by Fiona Grace
“The murder of Ronan Pike,” came DCI Lewis’s response. “You do not need to say anything now but anything you do say may be used against you in the court of law.”
“Wait!” Lacey cried, skidding to a halt. “Stop! It wasn’t him! You’ve got the wrong man!”
From the open doorway, the two detectives caught sight of her coming down the corridor toward them. They both frowned—Superintendent Turner with shock and displeasure, DCI Lewis with frustration. She’d agreed to this whole plan, after all, and by exposing herself, Lacey may well have landed her in hot water.
“Lacey?” Superintendent Turner barked. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I came to speak to Brett,” she explained. “I thought he might’ve been the killer. But he’s not. He didn’t commit a crime, because he never claimed the forgeries were real. Scott Pike stole the letter off him. It looks as though he set the whole thing up!”
“Why don’t you let us determine our own conclusions?” Superintendent Turner said.
And with that, he cuffed the poor bemused-looking Brett Meegan.
“And get back to Wilfordshire, now!” he barked. “Or I’ll arrest you too!”
Lacey watched, helplessly, as Brett was guided to the police car. She’d made a terrible mistake.
Lacey felt terrible on her drive back to town. There was nowhere left to go with her investigation, even if she was to keep digging, and she’d landed an innocent man in jail. Added to that, she’d blown things with her dad and would likely never see him again. And that wasn’t even to mention Tom, backing away from her like that!
As she drove through the dark cliffsides on the outskirts of Wilfordshire, her attention was drawn to the bright lights of the Lodge, nestled in the blackness of the hills. It looked so warm and inviting.
“I guess if there’s nothing I can do investigation wise,” Lacey said to Chester, “I might as well relax. Let’s go and see if Gina wants a night on the tiles.”
She drove up the cliffs, passing Crag Cottage, noticing her father’s cattle car was no longer there. As she suspected. There was no way he’d choose to hang around now. He was gone, and probably this time for good.
She stopped outside Gina’s cottage and tooted the horn.
Her friend appeared from the garden, watering can in hand. Despite her unhappiness, Lacey was able to rouse a smile. Gina always liked to garden by the moonlight.
Her friend headed to the car and poked her head in through the window. “How did it go?”
“Terribly,” Lacey said. “I found the forger and led the police right to him. Only, I think he’s actually just another victim in all this.”
“Why? What happened?”
“I’ll explain on the way.”
“On the way where?” Gina asked.
“The Lodge,” Lacey replied. “I think we’re well overdue some wind-down time, don’t you?”
Gina flung her watering can to the ground. “I don’t need asking twice!”
She hopped into the passenger seat, scooting Chester out of the way. With a grumble, he got into the back.
“So?” Gina asked, as Lacey backed out of her driveway. “What happened with the forger?”
Lacey recounted all she’d learned about Brett Meegan and his accidental forgery hobby.
“I think Ronan’s father tricked him into writing the letters, specifically so he could steal one and sell it as the real thing. Maybe he was waiting for him to write out the one to Charles Dickens, knowing his ancestral connection would give it an air of legitimacy.”
“But he died before he sold it?”
“I guess so. Maybe it wasn’t as easy to get it authenticated as he thought it would be. Or maybe he decided not to scam his best friend after all.”
“But if it wasn’t the forger, then who was it?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Lacey turned into the parking lot of the Lodge. As her eyes scanned the lot for a parking space, her mouth dropped open with astonishment. Because there, parked haphazardly through two spots, was none other than her father’s cattle van.
“Is that—” Gina began.
“—Dad’s!” Lacey cried.
She’d been so certain he’d left Wilfordshire for good, yet here he was. Her heart leapt with hope. He must’ve decided to check in at the inn so they could have a bit of space.
She parked quickly, eager to find him. “Come on, Gina, let’s get inside.”
They hurried up the steps and in through the foyer. Lacey waved at Lucia on the front desk, then hurried into the Drawing Room, where the bar was.
And there he was.
Frank. Her father. Sitting on the green leather couches beside the fireplace, with a pint of ale on the coffee table in front of him.
That’s when Lacey realized he was not alone. Sitting on the couch opposite him, chatting away and chuckling, was none other than Tom!
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
At the sight of her father and Tom cordially sharing a pint together, Lacey’s mouth dropped open.
“Well, would you look at that…” Gina murmured from beside her.
Chester sprang into action, running at the two men he adored and barking happily. They both looked shocked to see him.
“Chester?” Frank cried, in a slightly tipsy-sounding voice. “What are you doing here?”
Tom, evidently managing to put two and two together that if Chester was here then Lacey herself must be, too, glanced over toward the door. His gaze settled on her, and his pale green eyes sparkled with love. “It’s La—Lacey!” he exclaimed, hiccupping mid-sentence.
Frank looked over too. “And my old mate Gina!” he added. He waved enthusiastically.
Lacey and Gina exchanged a look of confusion, then approached the red leather couch where the two tipsy men sat.
“Dad?” Lacey asked. “Tom? What’s going on?”
“Tom called me earlier,” Frank explained in a wobbly, slurry voice. “He told me about how upset you were after our disagreement outside the station. I’m so sorry, darling. I had no idea I’d made you feel so bad, and walking away like that was particularly insensitive given my past behavior.”
Lacey felt her eyebrows rising slowly up her forehead. That was a startlingly good observation, and all the more surprising coming from a man who’d not only seemed oblivious to any of the social cues she’d been giving out during his stay with her, but who was also, by the looks of things, quite, quite drunk.
“That’s, er, all right, I guess…” Lacey stammered. She didn’t really know what to say or how to feel about this strange new development in her father and fiancé’s formally frosty relationship. “But why are you here?” she queried, looking at Tom. “Together?”
“I invited Frank here to talk things through,” Tom explained with a hiccup. “You were so upset earlier, I just couldn’t stand by idly like that while you suffered. I figured I had a shot at talking to Frank man to man, so found the guts and did it.”
Lacey frowned. “You mean when you left me outside the station, it was to do this?”
“Exactly,” Tom said.
“And you couldn’t have told me that was what you were doing in the first place?” Lacey cried, recalling, viscerally, how painfully offended she’d felt when Tom had rushed out on her earlier during her agonized moment of woe. But all along, this was what he’d left her to do—to try and patch things up with her father so he wouldn’t walk out on her again?
“I didn’t want to give you more things to worry about,” Tom added. “If you’d known I was planning on going after your dad and convincing him not to leave, I don’t think you’d have been best pleased with me.”
Well, he had her there.
Lacey hesitated, looking from one man to the next.
“So?” she prompted, finally. “Did it work?” She addressed her next question to her father. “Are you staying?”
“Oh yes,” Frank said, raising his pint glass into the air. “We’re firm friends now, aren
’t we, Tom?”
Tom brought his own glass up to Frank’s and clinked it. “Friends!”
Lacey’s head spun. Talk about a turn-around.
“Budge up then!” Gina cried suddenly, plonking herself down on the couch and promptly helping herself to Frank’s ale. “I love this stuff.”
Still bemused, Lacey cautiously lowered herself down beside Tom. He gave her a wobbly smile, looking dopey from his long evening drinking ale.
“As pleased as I am to see you two getting along,” she said to him in a cautious voice, “I can’t help but wonder how? You two have been frosty to each other since the second you first met.”
“I was being too quick to judge,” Frank called across the table.
“And so was I,” Tom added. “It turns out we have a lot in common.”
“Both divorced,” Frank offered.
“Both business owners,” Tom added.
“We both love Wilfordshire.”
“And we both love you, Lacey,” Tom said. “We have you in common. That, more than anything, is a reason to stop being harsh on one another.”
Lacey sat there, blinking with bewilderment. She was completely stunned. She may not have solved the case, but at least her personal life was no longer in tatters.
Gina, who had drained the rest of Frank’s pint before sneaking Tom’s out from under his nose and draining that too, clapped loudly. “Well, isn’t this just marvelous!” she exclaimed. “I’ll get in the next round, shall I?”
“Hurray!” Frank exclaimed.
“Ales all round!” Tom bellowed.
Lacey simply shrugged. “I guess,” she said.
Gina looked straight at Tom. “Come and help me at the bar, you. My days of being able to balance four pints at once are behind me.”
Tom chuckled and stood. He’d probably failed to get Gina’s hint, but Lacey hadn’t; Gina was leaving Lacey and her dad alone to give them space to talk things through.
With a swirl of anxiety in her stomach, Lacey looked across the table at her father, a man who, just hours earlier, she’d been worried she may never see again.
“I’m so sorry about what I said earlier—” she began, only for Frank himself to overlay her apology with his own, “I should never have walked away like that—”
They both stopped, and fell into an awkward silence.
“You don’t need to apologize to me,” Frank told her. “Everything you said is true. I am choosing to be a father when it’s convenient to me. And that’s not fair on you.”
“Yes…” Lacey admitted. “I meant what I said, but not the manner in which I said it.”
Frank nodded slowly. “I understand. I have a lot of explaining to do before you can trust me again, huh?”
Lacey gave him a sad smile, and nodded. “Yes.”
He reached across the table and patted her hand. “Then we’ll talk. Whenever you’re ready.”
“Thank you,” Lacey replied, feeling relieved and loved. Her father had said exactly what she needed to hear after everything that had happened.
Just then, Gina and Tom returned, chatting loudly and merrily as they carried a pint of ale in each hand. Gina passed one to Lacey, then took a seat on the opposite red leather couch beside Frank. Tom handed his spare ale to his now-best-buddy Frank and took the spot beside Lacey, slinging a sloppy arm around her shoulder. Chester, meanwhile, slumbered contentedly on the rug at their feet.
As those around her settled in for a drink, Lacey tried to relax. But there was too much going on in her mind. Brett Meegan had been arrested because of her tipoff to Beth Lewis, but Lacey was now certain he was an innocent party in all this. Which meant somewhere out there, the real killer of Ronan Pike was still at large.
With her thoughts churning around her mind, Lacey barely heard the conversation around her. The tangy, hoppy bitterness of her sip of ale on her tastebuds barely registered.
Just then, Lacey’s attention was caught by the television mounted in the corner of the room. It usually showed whatever soccer game was on, but since it was currently the evening, it was tuned to the local news. There, caught in the light bulb flashes of the local media and paparazzi, was a startled-looking Brett Meegan.
Lacey grimaced as she watched the images on the TV. Bright red ticker tape appeared, scrolling across the bottom of the screen with the presumptive proclamation: murderer caught.
Lacey shook her head. It was all a mistake. A mistake she’d instigated, yes, but now that the cops were doubling down and the media were involved, it was even worse. Not only would there be a lot of red faces in the police and media once it became clear they’d jumped the gun on this one, but the TV report was a huge green light to the real killer. As far as the real murderer was concerned, he’d just gotten away with his dastardly deed!
Just then, Lacey realized she wasn’t the only person staring up, mouth agape, at the TV screen. Of all the patrons in the Drawing Room, there was one other distracted by the television, a blond man at the corner table wearing sunglasses.
A memory sparked in Lacey’s mind. A blond man with sunglasses matched the description of John Smith, the man who’d been kicked out of Carol’s to make way for Lord Fairfax. She hadn’t put two and two together when Carol had spoken of him before—too distracted by her horrible sneering, probably—but the man had, indeed, attended her auction. He was one of the non-aristocratic auction attendees, who’d lingered at the back of the hall and hadn’t, now she thought it over, actually put in a bid. Yet he’d stayed for the duration, unlike Clare Peterson from the Charles Dickens museum, who’d left as soon as she was out of the running—left not only the auction, but the whole town. Yet this man, John Smith, hadn’t only stuck around for the entire proceedings of the auction, but he’d stuck around in Wilfordshire beyond it. He’d been here the whole time.
Warning bells started going off in Lacey’s mind. She felt her heartbeat begin to increase. She didn’t know what it all meant, but something here was definitely fishy.
“Lacey!” Gina suddenly exclaimed, waving across the table at her friend. “You’re miles away! You haven’t even touched your ale!”
“Shush,” Lacey said, batting her away with her hands, never taking her eyes off John Smith for one second.
She watched him drain his glass of ale and thunk it onto the table. The gesture looked to Lacey as almost … triumphant? Then he stood, picked up the hold-all that had been on the seat beside him, and strolled confidently toward the exit.
Lacey watched him as he came closer, assessing him, evaluating him. There was something strangely familiar about him, beyond her having seen him at the auction.
And as he got ever closer, Lacey spotted something extremely unusual about his appearance. His fluffy blond hair was in fact a wig—she could clearly see the lace front. And the rock star swagger she’d been expecting from Carol’s description of him was entirely absent. No leather jacket or cool hipster clothes. Beyond wearing sunglasses inside, there was nothing even remotely “rock star” about him. He appeared to be more of a beach bum, in a Hawaiian shirt. Carol’s original description had been off.
As the peculiar John Smith swished out the exit past Lacey, her mind raced a mile a minute. The man had clearly gone to great lengths to hide his identity, but why? Who went incognito to an auction? And the name? John Smith? It was the most obvious fake name ever!
Suddenly, Lacey remembered Carol’s words from back at her B&B. “How do you know the killer attended your auction? Wouldn’t it be brazen to show your face like that?”
Well—what if the killer had hidden his identity all along?!
Lacey flew to her feet.
“Lacey?” Frank, Gina, and Tom exclaimed in unison, all looking surprised by her sudden spring up to her feet. Chester, meanwhile, shot to all fours too, ready to follow Lacey wherever she went.
“Excuse me for a second,” she said rapidly to the expectant faces peering up at her.
She hurried to the doorway of the Drawing Roo
m and gazed out into the now empty corridor. The strange man who had just become her prime suspect was nowhere to be seen.
She raced to the counter, Chester trotting along beside her.
“Lucia,” she said, speaking rapidly. “Where did that man go?”
“What man?” Lucia asked, looking taken aback by Lacey’s demeanor.
“Blond hair,” Lacey said, craning her head over her shoulders as she spoke. “Sunglasses.”
“He just checked out,” Lucia said.
Lacey didn’t waste another second. She ran straight for the foyer doors, with Chester bolting along with her.
As she hurried onto the foyer steps, she saw the man was already past the fountain and making a rapid beeline for the exit.
“John!” she cried. “John Smith!”
He did not turn.
Suddenly, Lacey realized why he looked familiar. If he’d had dark hair rather than blond, and no sunglasses on, he would’ve looked remarkably like… the picture of Harold Watson from the Westminster Auction House website.
She froze on the top step, shocked. “Harold? Harold Watson?”
This time, the man instinctively turned.
Busted! Lacey thought.
With Harold Watson’s name still echoing around the foyer, everything fell into place in Lacey’s mind. The appraiser from the Westminster Auction House, the very man who’d told Ronan Pike that his forged letter was genuine in the first place, had killed him. Why, Lacey couldn’t be sure. But what she was certain about was the who. Harold Watson was Ronan Pike’s killer. All along he’d been here, right under her nose. How had she let him slip through the cracks?
It came back to her then—the mind-mapping session she’d made with Frank, Gina, and Tom at the table of Crag Cottage. They’d discussed Harold then. She’d even called the Westminster Auction House, only to be told by Antoinette the receptionist that he was on leave, and wouldn’t be back for a few more days.
He was on leave to Wilfordshire! Lacey thought, suddenly.
While she’d been on a wild goose chase, he’d been right here under her nose. And he’d almost gotten away with it, what with Brett Meegan the calligrapher currently misidentified as the killer. Well, she wasn’t about to let him slip from her grasp.
