“When did they die?” asked Emma.
“My grandparents? A while ago now. Car accident. I was just a kid.”
“That’s sad.” Emma tried to imagine what Marcie would have gone through, losing her parents so suddenly and knowing they were trusting her to take responsibility for the whole family.
“Anyway, Aunt Marcie said if I wanted the grange, she’d keep on, you know, to make sure it was there for me and my kids, if I had any. She said she’d teach me how to manage the estate too, or would help to hire somebody. All that stuff. She said she’d already talked the whole thing over with Mum, and Mum agreed with her.”
“What did your dad think?” asked Emma.
Daphne stared at her tea. “She didn’t ask him. Said she’d kept it secret because Dad and the uncles were still all shirty about the fact that it was Marcie who got left the estate and they were all put on allowances. She didn’t want them giving me and Mum any extra grief.”
“You know, that’s a lot to dump into your lap,” said Pearl.
“Yeah, it is that.” Daphne drank more tea. “I was pretty mad at first at Mum and Aunt Marcie both. I mean, you know, why not at least warn me what was coming?”
“I’m sure they were trying to do their best,” said Angelique.
“Yeah, I know.” Daphne twisted the end of her ponytail around her finger and tugged. And then seemed to notice what she was doing and let it go. “At least, I knew once I started thinking about it.”
“So, what did you say to her?” asked Pearl.
“Not even a real question, was it? Me and Mum didn’t live at the grange, but we’re out here at least once every year, and I’ve got eyes. I saw how hard Aunt Marcie works, worked, trying to take care of that place. She never got to go anywhere or have any kind of life for herself. It was all about Truscott Grange and she always had to worry about money and stuff, because the uncles were such prigs and fought back on using the house as a wedding venue or anything that might actually help the place pay for itself, you know? Even gave her grief every year about the du Maurier festival. ‘It’s our home!’ they said”—Daphne put on a remarkably good imitation of her uncle Bert—“ ‘not some bloody tourist attraction!’ But it’s not like any of them ever tried to help her either. They didn’t even live there, not even Dad. They just all got off on the idea of being a bunch of poshos with a country estate and all. So they’d turn up on the weekends, hang about, complain and leave it all for her to manage. It wasn’t fair.”
Emma winced. Her relationship with her brother, Henry, could be rough at times, but he’d never let her down when she really needed him, and they’d always pulled together for the family. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be shouldered with all that responsibility, and all that blame.
“Not fair” didn’t even begin to describe it.
Emma thought about Marcie the night she’d sat right where Daphne was, talking about the fictional housekeeper, Mrs. Danvers . . . She was desperate, wasn’t she? And heartbroken. And who wouldn’t be? . . . She was going to spend the rest of her life taking care of a house that would never really be her home. Not really.
Emma frowned at her tea.
“There was no way I was setting myself up for that,” Daphne said. “And there was no way I was going to make her hang about playing housemaid one second longer. So I told her flat out I didn’t want any of it, and that as far as I was concerned she could lock the doors and chuck the key in the pond if that was what she wanted.”
“Wow,” said Pearl. “That’s brave. Not sure I could have walked out on a whole grand estate.”
“How did Marcie take it?” asked Emma.
Daphne’s eyes went distant as she remembered. “She got all quiet at first, and then she said, ‘That’s what I thought. Well done, Daph.’ ”
Angelique nodded. “That doesn’t sound to me like a woman who’s been disappointed.”
“Yeah.” Daphne sniffed. “That’s what I thought then. I mean, the whole idea was I could set her free, you know? Now she could sell the place, or give it to the National Trust, whatever, but she’d finally have her own life. I was sure I’d done the right thing.” Her chin quivered. She tugged her ponytail again, hard. “And then . . . and then . . .”
“We still don’t know what happened,” said Angelique. “You cannot blame yourself.”
“I hate to ask this,” said Emma. “But has anybody found a note?”
“Not that I know about. But I read this thing where they said most suicides don’t actually leave a note. That’s for the movies and stuff.” Daphne swallowed again. “Uncle Gus said she’d been depressed. More than usual. I thought it was because of all this . . . stuff going on with the festival. She was so big on responsibility and the Hyphenated Caite was being even worse than usual this year. But what if that wasn’t it? What if she really wanted me to take over the grange? What if she thought I was . . . all those years keeping the place up for me and I just told her to chuck it and she . . .”
“Oh, Daph,” cried Pearl. “I’m sure that’s not what happened!”
“How can you be sure?” Daphne snapped. “I’m not!”
Daphne jumped off the stool and slammed out the door to the car park.
18
Oliver rushed up to the door and barked. But then stopped and slunk back to Emma’s side.
“I should go get her.” Pearl started for the door.
“Give her a minute, Pearl,” said Angelique. “She just needs to get herself together.”
Pearl stared at the door, clearly torn, but in the end she turned back to her mother and Emma.
“Emma . . . you were there,” Pearl said. “Do you . . . do you think Marcie really jumped?”
The thought of Caite using Marcie’s computer after her death rose up again. But so did the thought of Marcie driving around the district so late (by Cornish standards) on a miserable night. Where had she been? If she’d wanted to give Angelique her payment, why hadn’t she at least called ahead to make sure Angelique was there?
And why draw on her personal funds? Marcie was the society’s treasurer. She could just check the account balance anytime and make sure the money was there.
Emma found her mind backtracking to the bounced catering checks. Just how much money had gone missing from the du Maurier society?
“I don’t know,” she made herself say to Pearl. “I mean, personally, I still think an accident is the most likely explanation.” Just maybe not as much as I did this morning.
“I don’t suppose you—” But she cut herself off. “I should check on Daphne,” Pearl said, and before either of them could stop her, she hurried out the car park door.
“You know what almost happened there,” said Angelique. “She wanted to ask if you could talk to that detective.”
“Wouldn’t have done any good,” said Emma. “I already got warned off.” Then, much to her embarrassment, she cracked a huge yawn. “Oh, sorry!”
“You should go home and get some rest,” said Angelique. “I doubt you’ve slept more than five hours for the past two days.”
“Yes, yes.” Oliver stretched up to put his paws on her knee. “It is time to go home, Emma!”
Emma wanted to argue, but found she couldn’t.
“Do you want a ride?” asked Angelique. “I could take you.”
“No, thanks.” Emma climbed off the stool. “The walk’ll do me and Oliver good. And I can stop and check in on Genny on the way, if she’s still at the shop.”
“Good idea,” said Angelique. “And—”
That was when the kitchen landline rang. Angelique muttered a highly creative curse on the head of whoever had such terrible timing, but she went over to answer it anyway.
“King’s Rest, how can I help you? Oh, Mr. Whaling. Yes, I have the order ready. If you can just . . .”
Emma fo
und her bag and waved goodbye. Angelique waved back. “Yes, yes. The same as last week. Yes.”
“Come on, Oliver.” Emma held open the kitchen door, and let Oliver out ahead of her.
Daphne and Pearl were still standing in the car park. Both girls had their heads down and were talking softly to each other. They saw Emma and Oliver, or heard them, and both looked a little startled and a little guilty.
Emma put on a friendly smile and waved.
“Um, Emma?” said Pearl.
“Yeah?” Emma stopped in her tracks. Oliver plopped down on his hindquarters and scratched his chin.
“I . . . that is, Daphne wants to ask you something.”
Uneasiness prickled up Emma’s spine. “Okay.”
“Pearl just told me about last summer,” said Daphne. “About when Victoria Roberts died.”
Uh-oh.
Oliver, sensing Emma’s mood shift, bonked her calf and whined in wordless concern.
Daphne was taking a deep breath. “I was wondering, if maybe you could . . . you know . . . have a look around about Aunt Marcie?”
Emma forced herself to remain quiet and just keep breathing. Oliver looked up at her, full of concern, and gave her an encouraging bum wag. What she really wanted to do was scoop him up in her arms and hug him like a teddy bear.
Pull it together, Emma, she told herself. And say something adult sounding. Go on. You can do it.
“Daphne—I want to help you, I do. But the police are doing their jobs, and if I get in the way, it could be really bad. I could mess up evidence or confuse a witness. Just because I was lucky the once—”
“You weren’t lucky,” said Pearl. “You talked to people. You worked it out.”
But even while Daphne was looking at her, pleading, Emma heard Constance’s warning in her head. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.
This was exactly what Constance was talking about.
At the same time, Emma remembered the argument she’d overheard: Bert, how come you’re so quick to say Marcie jumped? . . . Because it’s obvious she jumped! . . . Oh, is it?
“Daphne,” Emma said. She hoped she sounded reasonable but not condescending, but sympathetic, but firm. It was a lot to put into one word. “You can trust DCI Brent. She’s really good at what she does. I know you’re hurting, but—”
“It’s not about me,” Daphne shot back. “I mean it is, but it’s about Aunt Marcie too. I’m scared.”
“Scared?” echoed Pearl. “Of what?”
“I was listening to Dad and my uncles. They were arguing after the detective left. I didn’t . . . okay, I wasn’t supposed to hear any of it, but you know what? You can hear anything in that house if you really want to.” She paused and gave Emma a sideways glance. “So now I look like a sulky teenager or something.”
“No, you don’t,” Emma assured her.
Daphne either decided to believe her or decided she didn’t care. “They were talking, but they weren’t talking about what happened to Marcie, or what to do, or anything. They were talking about . . . about how it was going to look, and whether there was anything any of them had to worry about. Aunt Marcie’s dead, and they were worried they were going to be embarrassed!” She spat out the last word.
“Grief and fear do strange things inside people,” said Emma, but even she was aware how stilted those words sounded.
“But what if they decide there really is something to be embarrassed about?” demanded Daphne. “What if they decide there’s something that they need to cover up? Something that might help the police work out what really happened?”
“Do you honestly think your uncles would do that?” said Emma incredulously. “Marcie was their sister.”
“Maybe Uncle Gus wouldn’t,” said Daphne. “He’s a bit of a wet blanket but he’s more or less okay. And maybe not Dad. Maybe. But Uncle Bert?” Her mouth curled into a sneer. “He’d do it in a heartbeat.”
Emma remembered Bert, with his tan, his muscles and his (possibly) dyed hair, towering over his brothers. And if we sit here arguing like idiots, someone is going to think something’s really wrong in this family, Bert had said. And they’ll start asking awkward questions.
“I only met him today.”
“Oh, he’s a charmer.” The way Daphne said “charmer” made it somehow sound like “snake.” “He’s very big into being a member of an ‘old family.’ ” She made the air quotes. “He thinks being a Cochrane is a privilege and a responsibility, and he never lets the rest of us forget it. If he knew the cops would find something that might be a stain on the family reputation—and I don’t mean something quaint, like how Charles II is supposed to have had a quickie with one of my grand-cestors—but you know, something modern and grubby. He’d do whatever it took to cover it up.”
“But you can’t mean he’d want them to stop investigating if it turned out that . . . well, it wasn’t suicide. Or . . .” Emma didn’t get any further. She could see by the look on Daphne’s face that was exactly what she did mean.
“So, you’ll help, right?” said Pearl.
“Please,” said Daphne.
Oliver leaned against her knee.
I’m surrounded. Emma bit her lip. “Can you . . . can you just give me a minute?”
Emma walked to the edge of the car park. Just across the two-lane highway were the stairs to the beach and the sea. Emma sat down on the top step and rested her arms on her knees. The breeze whipped her hair around her face.
Oliver, of course, was right beside her.
“What do I do, Oliver?” Emma asked.
Oliver scratched his chin. “She needs help, Emma. You like her. Pearl likes her. You’ll both help her.”
“But what if I mess up?”
“You’ll try again.”
Despite everything that had happened, Emma laughed. “It’s that simple?”
Oliver cocked his head at her. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Emma put her arm around her wonderful, loyal, talking dog and squeezed. “I love you, Oliver.”
“I love you too.” He licked her cheek. “We should take a walk. You have been inside too much today. It’s stopped raining,” he added helpfully.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
“Corgi Obvious.”
Emma laughed again and kissed his nose. She also stood up, checked for random traffic and walked back across the road to where Daphne and Pearl were still waiting.
“All right,” she told them. “I will try, but that’s all. I can’t . . . I can’t promise I’ll actually find anything.”
Daphne let out a long breath. “That’s all I’m asking. Honestly. I’ll feel better knowing there’s somebody on Aunt Marcie’s side, you know? Where do we start?”
Emma sucked in a deep breath. She also tried to will her hands to stop shaking. “It’s more a question of when. I can’t do anything before Monday.”
“Monday!” exclaimed Daphne. “That’s three days!”
“Two,” said Emma. “And it’s the soonest we’ll hear anything about the autopsy, and if the police find anything in the meantime, we should know what it is before we go stomping about in the flower beds.” Saying it out loud, it sounded almost reasonable, even though she was just making things up as she went along.
“Stalling” is the formal term. I’m stalling.
“But no matter what, Monday afternoon, I’ll come up to the grange and you can show me around. All right?”
Daphne looked like she wanted to argue, but Pearl put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s a good plan, Daph.”
Reluctantly, Daphne nodded and Emma was able to breathe again.
Maybe by Monday Constance would have found all the answers anybody needed, or Helen would, or the board of the du Maurier society would—with or without the Hyphenated Caite. Maybe she wouldn’t have to be part of
this at all.
That would be the best possible outcome.
Wouldn’t it?
19
Taken as a whole, Trevena village actually covered a fair amount of ground. The outskirts, farms and housing estates sprawled well up into the hills. The village proper stretched along the coastline from the tourist trap of King Arthur’s Castle at one end to the genuine medieval ruins that topped the cliffs at the other. But the center of the village was a few narrow, winding streets lined by whitewashed buildings. Many still sported the traditional bright blue doors and pub-style signs. Some of them, like the post office and the King’s Rest itself, had been standing for hundreds of years.
Genny’s chip shop, the Towne Fryer, stood on a corner right on the edge of the old central village, and Emma’s route home from the B&B took her right past it. The Towne Fryer was a classic chippery—just a service counter, a space for the fry baskets and warming table, and a little counter under the window where maybe three customers could sit, if they were very good friends. Genny and her family ran the shop with part-time help from not only Josh but a rotating selection of kids from the local secondary school, as well as Becca, who also helped out at Emma’s shop.
“Are we going to get fish?” asked Oliver when she stopped in front of the shop. “We should definitely get fish. You did not have any lunch. You shouldn’t skip meals, Emma. You have not been healthy today.” For emphasis, he prodded her ankle with his nose.
“Yes, Mum.” Emma laughed. Which only caused him to prod her again.
Fortunately, it wasn’t the teatime rush yet and the shop was currently empty of customers. Despite everything on her mind, Emma couldn’t help noticing that the covered cake stand on the service counter was empty. Emma had an arrangement with the Towne Fryer to provide a selection of bakes to supplement their menu of fried goodies. The empty stand meant the Grandma’s Grand Chocolate Cake she’d delivered just yesterday was already gone. But the plate of Lemon Blue Shortbread Bars was still half-full.
Murder Always Barks Twice Page 11
