His fingers touched her lips. “Don’t say it. I already know we have virtually nothing in common. Isn’t that why they say opposites attract?”
“I have an engagement ring in my purse.”
Part III
A man always makes his troubles less
by going to meet them
instead of waiting for them
to catch up with him,
or trying to run away from them.
—RALPH MOODY
TWELVE
Try as he might, George Brodie could never sleep past six-thirty. And he couldn’t lie in bed once he was awake. Consequently, on Monday morning he’d been in his study for over an hour before he came to the breakfast nook to see if Mrs. Winston had his breakfast ready.
A few minutes past eight, he was putting the finishing touches on bacon and eggs with toast with jam and two cups of coffee. He wasn’t looking forward to the rest of the day, but for a few moments at least, he felt at peace with the world.
Mrs. Winston came in to clear up. “I expect Mr. Martin would like a tray in his room, do you think?”
“You’re likely right. Perhaps you should have Crystal take a cup of coffee up and see if he’s awake.”
“Yes, I will, sir. At least…”
“Anything wrong?”
“No, sir. It’s just that she hasn’t come up yet.” She continued hastily, as though suddenly worried that her employer might be unhappy. “Not that it’s a problem. I haven’t needed her yet this morning. I will a little later, when there are more up for breakfast. Perhaps I’ll just go down and make sure she’s up. She’s one for watching a movie on TV late at night when she should be asleep.”
George said nothing, so Mrs. Winston went back to the kitchen and then descended the back stairs to her daughter’s room. From there, she checked the bathroom and the small lounge reserved for use by the servants. Returning upstairs, she stood in the middle of the kitchen floor for a few minutes before returning to the breakfast nook. But George had already gone to his study.
She thought for a moment, her forehead wrinkled, eyes narrowed. Finally, she walked along the hall to the door of George’s study and knocked.
“Come in.”
She peeked around the door. “Mr. Brodie, I expect I’m being foolish, but with what happened yesterday and all, well—”
“What is it, Mrs. Winston?”
“Crystal’s not in her room. Her nightgown is on the end of the bed, and her bed’s not made. She’s not in the kitchen and she’s not in the basement.”
“Perhaps she’s upstairs.”
“No, sir, I don’t think so. I’ve been in the kitchen since seven o’clock and she’s not come up the stairs. I know her. She never gets up earlier than she has to.”
“Have you looked outside?”
“I suppose she could be out there.” Her doubtful tone belied the words.
“There’s a police officer outside. Ask him if he’s seen her. Likely, she’s had an early swim and she’s in the change room.”
“Yes, sir.” She left the study.
George shook his head. Women! Let one little thing go wrong and they started imagining all sorts of horrors. Well, perhaps he was being unfair. Jillian’s murder wasn’t exactly a little thing. But still. There was no reason to assume the worst!
When Mrs. Winston opened the back door, she saw the policeman sitting in a patio chair at one of the tables, his back to her.
“Excuse me, officer,” she called.
He remained still.
“Excuse me,” she called louder.
No response.
She stepped outside, moving toward the prone figure.
His arms were hanging at his sides, chin on his chest. She opened her mouth to scream, then saw his chest rise and fall. She shut her eyes in relief. He was asleep, then. Not dead.
“Officer!” Still no response.
“Officer!” She shook him and was rewarded as he raised an arm slightly. She shook him again, calling “Wake up!” in his ear.
His eyes came half open and he shook his head. “Wha—?”
“You’re not supposed to sleep, you know.”
“Who are you?” He looked around. “Where am I?”
“You’re guarding our house, and doing a lousy job if you ask me! Have you seen my daughter?”
“Who?”
“My daughter, Crystal. Have you seen her?”
“I don’t—my head. Is there anyone else here? Can you call someone?”
“I’ll call someone all right. And I’ll report you.” She turned to go back to the study to tell George, but a new thought made her walk instead toward the four-car garage. As she walked, she glared up at the window of the apartment Bart was using. “If he’s involved—!” She mounted the stairs and knocked on the door.
After a couple of minutes, the door opened. Bart stood there, shirtless and barefoot. The black pants he wore were rumpled, as though he’d slept in them. His chin was unshaven. And his eyes were bloodshot.
“I’m looking for Crystal,” the housekeeper said, folding her hands across her chest.
“Crystal?”
“My daughter, and don’t bother pretending you don’t know. I want her.”
“My good lady, your daughter isn’t here. As a matter of fact, no one’s daughter is here. Unfortunately, I’m completely alone. Except for you, of course. But somehow, I don’t think—”
“Mr. Brodie, this isn’t funny. I can’t find Crystal. I just want to know she’s safe. If she’s here, you tell me right now!”
For answer, he stepped back. “You can search the place. She’s not here.”
“Was she here? Mr. Brodie, I know what you’re like. You can’t fool me. Was she here?”
“Why does the woman persist in thinking I’m lying?” he asked the door.
She strode past him and looked through the three rooms. She checked under the bed and in the closet and shower. Bart’s only companion appeared to have been the empty bottle of Scotch on top of the bedcovers.
She was holding back tears as she returned to the entrance.
Through his hangover, Bart finally sensed her panic. “You’re sure she isn’t around?”
“She’s not in her room or the kitchen or anywhere I can think of.”
“When did you see her last?”
“She went downstairs about eleven last night. I haven’t seen her since.”
He sighed. “Let me get some shoes and I’ll help you look.”
By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, he’d thrust his feet into loafers and thrown on a shirt. He buttoned the shirt as he went down the stairs, and heard about the sleeping policeman as they walked across the lawn.
The policeman was still sitting in the patio chair, head down, eyes shut.
“Problem, officer?” Bart asked as they came close.
With obvious effort, the young man looked up and said, “I—just call somebody, will you? My backup. And Manziuk. He needs to know about this.”
Bart put two hands on the table and leaned against it. “What does Manziuk need to know?”
“I think—” The officer pressed one hand against his forehead. “I think I’ve been drugged. The last thing I remember is sitting down here just after midnight. I was drinking this.” He pointed to a glass about a third filled with dark liquid. “A Coke. I didn’t even finish it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I feel lousy. Headache. Dizzy. And I could go back to sleep in a minute.”
“So no one’s been watching the house all night?” asked Bart.
Mrs. Winston swayed.
Bart caught her and helped her into a chair.
“She can’t find her daughter,” Bart explained. “I think I’d better phone Manziuk right now.”
As Bart was moving toward the house, the back door opened and Ellen Brodie came out. “Is everything all right? George said something about Crystal’s being missing. What should I do?”
“You stay here with Mrs. Winsto
n while I get her a glass of water.” He shook his head. “No, I’ll get something stronger than that. Look, I’m sure Crystal is okay, but we need to find her. Her mother is pretty worried.” He went into the house, and Ellen took a chair beside her housekeeper.
“They’ll be wanting their breakfast.” Mrs. Winston started to get up, but Ellen firmly pushed her back down.
“I’ll look after breakfast. You stay here until Crystal is found.”
Mrs. Winston sat, hands tightly clenched around a handkerchief she had taken from her pocket.
Bart returned with a small glass of brandy, which he handed to Ellen. “Give her this.” He looked at the policeman, whose only movement had been to lean forward to cross his arms on the table and rest his head on his arms. “I told Kendall to call 911. I’m going to look for Crystal.”
He went back into the house.
Kendall came though the patio doors that led to the games room. He was carrying a cell phone. “Mom? Bart said the policeman was drugged. Was he? I called 911 and they said they’d tell Manziuk. Is anything wrong? I mean, anything else?”
“We can’t find Crystal.”
“She’s not in her room?”
“Bart just went to look for her.”
Kendall hurried back into the house.
The two men returned in a few minutes. At Ellen’s anxious glance, Bart shook his head. They continued toward the change rooms. Mrs. Winston dissolved into hysterical tears.
Nick appeared at the door to the day room. “What’s going on? Kendall just asked me if I’d seen Crystal? Why?”
“We don’t know where she is.” Ellen’s own voice began to shake. “Oh, Nick, if something’s happened to her—” Nick hurried forward and she clung to him.
Mrs. Winston began to weep inconsolably.
The police constable made an attempt to get up. But he immediately sank back down into the chair.
Lorry appeared at the back door, and Nick quickly told her about Crystal.
“People will be wanting breakfast. Peter and Shauna,” Ellen said helplessly. “Lorry, could you manage, do you think?”
“Certainly. Would you like a cup of tea?”
Ellen glanced at her housekeeper. “Yes, that might help. And maybe coffee for the policeman. That might help him. There should be some left from George’s breakfast.”
Kendall came running from the change rooms. “We can’t find her. Bart’s gone to check the garage. I’ll take the rose garden. Nick, do you want to look out front?” He stopped. “She wouldn’t have gone to the other garden, would she?”
“I’ll look there after I check out front. Sound the dinner bell if you find her.” Nick hurried off.
Kendall was about to go, too, when Ellen said, “Kendall, do you think you could get your father? He’s in his study. Tell him we may need his help.”
Thirteen-year-old Win Fong was delighted that his best friend, Trent Cooper, had been able to stay for the weekend. This morning, they were going hunting. Win had been given a zoom lens for his birthday a week before and he wanted to test it out. The local fall fair had a photography contest for children up to fourteen, and Win felt the new lens gave him a good chance to win.
The subject he was interested in was birds’ nests. With Trent’s help, he thought he’d get some terrific shots.
The place they had chosen to hunt in was the ravine at the back of Win’s house. And as soon as the two boys had finished breakfast, they were off.
They had climbed two promising trees, and Win had taken five pictures. The day was looking great.
“Let’s try that tree over there.” Trent pointed to a large ornamental crab fifty feet from where they were standing. “It looks big enough to have three nests in it.”
“Yeah, it looks like a good one,” Win agreed. “Race you there.” He took off, and Trent willed his legs to move faster so he could keep up with his friend.
Win got to the tree first and started up. He was laughing and urging Trent to try to catch him.
Trent waited at the bottom for a minute, watching his friend until he had reached the first solid limb.
“Okay,” Win said. “Come on up and I’ll make room for you.”
“On my way.” Trent began to grasp the trunk with both arms.
“Put the lunch down, dummy.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot.” Trent looked around for a safe place to leave the canvas lunch sack he had offered to carry. He took a few steps toward a small tree stump and then he stopped. His face blanched. “Win,” he said quietly.
“What are you doing? Hurry up!” Win yelled from his perch on the tree limb.
“Win.” Trent’s voice was somewhat louder than before. But his friend either wasn’t listening or didn’t hear. “Win!” he yelled with all his might.
“What are you doing over there?”
“I think I’m looking at a dead person.”
“You’re what?” The voice was only slightly amused. “Aw, come on.”
“I’m not joking, Win. I think she’s dead.”
Annoyed, but curious to see what joke Trent was playing on him, Win climbed down the tree. He walked over to stand next to Trent. “Now what?” He looked to where Trent was pointing. He took a few steps forward and Trent followed. Both boys stood still for ten long seconds. Then Win grabbed Trent’s arm. “Let’s get out of here!”
“Should—shouldn’t we tell somebody?”
“We can tell my mom. Come on! Let’s get out of here. Maybe whoever did it is still here. Maybe watching us from behind a tree!” Wasting no further time, Win turned and ran full out with Trent close on his heels.
Kendall knocked on the door to George Brodie’s study.
“It’s open,” George said impatiently. “Oh, it’s you. Have they found that dratted girl yet? What a day for her to decide to take a holiday!”
“I think it could be a little more serious than that, Dad. The policeman who was watching the house seems to think he was drugged last night.”
George stood up. “You mean no one was on guard?”
“That’s right.”
“So much for our wonderful police force. Get slipped a Mickey just like any rookie!” He thrust both hands into the pockets of his gray trousers.
“Mom’s out back with Mrs. Winston. They’re both pretty upset. She asked if you’d come.”
“What does she think I can do?”
Kendall shrugged. “Just be there, I guess. Sympathize or something.”
“Does she really think something’s happened to the girl?” George frowned as he looked down at the papers on his desk.
“After yesterday, it’s easy to believe something bad could happen.”
“I guess the truth is I was doing my best to forget about yesterday.”
The phone on George’s desk rang. George listened for a moment, one hand reaching up to smooth his hair, his body sagging into the chair. At last he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Fong. We will check immediately. And thank you for calling the police. I’m sure they’ll be in touch with you.” He sat still a moment, staring at the picture on the wall next to the door. It was one of his favorites. A small study by Cezanne. He’d picked it up eight years ago at an auction. It had been a bargain.
“Dad?”
George looked up. Kendall’s face was white, his eyes frightened. “Dad?”
George slowly shook his head. “It’s her,” he said softly. “I’m sure it’s her.” He leaned over to rest his forehead on his hands. “How are we ever going to tell her mother?”
Manziuk and Ryan drove up just after ten. Winding their way through a cordon of newspaper and television reporters, they were let in through the front gate, and Manziuk parked the car.
“I never thought I’d be glad of a house with walls like a prison, but I sure am right now. By the way, if any of the media people get through and try to talk to you, all you say is ‘No comment.’ Understood?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll bet,” Manziuk muttered as he op
ened his door.
“Did you say something?” Ryan looked over at him.
“Still mad because I wouldn’t let you drive?” He got out of the car and shut his door.
“The senior officer normally lets the junior officer drive,” she said as she got out. “Except when he’s prejudiced against women.”
“I told you I’d get here faster.”
“How would you know?” She walked toward the house.
Manziuk slammed the door shut and followed.
George Brodie met them inside the front door. “She’s out back,” he said in greeting. “Not on our property.”
“How do we get there?”
“I’ll take you.”
Manziuk followed George Brodie through the house to the patio and across the yard to the gate. Ryan was three steps behind.
The gate was open. Someone had brought a patio chair to keep it from shutting.
The two officers followed George another hundred feet. Now they could see Ford bending over something in the grass beneath a tree. Several others from Ident were gathered at a distance, just outside of a taped circle.
“Thanks, Mr. Brodie,” Manziuk said as they came to about fifty feet from the body. “We’ll take it from here.”
George nodded and turned back.
Manziuk went over to Ford. “How and when?”
“I’d say several hours ago. And she was stabbed.”
“Not recent?”
“She’s cool,” Ford said in response, “the corneas are cloudy, the blood’s fairly dry, and there’s rigor mortis in the jaws, neck, and shoulders, and starting in the arms. I’d guess six or seven hours minimum. Where’s Munsen?”
“Should be here any minute,” Manziuk replied.
“Who found her?” Ryan asked.
“Those two kids. They were just walking by.” Ford pointed to a trio standing apart from the police officers. Two boys and a woman.
The woman stepped forward. “Excuse me, please. I’m Mrs. Fong, Win’s mother.” She motioned to the taller of the two boys. “I told them they had no business here, but they said they had to come and give their evidence.”
Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1) Page 22
