Trouble in the Town Hall (9 page)

Mavis Underwood was an enigma. Unless she was a fine actress, she'd been genuinely furious about the prospect of the failure of the Town Hall Mall. But if her only interests were business-related, I couldn't see why another location wouldn't do just as well. And why would she want to cause trouble for Pettifer?

Which left me with William Farrell. I'd deliberately saved the best for last, and now I let myself take a good, long look. There was a lot against him. He wanted his own project to prevail. He'd quarreled, violently and publicly, with Pettifer the night of the murder. He was a powerful man with a hot temper. Yes, I liked Farrell a lot.

The problem was that I didn't have a single iota of evidence to support any of this theorizing. Until I had some answers about motive, and means, and opportunity—all the police-court questions—I was playing Blind Man's Buff.

I moved Emmy's tail off the pad and made another list of things I wanted badly to know.

Q
UESTIONS

Access to the scene of the crime: Who had a key to the Town Hall? Where are the keys now?

Who is the victim? [That was one for the police, though.]

Is there another motive besides ruining Pettifer's plans?

And there was another way to look at those ruined plans, I suddenly realized. If this murder—and it was murder, I was sure—were never solved, it would still stop Pettifer in his tracks. Suspicion is just as bad as proof for a politician, and Pettifer was nothing if not a politician. His position on the City Council was, in his mind, only a stepping-stone to greater things. If someone wanted to stop his political career badly enough to murder some unfortunate vagrant and plant the body . . .

Far-fetched? Perhaps. At any rate it was an unproductive train of thought at the moment. Until the body was identified, I reminded myself again, what I was doing was mere speculation.

And when had that ever stopped me?

Emmy grunted irritably in her sleep and moved her tail back where she wanted it, covering most of the page. I retrieved my pad, studied my meager notes, and sighed.

There certainly wasn't much inspiration there. As usual, list-making had made me feel busy while accomplishing exactly nothing. What I needed to do was talk to people.

Right
, said the internal killjoy who gives me trouble every now and then.
You're going to go see a lot of people you don't know, any of whom might be a murderer, and ask them a lot of very snoopy questions. Have you lost your mind completely this time?

I'll be subtle about it, I argued with myself.

Hmmph! You're about as subtle as a Mack truck.

Shut up. I'm American. They think talking to me doesn't count.

You can't get by with that one anymore. You've lived here a year, they know you're here to stay. If you don't get yourself killed first.

SHUT UP! This is only a game, anyway. Probably the kid fell downstairs or something and none of these highly respectable people had anything to do with it.

Then how did he get in the closet?

That, I answered triumphantly, is what I intend to find out by talking to people!

The killjoy shrugged its figurative shoulders, murmuring something about geriatric Nancy Drews, but I ignored it.

I concentrated on how to approach the people on my list. I knew two of them, of course, which didn't make it any easier. Barbara Dean would ignore any questions she didn't want to answer, and freeze me out in the process. And Pettifer—I just plain didn't want to talk to Pettifer. We'd been slightly acquainted for six months; it hadn't been a pleasure. Neither of us had found any reason to modify the mutual dislike that had crystallized at first sight. I didn't approve of his ambitions, and he thought me a reactionary, interfering busybody.

He had a point, in a way. Mind you, I'm not one of those people who are automatically against progress, but I have no time for the attitude that change and progress are necessarily the same thing. Something new is not guaranteed to be better than something old; it is, in fact, very often much worse.

Look at my house. (I stretched and did so, lovingly; Emmy protested.) After four centuries it needed work, true. Wood changes its shape through the years and adjustments must be made. But there was no problem with the structure itself. The craftsmen who put this house together knew what they were doing, and they took pride in their work. Joints were designed to bear the load they were given. Materials were chosen carefully for the job they had to do, especially the oak, so achingly difficult to work with but so strong and tough and durable—and so beautiful.

Perhaps that was at the heart of it. They cared about beauty then, those long-dead carpenters, and the glaziers who joyously let in the light. Those tiny diamond panes spoke not only of glassmaking techniques in the seventeenth century, but of the artisans' love of grace and proportion.

Whereas men like Pettifer—

Emmy, sensing my tension even in her sleep, sat up with a low growl and blinked at me, her claws pricking my leg.

“It's all right, cat. I won't hurt you. I don't think I'd hurt anybody, but it's sure a temptation with some people.”

Better safe than sorry, Emmy decided, and leapt from my lap, landing with a heavy thud. That woke Samantha, who exploded from a featureless lump on the hearth into a lean bundle of energetic mischief. The two streaked into the kitchen, hissing and spitting. I climbed off my mental soapbox, put another log on the fire, and reconsidered my list.

Save Pettifer for last, anyway. How to tackle the others, then?

I hadn't the slightest idea how I was to arrange an informal conversation with the Lord Mayor, whom I had never met. Leave him for the moment. Of the others, the easiest was undoubtedly Mavis Underwood. If you keep a shop, you must expect people to come into it. I'd probably have to buy something, but information might be cheap at the price.

John Thorpe wasn't hard, either. I didn't look forward to a conversation with him, but he was an estate agent, and, like Mavis, had to expect the public to appear at his door from time to time. I even had an almost legitimate excuse: I was going to have to do something about my housing problem soon, either buy this house or continue to rent it, or find someplace else. Very well, call on him after Mavis.

Again I saved Farrell for last. He made me nervous. (The killjoy gave a little cackle at that thought.) Not, I insisted defiantly, because he was a murderer. Of course, I didn't really think that. He was just—scary.

And all right, so I'm not always perfectly logical, I told the killjoy as I struggled to my feet and prepared to go shopping. So sue me.

I chose one of my favorite hats, a crimson straw cloche decorated with a single huge poppy. It's extremely becoming, and the white silk dress piped in red that goes with it takes off at least ten pounds. I didn't care if my attire was more suitable for a Buckingham Palace garden party than a small-town shopping (and snooping) expedition. I knew I looked good, and I needed the self-confidence.

Besides, when you're overdressed, people tend to patronize you, and patronizing means underestimating. I could use that advantage, too.

I enjoyed the walk. The rain seemed to be over. It had made the paving stones slick and I had to watch my step, but it had also brought out heavenly smells as only a summer rain can. The freshness of growing things and the earthy aroma of wet stone and the elusive scent of water itself made me feel as if I were breathing in nourishment.

The sun came out just as I turned into the High Street, and a rainbow arched itself across the sky, so lovely that I stopped in my tracks and blocked the sidewalk. The beautiful jumble of buildings—Tudor, Jacobean, Queen Anne, Georgian—sparkled in the sun, their roofs and chimney stacks and small-paned windows all at irregular angles that caught the light and threw it back in generous sprays. Color sprang up out of grayness: the pink and red of small, handmade bricks, the subtle blues and greens and rusts of lichen-covered slate and tile roofs, the sharp black and white of half-timbering, all set off by the bright arc curving against retreating clouds. I don't know how long I would have stood there stock-still, tears in my eyes, but a small man ran into me, muttered a reproachful “Sorry,” and then turned to look where I was looking. He grinned then, said, “Nice, innit?” and tipped his hat before hurrying off.

Underwood's occupies a central position on the High Street, across the street from the Town Hall and down a few doors. I'd been inside only once, trying to find something that would do for a niece's wedding. I hadn't found it.

The shop (the gaudy sign over the door spelled it “Shoppe”) was deserted. Scarcely had the bell over the door stopped tinkling before Mavis bore down upon me, steely determination in her eye. Aha, the look said, a live one. I was grateful for the morale-stiffening hat.

“Mrs. Underwood?” I smiled brightly. “You won't remember me, I haven't lived here very long—”

“Mrs. Martin, isn't it?” Her smile showed even more teeth than mine. “How nice to see you again. Are you looking for a gift, or treating yourself?”

“Actually I'm just window-shopping,” I said firmly.

Mavis was not to be deterred. “Well, then, let me show you something I know you'll love. They're just in, and they'd be lovely in your
exquisite
house. Brass occasional tables, genuine Indian work, and practical, as well—they nest, you see. Aren't they charming? Or perhaps you need something for your kitchen . . .”

I let her adamantly genteel tones wash over me, nodded and smiled until my face hurt, and waited for an opportunity to ask questions. It wasn't going to come soon. She didn't intend to let a customer escape her brightly varnished talons. I studied her inventory for something that might conceivably be of use, if only for a gift, and wouldn't cost an arm and a leg. The stuffed chintz cats and rabbits were attractive, but what would you do with them? Ashtrays—pretty, but nobody smokes anymore. Finally, desperately, I picked up the smallest china cottage I could find and interrupted her lavish praise of a wildly expensive brass bedstead.

“How much is this?”

Her face fell for only an instant. Never irritate a customer; she might buy something worthwhile next time. “You do have an eye for a bargain, Mrs. Martin! It's a lovely little cottage, isn't it, and only sixty pounds, including VAT.”

I swallowed hard. The thing fitted nicely into the palm of my hand. “I am tempted,” I lied gamely. How many plants for my garden would sixty pounds have bought? However— “I like it, you see, because it's so beautiful and old-fashioned. I just love your old English buildings! That
gorgeous
Town Hall, for instance. I understand it's going to be renovated, now that the offices have moved out?”

Her eyes narrowed a bit; I noticed the right eyelash was about to fall off. “Why, yes. As a matter of fact, my new shop is to be in the Town Hall Shopping Mall. Far larger and more convenient; you'll like it, I'm sure.”

“Is that a fact!” My voice dripped innocent admiration, but her face was shrewdly speculative and I thought I'd better play it safe. “Actually, I did go to the meeting last night—maybe you saw me there—but I couldn't follow everything that was said. It's so hard for a foreigner, you know, the various accents and all. There seemed to be some opposition, though—or did I misunderstand?”

Was I laying it on too thick? No, apparently my hat was doing its trick. Mavis shrugged; the very short skirt of her bright green linen suit hiked yet higher, and her voice became confidential, her accent more like the one she'd been born with.

“There are always a few old bas—a few fuddy-duddies who want to stand in the way of progress. Just between you and me, if something isn't done, I'm closing this shop. I tell you, most days I could stand in here in me knickers and there'd be nobody to notice! Archie Pettifer has the right idea, but that man Farrell—not, I suppose, that it makes all that difference to me at the end of the day. If William Farrell wants to put up a mall at the edge of town where there's no foot traffic at all, I daresay the punters—uh, buyers, will come in cars, and my shop will fare just as well there.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Farrell. Frightening sort of man, I thought.”

Mavis allowed herself a throaty chuckle entirely unlike the bright, tinkly laugh she had been affecting. “You ought to've seen him Sunday, if you were frightened last night.”

“Oh?” Such a useful little word.

“The mayor had a few of us to dinner, you see, to talk out the project before the public meeting. Just those who were most involved.” She preened a little, smoothing her hair with one beringed hand. “And Farrell was a trifle upset, as you might say. Those big hands of his—I thought he was going to strangle Archie, I really did. Of course he'd been drinking a bit, but I didn't know where to look, I really didn't. And he stormed out looking like murder.”

I could, myself, have murdered the mother who came in at that moment with her noisy and obstreperous five-year-old. Mavis's attention was instantly transferred to the little boy, who represented a hazard to her stock approximately equal to a freight train, and I was forced to stand around fiddling with china dogs and tin boxes with pictures of Sherebury Cathedral on them. I was sure Mavis had more to say.

When the mother finally dragged her son away—without buying anything—Mavis turned back to me.

“Honestly!” she said. “The nerve of some people!”

I shook my head in hypocritical sympathy. “I was sure that child was going to break something. I guess some people have nothing better to do than take up a shopkeeper's time.” I managed that line unblushingly, too. “You were saying about Mr. Farrell? This is
so
interesting,” I added in a coo that would have startled my friends considerably. And where I dredged up the Atlanta accent I have no idea; I'm from Indiana.