her forehead, creating a perfect picture of mourning and loss and leaving the detective sergeant an unobstructed view of her inviting décolleté.

  On second glance, Bev did look awfully faint, and the detective and Phil moved at the same time as Bev swayed on her feet. Together they led her to the sofa.

  “I do beg your pardon,” Bev said, holding on to both of them and pulling them closer as if she were about to impart a secret. Phil fervently hoped she wasn’t about to confess.

  “Would you mind terribly, Detective Atkins, if I asked Tuttle to bring coffee? I’m feeling just a little…” She fumbled in her sleeve for her handkerchief and dotted her eyes.

  For the first time since she’d arrived, Phil wondered if her friend was showing her true colors. Or giving them a run. She was brought to mind of a night during their youth when they were returning after curfew to school. They were a little tipsy, or perhaps they’d been rip-snorting drunk—it was hard to remember. They had hiked up their skirts to climb the school fence when they were stopped by a gendarme. Bev had whipped out her handkerchief and begun a story of a party where they had been drinking punch not knowing it was spiked and they were so afraid that Madame Floret would be disappointed in them. It was a total lie. They were always in trouble. But whether he’d believed them or not, he’d helped them climb the fence and, with an admonishment to be more careful in the future, watched until they were safely bestowed inside.

  Once coffee was served and Detective Sergeant Atkins had been persuaded to take a cup, he took a notebook from his pocket. “I’m afraid I must ask you some questions about yesterday,” he said. “Normally I would bring an officer to record our conversation, but I thought you might prefer more privacy.”

  Phil didn’t miss the tightening of his jaw as he finished the sentence. Had he been instructed to be discreet? Was this evidence of Freddy’s handiwork so soon?

  “Thank you.” Bev didn’t simper. She didn’t have to; Phil was fairly certain poor John Atkins was caught.

  John Atkins cut Phil a look.

  Well, perhaps not entirely caught.

  “Can you tell me what occurred at the wharf?”

  Bev rolled her eyes upward as if she were about to recite sums. “I was there to meet Phil’s ship—my friend Philomena Amesbury, Countess of Dunbridge.”

  “And why did you leave your position there?”

  “I realized that Reggie hadn’t seen us, so I went to tell him to drive closer.”

  “And when you arrived…?”

  “When I arrived, Reggie was dead and that … and Mimi LaPonte was holding him in her arms.” She covered her face with both hands, looking so pure and innocent that Phil moved to put her arm around her.

  Atkins seemed oblivious of her discomfort. “So he was dead when you arrived at the car.”

  “She said he was,” Phil snapped, leaping to Bev’s defense.

  Atkins plowed on. “Was he, Mrs. Reynolds?”

  “Yes,” Bev said, lowering her hands and clutching her handkerchief.

  “And did you hear a shot?”

  “I … yes, I must have. It just sounded like a loud pop. I was startled for a second, like one would be, but I didn’t think anything of it.”

  “Can you describe the scene?”

  “What?”

  “Really, Detective Sergeant, is this necessary?” Phil asked. “I arrived shortly after she did. I can describe the details if you insist.”

  “Thank you, but all in good time.”

  “I just saw Reggie lying there, covered in all that blood. His head was in her lap and she was caterwauling that he’d shot himself.” Bev straightened up. “Why? Why would Reggie shoot himself? I won’t believe it. His thoroughbred Devil’s Thunder is scheduled to run at Belmont in just a few days. He’s favored to win. That … woman must have shot him. She must hav
e forced her way into the auto and shot him.”

  “Are you acquainted with Miss LaPonte?”

  “Only by reputation. Wives and mistresses don’t tend to run in the same circles, Detective.”

  It was the first time since Phil had arrived that Bev showed that streak of bravado that had served them well in their many schoolgirl scrapes.

  “I don’t suppose they do. Did your husband own a revolver, Mrs. Reynolds?”

  “Of course he did. Several, in fact. He needed the protection. It was sometimes necessary for him to carry large sums of cash on his person.”

  For instance, when he won at the racetrack, Phil thought. Or for his mistress’s allowance. He must have been supporting her. Phil would have to ask Bev once the policeman was gone.

  “He carried it in his coat pocket at the ready.”

  “Did you see a pistol when you looked into the car?”

  Bev shook her head. “Only Reggie and all that blood.”

  Detective Atkins nodded and scribbled something in his book.

  “Did you find a gun in his pocket?” Philomena asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “It must have been,” Bev said. “He always carried it when he was out on the streets.”

  Phil wanted to warn Bev to be more careful in her answers. She didn’t think Bev was a murderess, but as the scorned wife, she might appear to be. They should have prepared better for this visit, but since neither of them had ever been involved with a police investigation—discounting that little misadventure back in London, and that certainly didn’t count—they hadn’t anticipated what questions he would ask.

  “But if it was in his pocket…” Phil frowned at the detective.

  “I didn’t say that it was. Regardless…” He cast Bev an apologetic look. “If he killed himself, he didn’t live long enough to return it to his coat.”

  “Ah.” They hadn’t found a pistol either. “So an unknown assailant must have murdered him,” Phil said.

  “Unknown as of now, but I have two very possible suspects.”

  “Oh, really, Detective Atkins. You can’t imagine that Bev—Mrs. Reynolds shot her husband, so unless you think this Florodora girl did it … Do you?”

  He opened his mouth.