Murder Always Barks Twice

by Jennifer Hawkins

  Emma felt an uncomfortable tightening in the back of her neck, but she couldn’t quite say why. Gus’s stiff-upper-lip response was the expected thing, especially among people who venerated old-fashioned manners and keeping up appearances. At the same time, there was something off-putting about how fast Gus pulled the stoic facade over his sister’s death.

  “Anyway,” Gus went on. “The Jag looks fantastic. I just wanted to stop round and say hello and thanks while the paperwork got together. I appreciate your rushing the repairs through.” He held his hand out for Brian to shake.

  “No problem,” said Brian. “It’s a beautiful machine. Always a treat to work on.”

  “Good, good.” Gus gave them all a vague smile. “Well, must be off.”

  “Oh, Gus,” said Genny. “Emma and I left some equipment and such at the grange the other day. We were planning on coming round after we finished here to pick it up. Would that still be all right?”

  “Um, well, yes, I should think. You won’t find me there. Things to do.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Anyway. Rest of the family’s all home, and it’s not like this was a surprise. More of a relief, rather, to have it all official. Can get on with things now. So, it should be fine. Thanks again.”

  He headed out the door with the air of someone making a hasty retreat. Emma watched him climb into a low, sleek convertible painted a truly breathtaking shade of lime green. The engine roared as it started, and even from here, Emma could hear the clash of the gears as Gus backed and turned.

  “And see you soon,” murmured Brian as the Jaguar peeled out of sight.

  Emma raised her brows.

  “It is a gorgeous machine, but those early Jags are pretty notoriously unreliable, and he’s got no idea how to take care of it. He just likes the speed, and the name.”

  Which coming from a car connoisseur was about as clear a condemnation as you could get.

  “So, you see it a lot, do you?”

  “The thing’s practically family by now,” Brian muttered. “The Cochranes have a history of being careless with their stuff.” He shook his head. “You can tell a lot about people by the way they treat their machines.”

  “And how do the Cochranes treat theirs?”

  Brian rubbed his chin. “Well, I’d guess we’ve had just about every one of their cars, and declared a bunch of them totaled out, for the insurance, you know. My ol’ da must have totaled out three cars just for Frank before he turned thirty.”

  “Oh,” said Emma.

  “Yeah, oh. Now Bert, we barely ever saw young Mr. Bert, but then nobody else did either. He was always up in London, uni then off to the States for business school, and then back again. Now he takes his BMW to a specialist in St. Ives.”

  “How about Marcie?”

  “Marcie drove the family car when we were younger. A Range Rover, seventies vintage. Took care of it like . . . well, like it was all she had. I’m pretty sure she even read the manual. She did everything like that. You gave Marcie Cochrane a job, it got done, and maybe overdone.”

  “You’ve got thoughts,” said Emma.

  Brian shrugged. “I admit, I’ve always wondered who told her she had to be the one to take care of that lot, if you see what I mean. Her brothers—wouldn’t give you a bob for any of ’em.”

  “Even Bert?”

  “Especially Bert. Gus, he’s all right, or at least, he could be, if the other two left him alone, and if somebody would teach him how to actually drive that car. But Bert and Frank can get him to do anything, especially if they lean on him together.”

  A dozen questions bubbled up inside Emma, but Brian was already shaking his head and turning away. “Let’s get you the keys, then, and the paperwork, and you can take that test drive.”

  The office was a strictly functional room, with lots of clipboards hanging on the wall and a pegboard of tagged and labeled keys. Emma signed the liability and insurance documents and let Brian photocopy her license.

  “Oh, and you’ll want this.” He pulled a bundle of bright green straps out from under the counter. “Dog harness,” he said. “Safety first and all.”

  “Thanks.”

  He pushed the keys across the counter. “She’ll take good care of you. I promise.”

  Genny rolled her eyes. “Good grief, Emma, you’re dating the Cooper whisperer.”

  “We’re not dating,” said Emma and Brian together.

  Genny snorted. Oliver sneezed.

  “Bless you,” said Brian solemnly. “See you soon.”

  Someone had brought the Mini round to front. The harness proved fairly easy to figure out, and soon Oliver was snugly strapped in. She climbed into the front seat and buckled her own belt.

  “Um, Emma?” said Genny, who was buckling herself into the passenger seat. “You do know how to drive, right?”

  Emma grinned at her. “Trust me.”

  “Right.” Genny gripped the dash. Emma laughed, and started the engine.

  24

  This is an excellent idea.

  Oliver did not like the car harness Emma insisted he wear, but he decided he could humor her. Despite the straps, he sat up tall in the back seat of the new car. The dizzying wind, with its heavy, heart-pounding scents hit him full in the face. The rushing air was tinged with green and wildlife and farm animals and other dogs and warmth and sunshine. If he let his tongue hang out, he could practically taste all the berms and hedges that lined the narrow, winding roads.

  He barked for the sheer excitement of it all, and Emma laughed.

  “What do you think, Oliver?” called Emma.

  “It is an extremely good car,” he barked loudly. “We should go faster.”

  Emma laughed again. Then she looked over at Genny. “Stop it,” said Emma.

  “Stop what?” asked Genny. “I’m not doing anything. You’re the one who’s contemplating elopement with this car.”

  “Well, since you’re not doing anything, you can call Daphne and let her know we’re on our way.”

  Genny dug in her purse for her mobile. Oliver was glad that Emma had not even tried to leave him behind with Lucy and the car man. He liked Lucy. She was cheerful and not at all stuck up like some collies could be, and she had an interesting home. But Emma needed him if she was going back to the grange. Bad things had happened in that house. Emma would find out why that was. Emma was good at that, but until then, she needed looking after, whether she knew it or not.

  “All right.” Genny was putting her mobile away again. “Daphne says she’s home and ready for us. We should go around back, like the other day.”

  “Got it,” answered Emma. She moved the gear shift thingy and the car went a little faster. Because Emma really was the best human ever.

  * * *

  * * *

  The grange house cast a long shadow over its front courtyard. Emma drove them around the two corners. Oliver inhaled deeply when they passed the place where they found Rain Lady Marcie, but he couldn’t pick up any trace of her anymore, at least not from here. There was just warming stone and fresh green.

  Running Lady—who Emma said was called Daphne—stood in the back car park with Dash.

  “Dash!” Oliver barked happily as Emma undid his harness so he could jump down and run over to the big mutt. Dash had been outside a lot since they were here last. He smelled like mud and water and crushed plants and mice and dust and a dozen other things. His coat was tangled. He answered Oliver’s greetings with sniffs and happy growls. Then he flopped over on his side so he and Oliver could be nose to nose.

  “Is Running Lady your new human?” Oliver asked.

  Dash huffed at him. “All the humans in my house are my human! But she is a very good human. Watch!” He surged to his feet and bounded over to Daphne, jumping up to put his legs on her chest.

  “Cut it out, ya big daftie!” Daphne exclaimed. But
she also laughed and ruffled his ears before she pushed him back down.

  “See?” Dash backed away, satisfied. Oliver shook himself and sneezed.

  “I don’t understand how all humans are your human. What about Rain Lady Marcie? I thought she was your best human.”

  Dash’s ears and tail drooped. “I miss Marcie. She shouldn’t have gone away like that. She was sad. Then she got hurt. I wanted to help her, but no one would listen to me.”

  Oliver felt his muzzle quiver. This was important. He felt it at the very tips of his paws and tail. “When was she hurt?”

  “The last night. She was in her room. She was hurt. I went to get somebody, but they locked me outside. She was hurt here too, but I didn’t see that part.”

  Oliver felt a growl building.

  “Who locked you out?”

  Dash told him, a mix of description and scent language that he’d have to work out how to translate for Emma later. He thought it was the bearded man—what was his human name? Gus! That was it. Gus locked Dash outside the night Rain Lady Marcie died.

  That had to be important. But there was something else too.

  “Where was she hurt outside?”

  “Here! Here!” Dash galumphed toward the small side building with a whole line of doors. Oliver raced after him.

  “Oliver!” called Emma. Oliver skidded to a halt. The humans were all heading into the house. She whistled. Oliver yelped impatiently.

  “It’s important, Emma!”

  She whistled again. Dash shrugged with his whole shaggy body. “Does your human have roast beef today?” he asked. “My humans never give me beef. Well, almost never. Hardly ever. Not enough,” he added.

  “I don’t know,” Oliver told him. Emma whistled again. “I have to go.”

  “You do that, mate.” Dash nosed him once in the side, and then turned around and trotted toward the gardens.

  Nobody calls him back, Oliver thought grumpily. Which was not right. Dash had the whole house and all these gardens and woods to take care of. It was a big job. For a mutt, he was a very important dog. But if Emma was going inside the house, Oliver could not even think about leaving her alone.

  Not even to find out where Rain Lady Marcie got hurt. Because if one of the house humans could get hurt here, so could Emma.

  Oliver broke into a run.

  25

  “Emma! Emma!” Emma held the door open while Oliver hopped down the stairs into the kitchen. “Dash told me something important!”

  “Yes, yes,” Emma breathed. “Good boy.”

  Usually, Oliver understood that this meant she needed to talk to other humans now. The problem was, from Oliver’s point of view, all humans did was talk to each other. He didn’t always understand how sliding in a few extra words here or there could really matter.

  “But Dash knows where Marcie Rain Lady got hurt!”

  Emma frowned and rubbed Oliver’s ears. That shouldn’t be important. They all knew where she “got hurt—” out beside the driveway, under the third story window. They’d all seen her. Oliver knew it. He’d been there.

  So what’s he talking about? Emma’s curiosity didn’t so much itch as burn with the heat of the summer sun at noon.

  The problem was, she couldn’t ask him, not when Genny and Daphne were in the same room.

  “How are you doing?” Genny was asking Daphne. Daphne folded her arms tight across her chest and leaned against the kitchen island. She was dressed for running in a bright pink top and electric blue leggings, but her face was pale, and she did not look like she’d slept much, or eaten much either. All Emma’s baking instincts prodded at her to feed the girl a big slice of bread and butter, maybe some soup. At least a slice of cake.

  Daphne shrugged. “It was not a good night. The uncles aren’t talking to each other. Mum’s . . . Mum’s kind of a mess. Dad’s trying to help, which is a surprise, but he’s not very good at it. And none of them know where anything is. Mom finally got some breakfast together, cuz none of them was going to. She says Marcie should have kicked them all out years ago. Probably would have done everybody a world of good.”

  “We heard about the autopsy,” said Emma. Oliver, distracted by some fresh scent, was sniffing around the baseboards and heading toward the pantry.

  “What’s that?” he mumbled. “What is it? What?”

  Emma tore her attention away from her literally nosy dog and tried to focus on Daphne.

  “So that’s out already.” Daphne tugged at her ponytail. “Uncle Bert was on the phone all weekend, rattling cages. Seems he finds it unacceptable that our public servants didn’t work overtime to get him the answers he wanted.”

  The door to the main house opened. Daphne snapped her mouth shut. Her mother, Helen, came in carrying an empty tea mug with a spoon sticking out of it.

  “Oh, hullo, Genny. Emma. Daphne said you’d be back today.” She touched Daphne’s arm as she passed. Helen looked tired and more than a little disheveled. She wore a loose gray T-shirt over black trousers, a stark contrast to her tall daughter’s neon pink and blue. “You had some equipment and so on? You may have to dig around a bit. It’s been a little chaotic the past few days.” Helen set her empty mug down on the kitchen island and blinked at it.

  Daphne put her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “What is it, Mum?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just tired,” Helen said. “Bert’s being particularly managing just now. Wants all the details about the obituary and the funeral finalized so it can get in the papers as soon as possible, or wherever obituaries go nowadays.” She pushed her hair back from her forehead. She clearly hadn’t been able to muster a lot of patience with brushes and combs this morning. “I’ve decided to just let him have his way.”

  “Because heaven knows Uncle Bert doesn’t get his way often enough,” Daphne muttered.

  “Daphne, please. Not now.”

  “Then when, Mum?” Daphne stalked back to the kitchen island. “You know as well as I do that he’s trying to cover something up!”

  Genny eased herself back toward Emma. Emma shot a glance at the door. Exit, stage left?

  Genny’s eyebrows shot up. Are you kidding? And miss this?

  “I know this isn’t what you want to hear,” Helen was saying. “But we have to face facts.”

  “I am facing them!” Daphne snapped back. She paced down the length of the island, before she turned around. It was like she was positioning herself to protect . . . what exactly?

  “The fact is that Uncle Bert pushed to get the autopsy released as fast as possible,” said Daphne. “There has to be some reason for that. You know he never does anything unless he thinks there’s something in it for him.”

  For a moment, mother and daughter just stood there, staring each other down along the length of the antiquated kitchen. Emma felt her throat constrict.

  “It’s over, Daphne,” Helen said. “We will miss Marcie. I will miss her. You just have to believe it was not anything to do with you, or your choices. It was something inside Marcie herself, and I should have seen it and I should have tried harder to help her, and I will always regret that. But it is over.”

  “All right,” said Daphne with hollow cheerfulness. “Since it’s over, I guess there’s no problem with us going into Aunt Marcie’s rooms now, is there? I mean, it’s not like we’re going to need to keep things as they are for the cops, right?”

  Helen narrowed her eyes, clearly trying to see just what might be behind her daughter’s words. “Who’s ‘us’?”

  “Emma and Genny are working with the du Maurier Society. They’re going to do a memorial at the festival.” The lie came out so smoothly, Emma was impressed, and a little appalled. “We were going to pick out some photos, maybe some of the books.”

  “Daphne . . .” Emma began, but she didn’t get any further.

  Helen narrowed her e
yes in an expression that Emma suspected Daphne had seen a lot, especially on occasions when there was a broken plate or missing homework.

  “What are you doing, Daphne?”

  Daphne shrugged. “Giving you an out if any of the uncles get mad that I let Emma look around.”

  “And why does Emma need to look around?”

  “You know why, Mum,” said Daphne flatly. “Because something’s wrong, and I don’t trust Uncle Bert.”

  Helen glowered darkly at Emma and Genny. Uncertainty bubbled up inside Emma. What if her rash promise let Daphne cling to some false hope rather than come to terms with her own grief?

  “This once,” said Helen softly. “That’s it. If there’s nothing to see, then it’s over, agreed?”

  Daphne didn’t answer right away. She tugged at her ponytail and looked to Emma and Genny for support.

  They both shrugged like they’d coordinated the move.

  Daphne rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Okay. But, Mum, if we do find something, you have to promise to listen, yeah?”

  “Yes. All right. I will listen.”

  Genny let out a long slow breath. Emma nodded in sympathy and agreement.

  Oliver bustled back to Emma’s side and bonked her with his nose. “Emma? I think I found something here too. I’m not sure, but there’s something. It’s leftover. But there was a lot of rain all over the floor. Also soap, and bleach.”

  Bleach? Emma looked down at Oliver. Who’d use bleach to clean a floor like this? Something in the back of her mind shifted uncomfortably. There wasn’t enough time to follow it, though.

  “Oh, Helen, there you are.” Frank pushed open the door from the main house. “I was looking for you.”

  As he came toward them, Emma saw that Frank looked like he’d slept well and taken time with himself that morning. His silvering hair was well combed, his polo shirt was fresh, so was his shave. Objectively, one might even find him handsome.

  Subjectively, Emma decided she preferred mechanic/taxi driver/car salesmen.