Murder Always Barks Twice

by Jennifer Hawkins

  “My sister loved drama,” said Frank.

  “She loved reading about drama,” countered Emma. “In real life she was methodical, and cautious. Look at how she kept her records.” She spread the statements out across the table like a deck of cards. “Everything’s annotated. Look at how she handled the estate’s future. She had plan B all set to go before she talked to Daphne about plan A.” Her heart was beating hard. Thoughts were tumbling into place, but too fast. “She knew it was falling apart, despite everything she’d tried to do. Gus was ready to accuse the family of multiple murderers in their past. Daphne was headed off in her own direction. And you, Frank, you were robbing the place. Bert was spending what money there was like a drunken sailor. She’d had it. She was going to put an end to it.”

  Like Mrs. Danvers in Rebecca. She told me she sympathized. This is why. She knew the house was the trap that held them all, and she was going to get rid of it.

  “You knew Gus was dating Caite.” Emma was speaking straight to Frank now. “You decided you could work with that. You were the one who stole the checks, and Marcie’s ID, and used them to rob the du Maurier society. You knew Marcie would suspect Caite and Caite would suspect Marcie, and the feud would go public. Which would help set Caite up as a suspect when Marcie did die.

  “You tampered with the latch on her office window. Then you waited for a storm to come through, so the rain would help cover your tracks. You waited by the garage for Marcie to get home that night. You used one of Bert’s golf clubs to kill her—”

  “What!” roared Bert.

  “You took her body upstairs and leaned her against the window, so she’d fall, helping with the suicide illusion. But you didn’t fix the latch, because it was a piece of evidence you wanted to be found. And then you put the club you used in the shed where it was sure to be found sooner or later. You could find it yourself if you had to.”

  “Aren’t we just a little too clever?” demanded Bert. “You forget, I caught you planting that particular bit of ‘evidence’ ”—he paused to make the air quotes—“just this morning. Or maybe you got so excited with your storytelling you forgot.”

  “I didn’t forget.” Emma faced Constance. “I was coming back to the Grange because I’d forgotten something. Oliver got away from me. He must have dug himself into the shed and got stuck. So, I unscrewed the padlock hasp to get him out. Bert found us, and I wanted to explain, but I didn’t get a chance.”

  Bert snorted. “Are you going to believe that?” he demanded of Constance.

  “You can look,” Emma told her. “He dug a big hole in the dirt out back of the shed.”

  Constance gestured to Raj, who made a careful note.

  “The thing is, Bert, you’re smart,” said Emma.

  “Thank you so much,” Bert drawled.

  “But you’re also a control freak.”

  “Hey!” exclaimed Bert.

  “No, that much she’s got right,” said Frank.

  “I’ll say,” added Gus.

  “So, there’s no way Bert would be stupid enough to use one of his own golf clubs to kill his sister and then keep it around. And Gus wouldn’t be stupid enough to use the most recognizable car in Trevena to kill his girlfriend, and then go out and crash it the next morning. That was all you, Frank, using your brothers to get what you wanted.

  “When Caite tried to hide the fact that Marcie was trying to sell the estate, she thought she was covering up for Gus. But because she didn’t know what the plan was, she didn’t realize that everything she did made it look more like Gus was the murderer, not less.”

  But Frank had stepped in and blamed Bert, and incidentally, saved Gus. So now, Gus owed him.

  Frank chuckled. “And now, for your next trick, you’re going to tell me what I want.”

  “You want Helen back,” said Emma. “And Daphne.”

  The humor in Frank’s face faded. “Do not bring them into this.”

  “They’re in it,” said Emma softly. “You keep calling Helen your wife. You can’t admit she divorced you, and you can’t admit it was your fault.”

  “That’s because it wasn’t my fault,” Frank dragged the words out from between clenched teeth. “It was Marcie. She couldn’t get herself a family of her own, so she had to destroy mine!”

  Emma shook her head. “Marcie had nothing to do with it. You want to be the one in charge. You want to win, and winning includes getting Helen to admit she made a mistake leaving you. But she did leave you, and she doesn’t want to come back.

  “You don’t know anything about my wife!”

  “But to be in charge, and to get Helen back, you’d need to get rid of Marcie, and Bert, and you’d need to keep Gus on a string too. So you had to murder her, and frame your one brother, and get your other brother involved in the cover-up.” Emma took another deep breath. “Marcie wasn’t just the victim. She was the prop.”

  Bert was staring at Frank. “Well, Frank?” he breathed. “What do you have to say to that?”

  “I say it’s complete nonsense,” said Frank. “You can’t possibly believe any of it.”

  Constance responded by gathering up the bank statements and tucking them back into their folders. Then, she stacked the folders on top of the three ledgers. “I think,” she said, “that it’s past time that we took this discussion over to the station. Now, I’m going to caution all of you. You do not have to say anything—”

  “But it’s ridiculous!” snapped Frank. “She’s just making it all up! She’s another one of these little drama fans trying to get attention! Detective, you cannot possibly plan to listen to her!”

  Constance turned. Constance raised her eyebrows.

  “Frank,” said Bert. “You need to shut up now.”

  “Good God,” breathed Gus. “She’s right, isn’t she? You did it. You killed Marcie.”

  “If you will all come with me, gentlemen?” Raj moved forward, hands out to shepherd the men into the corridor. Bert scrubbed at his face, probably swearing into the palm of his hand. Gus was pale and as visibly shaken as when Emma had found him by his ruined car.

  Frank looked at them all.

  Frank ran.

  He dove forward, past Constance and Raj. He tore open the door and bolted into the corridor.

  And toppled right over Oliver and Dash.

  “Oliver!” shouted Emma.

  But Oliver just rolled, shook himself and bounced up, unhurt. Frank scrambled to his feet, or tried to. Oliver yipped a warning, and Dash leapt. He collided with Frank, and they both went down. Dash flopped his whole body across Frank’s chest.

  The big loyal mutt threw his head back and howled.

  Everyone was crammed in the corridor now. Emma scooped Oliver up into her arms and hugged him hard.

  “Emma.” Oliver squirmed. “Emma, there’s a problem.”

  “What problem? Good boy,” she added, just in case.

  She didn’t need to worry. No one was paying attention to them. Raj and Constance were hauling Frank to his feet. Constance was patiently repeating the caution, and this time it looked like she was going to make it all the way through. Bert and Gus were standing shoulder to shoulder, finally fully realizing just what had happened to them all.

  “But, Emma,” whimpered Oliver, “we might be in trouble. You see, I promised Dash there’d be roast beef.”

  55

  It was the night of the Daphne du Maurier Literary Festival Masquerade Ball, and Truscott Grange was alive.

  The whole grand house blazed with lights. Guests in colorful costumes wandered from room to room, admiring the artworks, the displays of first edition books and each other’s costumes. The dining hall had been converted into a small ballroom and a jazz quintet played the equivalent of the Hot 100 from the nineteen thirties. An instructor led giggling couples through lessons in the two-step, bunny hop, foxtrot an
d a rather businesslike waltz.

  Emma and Oliver stood in the dining room, which had been furnished with small tables and chairs, so the guests could sit and drink and talk and enjoy what the program listed as “Manderley’s Luxury Tea” with its variety of sandwiches, scones and cakes. The ginger-lime angel cake had been the hit of the evening. So had the seafood sandwiches.

  And she was going to have to go back and get another tray of Black Forest minis.

  Emma had come as Mrs. Danvers in a plain black dress with a tidy white apron. She’d pulled her hair back into a severe bun with the aid of an entire box of hairpins plus more hair spray than she’d used since 1990. Oliver submitted to a white bow tie being attached to his collar. So far, it had stayed where she put it. The fact that she was slipping him chicken on a regular basis might have had something to do with it.

  Dash had made himself entirely scarce after sneaking up to a table and wolfing down three roast beef finger sandwiches with horseradish cream.

  “I still say you owe me an apology,” murmured Pearl beside her.

  Pearl was in a gorgeous white beaded dress with a handkerchief hem and yards of fringe. A matching headband with a bright red rhododendron flower decorated her hair.

  “For what?” demanded Emma.

  “You went and got all the suspects together in a room and announced who the murderer was, and you didn’t invite me,” she complained.

  “Us,” corrected Genny. Genny’d chosen a corseted serving wench costume, complete with ruffled cap. “You should have invited us.”

  Emma grinned at her friends. “I wanted to, really, but Gus crashing his car kind of moved up the whole timeline. But maybe next time.”

  “Next time what?” asked Angelique. She was dressed as Cleopatra, complete with a tall, Egyptian headdress. Daniel, Martin and Josh were all down at the King’s Rest, making sure things were running smoothly, so the women could cover the festival.

  “Next time I’m going to make more chocolate sponge,” said Emma. “I think we’re going to run short.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Angelique told her. “But I have to say, I think we’ve done ourselves proud.” She put her arm around her daughter. “Good job, my girl.”

  “Good job, all of us,” said Pearl.

  “There you all are!” Ned Giddy bustled up to them. He’d dressed in a monk’s habit, complete with a rosary dangling from the rope belt. “I’ve been looking for you. The board has asked me to express our thanks to you for putting together a wonderful event under, well, let’s call them less than ideal circumstances. And we want you to know we will be calling on you first next year.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Giddy.” Angelique shook his hand. “We will be looking forward to it.”

  A man in an old-fashioned chauffeur’s uniform, complete with flat cap and gray jodhpurs strolled into the room. Brian. Emma felt herself smile.

  “And now I need to get that fresh tray of cakes,” said Emma. “If you’ll excuse me?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Pearl. “We see you, Emma Reed.”

  “Nothing to see here,” she told them.

  “Keep an eye on her, Oliver,” laughed Genny.

  “Genny should know I always keep an eye on you,” Oliver grumbled.

  Emma ignored them all.

  “So glad you could make it, Mr. Prowse,” said Emma as she reached Brian.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he told her, and he smiled. “Did I remember to tell you I do a mean box step?”

  “Never on the first date,” Emma whispered back.

  “But this is our second date,” he reminded her.

  Which was true. The first date had gone extremely well, despite the fact that it came right after Frank’s arrest and Emma spending an entire day at the Devon and Cornwall police headquarters giving an official statement. The bistro dinner had been lovely. They sat out on the patio so Oliver and Lucy could stay with them. They shared a dish of lamb chops braised in wine and wild mushrooms, roasted potatoes and leeks, and strawberry meringue roll for dessert. Emma teased Brian about how long it took him to choose the wine. Brian teased Emma about her detailed dismantling and analysis of the meringue.

  The movie turned out to be a lot of fun. Michael Caine swaggered, planned and swashbuckled his way through a series of mishaps and the wildly extended car chase between the English thieves and the Italian police, and multiple Mini Coopers gave their lives to the cause.

  I could get used to this, Emma had thought as they strolled down Trevena’s winding high street, and she didn’t even feel a nervous twinge when she did.

  Now Emma looked up at Brian. He had a nice face. And Oliver liked him. And he did very good banter, and did not like sweet popcorn. These are all indications of trustworthy character. She also had the growing suspicion he might be a thoughtful kisser. She was aware she’d like to test that theory.

  Maybe on date number three, when they’d be a little less likely to have someone, say, Constance Brent, sauntering toward them, at what had to be exactly the wrong moment.

  Constance wore a black tricorn hat, a flamboyant red coat and white shirt with trailing lace at the sleeves and throat. A red scarf hid the lower part of her face, but her blue eyes twinkled.

  “A highwayman, Constance?” laughed Emma. “I like it. It suits you somehow.”

  She pulled the scarf down. “Yeah, my boss thought it was appropriate. Seems I’ve been stamped as a loose cannon, and she’s not happy.”

  “Please don’t tell me she thinks the case won’t hold up in court?”

  They’d already had the inquest. The coroner’s jury had returned a verdict of willful murder. Frank was currently in HMP Dartmoor, awaiting trial.

  “Oh, no. It’ll all hold up, thanks to the bank accounts and Gus and Bert’s cooperation. It was just . . . well, there is supposed to be a proper procedure in a murder investigation.”

  “Oh. Well,” said Emma. “I guess next time I’ll just remember to stay out of it.”

  “Too right you will, Emma Reed. Or you will be answering to me.” Constance touched her hat brim to Emma and Brian, and strolled away.

  “Now,” said Brian. “It must be time for you to be taking a break. I can get us a table. I hear the food is kind of amazing.”

  Emma smiled. “All right. Just as soon as I get the cakes refilled.”

  Brian stepped back and bowed, sweeping off his cap. Emma fixed her face in a haughty stare and sailed on past. Brian chuckled. Emma’s stomach did the fluttery thing, but this once, she found she didn’t mind.

  Emma started toward the door to the hallway. She kept her ears open to the bits of conversation as she skirted the tables, because honestly, what was wrong with a little eavesdropping?

  “Are we having fun, Emma?” Oliver poked her with his nose. “Only I think I might be having more fun without the bow tie. Do we need the bow tie? Because . . .”

  Emma laughed. “All right. All right.” Out in the corridor, she crouched down carefully and unclipped the tie from Oliver’s collar.

  “Oh, there you are.”

  It was Helen, with Daphne and, somewhat to Emma’s surprise, Gus as well. Mother and daughter were both in classic evening dresses, and Gus made a perfect escort for them in his white tie and tails. They looked like they could have stepped off the set of Downton Abbey.

  “It’s a beautiful evening,” said Helen. “Marcie would have loved it.”

  “She would,” murmured Bert.

  Bert? Emma stood up slowly, at the same time as the family turned around, all of them equally surprised.

  Bert stood in front of them, also in white tie, like Gus. He met his family’s stony glares seriously, but without, Emma noted, his usual smooth self-confidence.

  “I didn’t know you were going to be here,” said Helen. Bert hadn’t been home since the inquest. The
story of how he’d pushed through the original conclusion of suicide had been gone over in detail. By the time Gus got off the stand, he seemed to have aged by a couple of decades.

  “I’m sorry. I’m interrupting,” he said.

  “Like you care,” muttered Daphne. “After how you tried to cover up what really happened.”

  “I know you’d probably rather I’d stayed away,” said Bert, “but I wanted to hear the memorial for Marcie and Caite. And I wanted to say—” He took a deep breath. “I wanted to say I’ve been wrong. About a lot of things. For a long time. And I know it’s past time for me to start making amends.”

  This was greeted with skeptical silence. It was Gus who broke the standoff first.

  “It’s not just you,” said Gus. “We all made too many mistakes for too long.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?” asked Daphne flatly.

  “Work it out,” said Bert. “With, I hope, the help of my family.” He paused. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll try this therapist Gus is always talking about.”

  Gus’s face lit up. “Really?”

  Bert nodded. “Really.” He smiled; it was soft, but it was genuine. “What do you think, Helen?”

  “Well, we’ll have to see,” said Helen. “All right, Daph?”

  Daphne looked from Gus to Bert to her mother. Then, slowly, stiffly, she nodded.

  Emma slipped away. There was eavesdropping, and then there was intruding.

  “Where to next, Emma?” Oliver bounced beside her, snapping at the dust motes shimmering in the chandeliers’ light.

  “It’s dinner and dancing for us, corgi me lad,” Emma told him.

  “Hurray!” yipped Oliver. “Chicken!”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  At the end of every book, I find I owe a lot of people a lot of thanks. Top of the list are my fabulous and patient editor, Jess, and my agent, Lucienne, my eternally helpful writer’s group (you know who you are), but most of all my husband and son, who have never failed to support me and my writing.