Murder in Misdirection

by Anne Cleeland

  “Oh.” This was, of course, a good question, and Doyle felt a little foolish, because—come to think of it—Acton had never mentioned it to her, and it was rather surprising that he hadn’t

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  mentioned it to Reynolds, either. “I imagine that—after I come home from the hospital— Mary will move in, and if she’s here, Gemma will be here, also. We’ll all be cheek-to-jowl for a while, I’m afraid.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  Williams picked up. “Hey, Kath.”

  “Hey yourself; any chance you can meet for coffee, on your way in?”

  “Is Reynolds making breakfast?” This asked in a hopeful

  tone.

  “Faith, Thomas; you’re such a bachelor. All right; I’ll see if I can convince him to cook somethin’ up before he leaves for the park.”

  “Thanks—only for an hour, though; I have a witness at ten.” Doyle glanced up at Reynolds as she rang off. “Williams is

  longin’ for your cookin’.”

  “Very good, madam.” With efficient movements, the servant began to assemble the ingredients for an egg soufflé. “And before I forget, I must correct myself; the treasure in The Sign of the Four was not the spoils of war, as I’d suggested. Instead, it was a stolen treasure.”

  “Ah,” she said. Leave it to Reynolds, to go looking it up when Doyle hadn’t given it another thought. “Good to know.”

  The children appeared in short order, and were happy to have a second breakfast with Williams, with the result that Doyle had no opportunity to speak with him until after the park-outing party had left and the flat was quiet once again.

  As he was on a deadline, she began without preamble, “I’m lookin’ for a favor, Thomas. It’s sort of a no-questions-asked favor.”

  “Oh-oh,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “That sounds ominous.”

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  “It’s a DL sort of thing,” she admitted. This was a reference to Williams’ divided loyalties, which cropped up, once in a while; he was loyal to Acton, but on occasion he’d help Doyle in her quest to spike Acton’s questionable plans. “It’s nothin’ too terrible, I promise.”

  “That remains to be seen. Do I have to drive somewhere with Lizzie Mathis?”

  “She’s not so very terrible,” Doyle defended, and wondered if Williams was aware that not-so-terrible Mathis had probably poisoned DCI Drake. “And she has a crush on you, despite herself.”

  “So, I gathered. She definitely didn’t want Tasza talking to me at the reception.”

  This was a revelation, and Doyle was immediately distracted. “Saints, Thomas; we already think that Tasza was steppin’ out on Gabriel with that suicide-embezzler; you mustn’t muddy the waters, it’s not good for morale.”

  “She was just interested in my cascade case, is all—no flirting or waters-muddying whatsoever.”

  Doyle was eager to plunge forward with her favor, but found, for some reason, that she couldn’t move on from this particular topic. “That seems a little out-of-character for Mathis, to be like a dog, fightin’ over a bone. D’you suppose there’s bad blood, twixt her and Tasza?”

  He shrugged. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it, I sound like a puffer.”

  Doyle decided—in light of the Mary situation—that it may soothe Williams’ feelings to have two girls fighting over him, and therefore determined to say no more. “How is your pesky cascade case? Are the villains still hidin’ the money from you?”

  He sighed, and threw an arm over the back of the chair. “We’ve lost the trail, so now we’re waiting for something to

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  surface. But it’s bound to happen; that amount of money has to show up somewhere, sooner or later.”

  Doyle made a sympathetic sound. “Well, that’s frustratin’—I hate dead ends. I’d suggest you enlist the fair Tasza to help you, but I wouldn’t want to give Mathis an excuse for a fistfight.”

  Smiling at the picture thus presented, he asked, “Why would Tasza want to help?”

  “Oh—oh, I thought you knew. She’s LEO. A forensic accountant, or somethin’.”

  He lifted his brows. “Is she? I suppose that would explain her interest in my cascade case, then.” He paused. “And I suppose that means we can rule her out as a potential suspect, if the suicide turns out to be a murder.”

  Surprised that he didn’t already know, Doyle informed him, “It was indeed a murder. Savoie told the bishop that the fellow was murdered. It was Drake, who killed him.”

  Slowly, Williams leaned forward and stared at her. “Drake killed him?”

  Doyle was suddenly aware that she didn’t really know this—well, she did, but it was an intuitive leap, and not something that could be backed-up with cold, hard facts. A bit lamely, she cautioned, “I think it’s bein’ kept very quiet, Thomas. That’s why Savoie was there, at the reception; he was brought in to tell the bishop that the suicide was, in fact, a murder.”

  Frowning, Williams contemplated the table for a moment. “Well, I suppose that explains why Drake attacked Savoie at the reception.”

  Doyle could only reply, “I suppose.” The two men hadn’t truly fought, of course—it had all been staged by the stager-in-chief. What was immensely surprising was the fact that the stager-in-chief hadn’t informed the trusty Williams of what was going forward—Williams had been kept out of the loop, yet again. A strange sort of world, she thought in wonder; where

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  Savoie knows more about Acton’s doings than Williams. Acton must not trust Williams, yet—although when Acton had told her that Williams was not in his black book, it was true.

  This thought, however, led to an even more extraordinary realization; why wouldn’t Acton mention this very pertinent fact to the wife of his bosom? When he’d told her that Drake had murdered Percy—which was true—why hadn’t he also mentioned that it was Drake who’d killed the suicide-embezzler?

  She stared out the window without seeing, trying to come up with a theory. Perhaps Acton didn’t know it was Drake who’d killed the fellow? But of course he did; he was Acton, after all. Not to mention that it was plain as a pikestaff that the sneaking weasels were having a collective panic attack at the reception— Drake was a wreck, and Father Gregory was sweating like a bowser at closing time—all because Savoie had said it was murder, not suicide.

  So—when the corruption rig arrests were playing out, Drake must had gone into panicked cover-up mode, murdering Percy, and then murdering the suicide-embezzler a bit later, for fear of what he’d say. But these containment murders hadn’t worked, and Drake had become aware, somehow, that Acton had twigged him out—the man was clearly unnerved in the receiving line, and was being all conciliatory—like a supplicant, begging for mercy. Mercy hadn’t been meted out, though; instead Drake had been dispatched by her husband with a great deal of satisfaction, so that all Drake’s murdering was for naught. Which led her back to the original question—why hadn’t the worthy Chief Inspector mentioned the suicide-fellow’s connection, or that Drake had murdered him?

  This puzzling contradiction couldn’t be examined, however, because Williams had pushed back his chair, after checking the time on his phone. “So, what’s the favor?”

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  With an effort, Doyle returned her focus to the task at hand. “Well, I’m tryin’ to find a missin’ person—for a friend—but Acton wouldn’t be happy with me for lookin’ into it, so I was wonderin’ if you would.” This was more-or-less the truth, save for the relatively significant detail that the friend was a ghost.

  He nodded. “All right. What do we have?”

  “Female; middle-aged, I imagine. Within the past two months.”

  “Race?”

  “Don’t know.”

  He gave her a look. “You don’t know the race of the missing person? It may
be a long list, if you can’t narrow down the race.” “I know—but if you could give me a print-out, I’d appreciate

  it. Try to keep it off the grid, if you will.”

  “All right; I’ll try to get you something today.” As he made ready to leave, he asked, “About the suicide-fellow’s murder— who’s handling the case?”

  This was, of course, a good question; it wasn’t like they could sweep the whole thing under the rug, what with the church hierarchy keenly involved. “I don’t know, Thomas—recall that I’m stuck at home, mopin’ about like a dosser.”

  He stood, and pulled on his jacket. “It’s just that it may have some connection to my cascade case, remember? We were wondering if the players who were most likely to grass were being murdered—misdirection murders, so that no one could connect the dots.”

  “Oh—oh, I’d forgotten that workin’ theory.” Mainly because now she was convinced that the fellow’s murder was a containment murder, to cover up Drake’s involvement in the corruption rig. And yet again, she was squarely on the horns of a dilemma, because Acton had killed Drake without Williams’ knowing, and her guileful husband may not want these particular dots to get themselves connected.

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  I hate it, she thought crossly, when the divided loyalties thing rears up to bite me, too. “Ask Acton, if he thinks there may be a connection with your cascade case,” she advised diplomatically. “He’s the one who fetched Savoie out of prison, to begin with, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows what the suicide-fellow was up to.”

  Williams gave her a knowing look, as he walked to the door. “I don’t know as I should, Kath; Acton may want to let it all go cold, in light of Drake’s death. After all, if it came to light that Drake killed him, it would mean one more black eye for the department.”

  “Let justice be done, Thomas—although I feel like I’m shoutin’ into the wind, sometimes. And in any event, you can’t slander the dead.” For reasons unknown, her scalp prickled.

  At the door, Williams paused. “Have we heard from Munoz? I felt a bit sorry for her—with Savoie showing up, unannounced.” Doyle leaned on the door, and made a wry mouth. “Munoz is well-able to take care of herself, my friend. And luckily, Gabriel

  was Johnny-on-the-spot, to whisk her away.”

  With some surprise, he met her eyes. “No—was he? That might explain why Tasza was so bent on talking to me, if Gabriel had gone off with Munoz.”

  “I suppose,” she agreed neutrally, knowing that Tasza wasn’t invested in Gabriel in the first place, and that aside from that, Tasza was actually a bit over-interested in the fair Doyle’s wedded husband. “Trust Acton to put the cat amongst the pigeons—Gabriel says that Savoie is like the scary hound from that famous story.”

  Amused, Williams raised his brows. “Which story is this?” “Faith, Thomas, I always get it wrong, but I think there’s

  someone named Doyle, like me.”

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  “Oh—The Hound of the Baskervilles.” Still amused, he shook his head. “I don’t think so, Kath; the hound in that story was just a cover for the real murderer.”

  “Oh,” said Doyle, who was not about to inform Williams that the real murderer in the current story was, in fact, Acton. It was almost a shame, because she believed this would be where she could say that the story was ‘apt’, and it was a pity that the one time she could use the word correctly she had to keep her lip buttoned, instead.

  Williams opened the door. “Thanks for breakfast, and I’ll try to drop off the print-out before I run Layton to Trestles.”

  Doyle blinked in surprise. “You’re runnin’ Layton to Trestles? Whatever for?”

  He gave her a significant look. “Now that Sir Stephen’s moved out, Layton wants to take a look at the books, to see if there are any irregularities.”

  Doyle made a face. “Well, Sir Stephen’s as crooked as a dog’s hind leg, but I’d be very much surprised if Acton didn’t keep watch on him like a hawk—Acton is nobody’s fool.”

  “I just do what I’m asked, Kath. Mainly, I think Acton doesn’t want Layton to drive up there alone—he’s a bit frail, after all. And he’s bringing in some furniture from storage for the nursery—family heirloom stuff—so I’ll help with that; Acton’s not going to want random workers, wandering around.”

  Doyle stared at him. “The nursery?”

  He laughed at her surprise. “Yes, the nursery. You’ll need one, Kath—unless you want Edward to sleep in a drawer.”

  A bit defensively, Doyle retorted, “I know I’ll need a nursery, you knocker—Reynolds has got the spare room here all fitted out. I just didn’t think about Trestles.”

  Williams shrugged. “Trust Acton to be on it.” “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “Trust Acton.” “Cheers,” he said, and turned to leave.

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  “Cheers, yourself,” she replied, and then scrolled up Munoz’s number as soon as the door closed behind him. She’d already decided that she would give her two tasks to two different people, because she didn’t want anyone putting two and two together—although to be fair, Doyle herself hadn’t yet put two and two together. In any event, she’d the strong feeling that she should hold her cards close to the vest, at least until she figured out what-was-what.

  Munoz picked up. “Doyle; I need to talk to you.”

  Doyle blinked. “You do?” Munoz never wanted to talk to her. “Can Reynolds make lunch?”

  Doyle weighed this idea, since on the one hand, she probably shouldn’t treat Reynolds as though he were a short-order cook but on the other hand, Reynolds was another one smitten by Munoz’s beaux yeux, so he’d probably not complain. “All right. I have the children today, though, so let this be a warnin’.”

  “See you soon.”

  The girl rang off, and Doyle decided she wouldn’t let Reynolds know ahead of time that Munoz was coming over, because he’d just run off to buy some stupid ingredients for some stupid spicy Spanish dish, and Doyle hated spicy food.

  With no small effort, she heaved her legs up on the sofa table, and sat back to enjoy the momentary silence, whilst Edward poked about at her ribcage.

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  Chapter 24

  It would be best to stay out of the office, this morning. He’d look into Gemma’s situation, and then slip away to Trestles.

  W hen the concierge buzzed in to inform Reynolds that Munoz was in the lobby, the servant straightened up in surprise. “Very good.”

  “You’re supposed to ask if I want to see her,” Doyle reminded him, but he was too busy reviewing the offerings in the fridge to respond. “Potato tapas,” he decided. “It will have to do.” “What’s that?” asked Emile, hovering behind the servant

  with great interest.

  “Foreign food,” Doyle explained in a damping tone. “Horrid stuff; I’ll have peanut butter on toast, instead.”

  “Me too,” Emile decided.

  “Me too,” offered Gemma, who generally copied Emile in all things.

  “Perhaps you might attempt a taste of the tapas, Master Emile,” Reynolds suggested, as he tied his apron. It is similar to scalloped potatoes, which I know you like.”

  Emile brightened. “Is it? Can I help you make it?”

  “May I, and yes you may. You mustn’t touch the peppers, although you may slide the potatoes into the pan. Careful, the oil will soon be hot. Miss Gemma, would you like to stand on the stool, just over here, and watch? Just so; very good.”

  Watching the activity, Doyle asked, “How was the park, this mornin’?”

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  “Reynolds is allergic to ducks,” Emile disclosed, as he carefully watched the servant slice the potatoes. “So, we stayed to the path.”

  “Well, there’s another misery, to be laid squarely at their doorstep,” Doyle declared. “The wretched blacklegs; they should all be p
ut in a rope.”

  Emile giggled, and then Munoz tapped at the door. Reynolds called out, “Would you mind, Lady Acton? I’d rather not leave the children.”

  Doyle hoisted herself up, because everyone knew that stupid Munoz’s stupid potato-snack took priority. “Got it.”