"You're from the States." He grinned, apparently pleased with himself for deducing that.
"I'm visiting relatives for a few weeks. What about you?"
"I'm on holiday, bound for the lake country to do some hiking and fishing."
"How nice."
He elaborated on his vacation plans. I listened but contributed nothing, since my idea of hiking and fishing is walking through the aquarium about once every five years. When he paused, I returned to my detecting mode. "Do you live in the area?"
"No. I'm a stranger to these parts myself. Just arrived in the village today."
A stranger? So much for my hopes I'd found Mister X. Two minutes into our conversation and I already knew he wasn't the one. Unless, of course, he lied. A murderer would lie, wouldn't he?
I asked what he did when not on holiday, which subjected me to twenty minutes of enthusiastically delivered information about shipbuilding. He seemed so knowledgeable I had no reason to doubt his occupation, and if so, he did it on the coast somewhere, not here in suburban London. I'd struck a dead end.
"Can I buy you another?" He nodded toward my wine glass.
"No thanks. I'll be leaving soon." I let a beat go by. "I'm going home with the band leader."
Before you could say, "Blimy," he made a hasty retreat back to the bar.
After the band members finished playing, they did more laughing and groping with the girls who clustered around them. Finally, however, they turned off the sound equipment and the stage lights. Then all four of them trooped over to my table. "A final drink, eh?" Chaz said.
As they squeezed into the booth with me, I got the strong impression the three others were already high, possibly on more than alcohol or music. I wondered if, during their breaks in the back room, they used drugs. Probably marijuana by the smell.
My knowledge of drug use came mainly from hearsay. Sure, my generation "experimented" with it during our teenage years, but I'd been brought up strictly, and I seldom went to parties where anyone even drank beer, much less took drugs. I'd been on the swim team in school, practicing every minute I wasn't doing homework, and then I went to a private college for three years, spending just one at UC Berkeley. Even there, my most rebellious activity consisted of wearing old clothes from the Salvation Army, growing my hair long and trying to straighten out the curl by ironing it.
Chaz, despite playing with Randy, Guy, and Izzy, didn't seem to have picked up their drug-using habit, if, indeed they did use drugs. He seemed the same as he did without the Hound costume. When the waiter came with their drinks, he asked me if I'd like more wine. "Can't walk on one leg," he said with a laugh. I agreed to one more, preferably chilled.
"Are you sure it's all right for you to quit early to take me home?"
"We don't play long on weeknights. Owner doesn't want to pay for more."
I didn't know what to say next, but I needn't have worried about too much silence. The sound system continued to play their music, and Randy kept loud time to it by tapping on the tabletop with his drumsticks. Izzy and Guy, sitting next to each other, carried on a private conversation, touched hands often, and giggled at private jokes, and I decided they were gay. No mysterious Mister X there, even if I hadn't already decided Chaz's bandmates were too young and immature to have interested Noreen. One more theory that didn't pan out.
Finally we left, but, as for questioning Chaz in private while driving back, that, too, fizzled. Randy recently lost his license to drive, so we dropped him off at his home on the way.
Chaz's vehicle turned out to be a Land Rover with space behind the seats for carrying band instruments. He helped me inside, and, after Randy hopped out at his door, we rode for a mere five minutes before arriving at Mason Hall. Chaz parked the Rover on the gravel driveway behind the house.
Before getting out, I glanced over at him. "Aren't you going to put it in the garage?"
"Don't like to wake Tim when I come in late, seeing his room's up top."
I saw no light coming from the windows of Tim's apartment over the garage, so I assumed he'd already gone to bed. "You're very considerate."
Chaz looked a little sheepish, as if he didn't like being caught doing something admirable. He'd rather be considered selfish. "More convenient for me this way. Just a hop and skip to the door."
We entered the great hall via the door behind the staircase. The first floor swathed in darkness, Chaz snapped a switch on the wall, which provided enough illumination to climb the stairs.
I wondered how I'd manage a conversation with him, but he solved my problem for me. He spoke in a low voice. "Night's not done yet. Come upstairs and see my studio."
I thought about his suggestion for a few minutes. Like going into a man's apartment back home, it was an invitation to sexual activity, and I wanted none of that. However, I was a "woman of the world," wasn't I? Able to handle myself in sticky situations? Of course.
I took off my shoes to keep the heels from making too much noise on the uncarpeted steps. "Yes. I'd like to see it. We didn't get a chance to talk much tonight."
He preceded me up the stairs. "I don't fall asleep straight away after playing, and we can both wind down a bit. I have some good stuff, not like that junk they serve at the club, and you'll like it."
I didn't want a drink. The truth was I rarely drank anything at all. Because of my swimming coach, I'd gone years without alcohol passing my lips, and one glass of wine in social situations usually lasted me all evening. I liked it that way. I'd never have to hear someone say, "Wow, you were the life of the party last night," while I remembered nothing after asking if I could leave my coat on someone's bed. As for that night, I'd look over Chaz's studio, say something complimentary if I could, and ply him with questions about Noreen. That had been my goal for the evening, and I could still accomplish it if I kept my thoughts in control and my feet on the floor.
On the third floor, we walked partway down the hall, and then he opened a door, and we went inside. He flipped a switch on the wall, bringing to dim life a vast room whose walls and ceiling seemed to shiver with some puffy silver material.
"Acoustical stuff," Chaz explained.
The floor, covered with thick, dark green carpeting, held a keyboard, a sound console, two guitars, loudspeakers, amplifiers, and even a sleek, ebony grand piano. Chaz led me to a corner furnished with a black bar fronted by a low, multi-cushioned sofa and several chairs. He pushed me, not ungently, onto the sofa and proceeded to pour something into two glasses. He pointed one at me. "Here."
I didn't take it. "No thanks. Your studio is—well, somewhat different from your bedroom." I stood and walked across the room.
He swallowed both his drink and mine then put both glasses back down on the bar's surface. "You remember my bedroom, do you?" His smile seemed to intimate that our brief conversation there had elevated our relationship.
"Yours wasn't the only bedroom I saw that day. I was helping Aunt Alice put clean linens in all of the rooms."
"I sleep there, but I don't live there."
"You spend your time up here, I suppose."
"Have to. Practice, you know."
"Did Noreen come here too?"
Ignoring my question, he apparently pressed a switch somewhere because I heard music begin to play, soft music, not his usual style. "You like this?"
"Yes, that's very nice, but…"
He dropped into the sofa. "I like all music myself, learned classical when I was a wee lad."
I moved toward the sofa but didn't sit. I was still trying to find an opening for the subject I wanted to discuss. "How did you happen to choose the name of your group? Did Noreen suggest it?"
"No, it was the guys and me. We voted between Mustard Gas and The Speckled Band."
"The Speckled Band?" I repeated. "As in Sherlock Holmes?"
"Yeah, I thought it was a clever name for a band. We settled on Hounds of the Hall, but they don't understand where it came from."
So I'd been right in guessing it cam
e from the other Sherlock Holmes mystery.
He reached out, grabbed my hand, and pulled me down next to him—a move I hadn't expected. I began to worry. He'd downed both our drinks plus whatever he had at the club, and, even if not inebriated, he seemed eager to pursue his own agenda. I shifted away from him, ready to get to my feet and leave,
He moved even closer to me, and, although I shifted again, I found myself squashed against the sofa arm. "About Noreen—" I started, trying to remind him of what I'd come there to talk about.
He held my arms and looked me over. "You're the hottest thing's come into my life in years. They oughta make you pay taxes on a body like that."
Against my will, I smiled at his compliment, although it appeared my dress had done its job a little too well, but I realized I wouldn't get any useful information from Chaz that night. Not there anyway. "I think I'd better go."
"You can't go now. We're hardly getting started."
He moved again, and I thought if he got any closer he'd be on the other side of me. I tried to push myself to my feet, but between the low sofa and the soft cushions, I couldn't get any leverage. Chaz didn't help. He pressed against me, his cheek against mine, his left arm across my shoulders and the other across my waist.
"Don't!" I twisted in his grasp, but he didn't move. I struggled to rise, all the while trying to keep from taking the situation too seriously. "Come on, Chaz, be sensible." I tried to laugh, but it came out squeaky.
"Sensible is not who I am." He pinned me into place, his mouth came down on mine, his lips firm and warm, a well-practiced kiss.
I'm not making excuses here, but for some reason I didn't move. Perhaps it was the atmosphere, or the wine I'd had at the club, or because we hadn't met before my current visit. I hadn't been kissed in a long time, and thirty-nine is not too old to enjoy lovemaking. Not that, even in the dimmest recesses of my mind, I had any intention of letting it get that far. I just—I can't explain it. For a second—really, only a second—I let myself feel desire again, feel someone wanted me, this good-looking young man, who could make love to any number of women, this cousin…
Whoops. The "cousin" part turned me off at last. He might not think it relevant these days, but I couldn't live the rest of my life remembering having coupled with him. I managed to break the kiss and lean back. "You're being silly. Stop this right now."
"You don't want me to stop. You know you don't." His hand slipped under my skirt and inched upward.
"What are you doing?" My voice rose an octave, and I squirmed and tried to push him away.
"I'm doing what comes natural. You're single. I'm single. Where's the harm?"
"You're—" I couldn't say more. He was kissing me again, this time his lips bruising mine, his body pressing into me, pushing me, sliding me down so I nearly lay flat against the cushions. He was too strong, and I found it even harder to move. I could only turn my face from side to side. Drastic methods were called for. I bit his lip.
The pressure lifted at once, and I thought I tasted blood. I wriggled free, rolled off the sofa onto the floor, got my knees under me and pushed myself to my feet. I made a beeline for the door.
Chaz cursed and followed me. I managed to get the door partway open before he had his arms around mine, pinning them to my sides. He dragged me backward, and then the door exploded inward, and Mr. Tarkington, barking and growling, hurtled into the room. He sank his teeth into Chaz's pants leg and tried to shake it like a rat. I heard cloth tearing, more snarls and growls.
Chaz, spouting expletives, let go of me and reached for Tark, and I grabbed for the back of Chaz's shirt. He turned toward me, and as suddenly as it had started, the fracas ended. Tark let go of his pants, and Chaz glared at me, his voice strained.
"You win." He walked to the bar, then turned and laughed. "Don't think it hasn't been fun."
I snatched Mr. Tarkington into my arms and dashed out of the studio, down the stairs, and into my own room. I even turned the key in the lock. That night Tark slept curled up next to me on the bed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I came downstairs earlier than usual the next morning, hoping to have breakfast before anyone else arrived. Especially Chaz, although I suspected musicians slept late most mornings due to their late nights. I poured a glass of orange juice and stared at the food. The English are good with eggs and sausage, but I'd grown tired of them, and despite their close proximity to France, British cooks had apparently never mastered the art of crepes. Nor had sharing a language clued them into American pancakes. I took a hard roll from a basket, layered it heavily with butter, and poured a cup of coffee.
Chaz came into the dining room. Wouldn't you know it? The last person in the world I wanted or expected to see at that moment. Plate in one hand and coffee in the other, I headed for the door, hoping to find a secluded place to eat my meal, but Chaz came up to me.
"About last night, sorry. Had a bit too much to drink."
He spoke in a quiet tone that seemed quite sincere, and his words did a lot to melt my anger.
"I don't rape women."
Of course not. I felt sure he didn't have to, but I put my food down and argued anyway. "You gave a remarkable impression of someone about to do that very thing."
"You could've said 'no.'"
"What language did you think I was speaking? What part of 'stop' didn't you understand?"
He grinned. "Touché. Like I said, I wasn't myself. 'Sides, you're a right handsome bird, you know. Can't blame a bloke."
An enigma, one day he sounded as refined as his father, the next like a streetwise cockney. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. "Not that I intend to go back to your studio, but don't let it happen again, okay?"
He held up his hand. "On my honor." I looked down at his jeans and saw he'd put on the same pair he'd worn the previous night. Unless he'd slept in them after I left. The bottom of one leg held tears where Tark had ripped it.
"Your dog put up a good fight too."
"He's not mine, but I'm glad he followed me upstairs."
"Forgive and forget?" Chaz held out his hand, and after a pause I took it. After all, no real harm had been done.
"All right." I picked up my breakfast plate again and carried it to the table. "Why are you up so early anyway?"
Chaz heaped a plate with bacon and eggs, poured some coffee, and joined me. "Hoping to see you, of course, wanting to apologize for last night."
Feeling I had the advantage, I decided on a bold approach to what I wanted to know. "Did the drinks-and-soft-music routine in your studio work with Noreen?"
"What do you mean?"
"You were lovers, weren't you?"
He paused for a second. "Like I said, I don't rape women."
I took that for a "yes." "So she succumbed to your charms. What did you see in her, a woman considerably older than you?"
He grinned again. "I like older women, or hadn't you noticed?"
"When you brought her here to Mason Hall, did you know she intended to make a play for Uncle Edward?"
His eyebrows shot up, like I'd caught him in something he thought he'd hidden, but his voice remained low and steady. "Well, there you are. Things happen, don't they?"
My imagination ran with it. "Did she include you in her plan to marry the old man for his money? Did she promise you some after he died, enough to 'get away' as you suggested yesterday when you learned you didn't inherit anything?"
The smile on his face changed, the muscles around his mouth tightened, and a frown creased his forehead. "You go too far. You don't know anything. You're making it up."
"I'm guessing, I admit, but then," I added, "after Edward died, she reneged. You argued a lot. She dumped you and took up with another man, didn't she? Did he kill her or did you?"
That time I'd gone too far. He leaped from the chair, his fork clattering loudly onto his plate. His face turned red, the cords in his neck stood out, and his hands clenched into fists.
"Don't be daft! She died like the police s
aid, an accident." He whirled around then turned. "When she was blind drunk!" He shouted the last words and slammed out of the room.
Shaken by his outburst, I held my orange juice glass with unsteady hands and took a long swallow. I was on to something. Chaz and Noreen had planned to split Edward's money, and then she changed her mind. Which infuriated him more: her refusal to share or her dumping him for someone else? After all, why should she share it with Chaz? He couldn't force her to. Nor could he stop her from seeing another man. Unless, of course, he killed her.
Elizabeth came into the room. "What was that all about? I heard loud voices, and then Chaz ran past me as if the devil were after him." She didn't go to the sideboard but came straight to the table, staring down at me. I noticed she had again pulled her hair into a ponytail and wore no makeup.
"Elizabeth, I'm sorry about last night. I shouldn't have let you go home alone."
"So, what happened?" Her hands clutched the chair back, her eyes shiny, her face pink. "Did he—?"
She broke off, and my imagination went into high gear again. She'd been about to ask if he came on to me. Why? I said it aloud. "Why do you ask?"
She let go of the chair, turned, and hurried out of the room. I jumped up and followed her. She ran into the library, and I dashed in behind her and closed the hall doors.
"What's the matter, Elizabeth?"
She didn't answer, just slumped into the sofa.
I sat down next to her, but she didn't look at me. "Chaz had too much to drink last night and got a little, er, silly."
She stared straight ahead, eyes narrowed, her arms hugging her body as if for warmth. "Did he take you up to his studio?"
"As a matter of fact, he did. He wanted to show it to me, and I wanted to see it."
"Did he play pretty music? Even rock musicians know what it takes to seduce a woman."
Reality dawned on me. "What are you trying to say?"
Dead in the Water (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 1) Page 13
