Death of a Mad Hatter (A Hat Shop Mystery) (18 page)

When I arrived back at the shop, Harrison was waiting for me. Not a total surprise. Still, I had nothing to say to him. I didn’t technically work for him and I wasn’t about to stand there and listen to a lecture.

He was leaning against the front counter, where Fee was working, obviously waiting for someone. Me.

“Hi, Fee,” I said as I walked past them. I was halfway to the door that led to the stairs when he yelled, “Oy. We’re really not talking, are we?”

“You can talk,” I said with a shrug. “But that doesn’t mean I have to listen.”

I opened the door and jogged up the stairs to the apartment above. The toast I’d had earlier wasn’t enough to keep a sparrow alive, so I headed for the kitchen and grabbed a banana out of the fruit bowl and a yogurt from the refrigerator.

I was just slicing the banana into the yogurt when Harrison walked into our small kitchen from the living room and took a seat at the counter.

“Viv said you went to see Tina Grisby,” he said.

“She did?” I couldn’t believe she had ratted me out. Not cool.

“She was worried about you and she figured it was either tell me or call the police, so she opted to tell me,” he said.

I glanced from my yogurt cup to him. His dark-brown hair flopped over his forehead. He was casual today in jeans and a form-fitting Henley. Had he always been that well muscled? My inner girly girl wanted to bat her eyelashes at him and get him to lift heavy things for me, but the new independent happily single me was refusing to allow any such nonsense.

“What exactly did she think you would be able to do if I was in danger?” I asked.

“I think she thought I would call the police if it seemed warranted,” he said.

“Did you?” I asked.

“Well, if you hadn’t come back to the shop in a timely fashion, I might have,” he said.

We were both silent as I ate my yogurt. I wanted to ask him why he cared, but then that would sound needy, wouldn’t it? I scraped the plastic cup as I finished, more for something to do than because I needed those last remnants of yogurt.

“Ginger, we need to reach a truce,” he said.

I put my spoon in the sink and rinsed out my yogurt cup.

“You make it sound like we’re fighting,” I said.

“Well, you did quit and storm out of the room last night,” he said. “I’d say if not a full-fledged fight, we’re definitely in a tiff.”

“I have a right to be irritated,” I said. “I can’t believe you and Viv didn’t tell me about the business situation.”

He sighed. “I left it to Viv, but I think she was worried you’d be upset.”

“You think?”

“So, what did Tina have to say?” he asked.

“Abrupt subject change,” I observed.

“It seemed pointless to pursue the business talk,” he said.

“Why would I tell you about Tina?” I asked. I placed my hands on the counter and leaned forward. He was sitting across on one of the stools. We were definitely at a standoff.

“Perhaps I can help,” he said.

“Why would you do that when you are always telling me to stay away from the Grisbys?” I asked.

“Because maybe solving Geoffrey’s murder is the only way you will stay away,” he said. His exasperation with the situation was more than evident.

“Tina thinks someone tried to kill her last night,” I said.

“What?” he asked. “She needs to report it to the police.”

“I know,” I said. “But she’s afraid that they can’t protect her, so she’s planning to stay for Geoffrey’s funeral and then wants me to help her find a safe place in the States to live with her baby.”

“Can you do that?” he asked.

“My parents will help,” I said.

“Ginger, who do you think killed Geoffrey Grisby?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Viv thinks it was an accident.”

“Could it have been?”

I gave him a long look. He nodded and I knew he didn’t believe it was an accident either.

“It has to be someone who has access to formaldehyde,” I said. “But that could be anyone.”

“How do you figure?” he asked.

“Geoffrey Grisby Senior died a month ago,” I said. “They were all at his funeral. Someone could have gotten the chemical there.”

“Really?” he asked. He leaned back on his stool. “Think about it. Don’t you think the funeral home would notice if someone helped themselves to their embalming fluid?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe not.”

“And there is still the dilemma of how they poisoned Geoffrey with it,” he said. “I mean, that stuff has a serious stench.”

I drummed my fingers on the countertop. “All right, tabling that dilemma for now, there is also the question of who in the family is the most likely to have poisoned him.”

“If Tina is pregnant with a boy, I say it’s her,” Harrison said.

“Oh, good grief, not you, too,” Viv cried as she entered the kitchen. “You’re supposed to be talking to her about the business, not playing
Inspector Lewis
.”

“I tried,” Harrison protested. “But she’s stuck in neutral and the only way to move forward is to resolve the Grisby situation.”

I frowned at him. “Did you just compare me to a car?”

“An adorable little sports car,” he amended.

“Huh.” I let it go. “For the record, I’m Hathaway and you’re Lewis.”

“That makes me your boss,” he said.

“Apparently,” I said. “But I’m also younger and cuter.”

Viv glanced between us. “Do I see a truce in the making?”

“Yes, you do,” I said. “So long as we’re agreed that we’re going to help Tina.”

Harrison rolled his eyes. Viv frowned.

“You really don’t think Geoffrey’s death was an accident?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “Tina doesn’t either. She thinks someone tried to kill her last night and I believe she’s in danger.”

Viv’s eyes went wide. “Who do you think it is?”

“No idea but it stands to reason that it’s someone who will gain if Tina’s baby is never born,” I said. I watched her face closely when I added, “The same person who killed Geoffrey.”

She frowned and tugged at her lower lip. “Liam.”

Harrison and I exchanged a look. Did she know something?

“What makes you say that?” Harrison asked.

Viv glanced away from us.

“Viv, what do you know?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she protested.

Harrison and I both stared at her. Hard.

“Fine,” she said. “Maybe he was acting strange at the Wonderland tea.”

Harrison sat up straight. “Strange how?”

“I heard him having an argument with his brother, George,” she said. “About Cara Whittles.”

“Their grandfather’s mistress?” I asked.

“Liam wanted to have her arrested for trespassing, but George wouldn’t hear of it,” Viv said.

“When did you hear this argument?” Harrison asked.

“Just before Scarlett screamed her head off whilst finding Geoffrey’s body.”

A shudder rippled down my back. It sounded so harsh when she said it like that.

“Why do you suppose George didn’t want to call the police?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but Liam intimated that George had some affection for Cara,” Viv said. “Liam sounded very, well, jealous about it.”

“And you didn’t mention this?” I asked.

“It sort of slipped my mind after the body was found,” she said.

“Didn’t George tell us he studied art in Italy for a few years?” I asked. Viv nodded. “So that would have put him in close proximity to his grandfather and Cara. Still, it doesn’t make any sense. Liam is the one who will inherit it all; even if George was fond of Cara and wanted to protect her, there’d be no purpose in him harming Geoffrey because he’d still get nothing. Besides, didn’t Lily say that Tom Mercer, George and Liam’s father, was rich? They don’t need the money.”

“Yes, the Mercers are extremely wealthy,” Viv said. “Which is why it makes no sense for Liam or George to be involved in this. There is no gain for them.”

“Maybe it’s more than affection between George and Cara or Liam and Cara,” Harrison said.

“Oh, ew,” I said.

They both looked at me.

“She’s old enough to be their mother,” I said.

“Ageist,” Viv accused.

“I am not,” I argued. “A certain amount of years is all right between an older woman and a younger man, but if she’s old enough to have birthed the boy, well, that’s just . . . ew.”

No one spoke for a moment. I wondered if I had been too adamant and had offended them. I was about to retract my words when Harrison spoke.

“So, funeral home?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you want to go visit the funeral home where Geoffrey Grisby Senior was embalmed?” he asked. “Maybe the funeral director remembers something hinky.”

“Brilliant,” Viv said. “What should I wear?”

“You are not going,” I said. She pouted. “You have to help Fee with the Butler-Coates wedding before she has a nervous breakdown.”

“Brides ruin all of my fun,” Viv said with a scowl.

“There’s a message in there somewhere,” Harrison said. He turned to me. “Shall we?”

“You know where to go?” I asked.

“Geoffrey Junior’s funeral was listed in the paper and the article mentioned that it was to be in the same parlor as his father,” Harrison said.

“Oh,” I said. “If you give me the name, I can check it out.”

Harrison nodded and then said, “No.”

I frowned at him. I was pretty sure he was mocking me.

“What kind of boss would I be to send you off on your own into a potentially dangerous situation?” he asked.

I pushed away from the counter. “You’re not my boss. I quit. Remember?”

“Oh, I forgot to mention that if you want the information about where the funeral home is, you have to take your job back,” he said.

“Power play,” Viv said behind her hand to me.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t need you. You told me you read it in the paper. I’m confident I can find it on my own.”

“Ah, but I didn’t say what paper or what day I read it. Let’s see. Was it the
Times
, the
Evening Standard
, the
Daily Mail
, the
Irish Independent
 . . . shall I go on?”

I heaved a sigh. It would be hours of work to go through them all, and yes, I could try to find it online, but really, what was the point? I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to be able to shake Harrison loose. And truth be told, I thought I’d have better luck getting information if he was with me. Like it or not, he gave me an air of legitimacy I clearly lacked on my own, being American and all.

“Okay, fine,” I snapped. I didn’t have to be happy about it, now, did I? “I’ll take my job back. Now let’s go.”

“Yay!” Viv cheered behind us.

I turned and gave her a dark look and she promptly lost her smile and tried to look serious, but I could see it was an effort.

I led the way downstairs with Harrison right on my heels. When we arrived in the shop, Fee was still behind the counter. She glanced up and smiled at us, and I couldn’t help but glance between her and Harrison. They looked happy to see each other, but I didn’t get a romantic vibe off of them. Now, what did that mean? Were they over each other already?

“Call if you find anything out,” Viv said as we left. “And be careful.”

“I promise,” I called and led the way out of the shop.

Had I known what was going to happen, I would have put a bit more sincerity in my vow.

We nabbed two seats on the tube just as they were vacated. I glanced at the map on the wall above the seats to see how many stops and train switches we would have to make to get to Highgate. The funeral home was just around the corner from the Underground stop.

Despite his casual attire, Harrison had a watchfulness about him that reminded me of a guard dog. He seemed to be taking in every passenger who arrived onto or departed from our train car. I wondered what he was looking for and then thought maybe he knew something I didn’t.

I thought about asking him on the train, but I didn’t want to yell at him and be overheard. I waited until we’d reached our last stop and had climbed the steps up to the surface street.

“You seem awfully on edge,” I said.

“Do I?” he asked.

He began to walk down the sidewalk, leaving me no choice but to follow.

“Care to share? I prodded.

“Not really,” he said.

Well, wasn’t that maddening. Clearly, he was underestimating my curiosity.

“What were you looking for on the train?” I asked.

He slowed and turned to look at me. Then he sighed. “You’re not going to give up, are you?”

“No,” I said.

“All right, I was trying to determine if we were being followed,” he said.

“Who would follow us?” I asked. “And why?”

“Anyone who saw you having coffee with Tina Grisby this morning,” he said. “You know, the same person who tried to kill her last night.”

My heart did a little shiver in my chest. I hadn’t really thought about it like that.

“Come on, I don’t fancy loitering on this errand and making targets of ourselves,” he said. He turned down a narrow side street and I hurried after him.

Assuming someone had tried to kill Tina last night and assuming that they had followed her this morning and seen me, then maybe Harrison’s caution was warranted. But it seemed like an awful lot of assumptions to me, so I shrugged it off as Harrison stopped in front of a small stone building with dark windows.

Two large wooden doors led inside, and he pulled one and gestured for me to lead. As you would expect, there was a hush about the place, which was accentuated by its thick burgundy carpet and heavy gold drapes.

A receptionist sat at a small desk off to the side of the front room and she greeted us with a small smile, the sort that was offered in times of sadness, as if she didn’t want to offend us with too boisterous of a greeting.

She was somewhere in her fifties, I guessed, wearing a tailored blouse and navy slacks. Her gray hair was styled in a becoming cut. She looked like the kind of woman who knew how to fold a fitted bedsheet without breaking down and swearing at it. I liked her.

“Welcome to Buskers and Sons,” she said. “I’m Marjorie. How may I help you?”

Harrison and I exchanged a glance. We hadn’t really thought this out. How were we going to explain our presence to this nice lady?

“Oh, uh, I’m Steve Waterstone and this is my wife, Sally. We’re newlyweds and we’ve just begun drawing up our wills.” Harrison lied so smoothly even I almost believed him. “We aren’t sure what to instruct the other to do upon our deaths. We were looking to talk to someone about the different options.”

As if to cement the story, he threw his arm around my shoulders and hugged me to his side. I gave Marjorie a small smile of my own.

She clapped her hands together and said, “Well, isn’t that wonderful. Not enough young people take into account their ever after. You would not believe some of the tragic stories we hear.”

“I expect not,” Harrison said. He really seemed to be embracing his role.

“Let me just call Mr. Busker,” Marjorie said. “He’s between appointments and I’m certain he’ll be happy to talk to you.”

She hurried back around her desk and picked up her phone. While she spoke softly into the receiver, I shrugged Harrison’s arm off of my shoulders.

“Now, don’t bury your feelings, love—let me know how you really feel,” he whispered in my ear.

I rolled my eyes and made quotation marks in the air with my fingers when I said, “You’ll have to ‘urn’ my trust first.”

“Very punny,” he said, but he wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something bad.

“Why do I never get credit for my wordplay?” I asked. “That was a good one.”

“Sorry, that one belongs six feet under.” He laughed at his own joke. I did not.

“Mr. and Mrs. Waterstone, if you’ll follow me,” Marjorie said. She gestured to a door behind her desk. Harrison motioned for me to go first so I followed Marjorie through the door, hoping we weren’t making a grave mistake. See? Another good one.

Mr. Busker’s office was as pristine as Marjorie’s front desk. I suppose some people find compulsive neatness reassuring. Me? Not so much. Then again, given that we were in a funeral home, it wouldn’t do to find bodies stacked up against the wall like old newspapers, now, would it?

I don’t know what I expected out of a funeral home director. I have not made the acquaintance of that many, but Mr. Busker wasn’t it. Instead of a skinny, pale man who rubbed his boney fingers together as if sizing you up for a casket, this guy was round and robust with a deep voice that seemed incapable of a whisper.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Waterstone,” he called as Marjorie ushered us into his office. He shook our hands and gestured for us to take the two seats across from his desk. His office was plush but less opulent than the main room, with a forest-green carpet and brown leather furniture.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Harrison said.

“I understand you want to discuss the options of what to do after you’ve passed on,” he said.

“That’s right,” I said. More to insert myself into the conversation than anything else.

“The traditional methods are burial or cremation,” Mr. Busker said. He leaned his elbows on the desk and then placed his hands together at the fingertips in a thoughtful pose. “But things are changing as the world becomes more environmentally minded.”

“Such as?” Harrison asked. He raised one eyebrow higher than the other and I thought he looked every bit the skeptical husband.

“Well, there’s resomation, a process where they use a solution to liquefy the body before pulverizing the bones—a lot like cremation, but instead of burning the body, it’s melted.”

“Oh,” I said. My voice came out fainter than I intended and Harrison patted my hand.

“There’s also cryonics, mummification, plastination or freeze-drying,” Mr. Busker said. “Some of those are still in the experimental stage, but by the time you two are looking at your ever after, they could be viable.”

A part of me desperately wanted to ask about the freeze-drying, but I figured we’d better stay on task.

“Let’s go with the more traditional methods,” I said. “For example, if we were to go with being buried, then our bodies would be preserved?”

“Yes,” Mr. Busker nodded. “We do offer embalming to keep the body from immediately putrefying, allowing the family and friends a last memory picture of the deceased to help with the grieving.”

I did not see how looking at a stiff version of me would help anyone say good-bye to me. In fact, I preferred that they remember me as I was, but I didn’t say as much.

“How does embalming work?” Harrison asked.

“It’s a chemical process where the body is prepared with a solution of formaldehyde, glutaraldehyde, ethanol, humectants and other solvents,” he said. He rattled it off as if he was asked this question a lot.

“Do you do the process here?” I asked.

“Yes, we have a mortuary, where our embalmer works on the bodies,” he said.

“So you have all of those chemicals here?” Harrison asked.

“Yes, all of the chemicals and equipment to embalm a body are here.” His face lost its engaging look and his eyes turned speculative as he studied Harrison.

“And if we choose cremation, would that happen here as well?” I asked. I hoped to distract him from thinking we were ghouls.

Mr. Busker’s face relaxed and he said, “No, we would facilitate that for you by going through a crematorium. There are many within the city of London, as about seventy percent of people now use cremation as their preferred method.”

“Really, seventy percent?” I asked.

“Would we be able to tour the mortuary?” Harrison asked.

Mr. Busker frowned. There was no keeping him from thinking Harrison was a creep now.

“I really don’t see . . .” Mr. Busker began, but I interrupted.

“My husband is deathly afraid of needles. He faints every time he sees one. It’s just so adorable,” I said. I patted Harrison’s hand as if I was reassuring the big lunk.

“Well, you would already be dead,” Mr. Busker said. “So you would have nothing to fear.”

“Yes, but I’d still like to see where my darling wife will be embalmed,” Harrison said. He patted my hand in return a little harder than necessary. “You know, where her cold, stiff body will lie in order to be prepped.”

“I suppose that would be all right,” Mr. Busker said. He rose from his seat and gestured for us to follow him back into the main room. Marjorie was on the phone at her desk, and as we passed by, he said, “Just giving a tour.”

Marjorie nodded and continued her call.

Harrison fell in beside me as we followed Mr. Busker through a doorway that led down a short hallway and out into a garage. The garage had several gleaming hearses parked, ready to shuttle the deceased to their final resting place.

“It occurs to me that you and I are spending a lot of time in funeral homes together,” Harrison whispered. His breath tickled my ear and I moved slightly away and tried to ignore him. “They’re becoming our place, don’t you think?”

I gave him a dark look. “No, I don’t.”

I turned to glance at him and he looked amused, which I found highly irritating. What was it with this man’s ability to get under my skin? Just because we had been to a wake together a few months ago and now we were touring a funeral home did not make it “our” place.

Mr. Busker opened a door on the other end of the garage and peeked his head inside. After a moment, he pushed the door open and gestured for us to follow.

We entered a room that resembled a doctor’s office, sort of, with a tile floor, a large steel sink, and an autoclave in the corner. Much to my relief there was no body on either of the two medical tables that were placed in front of a wall of cabinets.

The room had the acrid smell of disinfectant about it and I wrinkled my nose against the assault.

Mr. Busker knocked on a door at the far end of the room and when it opened a man in a lab coat stepped through. A draft of cold air came with him, and just over his shoulder, I could see a wall of steel cabinets. I didn’t need to be told that’s where the bodies were kept. A shudder wracked my body before I could stop it, and I felt the warm press of Harrison’s hand against my back, steadying me.

“This is Mr. Peakes, our embalmer,” Mr. Busker said. “Mr. Peakes, this is Mr. and Mrs. Waterstone. They were interested in seeing our operation.”

Mr. Peakes was a large man with a shaved head and a skull earring in one ear. His hand was large and it felt as if it swallowed mine whole when we shook hands.

“How do you do?” Mr. Peakes asked.

“Better than most of the people you see, I imagine,” Harrison said.

To my surprise, Mr. Peakes busted out a laugh. “That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Mr. Busker cleared his throat and said, “This is where the deceased are prepped for their final viewing. Mr. Peakes is a true artist. He takes great care to make sure our clients look quite peaceful.”

“What’s all that?” Harrison asked. He pointed at a rolling cart loaded with big bottles of chemicals.

“Those are the solutions I use to preserve the bodies and also some colorants to give the deceased more of a lifelike look—a blush of life, if you will,” Mr. Peakes said.

“Oh, so it’s not all makeup?” I asked.

“No, I pump formaldehyde under ten pounds of pressure right through the heart with a trocar,” Mr. Peakes said. He held up a very long, very big needle.

I felt Harrison lurch beside me and when I glanced at him, his face was very pasty. Oh, wow, he really was looking queasy.