Death and the Lit Chick sm-2

by G. M. Malliet

  "Ah, yes, speaking of the staff: The bartender, having been shown a certain photo, remembers you well as the lady who showed such a keen interest in the priest's hole. Combined with a few other inconsistencies, yes, I think we can put a seal on this nicely."

  "Inconsistencies… such as?"

  "Such as this."

  He reached into the box behind him and pulled out several books. He held out one, its back cover facing his audience. He turned slowly, so they could all get a good look.

  "Your author photo." He held up another book, then another, all with different photos of Annabelle through the years, but all of them glamour shots of a woman unrecognizable as the frumpy, haggard-looking Annabelle that sat before them. The woman in the photo was coiffed and buffed and highlighted to within an inch of her life, and even allowing for the photographer's art and skillfully applied makeup, her beauty could not be denied. Her blonde hair fell in graceful waves to her shoulders; in one particularly ravishing photo she wore a low-cut dress of red satin. At her neck and throat were diamonds. She was a stunner.

  "This is why you got rid of all the copies of your book you could lay your hands on at the conference booksellers, isn't it? Your disguise was to play the frump, the woman of no sex appeal whatsoever. Especially once you saw me browsing the bookstore at the conference that day, you realized you had to buy up all the copies of your book and destroy them or throw them away. They couldn't be found in your room by the police, could they? Because your deadly game with Desmond was already, if you will forgive the expression, afoot. You could not have the police noticing your disguise.

  "What did you do with the books?" he demanded.

  "What books?" she snapped. "This is madness, I tell you."

  "The first day of the conference I saw you carrying a bag that had to have had a dozen books in it. The bookseller will have a record of that purchase, of course. But we only found three books in your room, all by other authors. What did you do with your own books? Will we also find them in the moat-or did you just find a handy trash bin somewhere?"

  "I really don't know what you're talking about."

  "You're the only author-the only one-who isn't traveling with at least a few copies of her own books. Dozens, in some cases. Why is that, I asked myself? Humility? A lack of vanity? Not ruddy likely. That's an unheard-of modesty for an author. But there are practical reasons as well: All of you keep your own books about you in case the bookseller runs out of copies, in case a fan asks to see the cover-whatever authorial reasons. Then I remembered: All of the authors had a big, smiling photo-in some cases, a scowling photo-of themselves on the backs of their books.

  "It was the photo you didn't want us to see, wasn't it?"

  "Disguise." She fairly spat at him, fixing him with arrow-slit eyes, a brief flare of temper beneath the ice. "Don't be absurd. I've just not been well."

  "That is makeup on your face," he replied, "but you've painted yourself almost gray. You've painted yourself old, haven't you? No woman wears makeup so that she can look worse -unless she's playing a part, like an actress in a play. I would've said you wore no makeup at all, but there were in fact the usual little pots and bottles in your room. And baby powder-possibly used to dull your hair. That's an old actor's trick. Something you learned as a photographer's assistant, perhaps? There were also tissues in your bathroom waste bin with lotion and traces of makeup on them. I thought nothing of it-all the women's waste bins were like that." The women exchanged looks at realizing how thoroughly their privacy had been invaded. "With the exception of Mrs. Elksworthy," he went on, "who really does wear no makeup."

  "Allergic," Joan barked, traces of her usual staunch self returning. "I could have told you that. No need to snoop around my room."

  "And the clothes-all wrong, all cheap and ill-fitting, nothing you would normally wear, nothing like what we see in these photos. Yet all the clothes looked brand new, bought especially for the occasion-the occasion being this farce you were about to play. Also, you have pierced ears, but I've yet to see you wear a single piece of jewelry. I was reminded of this when someone said something about Mrs. Elksworthy's jewelry, but I couldn't put my finger on the memory then."

  "I did tell you Annabelle looked changed somehow-" began Mrs. Elksworthy.

  "Yes, I missed the significance. You didn't even recognize her at first. I started looking closer and asked myself again what woman would work that hard at looking fat, bloated, and ill-especially a woman speaking before a conference audience. Especially a woman who had been involved with B. A. King-a man who would never waste a minute on a woman like the Annabelle we see before us. I could not for the life of me see how someone like B. A. King-a man of all flash and no substance-would ever have taken up with someone like Annabelle, and vice versa. It was a complete mismatch. He would go for youth or sparkle, every time. Another inconsistency."

  She gazed at him from hooded, predatory, eyes. He was reminded of the falcons in the aviary.

  "This is all pretty insulting, and yet I fail to see how my personal dress and makeup choices have anything to do with this. I've been unwell, I tell you. Maybe I've gained a few pounds. The stress of deadlines can do that. So what?"

  "Do you know what I think? For one thing, I think a woman must be very sure of her man to allow him to see her looking like that. Not to mention, letting your fans wonder what train ran over you. There had to be a reason for the sudden lack of author vanity. And the reason was this: You couldn't be seen as an object of desire-a girlfriend, a mistress. There was too much money riding on it. Kimberlee's money. No. It was best the police believe you'd never had color in your cheeks, that your hair was always drab and stringy, that you dressed like a bag lady.

  "That is why you didn't join the other ladies in the spa, even though it would have been a natural indulgence, a way to pass the time. You didn't want to be spit-polished. Your disguise was the frumpy hair and clothing.

  "I also started to notice, Annabelle, that you had quite a good brain, and could generally be counted on for the sharp observation. But your sharpness, your apparent savvy, your confident way of speaking-that didn't match your appearance, either.

  "Now, which one of you two killed poor Florie, is what I want to know?" He had a sense just then of energy flowing between the pair-but mainly of energy flowing from Annabelle to Desmond, bolstering him up. "She had to have been killed because of something she saw, something she knew. Then I remembered those four men standing around, 'repairing' the drawbridge. Florie saw them, too, and made a comment about how typical that was. Three men supervising while one worked, something to that effect."

  He turned to Donna.

  "How many men on your repair staff were called out that night?"

  "There are only three, as I told you when you asked just now. We called them all."

  " Not four?" St. Just eyes glanced across the assembled group, collecting their attention.

  "No. I saw them myself when they first arrived."

  "So somewhere along the way, they added a fourth man. That man was you, Desmond. Florie must have seen you later in the castle and recognized you as one of the 'repairmen.' But you were supposed to be the victim's husband, the one who'd rushed up, weeping all the way, from London. So what were you doing there, dressed in baggy jeans, pretending to be a workman? No one else thought anything of it-the workmen you chatted with took you for one of the friendly guests. You just walked out of the castle-anyone watching would have thought you were going to get something from the lorry. And you kept walking. Later that day, you came back, this time playing the widower."

  "I congratulate you, Annabelle. It was a good plan, and it nearly worked."

  Still, she stared at him insolently. Time to go for the weakest link, he thought. He turned to Sergeant Kittle, and nodded.

  The policeman turned and opened the library door. A dog-a black and cream German Shepherd-came tumbling in, attached to his handler by a leash. Kittle's friends Robert and Rob Roy had arrived.


  "Everyone remain seated," commanded St. Just.

  The dog made an exploratory circle around the room, sniffing as he went.

  He came to Desmond, and lay down. Desmond recoiled, as if the dog were going to take a bite of him.

  "You're all witnesses to that. He's following the scent he found in the priest's hole."

  The dog stood at Robert's command and resumed his circle around the room.

  The next place Rob Roy lay down was at Annabelle's feet.

  EPILOGUE

  St. Just had an hour until his train to Cambridge, and no desire to sit in the waiting room, reading yet another newspaper, or resuming his copy of Baudolino. The case was closed, or as closed as cases ever get, via a combination of high- and low-tech means. Man's best friend meets the age of technology.

  "You did all right by us, Cambridge," Moor had told him, dropping him off at the train station. "Even if you're not from Scotland Yaird."

  St. Just had smiled. He was going to miss Moor and Kittle. They'd walk their days under Scottish skies, and he'd probably never see either of them again.

  Portia he'd not seen again. He'd spent most of what was left of the night at the police station and slept until noon the next day. By the time he awoke, all his former suspects had departed.

  Including Portia, who had already claimed a prior, urgent appointment. That was probably even true. She'd said she would call him. There was… a "situation"… she needed to sort out first. She didn't elaborate. He hadn't dared ask. He clung with hope to the word "first." He'd give her a week, he'd decided, and then call her.

  A wedding party was arriving as he and Moor left the castle. He hoped it was an omen.

  Desmond, the weakest link, had indeed broken down under interrogation, as St. Just had known he would. Once the pair of them were separated, he'd described in detail Annabelle's role in the crime.

  She had remained steadfast, loudly proclaiming her innocence and demanding a lawyer. He'd let the Scots work on her. Not his pigeon.

  Walking aimlessly now about the streets near Waverley Station, he came to an antique shop. On closer inspection, it seemed to be more of a junk shop. In the window was a Teddy Bear that looked like the survivor of some horrible nursery experiment. Several experiments.

  He'd had a similar toy as a child. Hadn't everyone? It was hard to imagine growing up without that small comfort, but of course by the many thousands there must be children who went without.

  What next caught his eye in the window was a set of pastels. The wooden box was labeled "Sennelier Landscape Wood Soft Pastel Set." It would be years before he would come to realize they made another set in a different range of colors called Seascape, and yet another called Portrait. But he was drawn to these Landscape ones-with their rich, deep range of color, the deep blues and bright reds-like a bird drawn to a bright object.

  There were fifty of these little crayonlike objects laid in two rows in their specially made wooden box. None of them appeared to have been used. Wait-the blue drawing stick, the one of the deepest shade of blue, the one nearly a match for Portia's eyes and her velvet dress-that was a bit worn at one end. He walked into the store and, leaning into the display, picked that one out of the box.

  Who would buy a fancy set of colors like this and give up after trying only one? Intrigued, he picked up the entire box, looking for the price. Seventy pounds they wanted. Good Lord. But the set was nearly new, he told himself. And the colors, such amazing colors…

  Drawing was something he'd always done instinctively, usually when sitting, half-listening, in some interminable meeting, or otherwise held captive. He drew to record scenes the way another man might use a camera to take snapshots on vacation. He'd not had formal training, apart from one evening course, and he hadn't repeated the experience-he told himself his gift didn't amount to a major talent and he didn't want to start taking it all too seriously.

  He'd never had the least inclination to pick up a paintbrush. Black on white was his metier. If he saw this, as others did, as support for his reputation for lucid, cut-and-dried reasoning, he would be the last to acknowledge it. He'd leave the Freudian interpretations to those who liked that kind of thing.

  But… he'd have these pastels. He carried the box to the aged man behind the antique desk that served as a checkout counter. Black and white had its place, but until that moment St. Just had not known how much he felt the need of color in his world.

  He felt a surge of confidence. He would see Portia again and, this time, he'd win her over.

  He'd return to Cambridge and he'd call her right away. Who had a week to waste? Maybe he'd try to call her from the Waverley station.

  Or maybe he'd write. Anyway, he'd woo her, the old-fashioned way, no matter how big a fool he made of himself in the process.

  Whatever it took.

  ____________________

  As St. Just was handing over his credit card to the store owner, Elsbeth Dowell, Florie's replacement at Dalmorton, was carrying a stack of freshly laundered sheets down one of the labyrinth hallways of the castle. Elsbeth, only months out of school, was proud of this, her first real job, and determined to do well. She liked stately Dalmorton, with its proud history and glamorous present; she knew Donna Doone to be a fair employer.

  The door to one of the turret rooms-in fact the police's "Incident Turret"-suddenly opened of itself.

  That's odd, she thought. Those doors each weigh a ton.

  She peered inside.

  Suddenly she dropped the sheets, and screamed.

  Her screams seemed to have no effect on the two women in gauzy white dresses who stood before her, smiling, and beckoning her towards them. The women were both as transparent as cellophane. "Just like they was sweet wrappers," as she told Donna later, handing in her notice. She could see through both of them to the gray castle walls behind.

  One of the women wore a voluminous gown, medieval in style, with long sleeves and a veiled headdress; the other a modern dress with spaghetti straps, short and clinging and low-cut. It might almost have been a white silk slip.

  She had long, flowing, white-blonde hair.

  ____________________

  It was well over a year since the Dalmorton murders, with Cambridge heading into an unseasonably warm June. As St. Just walked along Trinity Street past Heffer's, his eye was caught by the name Joan Elksworthy on a book in the display window.

  He stepped inside for a closer look. He hefted the book off the display; it was a good-sized hardback with a glossy pink-and-black cover, edged in a tartan pattern of similar colors. A dark, looming castle dominated the illustration. Joan's name appeared in large, bold type over a title in still-larger type: Death at Dalmorton. Leafing through the pages, he saw what Joan had written was a nonfiction, "eyewitness" account of Kimberlee's murder. One of the store clerks, just walking past, told him it was one of their more popular items.

  Of course St. Just had to have a copy. He remembered his last conversation at the castle with Mrs. E., just before he left for the police station with Moor and Kittle.

  "Poor Kimberlee," she'd said. "I'm sure she never saw it coming. We all need to protect ourselves-some more than others-from knowing what our nearest and dearest really think of us, don't we? How could we go on living otherwise-without those blinders on?"

  "A bit cynical, that, don't you think?"

  "Not at all, Inspector. I'm just a realist."

  Taking the book to the checkout desk, he also noticed that What Jesus Ate by Sarah Beauclerk-Fisk, a name from one of his previous investigations, was apparently still selling briskly, judging by its prominent display. He picked up the book and smiled, deciding to buy it, if for no other reason than old times' sake. He'd never get around to reading it, but maybe he could give it to someone as a gift. Or maybe he could start a collection: books by murder suspects. It was then the name Magretta Sincock on yet another book on the best-seller table caught his eye. Another hot pink and black number. He picked up the book and turned it over to r
ead the jacket copy: "A refreshing and daring departure for the Queen of Romantic Suspense: hip, witty, irreverent. Most of all: cool. This season's must-have accessory for your beach bag."

  Really. Somehow, that didn't sound like Magretta, and, as he scanned the pages, he began to recognize pieces of the manuscript the Scottish police had managed to retrieve from Kimberlee's sodden laptop. He turned the book to look at its spine, and saw the distinctive Deadly Dagger Press logo.

  He barked out a laugh, causing nearby browsers in the sanctuary-like atmosphere of the store to turn their heads and frown at him in disapproval. She'd stolen it from Kimberlee, of course. Magretta must have copied the computer file onto a memory stick or a CD-despite her poor-little-me claims of no experience with technology-and only then thrown the laptop out of the window, thinking that would destroy it.

  As it was, it came so very near to being lost.

  The police only cared about the will they'd also found on the laptop, not the manuscript. The will in which Kimberlee had left everything to her husband, Desmond. The will she hadn't yet had time to change, despite advice from her solicitor-in a document also on the laptop-to do so as a preliminary step to divorce.

  And now Magretta was claiming the novel-minus, of course, the parts she didn't want to see the light of day-as her own.

  He wondered what, if anything, he should do about it.

  Portia will know, he thought. I'll ask her.

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