Murder Always Barks Twice

by Jennifer Hawkins

  “Keep up! Keep up!” Dash galloped ahead.

  “You keep up!” Oliver sprinted ahead, stretching his long body the whole way out. “Come on! Come on! Dash! This way!”

  “Where are we going?” Dash paused to thrust his nose under a flowery bush. “Huh, huh, that’s new!”

  Oliver joined him, plunging his nose deep into the rubbish and then backing away. The only problem with outdoors was it tended to get stuck on his nose, and that made it harder to understand new smells properly. “Emma says we need to explore. We need to find anything that smells like Rain Lady Marcie.”

  “Your human is strange.”

  “All humans are strange,” admitted Oliver. “Emma herds them back together and makes them play nice.”

  “Huh, huh.” Dash sat down and scratched his ear hard. “Well, she has good snacks.”

  “She’ll have more snacks if we can find the Marcie smells,” Oliver said.

  Dash shook his head until his ears flopped. “She’s smart too. I don’t know how you taught her to understand so much. My humans never hear me when it’s important.”

  “I told you, Emma is special. Where should we look first?”

  Dash put his nose down and cast around in several directions. “Don’t know. Nothing here. Well. Lots here, but not Marcie.”

  Dash was right. Oliver nosed around through the grass and the stones and the winding, layered trails of smells. So what to do?

  He considered. Humans had patterns. They had territories. Emma had all her favorite spots, even just in the house.

  “Is there a favorite human spot?” asked Oliver. “A best trail?”

  “Oh!” Dash pricked up his ears and tail. “That’s what you mean. Why didn’t you say so? We’ll go to the pond. Let’s go!”

  Oliver barked happily. It was chaotic progress, but that was okay, because it was fun too. Dash ran, and loped, and stopped to investigate the new things. They flushed a whole bunch of birds who all said rude things as they flew away. There were rabbits too, but they were too fast to bother chasing for more than a little way.

  A big, saucy crow flew down and stood right in their path. Dash barked. The crow stretched out its shiny black wings and thrust its long beak forward. To his embarrassment, Oliver backpedaled and fell sideways.

  The crow laughed loud and harsh, and flew away.

  “I know that one,” muttered Dash. “Look out for him. He’s a troublemaker.”

  “I can tell.” Oliver barked, but the crow was long gone.

  Pretty soon, they came to a dirt path that ran through a patch of old trees. A snake slithered away under the ferns, hissing angrily about its disturbed nap. The wind freshened and Oliver smelled water and decay.

  And a human.

  Oliver bounded ahead of Dash, who growled impatiently. Oliver ignored him. The tree shadows gave way to sunshine and the pond.

  It wasn’t anywhere near as big or as interesting as the sea. It was a still, flat, dark body of water, more like an enormous puddle than anything else. Patches of reeds and peppery-scented weeds and sweet flags lined much of the shore. One of the Cochrane humans stood at the very edge of the water. He had a big stick in one hand, and in the other he held a bundle of something.

  “Gus! Gus!” barked Dash. Gus started at the sudden noise. Dash bounded past Oliver and leapt up, planting his paws on the human’s chest and making him stagger.

  “Dash!” the human shouted. “Get down, you stupid dog! Come on, down!” He shoved Dash’s paws off his chest, but he also rubbed his head and ears in a friendly way. “That’s enough now. About scared the life out of me, you did!”

  Now that he was closer, Oliver realized that the stick wasn’t a stick at all. It was a digging thing for the garden, like Emma used sometimes. Shovel! That was the name. Or spade maybe. Oliver had never really been able to tell the difference. They were seldom interesting. Now, the bundle. The bundle was very interesting. He nosed the dirty underside. It was hard to tell what it might be. It had a long strap, but a bulgy bit at the end. It was a human thing, not a plant tangle or old animal. It smelled like clean dirt. It must have been buried somewhere.

  It smelled like something else too. It smelled like . . . like . . .

  “Watch out, boys!”

  Oliver yelped and jumped back. Gus swung his whole body around and threw the bundle out into the pond as hard as he could. Dash barked, and splashed right into the water. Oliver followed, only not as far. A noble corgi could do anything, if he really had to, but swimming was hard.

  Gus whistled. “Leave it, Dash! Leave it!”

  Oliver was confused. He climbed out of the water and shook himself hard. Humans didn’t throw things unless they wanted them back. That was not how the game worked.

  This is very strange. He would definitely have to tell Emma, just as soon as he got back.

  36

  Emma read the screen message on Daphne’s phone again. They can’t find Aunt Marcie’s will. Her gaze went from the words to Daphne’s serious expression.

  Pearl mouthed, “Are you serious?”

  Daphne nodded.

  Across the room, Helen raised her voice. “Sorry about that, everybody.”

  Daphne snatched her phone away and stuffed it into her pocket.

  “My fault entirely,” said Bert smoothly. “I just forgot you’d all be here so early. But best of luck. Helen. You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” He touched her elbow. Helen shook him off.

  “I’m so sorry we have to descend on your house at a time like this, Bert,” said Caite. “I know you and your family would much prefer for this to be a private time.”

  “Yes,” said Bert. “But of course, this is what Marcie wanted, and so we really should go forward. No better way to say goodbye.”

  It had been a long time since Emma had watched two equally insincere people engaged in a smile-and-stare down, but Bert and Caite were giving it their all.

  Bert broke away first. He gave the gathering a stiff little nod and left. Emma knew she didn’t imagine the sigh of relief that echoed around the room.

  Tasha and John immediately sat down at the oval marquetry table and started opening their laptops and notepads. Ned Giddy pulled up a chair and thumped a festival tote bag filled with three-ring binders down on the table.

  “Well,” said Helen to Caite. “Looks like you’ve got everything in hand here. I’ll just steal Emma for a bit, if that’s all right?”

  Caite frowned. “We were going to finalize the catering arrangements.”

  “Pearl has the menus and the cost breakdowns,” said Emma. In fact, they’d strategized about how one of them could keep the board busy while the other took some time to look around the house. Now might be the time to put that plan into action.

  Caite sighed. “Well, I suppose that’s all right then.”

  Pearl pulled out a chair and Emma left with Helen and Daphne.

  As soon as they’d gone far enough down the hall that Emma was sure they couldn’t be overheard, she asked, “What was going on with Bert, Helen?”

  But Helen didn’t answer until they all reached the foyer. When they got there, she spread her hands out to brace herself against the central pedestal table, like she needed to keep her knees from collapsing, or herself from breaking something.

  “Mum?” Daphne put an arm around her. Helen leaned her head briefly on her daughter’s shoulder.

  “It’s all right, Daph. Bert’s just being himself. Very put out that I didn’t make sure he remembered that the festival people would be here today.”

  “And here I thought he was just cross because he couldn’t find Aunt Marcie’s will,” said Daphne.

  “What?” Helen pulled away. “Who told you that?”

  Daphne shrugged. “I heard Dad and Uncle Gus talking about it yesterday.”

 
Because you can hear anything in this house if you want to. Emma found herself looking around uneasily. Somebody could be listening to them right now.

  “Uncle Bert sent Gus to the solicitors yesterday to get the will,” Daphne went on.

  Of course, thought Emma, it would have to be Gus, because he was Marcie’s heir, and the solicitor would only give the will to the heir or the executor. And if Marcie hadn’t gotten around to changing her will to Daphne’s favor yet, that heir should have been Gus.

  “Anyway, it seems Uncle Gus came back empty-handed,” said Daphne.

  “And you didn’t tell me?” Helen’s voice broke. She slapped her hand across her mouth, and looked around. But the room stayed still. They were the only ones there.

  Probably. Emma shifted her weight uneasily.

  “I thought there must have been a mistake,” said Daphne defensively. “I mean, Uncle Gus isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Besides, you weren’t exactly in a mood to talk anymore when you got back yesterday.”

  “Yes, well, that’s true.”

  Emma remembered how yesterday Gus had come to take Frank away for a second. Was that when he told Frank something was wrong? She mentally squinted at the memory. Had Gus been struggling to maintain a casual expression, or was that just her imagination overwriting her actual memory?

  “Anyway, Uncle Gus told Uncle Frank that Aunt Marcie didn’t make a will after all. Or at least that’s what the solicitor said.”

  “No will? That’s ridiculous,” said Helen.

  “What happened then?” asked Emma.

  “Well, Uncle Bert came in, and he about hit the ceiling.” Daphne tugged on her ponytail, and then pushed it over her shoulder. “Said he was going to call the solicitor and demand some answers. Then he left, and then Uncle Gus complained about how he was going to have to sign up for extra therapy sessions. But Uncle Frank wanted to know if Gus knew anything about where the will was. He really got into it. Said they needed to present a united front against Bert, or Bert would just bulldoze through everything. Gus said he’d love to, but he didn’t know anything. He was really unhappy,” she added. “He wanted to get out of there.”

  “Speaking of,” said Helen. “I haven’t seen Gus all morning.”

  “I saw him drive past when I was on my run earlier,” said Daphne. “I don’t think he’s back yet.”

  “I still don’t believe Marcie didn’t have a will,” said Helen. “It’s been years since her parents died. She would never be so careless.”

  “You’ve gone very quiet, Emma,” said Pearl.

  Emma rubbed the back of her neck. She thought about the solicitor’s card she found in Marcie’s copy of Rebecca.

  “Yeah, well, I just . . .” She swallowed. She wished they were somewhere more private. “I agree with Helen. Someone as careful about loose ends as Marcie would leave a will.”

  “Probably there’s a copy in her office somewhere,” said Helen.

  “We could—” began Daphne, but then an idea seemed to strike her. “How about you go check the office, and I’ll keep an eye out to make sure nobody sneaks up on you?”

  Helen gave her daughter a long, hard look. The look Daphne returned was one of complete innocence.

  “Right, yes. Good idea,” she said slowly. “Emma?”

  “Right,” Emma agreed. “We should look at her computer, and maybe see if we can find anything in the desk.”

  “If Bert’s left us anything.” Helen started up the stairs. “We can stop at Gus’s rooms on the way. I think maybe we should talk to him without the others listening.”

  That’s probably a good idea, thought Emma. Then she thought of something else.

  “Helen, can I ask you something?” said Emma as they started up the stairs. “Why did Marcie pick Gus to inherit? I mean, before Daphne?”

  Helen sighed. “I suppose because of the three of them, he was the one she got on with the best. He tried, at least. Helped out with the yearly inventory, advocated for allowing the house to be used as an event venue, tried to get the others to stop grousing about the du Maurier festival.”

  Oh, yeah, right, Frank had said. You spent all those years sucking up to her for nothing, yeah?

  They reached the first floor landing and turned down the right-hand hallway. “I would have thought that once Daphne came along, Marcie would have redone the will in her favor,” Emma said. “Or at least so you and Frank would hold the property in trust.”

  Helen didn’t answer. She just walked all the way down to the far end of the hall. And she knocked on one of the last doors on the left and waited.

  Emma waited beside her. As she did, she realized these quiet, dim corridors with their dark paneling and closed doors were beginning to get on her nerves. She wished for daylight, and noise.

  And maybe fewer secrets.

  “Gus?” Helen called. “Gus, you there?”

  There was no answer. Helen shrugged. “Not back yet.”

  “I wonder where’s he gone?”

  “Probably he just wanted to be elsewhere. Gus is like that.”

  I’m not sorry for an excuse to get out of the house. Especially now. Gus had said that when he came to pick up his Jaguar from Brian. “Not one for confrontation, then?”

  “No. Never. Well, not until recently. When I was first married, Gus was always trying to sweep anything difficult under the rug. I’ll say this for his therapist, he’s at least started standing up for himself.”

  Helen walked out onto the landing for the back stairway. She paused, staring out the window. The day outside was turning gray. Emma wondered if it was going to start raining again.

  “Are you okay, Helen?” asked Emma softly.

  “Yes, fine. It’s just—” In the watery daylight, her face was all hard lines and shadowy planes. “It’s ridiculous is what it is,” she said. “I still have trouble talking about the Cochranes. I left a dozen years ago, but—” She smiled weakly. “No matter what happens, they’re still Daphne’s family, aren’t they? I wanted her to be able to come to her own terms with them. I still feel like I can’t air the dirty laundry in public.”

  “I understand,” said Emma.

  “Marcie never talked much about how she came to be the one to inherit, but she did sometimes. And by sometimes, I mean when she’d had a fair amount to drink. We’d always split a bottle or two of white wine when the festival was over.” She smiled sadly. “We’d sit in one of the big downstairs rooms with all the old furniture and stuff, and get comfortably sloshed. She’d talk about growing up here and how her parents would have these serious talks with her about her responsibilities. You see, Richard and Evelyn, they knew that the boys were all, well, extraordinarily careless with money. They excused it. Boys take longer to mature, they said. Boys need to sow their wild oats. All that . . . stuff. They said—everybody said—they’d settle down in time.

  “Until then, it was Marcie’s job to take care of them. For the whole family’s sake.” Helen leaned back against the railing and folded her arms. Emma remembered how Daphne struck that exact pose down in the kitchen. “It was all so absurdly out-of-date, but there it was. She was the oldest. She had the brains and the common sense. She was the one who had to make it all right. They were all counting on her.”

  “The modern world stops at the gates of Truscott Grange.” Emma whispered the words, but Helen heard her anyway.

  “It certainly did for Marcie. She never finished uni. She just stayed home and took care of things.”

  “But she didn’t give the place over to them, because she knew they’d make a mess of it?”

  “She strongly suspected, that’s for sure.” Helen pushed herself away from the railing. “They all live on their credit cards. Frank and I fought about it the whole time we were married. But with everything that’s happened, I can’t help thinking it might have been better for ev
erybody if she’d just told them all what they could do with the family name and the family home and walked away.”

  Emma felt herself frown. “Helen, did Marcie ever say anything about leaving the grange to . . . you?” If Marcie’s brothers were hopeless, and if she meant the property to eventually go to Daphne, leaving it to Helen in case the unexpected happened made more sense than leaving it to Gus.

  “Me? I never even thought about it. Much, anyway. I thought there might be a couple of pounds coming our way, and there’s a tea set I’d like to have.” She paused for a moment, clearly trying to sort out her own feelings. “I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but the house never stopped being a kind of fantasy for me. I mean, nobody actually lives like this, do they? My home is a flat in Manchester. Six rooms, if you count the loo. I might have lived here for all those years, but somehow the grange never became real to me, so I never thought about owning it.”

  This made no sense. None. Marcie was practical. Marcie was careful and thorough. Marcie had been responsible for a major enterprise for years, and she’d never completed the arrangements to pass it on when she died?

  All right, people did not like to think about their own deaths. One of the things Emma had learned when she was still in finance was that people did in fact leave large estates in a state of absolute chaos rather than spend time dealing with the fact that they were not going to live forever.

  But Marcie did deal with it. She had talked about it. She had wanted her niece to have a choice that had been denied to her and she was taking steps to make it happen.

  And now Marcie was dead and there was no will, and her three brothers finally got to be in charge.

  Unless there was a will, and she just hadn’t wanted those brothers to know about it ahead of time.

  37

  Emma and Helen climbed the stairs to Marcie’s office. Neither of them were surprised to see the door was already open. Bert stood behind the desk. He had a stack of folders out and he was sorting quickly through them.