Murder Always Barks Twice

by Jennifer Hawkins

  “What for?” asked Genny.

  “I don’t know,” Emma admitted. “But there’s something. Something I read, or something I saw. It’s bothering me.”

  “Go on, we’ve got it covered here,” said Angelique.

  “I’ll be back in less than a half hour.” She grabbed her handbag off its hook and headed out the door, just barely remembering to hold it open for Oliver.

  * * *

  * * *

  Normally, of course, Emma walked between the King’s Rest and Nancarrow, but since she had the Mini, and she didn’t want to waste any time, she buckled Oliver into the passenger seat, and pulled out of the car park.

  The road to her cottage didn’t have a lot of traffic, and it was the sweet spot of the morning, when the farmers were already at their fields or out making their deliveries, and everybody who had to be in a shop or office was well on the way. So she had the road to herself, and was able to make it home in under ten minutes.

  “Be right back, Oliver.” Emma jumped out of the car and hurried into the cottage.

  She swept the pile of accounts into her briefcase, and for good measure added all three ledgers and headed back out.

  “Right.” Emma dropped her case and bag into the footwell of the passenger side and started the car. She turned it round and headed down her bumpy drive. “What I hope is . . .”

  But Oliver cut her off with a sharp yip. “Emma! Emma! Something’s burning, Emma!”

  “What the . . . !” Emma exclaimed. She could smell it now, a scorched rubber and hot metal smell.

  It was a smell she knew perfectly well from her time in the city.

  Car crash.

  But they hadn’t seen anything on the way up from Trevena. Must be farther up the hill.

  Emma turned the car uphill and shifted into second. The road from Nancarrow didn’t have hedges, but it was a winding, narrow strip of blacktop between wide ditches and stone walls. Oliver, of course, was sitting up tall in the passenger seat, sticking his nose as far into the wind as he could.

  “Faster, Emma!”

  “Not here!” They were just coming to one of the road’s more dramatic bends, with a dip thrown in for good measure. When they rose back out on the other side, the road straightened and Emma saw the source of the acrid stink.

  It was the lime-green Jag. Its front end was plowed right into the stone wall. Gus sat beside the car, his head in his hands.

  “Oh, no . . .” Emma gripped the steering wheel and downshifted as fast as she could manage, while guiding the little car over onto the negligible strip of dirt between the road and the ditch.

  “Stay here, Oliver.” Emma climbed out. She checked the road nervously for traffic, but it was empty.

  “Gus?” She touched his shoulder.

  He lifted his head and looked up at her. “Oh. Hullo.”

  His hands dangled between his knees. What hair he had was sticking up on end. There was a dark smear on his forehead, but there wasn’t any blood, at least not that she could see.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “What happened?”

  “Caite’s dead,” he whispered. “That’s what happened. Caite’s dead.”

  51

  “Oh no,” whispered Emma. “Oh, Gus, I’m so sorry.”

  “She was hit by a car,” Gus said, more to the ground between his knees than to her. “Last night. Hit and run. I was supposed . . . we were going to have breakfast. Not that she actually ate breakfast. She was careful about her weight, you know? We were going to have tea, though.” He made a strangled little laughing noise and then pressed the heel of his hand against his left eye. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Emma knelt down beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right. You loved her.”

  “Ridiculous, isn’t it?” He gasped, clearly trying to hold back a sob. “I mean, after everything my family did, was doing to her, and there we were, sneaking around like a couple of teenagers.”

  Emma swallowed and looked at the road again. Still no cars. She looked back at the Mini and at Oliver, with his front paws balanced on the window frame, craning his whole body to try to see what was going on.

  I wish I knew.

  Caite was dead. Caite had walked off with Gus yesterday. Caite had accused Marcie of stealing. Caite was out for revenge for the ruin of her father’s life.

  Caite was one of the people who might have killed Marcie.

  Gus was one of the people who might have killed Marcie. Gus had believed he was going to inherit, and he might have found out Marcie was planning on selling the grange. Gus and Caite might have been working together, or at the very least, might have been covering up for each other.

  And here she was sitting by the roadside trying to find some way to comfort him.

  “Gus,” she said gently. “You need to go to the hospital. Just to have them check you out.”

  “No.”

  “Come on, you might have a concussion, or whiplash, or something . . .”

  “I said no!” he shrieked. Back in the car, Oliver barked.

  Emma closed her mouth. She forced herself to start thinking. There were things you should do at a time like this. The first was stay with the vehicle and call the police. But she did not like this situation, or this spot. She wanted to get Gus to the hospital, but at this point, she’d have to drag him. Or sit on him while she called the ambulance.

  Emma bit her lip and pulled out her mobile. She touched Constance’s number, but it went straight to voice mail.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Call when you can.” She rang off, and touched another number.

  “Hullo, Brian?” she said as soon as he answered. “There’s, been an accident. Not me,” she added quickly. “Gus Cochrane. He’s done a header with the Jag and he’s going to need a tow. Only, we’re not in a good spot, and he doesn’t want to go to the hospital. I’m going to take him back to the grange.”

  “Okay, no worries,” Brian answered. “Where are you?” Emma told him. She heard the sound of scribbling. “Right. I’ll make it work, and I’ll have the truck out there in twenty minutes. You sure you don’t need a ride?”

  “No, I’ve got this great new vintage car. We’ll be fine.” She hoped he didn’t hear how strained her voice was or realize how overwhelmed she felt.

  Emma rang off and faced Gus. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you home.”

  “Yeah,” he breathed. “Home. After all, where else am I going to go?”

  She helped him to his feet. He put a hand on the Jag’s door, like he was saying goodbye.

  “Don’t worry. Brian’s on his way,” she told him. He nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  Emma shifted Oliver from the passenger to the back seat. Gus buckled himself in with shaking hands. Emma wished she had a blanket, or something, to give him. He was more than likely in shock.

  She pulled out onto the road again, backing and turning at the farm gate so she could head down in the direction of the grange. Gus stared out the windscreen. He barely even blinked.

  Worried, Emma searched around for something to talk about.

  “Gus? How did you and Caite get together?”

  “Well, it was my idea, wasn’t it?” he said heavily. “Not getting together, but . . . I’d decided I didn’t want anything more to do with all the family secrets, yeah? I wanted . . . I wanted to clear the air. And, honestly, I wanted to take Bert down a few pegs.”

  “Bert?”

  “Swaggering around the place, telling everybody how they should act, because we’re Cochranes. I thought if I could just show him how little being a Cochrane actually meant, he’d give up all the posturing and preening. And I thought, Caite could help. She could tell me the story about her father and . . . everything that happened there. I wasn’t sure she’d go along, but she did.

 
“So, we started digging into Dad’s time in the City, and my parents’ car accident, and then kept on going, all the way back to Stewart and his ‘boating accident.’ ” He made the air quotes. “And, somewhere along the line, the working dinners turned into just dinners and the drives to look things up or talk to people turned into just drives and . . .” He shrugged. “I’m not sure which of us was more surprised.” He stared mournfully at the ruined car. “She loved the Jag. Said it made her feel seventeen again. We’d drive for hours up the coast, talk about all the things we wanted to do. Leave Trevena, start fresh away from the grange and, well, everything.”

  Emma tried to picture Caite in a convertible, the wind in her hair, driving up the coastline, maybe stopping at a lovely little pub, or at least a chic little wine bar. It was not easy.

  “Gus,” said Emma carefully. “We found some printouts hidden in Marcie’s office . . .”

  “Oh, yeah. Those. Marcie caught us. Well, me. I was at the library, going through old newspaper records and I’d forgotten it was one of her book club days and . . .” He shrugged again. “I told her what I was doing, and why. That I was done with the secrets and covering up. I wanted freedom. Peace. I thought she understood. I even thought she and Caite might start . . . getting along. But then this stuff with the society money happened, and, well, that was the end of that.”

  Which would at least explain some of Caite’s fury. Not only was she in a relationship that defied expectations, it looked like her boyfriend’s sister was stealing money.

  “So this all happened last year?” said Emma.

  “Yeah,” answered Gus. “Why?”

  “I think Marcie did understand. That was when she made her will in Daphne’s favor, and started looking into selling the grange.”

  “Yes,” said Gus. “I know.”

  “Did she tell you?”

  “Oh, no. She was too used to not telling any of us anything. My—” He stopped himself. “I was at Claudia’s Bistro. I’d just dropped Caite off home. And I saw Marcie there, with a strange man. The bartender’s a mate of mine, and he told me.”

  “But you didn’t tell anybody?”

  Gus shook his head. “Just Caite, and I knew she wouldn’t tell anyone. I knew what would happen if word got out and I thought . . . well, actually, I thought she was doing the right thing.”

  Emma nodded. “Maybe you inspired her to try to start a new life.”

  “Or maybe I got her killed.” Gus shoved his hair back with both hands. “She should have talked to me! I would have helped! I . . . but, she couldn’t, could she? I was dating Caite, and Caite thought Marcie was stealing from the du Maurier society. She said Marcie was doing it to make her look bad and force me to choose sides. I tried to tell her Marcie wasn’t like that, but Caite wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Was Marcie stealing?” asked Emma.

  “No, of course she wasn’t! I don’t know what happened to the money, but it wasn’t Marcie.”

  They’d reached Truscott Park. Emma turned onto the long drive up to the grange. “Did Caite think you killed Marcie?” she asked.

  Gus closed his eyes. “She told me she stole Marcie’s handbag and deleted the appointments off her online calendar. She told me she was afraid I’d be accused of killing Marcie. It wasn’t her fault. It was all that trauma with her father. My therapist—” He stopped. “Anyway. She was trying to help me.”

  There it was. Caite heard that Marcie was dead. She had been afraid that Gus had killed her, because Marcie was going to sell the grange. So, she’d tried to cover up evidence of the sale, because she thought she’d also be covering up Gus’s motives and keeping suspicion away from him. The murder was carefully planned, but Caite was acting hastily and out of fear. That’s why it looked clumsy. Because it was.

  “What was it you threw in the pond?” Emma asked Gus.

  “Marcie’s handbag. Caite had buried it in the walnut grove. Hadn’t done a very good job of it.”

  “So you were trying to help Caite too.”

  “Speaking of not doing a very good job,” he breathed.

  “The police are going to need to know about that.”

  “Yes. I suppose they are.”

  They broke the tree line on the drive, and the grange came into view. That was when Emma saw why Constance hadn’t picked up her phone.

  Trevena’s miniature police cruiser and Constance’s battered, blue Range Rover were both sitting in the grange courtyard.

  52

  Emma pulled into the courtyard and parked. Gus turned toward her, his face haggard.

  “Did you know?” he croaked. “That the police were here?”

  “No, I didn’t. I promise.”

  “Well,” he said, and Emma heard a hollow echo of the giddiness that had taken over just yesterday. “I guess we’d better get going, then.”

  He climbed out of the car. Emma knew that the expected thing would have been for her and Oliver to just drive away. She was not, however, about to let expectations stop her, and she wasn’t about to let Gus walk in there alone.

  Quick as she could, she unsnapped Oliver’s harness.

  “Should I get Dash, Emma?” he asked. “I think we need help.”

  “Not yet, good boy.” She put him down. “Just . . . stick close.”

  “I’m right here, Emma!”

  The two of them ran to catch up with Gus just as the grange doors closed behind him.

  Emma couldn’t tell if Gus noticed them following. He didn’t look back. He didn’t even break stride. He just kept walking straight down the central corridor to the sitting room. He gripped the door handle and yanked it open.

  “Well, well!” he chirped. “Here we all are!”

  He was right. All the Cochrane brothers were now present—Bert was there, changed back into his normal outfit of polo shirt and slacks. Today’s shirt was blue. He stood by the fireplace.

  Frank stood by the windows, a dark silhouette in the unexpectedly bright summer sunshine that streamed in from the gardens.

  As Gus, Emma and Oliver walked in, Constance got up from the sofa. Raj was already standing, his cap tucked under his arm.

  “Gus,” said Bert, and the same time Constance said, “Mr. Cochrane.”

  Then, they both noticed Emma. Bert smiled.

  “Well. That didn’t take long, did it?”

  “Sorry,” said Emma. “I thought it’d be better if we got him home.”

  “Yes, of course it is,” said Frank. He hurried forward and pulled out one of the chairs from under the marquetry table, which was still piled with festival flyers. “Gus, sit down. You look like you’ve been in a train wreck.”

  “Car wreck,” Gus said, and he did sit. “Afraid the Jag’s had it this time.”

  “You were driving your Jaguar this morning?” said Constance. “When was this?”

  “You don’t have to say anything, Gus,” said Frank.

  “In fact you shouldn’t say anything,” added Bert. “I’ve called Wilkes. He’s on his way.”

  Gus ran a shaking hand through his thinning hair. “What is this? What’s going on?”

  “It’s about Ms. Hope-Johnston’s death,” Constance told him.

  “Seems there’s CCTV footage,” said Frank.

  Emma felt her hands clench around nothing at all. This was unusual. Unlike London, Trevena had very few cameras around.

  “The village co-op was having some problems with a sneak thief,” Constance went on. “Unfortunately, we weren’t able to review the footage until this morning.”

  “And what did you see?” breathed Gus.

  “That’s enough,” said Bert softly. “Really, Gus. It’s for your own good.”

  Constance moved. She circled the chair so she put herself between Gus and Bert. “Mr. Cochrane, can I have a look at your hand?”

&nbs
p; “Don’t . . .” began Bert, but he was talking to her back, and neither Constance nor Gus was actually listening. Gus extended his hand to the detective, palm up.

  “Hmm . . .” Constance cocked her head. “Interesting. You’ve got a chained heart line, you know. Says you’ve been unhappy, and depressed. Bit sensitive, and you have a hard time trusting.”

  “Well”—Gus curled his fingers tight—“that sounds about right.”

  “Your Jaguar has been identified on the video leaving the scene of Ms. Hope-Johnston’s accident,” said Constance softly. “As you can imagine, we need to ask you some questions about that.”

  “But I wasn’t driving last night,” said Gus. “I mean, I was, but . . .”

  “August Cochrane,” said Constance. “I need to caution you here. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense—”

  Bert cut her off. “Gus, you really need to stop talking now. Wait for the solicitor. There’ll be a lot less to sort out later.”

  But Gus didn’t pay any attention to either of them.

  “I dropped Caite off at her place,” said Gus. “After everything that happened at the grange—with finding the will and Helen and Daphne leaving—I wanted to stay with her. But she said she wanted to be alone. She needed time to think.”

  Raj, Emma noted, had very deliberately faded into the background. But he also had his notebook out and was scribbling busily. Oliver went over to snuffle his ankles. Emma patted her leg to signal him to come on back, and Oliver obeyed. Raj gave her a quick glance of thanks.

  “So I stopped at the Donkey’s Win for a drink, and I came home,” Gus was saying. “I went to my room and I stayed there. I thought about going to a hotel, but”—he shrugged—“it must have been around nine, nine thirty.”

  “Can anybody verify this?” asked Constance.

  “Yes,” said Bert immediately. “I can. He got home around nine, and he was home all night.”

  Constance turned to the remaining brother.