Helen knocked on the doorjamb. Bert jerked back. “What the . . . What do you want?”
“We need Marcie’s festival lists,” said Helen. “And we’ve got the memorial to work on and—”
Bert cut her off. His normally perfect hair was tousled, like he’d been running his hands through it. “This is a really bad time, Helen.”
“Is something wrong?” asked Emma.
The oldest Cochrane brother stared at her, like he couldn’t work out who she was, or how she came to be here.
“I don’t . . . I just can’t have you here right now,” he stammered.
“You can’t?” said Helen in mock surprise. “It’s not like it’s a crime scene. We’ll just be a few minutes. You can keep on with . . . whatever it is you’re doing.” She was clearly daring him to say what he was doing.
Bert set the folder he was holding down on the stack, and then he pressed both hands down on top of the whole pile, like he felt he needed to hold them down or they’d all be snatched away from him.
Emma let her gaze rove around the office all around him. Daphne had predicted he’d be tearing the place apart, and she was right. The desk was piled not only with folders but with envelopes and bundles of paper. A number of the inventory ledgers had been pulled out from their bookshelves and stacked on top.
The window was open. Emma’s stomach lurched.
“Look here, Helen.” Bert struggled to put some of his usual charm into his voice. “I understand you want something to keep yourself busy, but I am dealing with real problems that are going to affect the entire family.”
“What kind of problems?” asked Helen sweetly. “Can I help at all?”
“No!” he snapped. Helen drew back. Bert sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “No,” he repeated. “Really. This is . . . this is private family business and I just need to get on with it.”
“That family includes my daughter,” Helen reminded him.
“Yes, your daughter.” Bert said the words like they strangled him. “Not you.”
Helen’s whole body tensed. Emma stepped just a little closer to her. She thought Helen would back down now. Bert was not just impatient. A red flush of anger showed under the collar of his polo shirt.
Helen, however, was not done.
“We’re not going to get in your way,” said Helen. “We just want to get into Marcie’s computer. I don’t suppose . . .”
“I don’t know how much clearer I can be, Helen!” Bert cut her off with a single slashing motion. “Whatever it is you want is just going to have to wait.”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t,” said Helen. “I’ve got work to do too.”
That red flush started creeping up Bert’s neck. Then, much to Emma’s surprise, a grin broke out across his handsome face, and he chuckled.
“Okay, Helen, I get it. You want to let us know you’re going to look out for your interests too. But let’s be clear, all right?” His grin broadened. The false bonhomie sent a chill up Emma’s spine. “This is not your house, and what happens here is really not your business, you know.”
“But it is my business,” insisted Helen. “My daughter . . .”
“Yes, yes, it’s all about your daughter.” Bert sighed sadly. “The daughter you used to try to pull Frank away from his family. And when that didn’t work, you divorced him, but you couldn’t quite make yourself let go, could you?”
He spoke perfectly reasonably, and somehow it was that gentle, sad tone that turned each word into ice.
“You used poor Marcie to keep your foot in the door here, and you used Daphne to keep Frank on a string. But you left us, Helen,” he said softly. “And it really is too late to come back. I’m so sorry if you regret your disloyalty now that Marcie’s dead but . . .”
“Bert.” Frank’s voice cut through the room.
Helen and Emma whirled around. Bert jerked back half a step. As soon as he saw it was his brother, he straightened up.
“Hullo, Frank,” he said. “Sorry if you heard that. I was just . . .”
“Get out,” said Frank. He walked forward until he stood just inches from his taller, broader brother. But in that moment, Frank was the one Emma was afraid of.
“Sorry, old bean,” said Bert softly. “You do not tell me what to do.”
“Actually, I do,” replied Frank harshly. “I’m telling you to leave my wife alone.”
“She’s not your . . .”
Frank’s face hardened. Emma was not sure exactly what Bert saw in Frank’s expression just then, but he hesitated.
“She’s using you, Frank, and the sooner you work that out, the better off we’ll all be.” Bert leaned in close. “You need to decide which side you’re really on.”
“Maybe I already have,” said Frank.
“Then I’m sorry for you,” replied Bert. “Because that’s going to mean that from here on out, you’re on your own.”
Bert picked up the stack of folders and stalked out of the room. Frank stepped aside to let him pass.
“I’m sorry, Helen. You shouldn’t have had to hear that.”
“That’s all right, Frank.” Helen hung her head. “It’s good to know where I stand.”
“Bert doesn’t speak for all of us.” Frank put his hand out, almost touching her, but not quite. “He certainly doesn’t speak for me.”
“He was right about one thing though,” said Helen. “I’m not your wife.”
Frank’s hand dropped. “No. I’m sorry. I just . . . it was a slip. I just want, for this once, to try to make things better for us. You, me and Daphne. That’s all.” He spread his hands to show they were empty. “Nothing up my sleeve this time. I swear.”
“I believe you.”
Frank grinned. It was an expression of pure relief, and something else Emma couldn’t quite name.
“Well, I’ll let you get on with things. Give a shout if you need me.”
“We will,” said Helen.
“Oh, Frank,” said Emma. “Sorry, but do you know where Gus went this morning?”
“Gus?” Frank looked surprised. “No idea. Why?”
“Just curious,” said Emma. He probably didn’t believe her, but she didn’t have a better answer.
“Well, if I see him, I’ll let him know you were looking for him.” He smiled easily, and for one minute, he looked even more charming than his older brother.
38
As soon as Frank shut the door, Helen turned to Emma.
“Sorry you had to be here for all of that.”
“It’s not your fault,” Emma assured her.
“I did love him once, you know,” She brushed her toe across the spot where Frank had been standing. “When I left, I even asked him to come with me. I said the three of us could make a fresh start somewhere else. At the time, I didn’t realize what I was really asking was for him to choose between me and his family. Of course he couldn’t do that.”
“It’s natural to have regrets at a time like this. Give yourself time.”
“Yes. You’re right. Now.” Helen brushed her sweater down. “Now. We have work to do, before Bert comes back and tries to throw us out bodily.”
“Helen.” Emma hesitated. “I was wondering if you had any idea where Marcie might have been that last night.”
“Oh, gosh. You know, that detective asked us about that. And I didn’t know.” She snapped her fingers. “But it would be in her planner. Marcie put everything in that planner. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that at the time.”
“You were a little upset.” Emma paused, and tried to keep her voice casual. “Um, do you know where she kept it?”
“It must be in the desk somewhere.” Helen opened the central drawer, and then the first of the side drawers and then the second. “I’m not seeing it, though. Maybe Bert took it.”
�
�How about her handbag?” said Emma. She hoped the question did not sound as awkward as it felt. She didn’t know why she couldn’t just bring herself to say that Constance hadn’t been able to find Marcie’s bag, but she felt it was important to keep as much of that conversation as she could confidential, for now anyway.
“Oh, of course,” said Helen. “Let me just see if we can get anything out of the computer.”
Helen sat in Marcie’s desk chair, and started typing on her keyboard.
“Sugar,” she muttered. “It’s password protected.”
“Try ‘password,’ ” suggested Emma. She started flipping through the folders Bert had left behind.
“You’re kidding.”
Emma shook her head. “Most common password in use, right after ‘one, two, three, four.’ Birthdays are also high on the list. People just aren’t that creative.”
Helen typed and Emma flipped.
Marcie was clearly a woman after Emma’s own heart. She saved all her papers and her correspondence. Every folder was neatly labeled. A number of them had dates. Here were the fuel bills for the last five years, and here were the gardening services, and laundry services . . .
“Nope. Not that. How about ‘du Maurier’?” Helen typed as she talked. “Or ‘Rebecca’?”
And bingo! Emma pulled out a pile of folders labeled Bank Statements—Grange.
Caite said that the grange, and Marcie, were having money issues. If that was true, the evidence should all be right here.
Emma pulled the files out of the stack, and paused. “Try ‘Manderley.’ ”
Helen typed. The screen beeped and flashed to life. “You got it. Manderley. Now, let’s see . . .” She moved the mouse, clicking on the screen icons. “Oh, here we go. Calendar. Huh.”
“What is it?” Emma leaned over to peer at the screen.
“The whole month. It’s blank.” Helen scooted sideways so Emma could get a better look.
She was right. The electronic calendar page had the dates listed, but there were no appointments, no notes. Nothing at all. Not even the du Maurier festival.
“What about last month?” Emma reached over for the mouse, and clicked backward to the previous month.
That page was crammed with entries. Phone calls, lunches, deadlines for the house and herself. Big, bold entries saying things like ONE MONTH TO FEST!!
“Well, that’s not strange at all,” Helen murmured.
Emma clicked the mouse, past the current month, and into the next. That was blank too.
“No,” she said. “Not at all.” She straightened up, and another idea struck her. “Helen, where’s Marcie’s mobile?”
Helen looked at her blankly. “I don’t know. I imagine it’s with her handbag as well.”
“And where’s that again?”
Helen opened her mouth, and closed it again. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“So, so far we’re missing her will, her planner, her mobile and possibly her handbag. That’s a lot.”
“Yes, it is rather, isn’t it?” murmured Helen. “Makes you wonder what else has gone walkabout, doesn’t it?”
Yes. Emma turned to survey the office. It certainly does.
“Helen—” she began but a sudden squeal of laughter cut her off.
“Gah!” remarked Emma.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake . . .” Helen pushed away from the desk. Then, to Emma’s surprise, she went over to the fireplace and knelt down. “What are you two doing?”
There was silence.
“Erm . . . Helen?” began Emma.
“Sorry.” Helen got to her feet. “It’s the vents. When they finally put in the central heating back in the forties, they installed all these floor vents, and didn’t pay much attention to the fact that if somebody’s standing in the right place, the sound travels right up into the room overhead. You don’t notice it much, because most of the house is empty these days.”
“So that’s how Daphne keeps hearing things.”
Helen nodded, chagrined. “She spent a lot of bored rainy days working out the best eavesdropping spots.”
“So, what room’s down there?” asked Emma.
“Gus’s,” said Helen. But before she could say anything more, footsteps thumped outside the door. Daphne burst into the room, followed quickly by Pearl.
“Look what we found!” Daphne brandished a colorful square. “Oh my God, I cannot believe this!”
“What were you doing in your uncle Gus’s room?” demanded Helen.
“And why aren’t you meeting with the board?” demanded Emma.
“Because we’re finished and finalized,” answered Pearl calmly. “Updated cost breakdown approved, margins for overruns approved, preliminary menu approved, new tasting time arranged, at the King’s Rest this time,” she added. “I’ve sent you and Mum an email. We can go over it tonight.”
“So, she decided to help me search for clues,” said Daphne. “And I think we found a big one.”
Pearl plucked the square out of Daphne’s fingers and handed it over to Emma.
It was a photograph. There was Gus, in his everyday uniform of polo shirt and khakis. And there was Caite Hope-Johnston, in twinset and pink beads, looking surprisingly relaxed.
They had their arms around each other, and they both looked shockingly happy.
39
Humans, Oliver had observed, stood around a lot, even when there weren’t other humans to stand around with. Emma said it was because sometimes humans needed to think.
Gus seemed to need to think now. He stood at the edge of the pond, staring out at the water where he’d thrown the bundle. Dash was splashing in the water at the edge of the pond. He’d found something in the water and was wrestling it out.
It was a branch.
“Look! Look!” Dash barked. The human only glanced over. Oliver bustled up to Dash and sniffed at the waterlogged stick. But it was very dead and not really that interesting. He didn’t understand what Dash was getting so excited about.
Gus turned away from the pond, put the shovel on his shoulder and started trudging up the path.
“Gotta go!” Oliver told Dash, and he turned to bound after the human.
“What? Why?” Dash caught up and bumped Oliver in the side with his muzzle. “He’s only going back to the house, and we haven’t gone halfway round the place yet.”
“I know, I know,” panted Oliver. “But I need to stay with the human.”
“You do?” Dash pricked his ears forward, confused. “What for?”
“He’s acting strange. I need to be able to tell Emma about it. It’s important.”
“You and your human are the strange ones.”
Oliver wanted to stop and bark at him. He shouldn’t talk like that about Emma. Or me. But he remembered in time that they were friends. “You go on if you want to. I’ll meet you back at the house.”
“Okay, as long as you save me some roast beef!” Dash yelped, and then headed off back to his new, old, branch.
“Well, hullo,” said Gus as Oliver caught up with him. “Lonely?”
Oliver barked. It didn’t really matter what he said, of course. This man was not Emma, and he wouldn’t understand.
“You need to get yourself a lady friend,” said Gus. “Trust me, makes all the difference. Even when there’s trouble. It is all worth it.” He was quiet for a minute. “At least, I hope it’s worth it. And I hope she thinks it’s worth it.”
All at once, the human had stopped walking. They had come to a little clearing. There was a path here, but it wasn’t used much. There was a wooden building too, and Gus was fussing with the door. Oliver went up and smelled sweat and there was something else. Something . . .
“Go on, give us some room.” The human nudged Oliver sideways. Whatever he was doing with the door, it worked, because he got
it open, and went inside.
Curious, Oliver followed. It was a tiny building, and dark inside despite the sunshine. There were lots of wood and metal things. Oliver smelled steel and pine and rust and spiders and something else.
Gus leaned the shovel against the wall. Oliver sniffed around the dirt floor.
There’s something. There’s something . . . What is it? What is it?
This was frustrating. The new smells Gus brought—water and mud and dirt and sweat—were getting in the way. But there was another smell, one that he was sure he would recognize, if only it was a little stronger. It was something that he tried hard to explain to Emma, but he wasn’t sure she ever understood. Sometimes there was a smell that was so faint, or so old, that all it felt was familiar. Some deep down instinct told him it was important, but not why. Or even where it was. It was here somewhere, though. Somewhere close . . .
“Come on, Oliver. That’s enough. Let’s go.” Gus nudged him toward the door. Oliver barked, and tried to get around him. This was important. He was sure it was . . .
“Now, Oliver!” The human grabbed his collar. Oliver whined and scrabbled, but Gus pulled him out, then kicked the door shut behind them both.
“Sorry,” he said, as he turned to fuss with the door again. “But I’ve got things to do.” He slid something into his pocket.
Just then, the wind shifted a little. Oliver whipped around. Another human was coming up the path. A man; he smelled like soap and coffee and the house, and the people in the house and . . . and . . .
Gus turned around and yelped, suddenly frightened.
“Frank!”
“Gus!” shouted the other human. “There you are!”
The other human was Gus’s family; it was easy to tell by the smell. He wore more of the perfume stuff, a confusing mix of chemicals and alcohol, than Gus did. Although, now that Oliver noticed it, Gus had a little bit of smell like dead roses on him. Oliver wondered if that was important. Or maybe it was just a family trait. Without thinking, he went over to sniff Frank’s ankles.
Murder Always Barks Twice Page 23
