Sailing to Capri (7 page)

“I guess you don’t have bourbon?” he said.

“I certainly do. On the rocks?”

“Please.”

I poured the drink and handed it to him then busied myself fixing my usual evening tipple, the cosmo I’d developed a liking for after my first at Le Gavroche. I shook the silver flask vigorously, poured the drink into a martini glass, added a spiral of lemon.

Montana watched me with a bemused expression. “A girly cosmo,” he said. “I’d have expected more from you.”

I bristled at the implied criticism. “Such as?”

“Oh, maybe a malt whiskey, a rare Russian vodka …”

“What makes you think I look like a drinker? Am I that tough?” I offered him Mrs. Wainwright’s homemade cheese straws, still warm from the oven.

“Not tough. Just, maybe … a façade of toughness. These are good.”

“Mrs. Wainwright’s an excellent cook.” Things were suddenly a little awkward between the stranger and myself. A definite
coolness had set in. I thought wearily this might be a long night.

I went over to look at Rats who was lying on his belly in front of the fire. I put my drink and the bowl of cheese straws on the coffee table and plopped down into the squishy old sofa. “Come here, boy,” I said. He gave me a long mournful look, then got to his feet, walked slowly over and climbed onto my knee.

He gave my chin a lavish lick and I wiped my face with the back of my hand. “Jack Russells think they’re little lapdogs,” I informed Montana who had taken a seat opposite.

“At least it’s a sign of life,” he said.

He sipped his drink silently, and I sipped mine. “So you live in Dallas, Mr. Montana?” I asked finally.

“Among other places.”

He certainly wasn’t giving anything away. “But not on your dad’s ranch?” I prodded.

“The ranch went into bankruptcy just before Dad died. I was twelve then. I’ve not been back since.”

“I’m sorry.” I was flustered by his sudden frankness. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“I have no secrets,” he said calmly. “After Dad died I was placed in a foster home. They were decent enough people, there was just no love to go around.” He grinned at me. “Maybe that’s why I’ve been looking for love ever since.”

“And have you found it yet?”

“Several times.” His narrow dark eyes held mine again, and I felt myself get hot in the place where my heavy hair fell onto the nape of my neck. I noticed his eyes were the deep gray of Yorkshire stone.

“Did any of them stick?” I would have killed him had he asked me such a personal question but he didn’t seem fazed.

“Not a one. You’re probably looking at the only straight, unmarried forty-four-year-old man left in Texas.”

I laughed. “At least we got that out of the way,” I said.

I was flirting again. What was wrong with me? I didn’t think I even liked him. Not really, anyhow, though he was kind of tough-attractive. I sighed. He was certainly different from the other men I’d had designs on over the past few years. As always, I’d been looking for love in all the wrong places. Kind of my pattern, Bob had said. “Another bourbon, Mr. Montana?” I was doing my best imitation of an English lady.

“Don’t you think it could be Harry now? After all, we’re stuck here for the night in a snowstorm.”

“Another drink, Harry?”

“No thank you, Miss Keane.”

“Okay, okay, so it’s Daisy.”

We stared silently at each other. Then he said, “What’s your story, anyway, Daisy Keane? Where do you come from and how did you end up here?”

“You’re the investigator, I thought you’d already know.” He gave me a level look that said I was being ridiculous. I shrugged. “Chicago originally. I ended up in a suburb in Illinois with an unfaithful husband who sold the house out from under me and took off with a twenty-year-old blonde. A familiar story in your line of business, I’m sure.”

“I don’t do that kind of investigating.”

“Then exactly what kind do you do?” There was frost in my voice, and I didn’t know why. I just knew that all of a sudden I
was weary. Weary from the long dreadful mournful day, weary from trying to keep my emotions in check, weary from weeping in front of this stranger. I just wanted to be in my bed with the lights out, the blankets up to my neck and Rats fast asleep on my feet. Alone with my memories.

“I’m a crime investigator.”

I glanced at him, astonished. What was a crime investigator doing with Bob?

“I investigate theft, fraud, extortion.” He paused. “And murder.”

I jolted upright and Rats slid protesting from my lap onto the sofa. Montana’s dark eyes stared meaningfully into mine. “Wait a minute, are you saying you think Bob was
murdered?’”

“Maybe.” I felt my heart flutter and jump and then settle like a lead weight somewhere in my stomach.

“So, Daisy,” he said, “what exactly do
you
stand to gain from Bob’s estate?”

I stared blankly at him. “I told you, I’m an employee. I have no expectations. And anyhow I didn’t expect him to die!”

“You were also the closest person to him, you know everything about him, all his secrets. Surely you must have thought about it sometimes? After all, he’s listed in Forbes one hundred as one of the world’s richest men.”

It sank in what he was getting at. I glared angrily at him. “Surely you can’t be suggesting that
I
killed Bob?”

He gave me that cool grin. “Well? Did you?”

There was a tap at the door and Mrs. Wainwright poked her head in. “Dinner’s ready, Miss Keane. I’ve got the Yorkshire puddings just coming out of the oven, so if you’d like to sit down …”

“Right. Yes, of course, Mrs. Wainwright.” I pulled myself together, got up from the sofa and walked with the man who thought I might be a murderer into the dining room.

Mrs. Wainwright had set places opposite each other at one end of the long refectory table. Montana pulled out the heavy chair for me and I sank into it before my knees gave way. A bottle of Bordeaux waited in its silver coaster. He poured me a glass and said, “I’m sorry I shocked you, but you were Bob’s friend. I had to tell you. And it’s only a hunch. I have no proof.”

I nodded. “I understand now. It’s the reason you’re here.”

He took a seat opposite just as Mrs. Wainwright bustled in carrying a sputtering hot Yorkshire pudding tin.

“This is the way we like to serve ’em in these parts, sir, piping hot and crisp,” she said to Montana, spearing a fluffy pudding onto his plate. “It’s traditional to serve them as a starter, you see, with a good gravy. Why not have two, sir. I’m sure you’re going to like them. I’m known for my Yorkshires.”

“Mrs. Wainwright makes the best,” I assured Montana, passing him the gravy boat. Bob had liked his table set simply, just plain white plates and plain silverware. The glasses were beautiful, fine crystal, but also plain. Bob hated drinking good wine out of a thick glass. But why was I thinking about table settings? I must be losing my mind.

Under the table I felt Rats come and slump on my feet. I bent to pat him, watching Montana devour the puddings.

“These are fantastic,” he said, glancing up at me. “The only ones I’ve had before were in steak houses back home and they were like tough old pancakes.”

“This is where they originated, you’re getting the real thing now. Would you like another?”

He shook his head. “You should eat something. You can’t get through the night on one piece of jam sponge.”

I took a sip of the good wine. I checked the label. It was the one Bob had always served with roast beef. Mrs. Wainwright had remembered and opened it earlier. She came in now, along with her daughter, Brenda, who was about my age, with streaked blond hair, the clear pink skin of a countrywoman, and her mother’s blue eyes. She had two teenage children and
her husband worked in the supermarket in the local town. I asked Brenda if he’d managed to get home and she said no, he was having to stop with his cousin that night, nothing could get through. Brenda lived a couple of houses down from the Hall gates but despite the drifts she said she’d make it back all right.

They set the dishes on the table, cleared our empty plates, gave us fresh ones and left us to it. On automatic pilot, I offered Montana the roast beef; passed the new potatoes tossed in butter and parsley, the roasted parsnips, the Brussels sprouts. I served myself some just for the look of it but I couldn’t touch a thing. Instead I gulped down the wine. Harry Montana poured me some more.

“They’re good people,” he commented.

“They’re all good people around here,” I said. “And there was no one better than Bob. These people have reason to know it; he looked after them the way the village squires used to in the old days.”

Montana did not look impressed.

“Let me tell you this, Montana,” I said, fueled by wine and fear. “It may sound odd to you, but Bob Hardwick was a man of infinite goodness. Ask anyone around here. He was always giving, and without any fuss, without asking for acknowledgment or praise. If someone was in need and he knew about it, he quietly helped out. What he always said was that he’d been there too, at the bottom of the emotional and financial heap. Which is why he understood me. He knew where I was coming from at that low point in my life when I met him, and he helped me without any questions. He just … understood.
That’s
who the real Bob Hardwick was.” I stared hard at Montana. “Nobody would want to kill Bob,” I added. “Nobody!”

“I hope you’re right.”

The door opened and Brenda came in to clear our dishes. She brought a platter of cheeses, crackers and grapes, then got the port decanter from the sideboard.

“Mum’ll bring the coffee in a minute, Miss. I’ll have to be off now, back to my girls.”

“Thanks, Brenda.” I glanced at the snow still swirling against the windowpanes. “And take care. It’s not getting any better out there.”

I heard the door close after her. The French enameled clock with the little bronze nymphs holding up the crystal dial ticked loudly and Rats shifted his position on my feet. The room was cozy, quiet, with the lingering smell of roast beef and the aroma of good wine. Warm and dimly lit, it was a good place to be on a stormy winter night, or at least it would have been if Bob had been pouring the port and not Montana. A wave of resentment overcame me. Why did this stranger have to come here, casting these terrible doubts over Bob’s death? Why did it have to snow, leaving me stuck here with him? Any other time I could have told him to get out, but tonight that was impossible.

I refused the port and instead, with a shaky hand, poured myself another glass of wine. My third. I was counting. Plus a cosmo.
And
on an empty stomach. I told myself I’d better eat something and took a cracker and some of the crumbly local Wensleydale cheese. I said nothing, waiting for Montana’s next move. I had no doubt now I had let the enemy in Bob’s gates.

Mrs. Wainwright came in with the tray of coffee things. She said good night and left us alone again.

I felt Montana’s eyes on me. I crumbled the cheese in my fingers. If I put it in my mouth I knew I would choke. Rats slid from under the table. He headed for the door, looking back at me. “I have to let Rats out,” I said, getting up.

Montana followed me. “He’s just a little guy and the snow’s deep,” he said. “I’d better shovel a place for him.”

I nodded my thanks, wondering how he could be impervious to the waves of animosity emanating from me, as tangible as the cartoon cloud around Charles Schulz’s Pigpen. He was used to it, I supposed, the big-time P.I. called upon to save billionaires and no doubt making a fortune off them. God knows how much Bob had paid him. And for what? As far as I knew, Bob kept no secrets from me, business or otherwise. Bob was as open about his faults and failures as he was about his triumphs.

Rats hovered, shivering on the kitchen steps watching as Montana, coatless, shoveled a clearing in the snow. He propped the shovel against the wall, picked up the dog and deposited him in his own icy space.

Rats sniffed miserably, did the quickest pee on doggie record, and stumpy tail down, skidded back up the steps and into the warm kitchen. Despite my misery, I was forced to laugh.

We stopped to watch as the dog dragged the old sweater Bob had given him to his usual spot in front of the Aga, turning round and round before finally plumping down on it. The Aga was a wonderful creation: a massive cobalt blue cast-iron stove that emanated a gentle heat and was one of the best
things I’d discovered about English country life. Its ovens never went out; somehow they kept a permanently even temperature suitable for the baking of soufflés or the slow braising of casseroles or roasting of meats, and its hot plates with the shiny steel covers never needed lighting. The Aga also partly fueled the Hall’s hot-water system and kept the kitchen the coziest room in the entire house.

Bob and I and his guests had often ended our evenings here, clustered around the big scrubbed-pine kitchen table that had been in the house since it was built, sipping wine and nibbling on Mrs. Wainwright’s excellent gingersnap cookies. Some of the best nights of my life had been spent with convivial company around this table. Now, though, the kitchen was immaculate. The dishwasher whirred gently, and the hardwood floors had a dark gleam from much polishing. The housekeeper was proud of her domain.