Dead in the Water (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 1) (8 page)

Although I've already admitted I'm not a nature lover—believing one should admire it from a distance and not interact in some possibly dangerous way—I rounded the house and stepped off the path to take a shortcut across the lawn. As I bypassed the privet hedge, I could see the pond in the distance but no yellow police tape or other obstruction. I found myself walking more slowly, remembered seeing the body, and my skin crawled. No, I told myself, regaining my tempo, there was nothing to be afraid of.

But Tark, usually sprinting ahead, stopped. I passed him, then felt a tug on the leash. I looked back, expecting him to have stopped to smell something intriguing. He hadn't. He quivered, and a low growl came from his throat. I pulled on the leash, but he resisted, even backed up, whimpering. Was he afraid? I stooped and petted him.

"What's the matter, Tark?" I looked around but didn't see anything that might spook him. I pulled on the leash again. Again, he growled and wouldn't move. Prickles crept up the backs of my arms, answering my question. Mr. Tarkington refused to go near the lily pond.

Truth, or possibly my wild imagination, spoke to me. Tark was warning me not to go near the water. Noreen
had
taken him for a walk that night, and he must know what I only suspected. No matter what Inspector Kincaid might think, she had not fallen into the pond and drowned. She really had been murdered.

The bedside clock read twelve-fifteen before I finally fell asleep that night. Yes, I climbed into bed and closed my eyes, but my mind replayed, over and over, the scene with Tark near the lily pond. Inspector Kincaid said Noreen fell into the pond and drowned while intoxicated, but if the British police were anything like their American counterparts, it wouldn't be the first time they'd been wrong. In fact, I seemed to recall hearing about a recent faux pas committed by the bobbies. Furthermore, didn't Sherlock Holmes continually show up Inspector Lestrade's incompetence?

True, an accident made more sense than suicide, but somehow murder seemed the most logical of all. Yet, as I'd told myself before, to imagine Noreen murdered meant one of my very own relatives might have done it. Since I couldn't bring myself to picture any of them killing someone, my theory, like Noreen herself, was dead in the water. I'd probably return home without ever knowing what really happened. I wished that possibility didn't bother me so much.

*   *  *

On Friday morning, Elizabeth, Chaz, and I all showed up in the dining room at the same time. Chaz nodded to us and poured himself a cup of coffee. Elizabeth seemed to make a point of ignoring him, and again I wondered why she showed such dislike. He wasn't exactly a model of correct British behavior and might act as if he invented male chauvinism, but he seemed relatively harmless. After he gave me a smile and wink and carried his cup out of the room, I asked her what her problem was.

She made a face but said nothing.

"Come on, Elizabeth, tell me what's wrong."

She busied herself at the buffet table, putting small amounts of everything on her plate, as well as spooning orange marmalade on her toast. Could she possibly be buying time to invent a story for me?

"He's such a waste, isn't he?" she said finally.

"What do you mean by 'waste'? He has a band."

"That garbage." She made a face.

"What kind of band is it? Rock and roll, heavy metal, punk, rap?" I didn't care much for rap myself, since it had no melody, but both Elizabeth and I had grown up with rock. I liked Sammy Hagar, Van Halen, and Boston. Come to think of it, I probably listened to the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, British bands, as much as she did.

"Judging by Aunt Alice's comment about the loud sounds Chaz made, I assume it's some variation, nothing that should upset you." I filled my own plate and took it to the table.

"It's— barbaric," she said.

"Like what: those goth types who paint their faces and wear a lot of tattoos? I don't think Chaz has a tattoo, at least I haven't noticed one."

"Worse than that. They think they're some sort of animals." She paused. "I can't explain it. It's entirely too weird."

"Well, that's what it's about. A new band has to be different from the others in order to get noticed. They do weird things so people will remember them and play their music."

"I suppose you're right."

I thought Elizabeth gave up the argument too easily, but I didn't continue the subject. "Where shall we go today?"

"Olivia, I can't go to London with you after all. I'm sorry, but I must do something at school before the new term begins."

It sounded like a feeble excuse, and I wondered if she wanted to avoid being alone with me. She not only seemed reluctant to talk about Chaz, but I began to think she was afraid she might reveal something she preferred to keep hidden. The mystery was beginning to get to me. I was suspecting everyone and everything.

She insisted, however, that I go myself. After we'd finished breakfast she walked outdoors with me. "Tim O'Brien doubles as our chauffeur. He'll take you."

A
chauffeur
drive me around? "I couldn't."

"Nonsense. That's what the Bentley is for."

A Bentley? Even worse. "Isn't that the Rolls Royce's twin brother?"

Elizabeth ignored my protest and rattled on. "Jason, Chaz, and I each have our own automobiles, but when we can't take the others where they need to go, Tim does it. That's one of his duties."

Tim duly appeared, his gardening hat replaced by a black cap. Reluctantly, afraid I'd get too accustomed to la dolce vita, I agreed he could drop me off at the depot, where I would take a commuter train into the city. Yet he insisted I ride in the back.

"Wouldn't be proper otherwise, Miss."

So I sat in the rear seat, feeling foolish. I sometimes like to think I'm meant for a life surrounded by wealth and luxury, but the truth is, when actually immersed in it, I feel like an imposter. When Tim dropped me off, I told him I had no idea when I'd return, so I'd take a taxi, and he needn't pick me up.

However, once in the city, I couldn't concentrate on sightseeing because, after finally dismissing Elizabeth from my thoughts, Noreen took her place. If she was walking the dog that night, how did Mr. Tarkington get back into the house? If she
wasn't
walking the dog, why did she go to the lily pond? I couldn't believe some stranger came upon her and killed her for no reason. Suppose she planned to meet someone there, a man, most likely, they quarreled, and he killed her? Noreen's being unfaithful to Edward seemed common knowledge. Could she have been meeting a lover, someone besides Chaz? If she were two-timing both him and Edward, it would go a long way toward explaining the hatred she inspired.

I stopped and looked at my surroundings. I'd walked clear through Westminster Abbey without my mind registering a thing. I felt foolish again. I forced myself to forget Noreen and do the next thing I'd promised myself to do in London: go shopping. Being on my own made it ideal. I had long ago learned I should always shop by myself. Letting someone else tell me what looked attractive had led to frequent wardrobe catastrophes.

According to the latest magazines, fashion at home leaned toward making women look like something out of
Star Wars
, but I assumed London shops would have some simple, classic outfits, say a pleated plaid skirt—they called them tartans—and a cashmere sweater to go with it. Something suitable for an English woman like myself. Right. Instead, on Bond Street, I found myself trying on a slinky little black number that made my extra pounds magically disappear. As the sales clerk put the considerable sum on my American Express card, I watched with a boatload of guilt and wondered where I would ever wear the dress. Although black, it definitely couldn't be worn to Noreen's funeral.

I left the shop carrying a trendy-looking silver bag and then, as if I hadn't indulged myself enough for one day, bought an ice cream. English ice cream is richer than American, supposedly because they still have Jersey cows. Anyway, I didn't want to look like those skinny rich women whose major food was probably low-fat toothpaste.

During the train ride back, my mind returned to Noreen, and I wondered if I might be obsessed with trying to turn an accident into murder. Was I gnawing on this particular bone for my own selfish reasons? To be smarter than the police? To prove my self-worth after the debilitating divorce?

No. I wanted to see justice served. I also wanted to help my family. Because it occurred to me I had another reason to try to solve the mystery of Noreen's demise. What if she'd become involved in something shady or even illegal? What if she'd had to be silenced because she knew too much? Furthermore, what if the murderer, Mister X, thought she might have given this dangerous information to someone else in the family and tried to kill again? Didn't I owe it to everyone to uncover this person and bring him to justice before that happened?

Warming to my theory, I made plans for how I would go about investigating the crime I had so brilliantly deduced. First, I'd tackle Alice, who knew the most about the household. Then I'd question everyone else about Noreen's habits. I'd cleverly ferret out clues they didn't even know existed. By the time the taxi stopped in the mansion driveway, I had constructed several fascinating conversations in my head.

However, my plan went on hold when I saw a strange car parked in front and found Inspector Kincaid standing inside the great hall, holding a large box and speaking to Aunt Alice. His sergeant, the young man who had taken notes when Kincaid questioned us about Noreen's death, also held a large box.

Alice turned to me. "Ah, Olivia, look, the kind inspector has returned all the papers he took from the office the other day. Jason will be so relieved." She returned her gaze to the inspector. "Do come this way."

They smiled and followed Alice into the office.

I'd reached the stairs when I had a sudden thought. I'd been handed a perfect opportunity to talk to Kincaid about my theory that Mister X had killed Noreen. Of course, first I'd have to find out if such a person existed, as well as why and how he killed her, but meanwhile I'd get as much information as possible out of Kincaid. I remembered why I wanted to become a private detective. Puzzling over a riddle pushed my adrenaline level to new heights.

I left the silver bag on the stairs and hurried toward the office. The men were coming out. "Inspector Kincaid, may I have a minute?"

"Of course."

He told the sergeant to wait in the car, and I led him toward the small sitting room, invited him in, and closed the door. He sat in a side chair, and I took the sofa.

"How may I help you?" he asked.

"It's about Noreen's, er, death."

"Most unfortunate."

"You think it was accidental because she was intoxicated?"

"So far we've found nothing to suggest otherwise."

"Do you remember my asking you during our last conversation about her dog, Mr. Tarkington?"

"Yes, I recall you said she frequently took the dog for a walk in the evening."

"I suggested to you that if she had accidentally fallen into the pond, the dog would not have been found inside the house the next morning."

He rubbed his chin but didn't answer for a few minutes. Finally, his mustache moved again, and his eyebrows rose. "I believe I said at the time that perhaps she had not been walking the dog on that particular evening."

"Yes, but something has happened which changes that."

I told him about what had happened the night before, how Tark had balked at going near the place, pulled against the leash, whimpered, and even growled. "I'm sure it's because he was afraid."

Kincaid frowned and tugged at his mustache.

"But surely it fails to tell us how he came to be in the house." He paused. "Unless he could enter himself, by way of one of those, er, pet flaps."

"There isn't one." I leaned forward. "Suppose we agree she did not walk the dog that night. Why did she go to the lily pond?" I didn't wait for an answer. "Suppose she met someone there, and that person killed her? A man, perhaps a lover or an enemy."

"If you're proposing this theory to me, I should need some evidence that person exists. No one I've interviewed has suggested such a thing."

I didn't want to launder dirty linen in front of Kincaid, so I hedged a bit. "Perhaps they didn't think it relevant. Yet, after Edward died, Noreen went out alone a great deal. I know everyone in the family believed she probably saw another man at those times."

"Of course, that is possible. However, even if she met someone by the pond, it doesn't necessarily mean she's been murdered. The gentleman might have left, and
then
she fell and drowned."

"I thought of that, but it doesn't explain Mr. Tarkington's fear."

"He might only
sense
his mistress died there. I once heard about a gentleman who became ill, and his dog stayed outside his bedroom door. Refused to go with anyone else, refused to eat. However, after the gentleman died, the dog never went near the room again. Perhaps your Mr. Tarkington is like that dog."

His theory made some sense, but my idea that Noreen had been murdered refused to go quietly.

"Tark is afraid of the pond. He's not just avoiding it. Isn't it possible," I argued, "that someone could have killed her?"

He stood. "Anything, my dear lady, is possible. However, one requires a good deal of proof, you see." He smiled again. That is, his mustache widened. "I should think you'd prefer the more obvious conclusion that she died as the result of an accident. Put your mind at rest."

His tone hinted that any normal person would do so, but nothing he'd said discouraged me, and I felt certain he wouldn't provide any helpful information either. I'd have to try to find the truth by myself. I accompanied him to the front door and said good-bye.

I found Alice in the office, amid the large boxes Inspector Kincaid had returned.

"A right awful mess it is too." Grumbling, she pulled a manila file folder from a box and put it into a drawer.

"Why don't you let me do that?"

"Oh, would you, Olivia? I'm not very good at things like this. Give me a bit of furniture to polish, and I'm keen to get on with it, but business papers…"

"I don't know anything about these particular papers," I told her, "but I think I can sort them all right."

"You're a darling girl to help." She rose from the desk chair and offered it to me. "Of course," she added, "no matter how neatly you put them back in order, Jason will find fault, but pay no attention. He'll pull a face in any event. He'd object if he were beaten with a new stick."