“Well, don’t take too long.”
“What’s that mean?” I stared at him, afraid of an ultimatum.
“December isn’t that far off. We need to make a decision soon if we’re to schedule the ch—” He stopped, realizing what he had nearly said. Thunder growled overhead, as if it were in the room with us. “If we’re to get the best patch of ice and nettles.”
He strode from the room, leaving me thinking about give and take, parents-in-laws, and what I was really scared of.
* * * *
My night was filled with exhausting dreams—when I did sleep—and what seemed to be hours of staring out of the window at the lightning-slashed sky and listening to Adam’s voice whispering beneath the whine of the wind.
After showering and dressing, I somehow got downstairs and to the section of the bar that was open for breakfast. I took a table in the far corner, ordered egg, tomato juice and toast, and suddenly found Mark, decked out in light tan trousers, blue shirt and tie, standing at my side. He eyed me with that look of concern that was becoming all too familiar.
“Mind if I join you?” He pulled out a chair before I could answer and sat down. “I’ll have whatever she’s having,” he said to the waitress, nodding at me. “Now,” he said after the waitress had gone, “what’s the problem?”
“Why do you think there’s a problem?”
“I can read you like a copper reads a suspect,” he said, letting the joke pass without comment. “You were fine when we parted last night, so I deduce whatever has upset you occurred between then and now. And I don’t believe it’s due to this fine establishment running out of tea…or whatever.”
“Brilliant detective work, Mark. But I’m in no mood for this.”
“Then I’ll get you out of that mood. Anyway, it’s for my best interest. I’ll end up killing you if I have to endure your grouchiness all day.”
“Then ask Graham for a reassignment. Byrd or Margo is probably still waving those photos around the village. Maybe you could switch jobs with Margo.”
“I’ve felt the effects of her sharp tongue before, thank you. I’ll chance it with you, no matter how detrimental it might prove to each of us. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”
“You can’t fix it.”
“Maybe not, but maybe I could. We’ll never know if you don’t spill the beans. What’s wrong?”
The waitress came with our orders. When she wandered back to the kitchen I said, “It’s between Adam and me. I appreciate your good intentions, Mark, but we have to figure this out ourselves. God knows we’ll have other issues that need sorting out during our marriage.”
The tower bells from St Paul’s Church struck the hour and my face crumpled. Before I could stop it, tears were silently flowing down my cheeks.
Mark leaned across the table and stuffed his handkerchief into my hand. “Normally I’d suggest a good, stiff drink, but seeing as how it’s only gone eight o’clock…”
I blotted my tears, wiped my nose and managed to squeak out my thanks before my voice cracked.
“It can’t be as horrendous as you think, Bren. Anything can be fixed. What’s the matter? The church issue?”
Raising my head, I looked at him and nodded. “How’d you know?”
“Are my detective skills so poor that you forget this is how I make my living?” He flashed a smile and moved his chair next to me.
“Adam and his parents are set on him having a church wedding.”
“And you don’t want one. Why not?”
“It’s a long, painful story, Mark. You probably wouldn’t understand. And even if you did, I’d wind up sounding absolutely barmy and certified.”
“Give me a chance. I’m smarter than you give me credit for. And sensitive.”
Sniffing, I flattened out his handkerchief on the tabletop and smoothed out the wrinkles. He reached across the table, slid his coffee and plate of eggs and toast over in front of him, and waited for me to begin.
I told him about Adam’s and my different wishes for our wedding, knowing I’d already told him this yesterday, but needing a basis for what was to come. After I’d recounted the story of Todd’s accident and my finding him, Mark handed me my tea. “I understand your pain and your reluctance to have the church ceremony. I also understand Adam’s side of this. Can’t you reach some compromise so that you’re both happy with your big day?”
“Like what?”
“Well, could you get through a church wedding if you had moral and physical support? It’s really not so much the formality of the church ceremony, is it, as it is the building, right?”
“I guess. I never really thought about it.”
“So, if you got a lot of support, could you get through the ceremony…if it were fairly short, not one of those long affairs?”
“How?”
“Well, just thinking off the top of my head.” He took a sip of coffee, letting the idea take shape in my mind. Setting the mug back on the table, he said, “Have Margo standing beside you. And anyone else you feel close to and who will support you. Graham, if you want. Scott, if he’s better by then. Me, if you want to bend that low. To hell with politically correct and the rest of it. A friend of mine had a woman as his best man—they were best friends since primary school. Have a crowd of people around you. We’ll build a barricade, keep Todd out, and hustle you out of the church and to the party before you can feel anything.” He looked at me, his eyebrows raised, his smile beaming.
“Well, it might work.” My thumb stroked the back of my engagement ring and I stared at the diamond. It seemed to wink at me in agreement.
“Super. You can compromise on the reception/party thing. Not a full-blown reception, but something nice, anyway. At a friend’s maybe, with a small band to dance to. No fancy cake, if that’s not your style, but something nice, maybe a potluck thing where everyone brings something and you have a cake from a bakery. Maybe a room in a pub.” He glanced around. “Hire a publican and have all sorts of drinks. It would still be a nice party and there’d still be a cake to cut. That’s not bad, is it?”
“No. That would be fine.”
“For the honeymoon…” He paused, as thought the word was difficult to say. “You give Adam and his parents the wedding they want, you compromise on the reception, so you should have the honeymoon you want, right?”
I nodded, waiting to hear Mark’s idea.
“You have your time with nature and Adam by going someplace wild, like the Outer Hebrides, or backwoods Maine in America, or a quiet B-and-B in Cumbria or Yorkshire and you spend the days walking the countryside. Look something up on the Internet—there are dozens of those adventurous getaways.” A ray of lemon-hued sunlight fell across Mark’s hair, accenting the streaks of gray among the brunet strands. He looked wise and caring, as though he had struggled with this type of conflict before.
My emotions spilled out and I hugged Mark in a flood of grateful tears. Of course, Adam chose that moment to walk up to our table. His angry voice tore my arms from Mark faster than a yell of ‘Fire!’ would have done.
Adam hovered behind Mark’s chair, eyes flashing fire, his breath short and shallow. His legs were apart, the left in front of the right, and his arms bent slightly, as though he were ready for a fight. He barked his question again, like a drill sergeant or a referee, expecting to be obeyed without hesitation or question. “What the bloody hell is going on?”
I pushed up from the table, my legs wobbly, my arms not too much sturdier. “Adam, darling, it’s not what you think. Mark was only—”
“Mark was only trying to win your love, take you away from me. What else should I think?”
“It’s not like that. I was upset about last night, and Mark—”
“How convenient you are still upset. And how convenient Mark just happened to be here to lend his shoulder. Who did the asking?”
Mark stood up, pushing back his chair. The wooden legs screeched against the stone floor. “Good manners dictates I will not make
a scene in public. Especially when a lady is concerned. You need to cool down, Fitzgerald. You’re so wrapped up in this wedding you can’t see straight. Brenna, if you weren’t such an idiot that you can’t sense it, is extremely upset.” He glanced at me as I pressed the sodden handkerchief to my eyes. “She loves you, though I don’t know why, if you act like such an unfeeling berk. She’s trying to deal with her fear and her desire to please you. We discussed it over breakfast and came up with a solution I hope will please everyone.” He took a step sideways, allowing Adam to come up to me, if he wished. Mark’s right hand had curled into a fist during his talk, and with obvious great effort slowly relaxed his fingers. He grabbed his coffee mug and walked to the far side of the table, putting a barrier between himself and Adam.
I waited for Adam to speak, to reach out for me or move closer. Some sign that he understood my dilemma and wanted to soothe away the pain. His breathing had become somewhat deeper and slower, but anger and betrayal filled his eyes, revealing his own bewilderment and confusion. He shot another smoldering look at Mark, then stared back at me. “You’re right, Salt, I am an unfeeling berk. Better that, though, than a bloody cuckold. At least I found that out before it was too late.” He turned swiftly on his heel and strode across the room. The pub door banged closed after him, announcing his rage and his opinion.
TWENTY-FIVE
As was the usual start of our days, Graham had called a short meeting in the incident room. Mark and I were the last to arrive, which elicited curious glances from Margo and an annoyed frown from Graham. I had returned to my room, washed my face, powdered my nose, and put on a dab of lipstick and some eye mascara in an attempt to camouflage my crying jag. Mark looked me over when I came back to the dining area, pronounced my secret unguessable, and we walked up the hill to the church.
We were between services, though that hardly mattered, as we were in the church basement and the services were upstairs in the sanctuary. Still, it made it less awkward, eliminating answered questions on how the case progressed, if we could slip into the basement without confronting worshippers. Many of them would help with the well dressing work today, for I knew they would puddle the mud, pack it into the wood frames and then transfer the designs onto the mud. That would take place in the village hall, so I didn’t feel guilty about us taking over the church hall.
Still upset over the recent confrontation with Adam, and embarrassed that Mark and I were the last arrivals, I stumbled as we came into the room and dropped my shoulder bag. Mark muttered I should go on and get a seat, picked up my bag for me, and apologized to Graham, who wished us good morning. Louder than need be, but I put it down to the stress he felt coming down from the Divisional Commander. Welcome to the club, I thought. I’ve got my own minor upheaval in my life, too. Graham waited until we sat—in the front row, unfortunately—and restated the purpose of the meeting.
“We can’t rule out the deliberate dumping of both victims, and the conclusion that the killer knew the area,” he said, the volume of his voice returning to normal.
I opened my notebook. The remark echoed the discussion Mark and I had last night. I settled into my chair, glad of the cold metal that kept me alert and thinking of the case, and listened to Graham.
“Since the bones have not yet been identified, we can’t work from that angle yet. However, we can augment our suspect list, given that we’ve had another twenty-four hours to talk to people.” He rolled the whiteboard marker between his palms. “Anyone with any astonishing information? Taylor, perhaps you’d like to start us off. I’d like to pretend your tardiness this morning is due to your feverish work on the case.” He took the marker in his right hand, simultaneously implying his confidence that I’d learned something pertinent and putting me on the spot.
Flipping through the notebook pages I stammered, “Well, uh, there are several people who had a motive to kill Reed Harper. His wife, first off. He had affairs with women for at least two decades. And Reed’s brother, Edmund. Perry Bowcock, Clarice Millington, Jenny Millington, Chad Styles and, oddly enough, his son Trevor.”
Graham jotted the names and motives on the board as I related why I also included Trevor on the list. “He loves Reed’s daughter, Ilsa. She has the show biz bug and he wants to marry her. There’s talk that Trevor’s father may feature her in Upper Hogsley’s village fete. Trevor fears that if Ilsa gets famous, she’ll move away or won’t marry him.”
“Not an absurd assumption. Fame and fortune have destroyed many marriages, so why not engagements? Or even love?”
WPC MacMillan gave us a rundown of the Harpers’ financial situation. Their bank accounts, snug and happy in three banks, bulged like rising bread dough. Stocks returned healthy dividends and channeled their surplus cash into a trust fund ‘Payable to Marian, passed on to Ilsa in the event of Reed’s death,’ MacMillan explained; and the Old Family Money percolated in various legitimate ventures, birthing offspring that galloped into the three banks’ accounts.
“Could suggest an overture to death,” Graham said. “I don’t suppose anyone has uncovered an affair Marian might be having.” He looked around the group, waiting for a new revelation. He got none. He suggested PC Oglethorpe make inquiries. “You never know. What’s sauce for the goose…”
Mark glanced up from his notes and said, “I don’t think we should focus on Reed’s affairs as the sole motive, sir.”
“Why not, Salt?”
“Well, as many as he’s had, and as many people he’s hurt through them, he also owned an ad agency and directed the well dressing fete. We mustn’t forget those pieces of his life.”
“You’re suggesting that there could be a disgruntled client out there, or someone, such as his own daughter, who got upset over some aspect of the fete.”
“Why not? He’s bound to have made a client or villager angry at some time. We’ve got two examples right here of the frustration he caused by the village festival. Why couldn’t Ilsa have topped him—not premeditated, but in an argument over her singing career? Or Harding Lyth, the vicar, even? Maybe Reed finally saw his fatherly duty and made noises of replacing Harding’s daughter, Angela, as the singing master of ceremonies. Harding, in the bubbling emotion of the moment, stabs Reed. It’s not so farfetched, sir.”
“The killing, or having a vicar as the killer?” A slight smile played around the corners of his mouth and he gave three constables the job of talking to Reed’s recent clientele. He tapped the marker beneath Clarice’s name on the board. “She’s a new addition. Why did you add her, Taylor?”
I told him she knew of the friction between Reed and Marian and appeared to live in hope that if they divorced she would become the next Mrs. Reed Harper. “She had an affair with him, so I don’t know if they shared any valid pillow talk or not.”
“But hope springs eternal,” Graham said. “Well, we’ve got suspects and motives coming out our ears. I don’t know if it’s more of a help or a hindrance to have this large number to sift through. No one other than Kevin Harper looks to have an alibi for the time of the murder, so that’s not much help in whittling down our list. How’s the fabric identification coming along, Lynch?”
Margo said they had talked to dozens of people and no one admitted to recognizing the fabric found with the bones.
“We’ve got Clayton’s admission that he recognized the clothing as belonging to Vera Howarth. We’re waiting for DNA test results to confirm the bones are hers. Divisional Commander Tierney has authorized a ‘rush job’ on the samples, so the report should be back later this morning.” He paused to let the significance sink in. “So that’s all we can do right now in that quarter. Let’s meet back here at one o’clock so I can advise you of the test findings and we can discuss where the case will go from there, if we have a match. Other than that…anyone have anything to add?” He waited like a lawyer, hoping to hear a confession from his client. When no one offered further comments, he said, “Despite comments from Certain People, I realize you’re all working l
ike Trojans. Please know that I appreciate your application and devotion to duty, and that I understand we all can move only so quickly through an investigation. You’ve produced outstanding results in the past; don’t let your usual high standards slip due to unrealistic demands.” He had been leaning forward, his hands on the table, speaking low, yet emphatically. As though he meant the sentiment with every ounce of his being, willing us to absorb his will and belief.
The room had become silent—no phones or faxes beeping, no coughs or murmurs from us; no birds chattering or car doors slamming. I knew Simcock could be relentless in his demand to wrap up a case; I knew he, in turn, felt the pressure from the Divisional Commander. Hearing Graham’s even-toned comments and seeing his placid expression, I could merely guess at what stress he dealt with.
Straightening up, he said, “Right. You’ve got your assignments. If there are no further questions, let’s get on with our day.” He laid the marker on the tray affixed to the bottom of the whiteboard and walked over to his computer.
Mark got up and stretched. “What do you think, Brenna? Will the hair DNA match the bones, or not?”
“It would be simpler for us if it did, and probably better for Clayton if it did.”
“Yeah. All those years of wondering what happened to her, thinking she just walked out on an engagement.” He glanced at me before averting his gaze to Margo. At least he had the grace to not say anything. Picking up his notebook and stuffing it into his trousers pocket, he said, “That must be hell, not knowing. Has Vera any siblings?”
“No one but her grandmother. And we don’t even know if she’s still alive. That was nearly a quarter of a century ago.”
“Sounds worse like that than saying twenty-two years. God, I’m getting too old for this, Brenna.”
Getting my shoulder bag from the back of my chair, I said, “You’ve got another fifteen years to go in the job, Mark. Don’t even think you’re getting old.”
He snorted. “You’re only as old as you feel. And after yesterday, I feel at least one hundred.”
A Well Dressed Corpse Page 17
