Shadow of Reality (7 page)

“Oh dear, the Prince of Wales is still seeing that horrible American woman,” Helen Johnson remarked, looking up from her magazine. “There’s going to be trouble over that yet.”

Irene agreed. “I think so, too. It’s enough to make one feel they should apologize for being an American.”

“I think Mrs. Simpson’s a classy lady,” Benton teased his daughter. “Probably worth having a row over.”

“Oh, but look at the next article!” Anita turned her magazine to display a full-page photo of Gloria Glitz.

Pages rustled as all the
Punch
readers scrambled after the bait. “Ah-ha!” Irene noted with glee. “This says she was behind on her rate payments—that’s what we call taxes.”

Questions and theories buzzed around the room.

“Do you suppose she was short of money?”

“If so, why didn’t Nigel take care of it?”

“Maybe she committed suicide to avoid the scandal.”

“Just when she was about to get her hands on all of Sir Linden’s money?”

“Maybe he killed her to keep her hands off his money,” Evan speculated.

“Then why did he propose to her, dummy?” Cathy shot back, and Evan made a face at his sister.

“Is there anything about it in the
Times
?” Helen asked, glancing at Bill.

“I don’t see anything about that, but here’s an article about the Foreign Office fearing a security leak.”

“Does it name Brian?”

“Doesn’t name anybody, but it says they fear top operators may be involved. Hmmm, one wonders…”

“I wonder which things are actual news stories from ’33 and which things are plants for the game,” Anita said.

“They did them well, didn’t they?” Helen agreed. “They must have printing facilities right here at the hotel, because I don’t think the landslide has been cleared yet.”

“Oh, these were probably done a week ago. But listen to this item in the gossip column!” Cathy exclaimed, then read: “‘All ears in the West End are strained to catch the name of the perennial understudy who is in love with the man her leading lady is to wed.’”

“But could that mean Gloria and Linden? Their engagement hadn’t been announced yet.”

“Don’t worry, Gertie Gossip would have had the scoop on that long before it was official.”

“So Susie was in love with Linden. Now there’s a motive,” Irene said thoughtfully. “But wasn't Susie dating Brian?”

“Why isn’t there anything in here about the murder?”

“These are Monday’s papers—the storm has slowed down communications.”

“Well, if the mail could get through, you’d think Scotland Yard could.”

“They don’t need Scotland Yard, they’ve got us,” Evan said with a grin.

Anita looked at him and shrugged. “I still think she just choked—you don’t need Scotland Yard for a natural death.”

“Seems everyone had a motive for killing her, though,” Irene mused.

“Oh!” Cathy gave a shrill shriek. Everyone looked at her. “Maybe that’s it! Maybe they all did it—like
Murder on the Orient Express
!”

“Yeah!” Everyone leaned forward.

“Why?” Richard asked.

Everyone sat back, like deflating balloons.

After a moment the team continued reading and chatting, commenting on interesting tidbits of genuine period events and the planted articles. Elizabeth turned to the library shelves behind her. They were well stocked with reading material to appeal to people attending a mystery week: Wilkie Collins, The Complete Sherlock Holmes, Ngaio Marsh, Josephine Tey…mysteries, thrillers, whodunits. Then there was a shelf of technical books on forensic toxicology and crime statistics, including
A Medicolegal Investigation of Death
and
Bloodstain Pattern Interpretation
. But Elizabeth’s fancy was taken by a stack of old magazines. She blew the dust off of an issue of
Time
and began turning the pages. She smiled to see how little some things changed. The romance of another Prince of Wales was in the news. An even older issue brought a wave of nostalgia with a rundown on the new TV shows for the season. Names that had been stellar at that moment were now all but forgotten. She shook her head over the impermanence of popularity and picked up another magazine.

Oh my goodness
, she thought as she skimmed the list of best sellers.
How time flies
. She turned to the cover—the date was years ago. Amazing. It seemed those books had always existed, like Mother Goose or Peter Rabbit. And here was a review of a new biography of Agatha Christie…

Elizabeth was now completely lost to the chatter around her. Sneezing at the dust, she picked up another magazine with a five-year-old dateline, then gasped at her good fortune. Here was a review of
Who Doth Murder Sleep?
and a picture of the author, looking only slightly younger than he did at breakfast this morning. The photograph was of him (just plain Gavin Kendall, since he hadn’t yet received his knighthood) escorting the actress Margo Lovell to a West End gala. Elizabeth stared at the picture as if the figures had begun to move. She hadn’t realized how glamorous his life undoubtedly was—how far-removed his world was from hers. Because they read the same books, liked the same food, and her heart turned handsprings at the merest thought of Gavin, she hadn’t considered the differences between them. Could the distances of cultural and social background be spanned by love? For the first time since Sir Gavin Kendall bowed over her hand as a romantic hero, shadows of doubt and fear touched her heart and made her shiver.

To help clear her thoughts, she focused on the review below the picture: “This spine-tingling thriller is a totally new style for the writer whose previous mysteries have been no more than charming period pieces. Gavin Kendall has at last given us full-fleshed characters caught in fast-paced action and cliff-hanging suspense…There are already rumors that if the international accolades continue to mount, a knighthood could be in the offing. In the meantime, we look forward to more books in this vein from a writer who has suddenly hit his stride…”

“See, I knew it was Suzanna—jealousy will do it every time.”

“That’s a weaker motive than national security. Not only that, but Brian’s whole career was on the line as well.”

The talk in the room penetrated her consciousness as Elizabeth looked through another stack of red-bordered magazines to see if she could find a review of Gavin’s more recent books.

“Well, if you want to talk about careers, look at Nigel Cass—he’s obviously mismanaged Gloria’s business affairs, if not outright stolen from her. And don’t forget, the thing happened in his home. He’d have far more opportunity than anyone else.”

“Which is precisely why he wouldn’t do it—it would be too obvious to murder his own guest.”

“Oh, I don’t know—MacBeth did.”

“Yeah, and he didn’t get away with it, either.”

“Macbeth tried to put the blame on the servants and then killed them all before they could talk. And speaking of servants, I think Millie knows more than she’s telling.”

A musical chime turned everyone’s attention to the clock on the mantle.

“Noon already?”

“We just ate.”

“The food here is incredible.”

A wail from Irene made everyone laugh as they moved toward the dining room. “And I have a Weight Watchers meeting a week from tonight!”

Elizabeth barely suppressed her own excitement as she joined the group. She couldn’t wait to tell Gavin about the article she had found about him.

“…and they gave you more space than Agatha Christie’s biography,” she said a few minutes later when they were seated at the large round table where Blight Spirit gathered so regularly.

With his British reserve, Gavin seemed less pleased about her accolades than she had expected, so she changed the subject slightly, “I looked for a review of your more recent books, but I didn’t find anything. Stark said on our  first night that you gave him the plot for this mystery. It’s such a good one, why didn’t you ever use it yourself? Or did you? I’m afraid I haven’t read all of your books.”

Gavin shrugged and finished a bite of his shrimp salad. “Thank goodness they serve American lunches here—you’d never get salads like this in England. And they do a much better job of cooking the vegetables here, too.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Yes, just because ‘there’ll always be an England’ is no reason to cook the vegetables that long.”

“Precisely my point.” Gavin took another bite of salad, so he was chewing again when Elizabeth returned to the subject of the mystery plot.

He shook his head and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “No, I never used it. It’s fine for a game like this—really a lot of fun—but it would never do for a book. Much too thin and contrived. Wouldn’t be believable at all. Of course, I don’t know if Stark is going to use the ending I suggested. He’s already made several changes to fit the situation. As for my books, well, they are all in the shop downstairs. As well as Stark’s and a good selection of the classics: Christie, Sayers, Margery Allingham—”

But the magazine article was still foremost in Elizabeth’s mind, and she didn’t take the offer to discuss other mystery writers. “The picture of you with Margo Lovell was stunning. Is she still acting? I haven’t heard anything about her for years.”

“A most startling event has just been discovered—” Weldon Stark’s agitated voice caught everyone’s attention, and Gavin’s answer to Elizabeth’s question was lost. “Millie Maeda has disappeared. We fear foul play as the kitchen shows signs of struggle, including her apron having been ripped off.” He held up a white ruffled apron with the strings still tied, but pulled apart at the side.

“We have it on the best of authority that no abductor would be so foolish as to hide his victim in a guest’s room, but with that as the only off-limits, there is a ten-point bonus for the team who finds Millie—or her body,” he concluded darkly.

“Oh, wow! A manhunt!” Evan’s eyes glowed with excitement.

“That’s womanhunt,” Cathy reminded her brother.

“Uh-ho, Millie knew too much—do you suppose it was that argument she overheard?” It seemed that Irene played the whole game on the edge of her chair.

“It looks bad for Nigel,” Bill Johnson agreed.

“Maybe it wasn’t that at all.” Helen frowned thoughtfully. “Maybe the poison was in the soup, but Millie didn’t put it there, and the murderer is afraid she’ll figure out who did.”

“It would be interesting to know who visited the kitchen before dinner. Let’s try to find out next time we interview witnesses.”

“Shall we retire to the library to get organized?” Richard held Elizabeth’s chair for her.

As soon as they were in their meeting room Richard continued, “There are four floors, so I suggest we work in four teams.”

Elizabeth knew a moment of secret delight as Anita started to volunteer to work with Richard, but her delight turned to dismay when Irene invited Anita to work with Benton and herself. There was nothing Anita could do but agree gracefully.

Most of the searching activity was centered in the lounge rooms and public areas on the first two floors, so the fourth floor was comparatively quiet for Elizabeth and Richard.

Elizabeth wanted to talk to him about the night before, but wasn’t sure how to approach the subject: “Did you sleep all right?” “How are you today?” “That was a quite a storm we had last night.” None of the subtle approaches seemed right. Then she knew.

“Thank you for sharing with me last night, Richard,” she said quietly.

He gave a sardonic little half-smile. “That’s tactful of you. I was about to apologize for the melodrama.”

“Oh, no! Please don’t think that. I felt honored. You know, I never knew—,” she interrupted herself to open a linen closet and make sure there could be no body tucked behind the stacks of sheets, “—about the baby.” She laid her hand on his arm for the briefest moment.

He walked on down the hall. “In a way that was the hardest part. I—we—had looked forward so to raising children.” He stopped before a door labeled “Men,” and pointed her to the one marked “Women.”

“I’ll meet you back out here,” he said.

Elizabeth walked in without the slightest hesitation and checked the stalls, under the sinks, behind the shower curtain. Nothing. When there was only one place left to check, Elizabeth paused. This was really silly. So what if Millie were lying in the bathtub? Why should that frighten her? It was all just playacting. But this extended role-playing got hold of you so. Sometimes it was hard to separate reality from fantasy.

She took a deep breath and yanked the bath door open. Weak laughter accompanied her relief at finding the tub empty. With a firm vow to be more sensible in the future, she went out to meet Richard.

“No luck?” he asked.

“I’ll have to admit I considered that lucky.”

“Is that first night still bothering you?”

“No, of course not.” Then she thought of Richard’s open honesty to her. “Well, some. Shall we just say I’m a little shy when it comes to meeting bodies in bathtubs?”

One of the uneven floorboards caught her foot, and she started to stumble, but Richard caught her arm. “Thanks,” she said, “I have all the bumps memorized at our end of the hall.” She was now on firm footing, but Richard still held her arm.

And he continued to hold it even when the small alcove at the end of the dim hall proved empty and they had turned to search the other direction.

“We were talking about children,” Elizabeth prompted.

Richard nodded. “Yes, we were.” He was quiet so long Elizabeth thought the conversation must be over. Then he said, “I think the thing I always looked forward to most was teaching them things. By the time I get students in college, most of them are either all confused or overconfident. The joy of having a fresh, inquiring, young mind to guide, to show the world to—” he stopped.

“It isn’t too late, you know. You can still have children. You’ll meet somebody.”

The pressure of his hand increased on her arm. “I thought I had.” The infinite sadness in his voice made her choke.

Then another team came around the corner from the south corridor. “Any luck?” they called.

Richard replied to them, “We searched that direction. Didn’t find anything.”