Marriage & the Mermaid (Hapless Heroes) (23 page)

“You’re very clever, Wynne,” Venus whispered and again Wynne wished it wasn’t pitch black. There’d been something in the girl’s voice, some… overtone she couldn’t decipher.

“So, where is this cop?” Wynne asked briskly, thinking it would be clever to get out of the pantry before Venus decided to get frisky again.

“I saw him outside,” Venus whispered back. “Looking around in the dark.”

“He didn’t come to the door?” The
something not right
alarm went off in Wynne’s head. “Are you sure he’s a policeman?”

“He came the other day. Baz said… the police.”

Wynne sniffed. “Then he’s not following procedure and he’ll get into trouble for that.”

“Be careful, Wynne.” Venus reached out and fumbled for Wynne’s hand. Strangely, the touch wasn’t repulsive. In fact, Wynne felt okay squeezing Venus’s hand in reassurance

“Just stay here,” Wynne said. “I’ll come back for you when he’s gone.”

“Wynne… I like you better than Baz,” Venus blurted.

Wynne wasn’t about to reciprocate that. She intended to marry Baz, and have Venus out of the picture. But not like this. Not being dragged off and harassed when she’d clearly been the victim. No–one deserved that. And when it came right down to it, women had to stand together. No matter what. “I’ll be quick,” she promised, then she let herself out, risking a glance back at Venus to smile encouragingly as the pantry light came on.

Then the door was shut and she was walking away through the kitchen, the image of that tiny bikini engraved on her mind. But only because it was so unique. After all, Wynne had always been interested in fashion.

Chapter Twenty–Seven

L
iam Moore was pissed off. Seriously pissed off. Not only had he wasted hours searching the track for Venus
Houdini
Dalrymple, he’d just ripped his jacket on some spiky bush. Fucking useless torch batteries. Always giving out at the most inopportune moment. He should have stayed at the well–lit front door and kept knocking.

“Officer…? Who are you?”

Moore turned and all but growled in frustration.

A five foot nothing female, backlit by the moon, raised her chin. “And what are you doing skulking around here in the dark?”

Skulking?

“Perhaps you lack a torch, to go with your lack of procedure. I assume you have a search warrant. You’re on private property.”

Charming.
“Have we met, Miss?” he said, squeezing civility out of himself. Blood out of a stone.

“No we have not,” she replied tartly. “However I will be acquainting myself with your superior in the very near future.”

Fucking delightful.
“I’m looking for Mr Wilson, Miss. He didn’t answer the door —”

“You didn’t knock.”

“Your name, Miss,” Moore replied, trying to claim back some authority in the situation.

“If your presence here was lawful you’d have a search warrant and you would have knocked on the front door.”

“You. Name. Miss?”

The girl sniffed. “Winifred Malone,” she replied begrudgingly. “I’m a colleague of Balthazar’s.”

“Thank you, Miss Mal —”

“What are you looking for?”

Moore thought about that for a second and decided she couldn’t be any less helpful. He may as well ask her. “Venus Dalrymple. Or at least that’s the alias she’s using. We find no record of her on our computers. She’s supposed to be the housekeeper. Have you seen her?”

“I was told she ran away before I arrived.”

“In what direction?”

The small shoulders shrugged. “Baz told me he woke up and she was gone. He’s looking for a new housekeeper currently. Do you know anyone suitable?”

Moore ignored that. “I’ll need to speak to the younger Mr Wilson. He’s given us permission to inspect Miss Dalrymple’s room.”

There was a pause while she thought that over. “Baz has gone for a swim,” she said at last.

Moore turned towards the pool area that he’d already reconnoitered. “I saw his father dozing on a banana lounge.” And had given him a wide berth. Strange old man.

“In the ocean,” Malone added, with an odd tone in her voice, as if she wasn’t quite sure about that.

He turned back and raised an eyebrow. “Balthazar Wilson is swimming in the ocean?”

“I don’t know when he’ll be back. But I can show you the girl’s room.”

“At night?”

“There
are
lights inside the house.”

“I meant the swimming. At night. In the ocean.”

“Yes,” she drawled. “He just wandered off without a torch. Lot of that going on tonight.”

Moore started to get an
I’m sick of this whole investigation
thing happening inside his head but he struggled to push it aside, to keep focused. “Fine. Lead on,” he replied and followed her up onto the back veranda

Then she pointed along it and said, “I’ll meet you at the front door,” so he had no option but to walk around the veranda and wait while she walked through the house to meet him.

When she’d opened the door and let him in they stood in the foyer, and for the oddest few seconds Moore wondered if she was about to throw him back out. Then he saw her glance down the hall furtively and he realised she was hiding something. “Miss Dalrymple’s room?” he asked.

She glanced back at him a moment longer then said, “I don’t know where it is,” and smiled apologetically. Forced smile. Scarlet red lips. Hairdresser perfect hair.

Moore blinked then, and in the bright light of the foyer he registered that she was all dolled up. He pointed to the dress. “Were you going out?” he asked.

“No,” she replied quickly. “They dress for dinner at
Saltwood.”

“Really?” On his last visit he’d seen the elder Mr Wilson wearing pajamas under a cardigan. “So Balthazar got dressed for dinner, then he went for a swim?”

“Not in his formal clothes!” She laughed, but it was brittle.

Moore decided to follow his instincts. “So what
was
for dinner?”

Her mouth came open but she simply stood looking up at him with those big unblinking eyes. “Chicken,” she said at last. Unconvincingly.

Hmmm.

She blinked and added, “Roast chicken and vegetables. I helped cut the vegetables.”

Sure you did.
“Then you went off and got all dressed up for dinner?”

She let out her breath. “Exactly.”

“Okay,” he said and nodded. Then he looked down the hallway. “I was here two days ago interviewing Miss Dalrymple. I remember the way to her room,” he said and pointed. “Can I lead?”

“Please do.” She stepped aside, unable to disguise the relief in her voice. Relief that he knew where to go? Or relief that the questions about Wilson were finished?

For now.

Moore set off down the hallway and was very much aware of her
tap–tapping
behind him in stiletto heels. She was lying to him — no doubt about that — but watching Waikeri had taught him that people often lied about matters that had nothing to do with an investigation. Maybe little Wynne was married and hiding an affair with her ‘colleague’.

Wilson had certainly been edgy when they’d interviewed him last, especially about his housekeeper’s
sudden
arrival. Moore would have put money on Dalrymple having been at Saltwood for some time before her ‘near drowning’, and that Wilson was her lover. If that was the case, Dalrymple’s disappearance could have been precipitated by Malone’s imminent arrival — nothing to do with involvement in a crime.

Unless the nail polish sample matched the victim’s body.

“How long have you known Mr Wilson?” Moore asked the little firecracker beside him as he stopped at the Dalrymple girl’s door.

“Ten … no twelve months I think,” she replied and gestured for him to open the door. “We both worked at the same school. He taught science. I taught art.”

“You two an item?” Moore watched her closely enough to see a blush spreading up from her throat.

“Is that a professional question?” she asked, chin up again.

“Nah. Curiosity,” he said and pushed open the door to step into the white tiled entry which was splattered with a dark purple liquid. Not blood. “Interesting.” He followed the trail into the bedroom where he found the four–poster bed stripped of linen. The timber frame, the cream carpet and the mattress were all splattered in purple. “Do you think she did this?” he asked over his shoulder.

Wynne, who had been standing in the entry with her mouth open, followed him into the bedroom and looked around. “Baz told me he was redecorating the guest suite,” she said. “I’ve never been in here before. It’s…”

“A mess,” he finished for her, taking a digital camera out of his pocket and snapping off a few shots. “And it wasn’t like this two days ago. Not exactly what you’d expect from a housekeeper.”

Wynne just stood there blinking, looking from carpet to bed to entry. At last she said, “The cleaning lady comes Friday. Tomorrow. Baz told me that. Glenda, her name is,” she said, then added, “I was looking forward to meeting her. I wonder if I should try and… sort this out before she comes?”

“So you never met Dalrymple? The housekeeper,” Moore asked, stepping forward to inspect the mattress for tell–tales. There were certainly stains there that could be evidence of sexual activity, but no blue green scales.

“I arrived yesterday afternoon,” Wynne said faintly. “She was gone by then.”

“Good looking young woman,” Moore commented, walking back through the entryway to inspect the sitting room which was equally splattered. Easily hundreds of dollars worth of damage. Maybe thousands if the carpet couldn’t be restored.

“Why would you say that?” Wynne said. “To me?”

He turned back to find her in the sitting room doorway, her shock replaced by suspicion.

“Because it’s true,” he replied.

“I’m sure that has nothing to do with your investigation. Why tell me she’s good looking?”

He shrugged, “No reason,” and pointed to the closed front door. “Could I ask you to stand there, Miss Malone, while I take some samples for Forensics.”

“Samples of what?”

“Nail polish.”

“What do you need
that
for?”

“Our investigation.”

“I thought the man died of a shark attack.”

“No, he drowned before that,” Moore told her, watching her closely to see if she might give something away, something Wilson had told her.

She simply batted her thick, fake eyelashes and said, “You think this housekeeper had something to do with that?”

He shrugged. “Just following leads.”

“You’ve spoken to Mr Wilson. I’m sure he could vouch for her character. I mean, if she’s worked here for some time…”

Moore wanted to smile. So Wilson hadn’t told her everything. Maybe there was a love triangle. “According to Mr Wilson,” Moore said, “she arrived the day of the shark attack and ran away the same night. He told us she was the housekeeper he’d been expecting, but we’ve seen no ID to prove that. He could be lying. She could be a stranger.”

Wynne tried to laugh but it didn’t quite come off. “Why would he take in a stranger and lie about it?” she asked. But rather than countering Moore’s speculation, her words seemed to conjure his recent observation,
good looking young woman,
to hang in the air between them. For a moment she simply stood blinking, her face completely expressionless. Then she said stiffly, “I’ve only been here a day myself, Officer …”

“Constable Moore,” he said. “Liam Moore.”

“I’m hardly expected to know all the details of Mr Wilson’s… staffing arrangement.”

“How long are you staying, Miss Malone?” he asked.

She turned her attention back to him and seemed to note his watchful expression. That little chin came up again. “My car is bogged. I’ll have to phone the car club to get that sorted. Probably another couple of days. Am I part of this investigation now?”

Moore shook his head. “You’re free to come and go as you please. I’m sure you’re not involved in this… situation. Clearly, it all happened before you got here.”

Wynne nodded. “Very well,” she said coldly, “I’ll stand at the door,” but he noticed her eyes had the faraway look of a woman with plenty to think about.

Moore went about the business of searching the carpet and the furniture for blue–green scales. He found strips of purple fabric and lots of stains but despite a thorough searching, there were zero scales.

He kept the frustration out of his voice, however, when he came back to Wynne. “Were their any other rooms Miss Dalrymple inhabited?”

Wynne stared at him, all grim determination now. Whatever she’d been thinking about had made her mad. “Unless you have a search warrant, Constable Moore,” she snapped, “I suggest you leave now. Balthazar can phone you with any further details you want.” She opened the door and gestured for him to precede her into the hallway.

“That’s true enough,” Moore replied, not moving. “Only he hasn’t so far.”

“I’ll make sure he does.” When he didn’t move she swept past him and set off at a crisp pace, heels click–clicking, back ramrod straight. Moore let himself be led back to the front door. “Good day to you, Constable Moore,” she said, pivoting at the door in a swirl of blue cocktail dress. Her shoulder–length burgundy hair moved and then fell back into its lacquered position.

She held out her hand and shook his abruptly, dropping it as quickly as was civil. “I trust you’ll go straight to your vehicle and leave.” She raised an imperious eyebrow. If he hadn’t met her, Moore would have had trouble believing such a tiny girl could be so incredibly bossy.

“Of course,” he said and retrieved a business card from his pocket. “The police station phone number is on here,” he told her, handing it over. She wrinkled her nose but took it all the same. “If you hear or see anything that might help our investigation, or if you find a sample of Miss Dalrymple’s distinctive blue nail polish, please call.”

She nodded and glanced towards the door. Pointedly. Talk about shooting the messenger. “Good evening, Constable.”

“Miss Malone.” He stepped out onto the veranda and the door slammed behind him.
Slammed.