“Oh, so sorry,” said Emma. “Oliver, Dash, come on, both of you. Out you go.”
Oliver barked once. Dash shook himself and gave a grumble, but both dogs let themselves be shooed out the door. Emma closed it and turned back to the family. Bert looked surprised. He had clearly expected her to leave as well.
“Emma is, was, well, is, I suppose, going to help cater the festival, after Weber’s pulled out,” Helen told Bert and Gus. “At least, that was Marcie’s plan.”
A dark look flickered across Bert’s face. “Well, that’s very good of you, Emma, especially on such short notice.”
“We were going to do a menu tasting today for the board . . .” began Emma.
“Oh!” groaned Helen. “The board! I forgot! I’d better ring Caite . . .” She dove for the phone lying on the sideboard.
Which meant Helen didn’t know about the scene with Caite out front. Emma wondered if any of the family did, and if it mattered.
“Thanks again, Emma,” said Bert. “We’re looking forward to those sandwiches.”
It was a dismissal. Emma didn’t move for a moment, although she wasn’t sure why, except that something in Bert’s manners seems to suggest he expected some gesture of respect, or immediate obedience. Or both.
“We’ll bring up lunch as soon as it’s ready,” she said.
Bert smiled, putting a veneer of politeness over his very obvious irritation. “Sorry to be so much trouble. It’s good of you to help out.”
He did not mean a single word of it.
“Thanks,” said Emma, because there was nothing else she could say, and because there was nothing else to do, she turned and she walked out of the room.
She was sure she felt Bert’s gaze on her back the entire way.
14
As soon as the door was shut, Emma leaned against the wall and let out a long, soft sigh.
That was when she noticed neither Oliver nor Dash was anywhere in sight.
“Oh bloody . . .” she grumbled. “Oliver!” she hissed. “Oliver! Where are you?”
Not that she was really worried, but it was a big, strange place, and it was a bad time for an unauthorized corgi to be skulking about in places which might soon be declared a crime scene.
No, no, no, Emma told herself firmly. That’s not what’s happened here.
Except at least one other person was clearly thinking about it. Emma wondered if Frank knew something, or had seen something.
But it still doesn’t make any sense! Because if you really wanted somebody dead, pushing them out that window made no more sense than the idea of trying to kill yourself by jumping out of it did.
Unless you weren’t thinking ahead. Unless you weren’t trying to kill them. It could have been a fight, or something, and somebody got pushed, and fell and . . .
And I have got to stop thinking like this. I don’t know anything!
“Oliver!” Emma called in a hoarse stage whisper. She also moved farther up the hallway. She didn’t want the family to hear her. There was no need to make this any more awkward than it already was.
There was no answer. Emma swore again and tried to think what to do.
Down in the entryway, the front door opened. Someone came through, umbrella first.
Daphne? Emma hurried toward the foyer.
The person, a woman, leaned out the door and shook her umbrella. Even from this awkward angle, Emma could tell it wasn’t Daphne.
Detective Chief Inspector Constance Brent of the Devon and Cornwall police had arrived.
Constance was a tall, strongly built, stern-faced woman. Emma had privately vowed never to get into an arm-wrestling contest or a poker game with her. She kept her bleached hair in a short, spiky cut and, at least the times Emma had seen her, wore practical trousers and jackets with commodious pockets. Today, she also wore a rumpled trench coat and broad-brimmed felt hat that gave her the air of someone who’d just walked out of a classic noir film to put the finger on a stool pigeon.
Or something.
Emma had met Constance last summer. A local woman had been poisoned, and Emma had been the one to find that body too. She’d also helped solve the case, a fact which still made her a little dizzy.
“Well, Emma Reed.” Constance sighed and stuck the umbrella into the brass stand by the door. “I thought we’d agreed you were not going to make a habit of this.”
“Sorry.”
“PC Patel says you found Ms. Cochrane.”
Emma nodded. “Me and Genny Knowles.”
Constance took her hat off and hung it on her umbrella handle. “And you were here at Truscott Grange, because . . . ?”
“We’re helping cater the Daphne du Maurier Literary Festival.”
“We being you and Genny Knowles, or so I’m told.” Constance frowned. “Doesn’t she run the chip shop?”
“She’s just helping out. The main team was going to be me, and Angelique and Pearl Delgado from the King’s Rest. Today was the day we were supposed to present the tasting menu to the society board, but . . .” She waved helplessly at the front door.
“So where’re the rest of your team?”
“Angelique and Pearl stayed behind to do breakfast service at the B and B. They were supposed to meet us here afterward. I’d come ahead with Genny to get started. She’s in the kitchen. I had just been taking the family some tea.”
Constance’s jaw moved slowly back and forth.
“So, let me get this straight,” she said. “A lot of literary types were converging on a grand country house ahead of the village festival, and suddenly one of them has turned up dead. Is that right?”
“In a scene that kind of echoes one in the dead woman’s favorite novel. Yeah,” said Emma. “Sorry.”
Constance sighed sharply. “Just please tell me nobody here’s a mystery writer.”
“Not that I know of.”
“Good.” Constance hitched her bag strap up on her shoulder. Constance carried a handbag that would have fit Oliver and two or three of his younger cousins comfortably. “I need to talk to the family. I can find you where? The kitchen?”
“Yeah,” agreed Emma. “As soon as I find Oliver. He’s gone missing.”
“Of course the corgi’s here too.” Constance rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Well, give him a scritch on the back for me.”
“And, erm, there’s something else you should probably know.”
Constance raised one pale brow. “I am all ears.”
“I, um, might have been the last person Marcie spoke to.”
Constance blew out a long sigh. “Of course. All right. You do not leave this house until we’ve talked, yeah?”
“Yeah,” agreed Emma.
“Right.” Constance headed down the corridor, back and shoulders straight. Emma watched while she knocked on the sitting room door. It was Frank who opened it. Constance disappeared inside and Emma was alone again in the dim and silent corridor. The skin on the back of her neck prickled. Without Constance there, the house suddenly felt too heavy around her, like someone had just tightened the lid down further.
And where on earth is Oliver?
* * *
* * *
Oliver was starting to wonder the same thing.
Obviously he knew where he was now. Corgis did not get lost. But the line between where one was and where one had been did sometimes get a little tangled.
When Emma shooed him and Dash out of the room that had the other humans, Oliver was a little disappointed. He sniffed the closed door and thought about barking, but that would be rude.
“Humans,” mumbled Dash. “ ’S truth. Well, what do we do now?” He scratched one floppy ear.
“Wait?” suggested Oliver. A corgi is patient. Emma will be out soon.
“Maybe.” Dash nosed around the floor. “Or try the kitchen.
Maybe there’s more food. I like your human. She’s a good human. You’re lucky.”
Oliver pushed his nose against Dash’s shaggy brown side. He was starting to like Dash. He was easygoing and might be fun at another time, when he wasn’t sad.
Dash shrugged Oliver off and started nosing around some of the other doorways.
That seemed like a good idea. There was plenty to investigate. This place was big, and it was fascinating. There were almost as many smells as the park outdoors. Oliver found himself snuffling along the floorboards, following the ripples and layers of scent into a side room almost without realizing it. This house had so many corners and shadows. There were smells of polish and vinegar and dust, and so many people had been in and out of here recently, people with dogs and cats and that was definitely a pig there and . . . was that a sheep?
When Oliver lifted his head, Dash was nowhere in sight. Oliver had gotten so distracted, he hadn’t noticed him leaving.
Oliver hesitated. He knew he should wait for Emma, but he also knew that Dash was very sad. He didn’t want the big dog to be alone.
Emma will understand. Emma always helps our friends.
Oliver followed Dash’s fresh and clear trail to the foyer. Hallways stretched out in either direction. Dash had gone down the one on the left, and now he was at the base of the stairs, searching around the baseboards. His tail waved steadily. All at once, he thrust his nose forward. “Huh. Huh. Who’s that? Huh? Who’s that?”
Oliver put his nose down and sniffed. Quite a few humans had been through here recently. Some of the scents seemed familiar, but there were too many and they were too new for Oliver to identify individuals. He picked up perfume, soap, sweat and coffee, cats and dogs. There was plenty of mud and rain too because of the weather.
Dash, though, had picked out one smell in particular. Oliver could tell by the way his floppy ears and restless tail both pricked up. The bigger dog started up the narrow stairway.
“Where are you going?” asked Oliver.
“Upstairs.”
I know that, thought Oliver a little impatiently. “Why?”
“Because something’s wrong,” Dash growled. “I don’t like it.”
Oliver gave a small whine. Emma might be done with the other humans by now. She might be worried if she couldn’t find him.
At the same time, this might be important. If there was something wrong in this big, strange house, Emma should know about it.
There was one problem. The stairs were steep and there were a lot of them. This wasn’t like getting into the van where Oliver could get a running jump. Dash had long legs and climbed up with no problem. Oliver, though, hopped, and heaved and wriggled, scrabbled, scrambled and hopped again. But a noble corgi did not give up. Even when he was panting on the landing.
Dash didn’t stop at the first landing. He kept going all the way up to the top of the stairs. By the time Oliver got there, he had to flop down on his belly and spend a long time panting. He wished someone had put a water bowl here. He’d mention it to Emma. The humans in this house were not very organized.
The corridors were narrower up here and the ceilings were lower. Dash stood at the first doorway with his nose against the crack by the floor. Dash scratched at the door. Slowly it swung open, and Dash started to bark. Someone, a human, squeaked.
Oliver jumped to his feet.
Dash had discovered an office-type room. Emma spent a lot of time in places like this. There was a desk, and a lot of books, and a computer. A woman hunched behind the desk. Both hands covered her mouth. She smelled like rainwater and sweat, acrid hair spray and that stuff called “perfume”—which on her was more like dead otters and roses than anything else—and she was very startled.
“Who? Who? Who?” barked Dash.
“No, Dash, it’s me! It’s me!” The woman slapped the computer lid shut and ran out from around the desk. “Come on, shhh, shhh, good dog!” She crouched down and tried to rub Dash’s head and ears, but she was still scared. Dash felt it, and he kept barking.
Oliver barked too. “Here! Here! Somebody’s here!”
“No, no, no!” she groaned. “Stop it, you little bi—!”
“Who? Who?” barked Dash.
The woman swore and jumped to her feet. She scuttled past them both and disappeared down the back stairs.
“Showed her!” growled Dash triumphantly. “She doesn’t belong here!”
“I need to get back to Emma,” Oliver told him. “I need to tell her!”
Dash shook his ears. “You can’t tell humans this. They don’t understand.”
“Emma understands.” Oliver turned his bum toward the bigger dog, ignoring Dash’s huffing. As he did, a new scent reached him.
Emma! Emma and . . . LOBSTER!
15
Emma was not an expert in etiquette. However, she did know that when people were trying to adjust to a tragic death, at the same time as they were trying to deal with the police, pretty much the last thing the guests should be doing was wandering around calling for lost dogs.
At the same time, she did not want to leave Oliver to his own devices. She wasn’t actually worried he’d get hurt or anything while he was inside, but there was no guarantee he’d stay inside. Oliver could be very quick on his paws, and the grange had a lot of doors.
Time to try something else.
Emma ducked down into the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” Genny barely glanced up from spreading softened butter on squares of whole wheat bread.
“Missing corgi.” Emma scooped some of the chopped lobster they’d brought for the seafood salad into a bowl. “Need bait.”
Back in the main entrance hall, Emma whistled softly and shook the little dish of lobster meat.
“Oliver?” she whispered. “Oliver!”
Hallways stretched out in three directions. Nothing moved in any of them.
Upstairs? Emma started climbing the sweeping staircase to the second floor.
“Oliver!” she stage whispered when she got to the landing. She shook the bowl. “Come on, Oliver!”
“Emma!”
Emma’s head jerked up. Oliver and Dash both galloped out onto the landing one floor up. Well, Dash galloped, Oliver sort of scampered.
“Emma! Emma! I saw something! It’s important!” he barked.
Dash also barked, and started loping down the stairs. Oliver stopped, and focused, and started hopping down, stair to stair as fast as his stubby legs could manage it.
“There was a woman”—hop—“in an office”—hop. “Dash says”—hop—“she shouldn’t be there! Ooh, what’s that!” Oliver finally reached her side and stretched up on his hind legs, trying to see over the rim of the dish she carried. “Is that lobster? I smelled lobster! What an excellent idea!”
“What are you talking about, Oliver?” Emma put the dish down. “What did you see?”
“A lady, all perfume and hair spray! She was in the office room. She wears too much perfume. It makes her smell like dead otters and bad roses. You should tell her.”
Emma thought furiously. Oliver had clearly seen someone. Someone who smelled like perfume and hair spray, but didn’t have a name. This wasn’t Oliver’s fault. He was a dog. He might talk to Emma, but smells were a lot more important to him than words, and a lot more memorable. Little things like human names, clothing or hairstyles were afterthoughts.
This was a lady with a strong artificial smell. But dead otters? Really?
How does he even know what dead otters smell like? Emma shook herself. Focus! What could that mean . . . ? What was in perfume?
Musk! Oliver must mean it was a musk perfume. And hair spray.
Realization hit and Emma covered her mouth. When she had control of herself again, she asked, “Oliver, was this the same lady we saw earlier, outside, in the rain? The one who got s
ick by the car?”
“Yes, yes! The sick lady!” Oliver put both his front paws on her knee. “What?”
Emma was swallowing a laugh. “Nothing. Her name is Caite Hope-Johnston and, yeah, she does wear too much perfume. Where did you see her?”
“Dash went upstairs, all the way up. He said something was wrong, and he went to the office room. She was there, standing at the desk, only when Dash barked she stopped and she tried to get him to be quiet.” Oliver paused. “Dash doesn’t like her very much.”
Emma took a deep breath. She also took both Oliver’s front paws in her hands. “Okay, Oliver, this is important. What was she doing at the desk? Was she looking in a drawer or . . .”
“She was typing, on the computer thingy.” Oliver dropped back down on all fours.
Emma let go of his paws and stood up straight.
Oliver darted back to the bowl of chopped lobster, but it was too late. Dash had already licked it clean.
“That was not sporting,” said Oliver.
Dash licked the corgi’s nose. This time, Emma couldn’t help laughing. But that didn’t ease the spinning sensation inside her.
Caite Hope-Johnston snuck back into the house after Raj had sent her away. And she was in Marcie’s study and doing . . . something with Marcie’s computer. Barely an hour after she’d found out Marcie was dead.
What on earth could she have been after?
Emma looked up the stairs. No. No. I should not go up there. I should wait for Constance. I should tell her. I should . . .
“Oh, good, you found him!”
Emma jumped. Oliver barked. Genny stood at the door to the basement stairs, holding a big plate of sandwiches.
“Yeah, sorry.” Emma leaned over the rail and stage whispered. “I guess Oliver wandered off upstairs somewhere . . .”
“Oliver followed Dash and discovered something very important!” Oliver barked.
“Let me get these two back to the kitchen,” said Emma quickly.
Murder Always Barks Twice Page 9
