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DEAD IN THE WATER

by

PHYLLIS A. HUMPHREY

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Copyright © 2015 by Phyllis A. Humphrey

Cover design by Viola Estrella

Gemma Halliday Publishing

http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

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BOOKS BY PHYLLIS A. HUMPHREY

SNEAK PEEK

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CHAPTER ONE

No one murdered Edward Mason. At least I don't think so. Since he was ninety-two years old, he apparently died of the usual "natural causes." My father, Peter, Edward's younger brother, often boasted he came from a long line of sturdy, long-living ancestors. His three aunts died at ages one hundred, one hundred and one, and ninety-nine and a half years old, so Edward avoiding death until his ninth decade surprised no one. However, the case of his forty-something years younger wife, Noreen, was a different matter.

Although my father had invited me to accompany him and my mother, I didn't attend the funeral. Uncle Edward shed his body in London, and I stayed in San Francisco shedding a husband. When my parents returned, Mother said everyone asked about me.

"You should go to England yourself, Olivia." She leaned against the counter in my screaming-for-remodeling kitchen and delivered her advice with her usual encouraging smile. "You haven't been there since you were nine. Pay your respects to Edward's widow, and get reacquainted with your British cousins. A two-week vacation would help you recover from the divorce too."

Like she would know. She'd been married to the same man for forty-five years (she joked showing up was the sole requirement), whereas I—Olivia Grant, a dedicated chocaholic with unruly hair and a faulty sense of direction—had already been widowed before the brief marriage that just expired. I was in no mood for her idea of therapy.

"You're almost forty years old and have no children. Sitting around eating Dove bars all day is hardly a suitable occupation."

"I'm thirty-nine. And I teach bridge," I whined. I also deliver teddy bears to children's hospitals, but she'd forgotten about my charitable streak.

"You haven't even done that for weeks, and you put on at least ten pounds while we were gone."

"Five." I lied, although even my scale knew better. On the other hand, I was no fashion model forbidden to weigh more than her stiletto heels.

Mother could always guess my needs, and although I loved her, I sometimes wished she'd pay more attention to her other children, my sister Samantha and brother Brad, who were twenty-nine-year-old fraternal twins. I'd have definitely preferred sharing the occasional pressure to be perfect with them.

"I can tell you're depressed." Mother propped her hands on her slender hips. "You need a holiday. Visit cousins you once played with, go sightseeing."

"All right already. I'll go." Actually, I wanted to get over feeling that losing two husbands revealed some horrible secret about my character. The first, Stephen, was the victim of a freeway pileup, and the last one's sole contribution to the marriage consisted of wearing Jockey shorts and creating garbage.

So that was how a few days later, at the uncivilized early hour when my transatlantic flight came in, I got off the plane in London complete with jet lag, morning breath, and tangled hair. Heathrow was a madhouse, but a taxi eventually took me to Mason Hall, somewhere north of London. As we drove, I tried to keep my eyes open, to look at the mix of modern and ancient buildings in the city, the narrow brick houses dotting the suburbs, and the still-green countryside with its quaint low cottages. Instead, I must have dozed, because I remembered nothing about the trip.

Moments later, it seemed, we crunched up the gravel driveway curving in front of a three-story, gray, stone building topped with a forest of old-fashioned chimneys. After I paid the driver, whose accent revealed as much Calcutta as cockney, he deposited my two pieces of luggage on the doorstep, and I banged the brass knocker shaped like a lion's head.

As I waited, I stepped back to look up at the house and refresh my memory. Through my nine-year-old eyes, it had seemed a castle, but although not so large as Blenheim or even the Manderley I'd read about in one of my favorite old books, it still qualified as a mansion. A couple of towers rose above a roofline with crenellations. The deep-set mullioned windows, ornamented above and below, peered from ancient stones, the whole swathed in a mini-grove of ivy. I felt as if my suburban split-level had suddenly become a slum.

My grandparents, Chauncey and Olivia—now you know where I got my name—had four children. They were Alice, the recently deceased Edward, my father, Peter, who had emigrated to the US to marry my mother, and William.

Aunt Alice opened the door. I hadn't seen her since my long-ago childhood visit, but Mother had described her when she returned to the States, and there couldn't be two Mason women as wide as they were tall, with gray hair pinned into a knot on top of their heads. I smiled, remembering how we children ran to her for biscuits, a bandage for a skinned knee, or a hug against her warm comfy bulk.

"Olivia!" she squealed. "My darling girl, you look smashing. Elizabeth will be quite jealous." Elizabeth was the eldest of Alice's three children and a year older than I am, and I wondered if she'd put on as much weight as her mother.

"Come in." Alice smoothed imaginary creases from the white apron she wore over a dark blue dress. "We didn't expect you so early. If you'd rung, someone would've collected you."

I entered, dragging my wheeled suitcase and the tote bag I'd slung over its handle.

"Leave your bags here for now. We have no live-in servants anymore. Noreen dismissed them all weeks ago, said she couldn't afford them." She added a loud, "Hah!"

I remembered my mother saying something unflattering about Edward's widow, and my father adding he suspected the other relatives worried she'd soon run off with the family silver.

"Where is she?" I asked.

"Now you mention it, I haven't seen hide nor hair of her all morning. Most everyone came down to breakfast some time ago."

"Is she sleeping in?"

"No, I'm certain of that. When I left my room, I saw her door standing open and looked in, but she wasn't in bed." She rubbed one hand over her head as if searching for stray hairs she could poke back into the topknot.

"Are you hungry? I believe everyone has finished breakfast, but there's still food laid out on the sideboard in the dining room. Being a Yank, you'll want some coffee as well."

I managed to get my words in edgewise. "Coffee, but no breakfast." Diet or not, I usually eat whatever can't escape from me, but I remembered formal breakfasts there. Scrambled eggs that had seen better hours, black toast not only far beyond even the English definition of crisp but stone-cold as well.

As I poured myself a cup of coffee, Alice waved a hand. "Make yourself at home, and I'll fetch the others. They've looked forward to seeing you." She hustled away.

The heels of my travel shoes echoing, I crossed the hall and went into the library. With thousands of books in colorful bindings lining the walls, the room seemed cozier. I settled into the corner of a faded blue sofa and punched a throw pillow into submission at my side. I drank most of the coffee, put the cup and my purse on the mahogany table, and waited.

Somewhere a grandfather clock chimed ten times, and when it finished, silence settled all around. I felt, or heard, someone come into the room, and I opened my eyes to find the world had turned sideways. Alice stood close to me, and I lay on the sofa, drooling into the throw pillow. I straightened up and looked at my watch. I'd been asleep for half an hour. "Sorry. Jet lag, I suppose."

"I didn't mean to disturb you. However, as you're awake, you haven't seen Noreen, have you?" Despite her earlier comments about the woman, Alice seemed genuinely concerned.

"I haven't seen anyone."

"Noreen's gone missing, and we've been searching for her the past quarter hour. We've scoured all the rooms, but there's no sign of her."

"Don't bother on my account. I don't want to upset her usual routine."

"She knew you were coming this morning. Not being here to greet you is rather rude." She raised her shoulders in a what-can-you-expect motion. "Not that it would be the first time she's been rude to people."

"I don't mind, really. After all, we've never met. I'm more looking forward to seeing Elizabeth."

"Nevertheless, she ought to be here."

"Perhaps she's still grieving over Uncle Edward."

"Grieving? Happy as a lark, I have no doubt. I'm sure it was what she wanted. Mark my words, when a forty-seven-year-old woman marries a man who's eighty-nine and has never been quite right in the head since he fought in the Korean War, it's not love she's after, but money."

"Could she have driven off somewhere?"

"The cars are sitting in the garage." She accented the first syllable of the word, making me smile.

"Out for a stroll, perhaps?" I don't usually say "stroll," but I had already begun to imitate the language I heard. An unconscious habit of mine, I pick up accents everywhere I go. Once, on a visit to Alabama, I inadvertently convinced several people I'd been born in Mobile.

"I doubt it. We thought she might be walking Mr. Tarkington. That's her dog, but he's in the house."

"Anything I can do?"

"No, no. Sorry I disturbed you." She waved her hand again. "William and Beryl are in their sitting room and will be down directly, and Elizabeth has been helping me look for Noreen." Her forehead wrinkling in distaste, she turned and disappeared.

I stood and tried to smooth the pants and jacket I'd worn on the plane. They were not supposed to wrinkle, but "sleeping in them" failed to appear on the label as an acceptable thing to do. I decided to kill the time with a walk across the grounds, passing through the great hall and out the front door. I hoped the September air might revive me, since the coffee obviously hadn't.

Leaving the gravel driveway, I crossed an expanse of thick green lawn then continued toward a side garden surrounded by a privet hedge. Despite the passage of time, everything looked the same—massive house, sloping lawn, stately trees. I rounded the hedge and sauntered toward the rectangular lily pond lined with rocks and overlooked by a sculpture of twin cherubs. I remembered giggling with my girl cousins over whether the boy cherub was anatomically correct. Stone benches rested on the grass on either side of the pond, their seats still damp with morning dew.

However, the pond didn't look the same as it once did but showed obvious signs of neglect. The water appeared almost black, with no lily pads or flowers, just green scum at the sides. Plus a smell like rotten vegetation. I walked beside the edge, looking at the water, and saw something inches below the surface. An acid taste of coffee and bile rose to my throat, my heart pounded, and my knees buckled.

A body lay face down, dark clothing, thin white legs, yellow hair fanned out, floating like albino seaweed. I had no idea what she looked like, but I had a hunch I'd found Noreen.

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I stumbled back into the house, found Alice in the hall, and choked out what I'd seen. "A body—" I squeaked, "in the lily pond—" I took a breath and tried to control my quaking thighs.

"A body in the lily pond?"

"A woman, a dead woman. She's floating face down."

Alice frowned and clutched my arm. "Not—" she paused, "medium height, thin as a chair rail, with long hair that's seen the best of a peroxide bottle?"

"I think so."

"Right."

I decided she confirmed it must be the missing widow. I hadn't expected to meet her so oddly.

Alice rushed out, and then Uncle William, Aunt Beryl, and my cousin Elizabeth all entered the hall at once, and I found myself greeted with sedate embraces. Their words echoed in my ears but made no sense to me. They must have been uttering polite questions about my trip, my parents, my siblings, yet all I could think of was the body in the lily pond. I couldn't speak.

Elizabeth seemed almost American in sweatshirt and jeans and had not put on as much weight as her mother. Instead, she was trim and had grown quite tall, at least two inches over my own five-feet-six. She hugged me, and I may have hugged back, but I don't remember.

Alice returned and gasped out the news. For a few minutes no one spoke, and then they uttered murmurs of surprise. Aunt Beryl, short and plump in a long-sleeved dress with a lace collar, put a hand to her throat but made no sound.

William, pushing ninety but still slim and rather handsome with his cloud of Albert Einstein hair, looked like an older version of my father. He cleared his throat. "I say, do you mean dead in the water?"

"I'm afraid so," Alice told him.

"You're certain it's Noreen?" Elizabeth asked.

Alice nodded, but Elizabeth, apparently wanting to see for herself, rushed out the door.

"I must call the authorities." With that, Alice hurried away, and the rest of us stood awkwardly in the great hall.

Elizabeth returned moments later, proclaiming Noreen did, indeed, lay facedown in the pond and ushered us into the drawing room. This looked as I remembered it, a cavernous place with high molded ceilings, tall windows, and more furniture than a Sheraton lobby. Soon Alice joined us and told the others I had originally found the body, but everyone looked strangely noncommittal about Noreen's fate. No exclamations of horror or surprise. No tears, fake or otherwise.

Having never met her, I had no sad feelings about Noreen's demise. Yet I was still in shock from finding her, and I regretted a relatively young person should have died. In my opinion, the right time to leave the earth is at the age of one hundred or more when you wake up every morning thinking, "Oh, darn, I'm still here."

Yet I detected little, if any, sympathy from my relatives, who had known Noreen. Alice, who'd already expressed her opinion of the woman, plopped herself into a large chair to await instructions from the person in charge of doing whatever they do in England when dead bodies are discovered and actually looked relieved.

I took several more deep breaths to calm myself, then sat on a window seat and answered a few polite questions about how I came to find the body. By turning my head from time to time, I could look out at the lawn, which shortly became overrun with men, some in uniform. However, no one else showed any curiosity about the goings-on out of doors. I knew about British reserve, but this seemed like underkill. Since I hadn't seen these people for almost thirty years, I felt more like a stranger than a grieving relative and kept silent.

After a short silence, Alice glanced around and announced, cheerfully I thought, "It won't be long now."

Uncle William sat erect in a straight chair, and since it was still morning, I thought him rather too formally dressed in his gray suit, white shirt, and striped tie. His wife perched on the side of the sofa nearest him.

Elizabeth sat on another of the three chintz-covered sofas. I decided she probably dyed her hair to that deep brown shade, L'Oreal being everywhere these days, but she'd pulled it back in an unattractive ponytail and wore little, if any, makeup.

"I say, how did Noreen come to be in the lily pond?" William asked. His vivid blue eyes focused on us one by one.

Beryl answered. "We don't know yet, my dear." She patted his hand then looked at Alice. "Could she have—er, thrown herself in? I mean—I understand that in India, for example, sometimes a widow—"

Alice interrupted her. "Not very likely, my dear. I know you tend to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, but if she loved Edward at all, much less enough to kill herself over him, it's news to me."

"And me." Elizabeth's voice, low and at least as dominant as her mother's, carried easily in the large room. "We all know she married him for his money. She probably fell into the pond in a drunken stupor."

More silence followed her remark, and then Beryl said, "I shouldn't think she consumed that much."

"I should," William added. "I'm partial to a bit of brandy now and again myself, but once she came here, the bottles emptied with the speed of thunder after lightning."

"As I'm the one who puts bottles in the dustbin," Alice said, "I'm afraid Elizabeth is right."

"Elizabeth is right? What about?" The voice came from a young man standing in the doorway to the great hall.

Elizabeth's gaze darted to him with a look of dislike, if not disgust.

Alice didn't get up but waved the newcomer inside. "Olivia, this is William and Beryl's younger son, Chauncey. He wasn't yet born last you visited Mason Hall." She turned to the young man. "This is your cousin Olivia, Uncle Peter's daughter. I told you yesterday about her coming."

Also named for a grandparent, Chauncey looked to be in his early thirties, about five-ten, with a trim, wiry body covered in tight jeans and a short-sleeved black T-shirt that showed off muscular arms. He closed the door, came toward me, and took my hand. He looked me over in a manner suggesting he had none other than the Queen's authority to check out every female. He had thick, wavy hair, large blue eyes, and a perfect nose. Aware of his terminal coolness, he was handsome, and he knew it.

"Chaz. The name is Chaz."

I didn't blame him for not wanting to be called Chauncey and gave him a smile. He didn't return it and retreated to a far corner, where he managed to slouch in a straight wooden chair fronting a secretary desk, legs stretched out before him.

"We were talking about Noreen." Elizabeth's tone indicated she held little esteem for either the dead woman or Chaz. "We think she drank too much and stumbled into the pond and drowned."

"Drowned?" Chaz looked puzzled. "As in dead?"

Alice turned to him with a surprised look. "Don't you remember? I rapped on your door a few minutes ago and told you."

"I was asleep. I thought you said Noreen was grousing about something." He pulled a cigarette from the pack he'd tucked into his rolled-up sleeve, lit it, and blew smoke toward the ceiling. The only sign Noreen's sudden death meant something to him came in the form of a frown and tight jaw muscles.

Alice filled him in. "She'd gone missing, and then Olivia found her face down in the lily pond. I've called the local constable."

Chaz gave me a strange look. "Just happened to find her, did you?"

I did a double take. Did he really think I killed the woman and pretended I found her already dead? Why? Did he care more about her than the other family members did? They hadn't seemed unduly upset by Noreen's death.

He turned back to Alice. "I suppose that explains the rumpus out of doors."

"Yes. Inspector Kincaid wants us to wait for him here. We're not to leave until we've been questioned."

"First Edward," William said, "and now Noreen."

"Well, I don't accept suicide," Alice said. "Not Noreen's style at all."

Beryl spoke in a soft, breathy voice. "Then it must have been an accident of some sort."

Elizabeth rose and walked to the fireplace. "I still say she drank too much, got sloshed, and landed in the pond. And good riddance."

The room became silent again. Finally Alice pried herself out of her chair. "I'll go and see what's keeping them."

She'd barely uttered the words when the door opened and a tall man with a bushy mustache and hawk-like nose entered the room.

Presumably Inspector Kincaid, the man looked at Alice with a somber expression. "We shall need to question everyone." He turned his head, addressing us all. "It's merely routine."

Then he spoke to Aunt Alice again. "Mrs. Klein, would you kindly accompany me to the other room?"

I hoped to discern something of Kincaid's opinion about Noreen's death but couldn't interpret anything from his look. Yet I had a strong hunch he didn't believe Noreen had either committed suicide or died accidentally.

After he and Aunt Alice left the room, I revisited Chaz's question to me about happening to find Noreen's body. I read mysteries—Grafton, Connolly, Blake—watched television cop shows, and my brother, Brad, is a San Francisco police officer. My brain hopscotched to the possibility of something sinister. Nor was mine the only one.

The almost complete silence, to say nothing of the derogatory comments about Noreen, pointed to one conclusion. Like me, they were all considering the possibility of murder.

CHAPTER TWO

Since I'd discovered Noreen's body, Detective Inspector Kincaid wanted to interview me next and ushered me into the dark wood-paneled dining room, which, as usual, was cold. I remembered how, in the summer when I last visited Mason Hall, I often gulped down my food and hurried to a warmer room. Even then, no one lit the dining room fireplace logs except at dinner.

Inside was a table large enough, I used to imagine, to seat the House of Lords, along with a dozen or more ornate chairs and a gigantic sideboard. In the light from three tall windows, with probably the same velvet draperies I once crouched behind during hide-and-seek, I saw two detectives. Kincaid motioned for me to sit at the head, or maybe the foot, of the table, with him at my right.

Sergeant Sallow, a young, sandy-haired man whose complexion matched his name, sat at my left, directly across from the inspector. Both men had notebooks on the table in front of them and jotted in them occasionally.

"I believe you are the person who found the body?" Inspector Kincaid's words came from behind his mustache, which I found disconcerting, like a voice coming from a cave surrounded by shrubbery.

"Yes." Even I could barely hear my answer. Finding Noreen's body, then being questioned by British police, had taken my sense of "traumatic" to a new level.

"What is your name, please?"

"Olivia Grant." I gave him the short version, not the long one, Olivia Jean Mason Featherstone Grant. Sallow and the detective scribbled more in their notebooks.

"Mrs. Klein tells me you are the niece of," he looked at his notes, "Noreen Vickers Mason."

He used her name, not "the deceased," which pleased me, as it sounded friendlier, and I elaborated for his benefit.

"She was the widow of my late uncle, Edward Mason."

Kincaid looked up from the notepad and smiled. At least I think he did. The mustache stretched horizontally. Since I couldn't see the man's mouth, I watched the mustache and wondered if it interfered with eating or drinking and whether he had to shampoo it after every meal.

Kincaid glanced at his notebook again. "So, you would be the daughter of—"

Since he seemed to be fishing for an answer, I supplied it. "Peter Mason, Edward's brother." He didn't comment, and, as I've never been accused of saying too little, I filled in the genealogy. "Edward is—was—the eldest of my grandparents' four children, and my father is the youngest."

The inspector seemed either uninterested or already in possession of the information. He looked as if he'd had a tiring day. "You live in the United States?"

"Yes."

"In what city would that be?"

"San Francisco." Actually I live in a suburb called San Ricardo, but he'd probably never heard of it, and this time I didn't give him additional information. His abrupt questioning manner made me defensive.

"May I ask when you arrived in the country?"

"This morning."

"At what time, precisely?"

I wasn't about to be precise, assuming I knew. Even the flight attendants on airplanes say the time is "approximately" something or other, not wanting to be held accountable for passengers' watch variations. "At about six o'clock."

"You have an airline ticket to substantiate your arrival?"

"In my handbag in the library." I remembered having placed my purse on the coffee table, and I rose, but he put out a restraining hand and sent Sergeant Sallow to fetch it. When the young man returned, I rummaged inside for the remains of the airline ticket, but it had somehow disappeared.

"I put it right here," I insisted, but the inspector stopped me before I could empty the contents of the bag onto the top of the dining room table. Wise decision. I travel heavily, with keys, billfold, passport, small calendar (the British call them "diaries"), pen, address book, cosmetics case, chewing gum, Life Savers, Kleenex, and a pocket calculator. Kinsey Milhone throws a toothbrush in her handbag and calls it packing. I could out-prepare a troop of Boy Scouts.

"Never mind. We shall verify that later. At what time did you arrive here at Mason Hall?"

I had to think a minute, then remembered a clock striking ten while I waited in the library. "Shortly before ten, I believe."

"You came straight from the airport by taxi."

It sounded like a statement, not a question, and I assumed Aunt Alice had told him how I arrived. "Yes."

"That's rather a long interval. Did you stop off anywhere?"

"No." Now I thought about it, my arrival seemed late, and the fare rather high. Had the taxi driver taken advantage of my slumber in the backseat to run up some extra miles and put more money in his pocket? Not wanting to accuse the driver and sound like an ugly American, I found a different excuse. "The line at Customs was rather long." In fact, it had seemed longer than the Great Wall of China, but not moving as fast.

"When you reached Mason Hall, did you come straight to the front entrance?"

"Of course." Thoughts whirled like tumbleweeds in my head. I had the distinct impression he believed I had stopped off at the lily pond to kill Noreen before showing up at the front door. Similar to what Chaz had hinted. It's true that the person who reports finding a dead body can often become a prime suspect, but I always thought it terribly unfair.

Kincaid flipped a page in his notebook. "I understand Edward Mason, the dead woman's husband, died less than a month ago. Is that correct?"

"Right." My voice sounded rather shaky then, as if I were guilty of something. I began to wish I'd never decided to take that little jaunt to the lily pond.

"It is my understanding Mr. Mason left his considerable estate to his wife."

"I believe so, yes."

He continued. "It has come to our attention the other family members worried she would sell the estate and leave them penniless. Do you share that opinion?"

Where had he learned all that? Had Aunt Alice been a chatterbox during her interrogation? Talking too much apparently ran in the family. And why, I asked myself, should the inspector be concerned about Mason Hall's fate, anyway?

I didn't know quite how to answer, so I didn't, and the inspector continued, as if he hadn't expected me to.

"Did you attend your uncle's funeral?"

"No, I was in San Francisco." I began to perspire.

"Your parents, Peter and Jean Mason, attended, however."

"Yes."

"Did they tell you about the inheritance situation?"

"They're retired and live in Arizona most of the year. They barely told me anything when they returned."

"Did you stand to inherit on Noreen Mason's death?"

"No, I didn't expect to inherit anything." That was not strictly true. But for Noreen, my father might have received something from his brother Edward. In due time, I suppose, some of it would have come to me, his eldest child.

Kincaid stared at me and frowned, but the picture suddenly became crystal clear. First, he tried to place me at the scene of the crime, and then he hinted at a motive.

My defenses rose. "Just a minute. I didn't kill Noreen. I never met the woman. Edward married her three years ago, and I haven't visited since I was nine years old, a few, er, several years ago."

Kincaid's mustache did that smiley thing again. "My dear Mrs. Grant, I'm not accusing you of anything."

"But you said—"

"I'm merely asking questions, gathering information. It's my responsibility to learn as much as possible about any unusual death."

Of course. My overactive imagination had made me leap to conclusions. "Oh."

"I hope I have not offended you."

"No. Sorry."

Sergeant Sallow took the ensuing pause to pour water for us both from a pitcher on the sideboard. After downing his, Kincaid then asked me, in a gentler manner, I thought, to describe how I happened to find the body.

Somewhat more relaxed by then, I gave him an account, which seemed quite short, even to me. Of course, I hadn't much to tell.

"You didn't touch the body?"

"No."

"Nor any of the rocks surrounding the lily pond?"

I became instantly alert again. "The rocks? Why would I touch the rocks? Are they significant?" Again, his questions made me think he suspected foul play. Did he think someone—I, perhaps—had struck Noreen with a rock and pushed her under to drown? "Was Noreen killed with a rock?"

He looked unhappy, as if I were once more cartwheeling ahead of his investigation. Clearly avoiding my question, he said, "I believe you indicated you went into the library."

"Yes."

"How long were you there?"

"About half an hour. I fell asleep. Jet lag."

"Did you see anyone then?"

"Not until Aunt Alice, Mrs. Klein that is, came in to ask if I'd seen Noreen."

"So no one saw you during that time?"

Prickles rose on the backs of my arms. He still considered me a suspect. Did he think I had flown in that morning and killed a woman I'd never met? That I'd found her outdoors, smashed her head with a rock, drowned her in the pond, and then come back to the library, pretending I'd been fast asleep and dreaming about Benedict Cumberbatch?

I came out of my visualization. "I don't know if anyone saw me on the sofa. I had my eyes closed. Are you saying she was killed this morning, during the time I slept in the library?"

"These are routine questions, Mrs. Grant. No one is under suspicion." He seemed to regret having put the thought of murder into my head.

"But you believe someone killed her?"

A frown creased his forehead, and his eyebrows lowered and came together above his eyes. "At the moment, we have formed no conclusions about how Mrs. Mason died. The medical examiner will inform us in due time. Meanwhile, however, we must consider every possibility and gather information accordingly."

I'd read somewhere, or my brother told me, the first forty-eight hours after a crime are critical, and I figured Kincaid needed to take statements before people had a chance to think about it too much and invent alibis.

He made a note on his pad and looked up at me again. "In the meanwhile, however, we would appreciate your steering clear of the pond."

I imagined the British police were searching the pond at the very moment, looking for clues. Can you get fingerprints off rocks? I also wondered if they would put yellow tape around the crime scene as the police did back home.

"How long will you be in London?" Kincaid asked.

"About two weeks. I came for a vacation and to visit my relatives."

"Will you be staying here at Mason Hall?"

I might not have been a suspect, but clearly he didn't want me leaving town. "Yes. At least I think so, although Aunt Alice hasn't assigned me a room as yet. As I said, I had barely arrived at the house when—"

"Thank you, Mrs. Grant. You may leave now."

"But you do think someone killed Noreen."

"I didn't say that. It will be determined in good time."

Did he even consider it might have been an accident? In case he still focused on me, I offered a possible alternative. "I've heard Mrs. Mason liked rather more than her share of alcohol. Could she have fallen into the lily pond while intoxicated?"

"The possibility hadn't escaped our notice, but thank you. You may leave." He got up and came toward my chair as if he'd physically eject me to be free of my questions.

I smiled to show I held no hard feelings, but I felt a little miffed at being dismissed so quickly. After all, my brother, a police officer in California, was planning to open his own private detective agency soon. The fact Kincaid didn't know that, and Brad almost never discussed police business with me anyway, didn't alter my pique. Nevertheless, I did as he asked.

When I returned to the drawing room, all eyes turned in my direction. William, Beryl, Elizabeth, and Chaz didn't appear to have left their seats in the interim, but Aunt Alice had apparently spent the time in the kitchen. She set down a tray of sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade on the nearest coffee table.

I took a seat close by. Lunchtime had come and gone, and since the inspector had taken over the dining room, we roughed it by picnicking in the parlor. The triangular-shaped crust-free sandwiches looked rather small, and my appetite always trying to sneak more weight on me than I need, I helped myself to two.

Beryl prepared plates for herself and William, and then Chaz ambled over, put four sandwiches on his plate and popped a fifth one into his mouth, where it disappeared as suddenly as a hiccup.

Inspector Kincaid came into the drawing room and spoke to Aunt Alice again. "Is everyone present?"

"All but Jason, who is employed in the city. I've left a message for him at his office. In any event, he returns home about six o'clock most evenings."

When Kincaid again left the room, I turned to Aunt Alice. "Jason lives here too?"

"Yes, always has."

I fell into a somewhat stunned silence. My cousin Jason, William and Beryl's older son, still lived in the family mansion. Until a mere three weeks ago, it seemed, everyone lived there— Edward and Noreen, William and Beryl, Jason and Chaz, Aunt Alice and Elizabeth. The large house could certainly accommodate everyone, and suddenly I felt envious of this large family group.

Had my father not emigrated to the States, I might have been living in the Hall too. I glanced at William and remembered how kind he and Uncle Edward had been when I last visited. Next my gaze turned to Aunt Beryl, who had been younger, thinner, and quite beautiful, although quiet and a little aloof. Aunt Alice, on the other hand, except for the grey hair, seemed exactly the same. Although she must have been in her sixties, she moved with amazing energy and had lost none of her sparkle and spunk. Elizabeth was like another sister and Jason a second brother.

My visit to Mason Hall had lasted the entire summer of that year, almost three months, and during that time a major event took place that changed my life forever. I returned home to discover my mother—who had often assured me I was going to be her only child—was pregnant with twins.

Being a girl, and approaching the age of ten, the prospect of having not one, but two, real babies to play with, came as a nice surprise. However, Mother not only hadn't wanted more children, but two at once was more than she could handle. I became the twins' second mother, doing almost everything their real mother had either no time or no energy for. Thanks to them being exceptional babies (they cried, drooled, spat up, and wet themselves, but adorably, like moist robots), then model children, and even bearable teenagers, we all survived. In fact, the bond which formed between the twins and me became a super-strong one.

Despite the chores forced on me, I managed to get through my own turbulent teens and four years of college as well. "Nine to five" was only a cute idea to me, and I dreamed of taking classes in my sleep. I married right after college graduation, which some relatives hinted was my escape to a life of my own.

However, my first husband, Stephen, died in that freeway accident a few years later, leaving me alone. Brad and Samantha, independent beings since kindergarten, had their own careers and even their own apartments but, as if still considering me their "backup" parent, made sure I was never lonely. Insurance money making me financially comfortable, I had filled my time by teaching bridge and with charity work, making school backpacks and delivering stuffed bears to children in hospitals. Then, barely two years before, I fell in lust with Lamar Grant and married him, a marriage thankfully now over. So here I was at last, divorced this time, but once more in England.

Despite the intervening years since my last visit, on stepping into the great hall I felt as if I'd come home. I loved my extended family, and I belonged there. I might never inherit any of the Mason fortune, no matter what Inspector Kincaid thought. Frankly, if it happened, I decided I could adjust to being called "heiress" in the tabloids. Yet it didn't matter. I didn't need it, since my divorce resulted in a settlement guaranteed to keep me in designer shoes for some time.

Aunt Alice's voice brought me back to the current family problem, a dead body in the lily pond and a detective in the dining room. "Do tell us what the inspector asked you."

I obliged. "Probably the same things he asked you. Who I am and how I happened to find the body." I didn't chide her for having revealed the contents of Edward's will. Kincaid could be intimidating and probably they already knew those things or had ways to find out. "And not to go near the lily pond or to leave town," I added.

"Not go near the lily pond?" Aunt Beryl asked. "Not leave town? Whyever would he say that?"

"They do when they believe someone has been murdered," Elizabeth answered.

"Noreen wasn't murdered," Beryl insisted.

I heard Chaz's voice from behind me. "I shouldn't be surprised at all if someone's gone and murdered the—witch."

The pause before he said "witch" made Elizabeth's eyebrows rise. She took a sandwich and came over to sit next to me. She didn't look at him, but her tone could have frozen boiling water.

"If I recall correctly, you didn't have such a low opinion of her in the not-too-distant past."

"Right you are," he answered, not denying it, and I wondered if Elizabeth could be hinting at some relationship between Chaz and Noreen. Call me a victim of Hollywood stereotypes, but when a younger woman marries an elderly man, it isn't beyond the realm of possibility she'd find a substitute in the sex department. Besides, Chaz was nothing if not sexy.

William, whom I'd already guessed had difficulty hearing, spoke as if he hadn't heard Elizabeth's last remark. "I say, I'm afraid Noreen wasn't much liked. It's possible someone might have murdered her."

From what I'd already learned, I presumed Noreen's habits could provoke aggression in the Mona Lisa.

"We know she was disliked," Beryl said, "but surely she couldn't have been killed by anyone she knew. If she was murdered, it must have been by a stranger, perhaps whilst walking her dog. These days it's dangerous for a woman to go out of doors alone."

Elizabeth scoffed. "A prowler on the grounds? That makes no sense. The lily pond is rather far from a public thoroughfare."

She exaggerated. Although I'm not good at estimating distances, or anything pertaining to geography, the pond couldn't have been more than a football field away from the road.

Still, the whole idea of a prowler killing Noreen seemed absurd to me too. I couldn't make myself believe a stranger saw Noreen walking her dog and casually decided to bump her off.

"Why would a stranger come onto the property and kill someone for no reason? A burglar might try to enter the house to steal valuables, but he'd avoid people."

Elizabeth sounded annoyed. "There was no burglar. No one killed Noreen. She killed herself accidentally. It's the only logical explanation."

"Maybe." Chaz got up and headed for the door. "If the inspector wants me, I'll be in my studio." He glanced around the room before leaving as if daring anyone to forbid his exit. No one did.

I turned to Elizabeth. "Chaz has a studio in the house? An art studio?"

"It's on the third floor. He plays with a band, and he had one room soundproofed so he could practice his music." She said the last word as if it described a strain of anthrax.

After a short silence, while we all continued to eat our lunch, William spoke up loudly. "I say, I shouldn't have minded doing her in myself, but I'm too old for that sort of thing."

"William!" Beryl's voice rose to a "shocked" level. "You mustn't say such things. Someone might take you seriously. I hope you don't plan to say that to the inspector."

"If I were speaking under oath, I should certainly do so. The woman not only drank excessively, she was a fortune-hunter and undoubtedly promiscuous as well." He shifted in his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. "Some people presume that inasmuch as I don't hear everything, I'm dotty, but I know what's been going on."

Beryl sighed and leaned toward Elizabeth and me, speaking in a quiet tone. "William is upset because there's been talk since Edward died that Noreen would sell Mason Hall, and we'd have nowhere to live."

"Could she do that?"

"I suppose so," Elizabeth said. "Before Edward married her, we understood that, on his death, the property would come to William. Now, however…"

I remembered my father telling me he learned, at the reading of the will, Edward had left everything to Noreen, not William.

Elizabeth continued. "Mother told me a solicitor came often in the first year after they were married, and when he read Edward's will last week, right enough, she'd convinced him to change it in her favor."

Beryl looked close to tears. "It's all so sad. First Edward died. He was such a dear old soul. And now Noreen may—" She added hastily, "Oh, I tried to like the woman, but I worried. What would become of us? What about Jason, who should inherit the property after William? What about Chaz?"

I didn't believe a total stranger had come upon a woman walking her dog and killed her. I hoped Noreen had taken an accidental fall, struck her head on a rock, and then tumbled into the pond. Otherwise, I'd be forced to think that one of my very own relatives might be a murderer.

My brother, Brad, as well as every detective novel I'd ever read, has pointed out that a murder suspect needs three things—motive, means, and opportunity. An opportunity arose, Noreen was alone near the lily pond. The means, the rocks, were at hand. Finally, inasmuch as they'd all be out on their rear ends when Noreen said the word, everyone in the house had a motive.

I put my sandwich back on the plate. My appetite had vanished like a penny down a well.

CHAPTER THREE

Uncle William glanced at his wristwatch and rose from the chair. After adjusting his shirt cuffs, he proceeded toward the door, head held high, like Sidney Carton going to the guillotine in A Tale of Two Cities.

Beryl called after him. "Do remember, William, you're not to be silly and tell him you wanted to kill Noreen." He didn't answer, and Beryl sighed and settled into the cushions on the sofa.

Elizabeth, who hadn't stopped frowning all morning, mumbled, "It's all some man's fault, wait and see."

Although my ex-husband's character left something to be desired, I thought a discussion of inexplicable male behavior inappropriate at that time. Instead, I asked Aunt Alice if she'd show me to my room so I might unpack.

Despite her weight, Alice vaulted from her chair and scurried to the doorway. "Heavens, with all the excitement this morning, I'd completely forgotten. You'll be wanting a nice wash-up after your long trip, and possibly a bit of a lie-down." She started off before I could answer.

I retrieved my bags, and we crossed the great hall, which was every bit as impressive as I remembered. Two stories high, with shields, swords and battle-axes fastened to the walls, red, blue, and gold flags and pennants hanging from rafters, a stone floor covered in several places with Persian rugs, and four Medieval-looking chairs, two residing next to a heavy oak table.

All the major first floor rooms could be entered from this hall, and a grand staircase at the far end, its banister carved like a lion's tail, led to the second floor. Pale sunlight drifted in from high windows at either end, and as my gaze traveled over everything, fond memories returned of playing in the hall and especially sliding down that banister when no authority figures lurked about.

As we walked, Alice told me again how Noreen had sacked all the live-in servants so there was no one to carry my suitcase, help me unpack, or turn down my bed.

"I'm an American," I reminded her. "Middle class at that. I'm not used to servants and can manage quite well without them."

"Dusting and mopping?" Her frown as well as her tone implied she thought me terribly deprived. "I'd best be ringing them up to try to get them back. It's been almost a fortnight. Perhaps they've found other positions by now." We climbed the stairs to the second floor, and she continued her monologue, breathing heavily between phrases. "Cook comes afternoons, but I shall insist she return to us full time."

We turned right at the top of the stairs and walked down the long hallway past three closed doors. Alice opened the fourth, and I followed her into a large room containing an ornately carved chest of drawers and wardrobe. A narrow padded bench sat at the foot of the canopied double bed, with vanity, mirror, and seat in one corner, and a small desk and chair in another. I'd not slept in this room during my previous visit, and it boasted more furniture than my bedroom at home but no closet or adjoining bathroom. I surmised that rich Britons didn't believe in upgrading some things, but I liked what I saw.

The walls were covered with a flower-patterned wallpaper that had turned slightly brown, the floor with a large Oriental carpet, and two mullioned windows draped in flowered chintz looked out on the side yard.

"Lavatory's in the passage," Alice told me, "right there." She pointed to her right, then plumped the comforter on the bed, as if testing its softness, and ran a finger over the dresser top looking for dust. Although I couldn't detect she'd found any, she rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, looking annoyed. Memories of Aunt Alice's cleanliness fetish returned. Show her "Winged Victory," and she'd want to go after it with Clorox.

She opened the bottom drawer and pointed to a set of yellow towels. "You may leave them in the loo, if you like. Elizabeth and I are the only persons you'll share it with, and I've given us all different colors. Hers are pink, mine are blue."

"What a good idea. Do the men have a similar arrangement?" Like schools with boys' and girls' bathrooms?

"A few rooms have their own lavatories, but there are two more on this floor and two upstairs as well."

I remembered the third floor. "Is there still a nursery and playroom up there?"

"Oh, yes. It's larger than this floor, of course. Rooms for servants too. Lots more than we ever employed."

I put my bag on the bench and opened it. "How long have you lived here, Aunt Alice?"

"Almost thirty years now." She sat on the side of the bed and crossed her arms over her bulk. "Soon after my husband died. Hans was German, you know, and we lived in Munich, but I never felt I belonged there, so after he died, I moved back home with the three children."

Poor Hans had popped off almost immediately after siring them, as if he'd done his duty and needn't hang about any longer. I'd met him that summer I visited, and, looking back on it, decided he seemed like a drill sergeant minus the charm.

I opened the wardrobe doors, found two wooden hangers, and used one for my blazer. The dearth of hangers didn't bother me, since I always travel with a few plastic ones in my bag. I arranged my dresses, blouses, and pants inside the wardrobe and stored folded garments in the remaining drawers of the chest. Not that there were a great many. Although my purse and tote bag might be filled with gadgets and goodies, I travel with few clothes. My sister, Samantha, who's made shopping her second vocation, doesn't understand me, but I look forward to the future when, as in all those science fiction films, everyone will wear black boots and colorful one-piece jumpsuits with a planet logo across the front.

Alice went on talking. "Edward never married, you know, that is, until Noreen came along, so he quite liked the idea that I could run the household for him. And, unlike some men who never had children, he enjoyed mine."

I remembered him and smiled. "He was a quiet gentleman who never went anywhere and seldom spoke to adults, although he liked to gather us children around and tell stories. He never minded if we ran through the hall yelling or brought mud inside."

Alice laughed. "Well, he didn't have to clean it up, did he? We had numerous servants in those days, and I did my share in keeping things tidy. Those were good days." She paused, then turned morose. "Not like the last three years, let me tell you." She pulled herself off the bed and moved to the windows where she made barely noticeable adjustments to the drapes.

"You mean when Noreen came? What about those years?"

"Hell." She said the word so softly I almost didn't catch it. She turned around. "She wanted to manage the household, but she didn't know how it should be done, and when I tried to help, she cut me dead. She was always sweet as pie to Edward and the other men but off-putting to Elizabeth and me."

"Isn't Elizabeth just visiting, as I am?"

"Oh, no. Hildegard and Hans Junior are both married with children, but Elizabeth's divorced and moved here about six years ago. She teaches German at a public school, but the new term hasn't begun."

I checked Elizabeth on my mental list of people living in the house. Thanks to my father, I knew that in England a public school is what we would call a private school, and often they opened in late September or even October.

I returned to the subject of Noreen. "I get the impression no one liked her, even if she was 'sweet as pie' to the men."

"Actually, Chaz first brought her to the house."

"Chaz?" I'd been putting my toiletries on the vanity and stopped, hairbrush in midair, and turned to face Alice, my mind spinning with this new information. "Do you mean she was his, er, girlfriend?"

"That's what we all thought at first." Alice lowered herself to sit on the bench. "Although a good bit older than he, they seemed attached. She was years younger than Edward, but she played up to him straightaway."

Edward, I realized, being somewhat reclusive, would have had few opportunities to meet women on his own, but Noreen must have been quite a femme fatale to have managed to marry him. I wished I'd seen her before she turned into a corpse.

"I recall my father telling me about the marriage. He said he was shocked when he heard. So, how did Chaz take that news?"

"Nary a peep out of him." Alice added, "Of course, I thought exactly what William hinted at earlier, that Noreen and Chaz had a, er, relationship on the side."

"Poor Edward."

"I'll say this for them, they were discreet about it. And Edward seemed happy. He had to live his own life, after all. None of us wanted to interfere."

I didn't want to voice my suspicion that everyone in the household seemed to have a motive to murder the woman, although I wondered whether Alice thought about that.

"If they did have a relationship, Edward's death should have made things easier for Chaz, but from the comments he made, it would seem he disliked her."

"Who knows what goes on in that head of his? Loud music all day, again all night. I shouldn't be surprised if he hasn't two brain cells left to rub together."

"Did Noreen have any friends?"

"Well, there are the three women she played cards with, if that's what you mean."

"What women? How did she come to know them?"

"I'm not sure how they met, but one day, about a year ago it was, these three doxies showed up. Saucy, they were, said they'd been invited. Noreen took them into the drawing room, and they played cards all afternoon. I suspect they played for money, and they did a good bit of loud laughing. I stayed far away, let me tell you."

"I gather you didn't care for them."

"Dyed hair, too much makeup, and the kind of dresses you'd see on some sleazy shop's racks."

"What card games did they play?"

"Bridge, if you can believe it. To look at them, you'd never think the lot had enough brains to know their way outdoors without written instructions."

Yes, bridge is somewhat complicated, but, since I teach the game part-time, I've had enough students, including a few with the intellectual capacity of lima beans, to know it's not a game only bright people can play. Still, brains help. Evolved from whist, which is quite simple, it's always been more popular in England.

Alice rose from the bench. "Sorry, didn't mean to gossip." At the doorway, she turned to me again. "Your Mum told me you play bridge very well and even teach other people how to play."

I grinned. "It makes a great hobby, and scientists say it preserves ones memory. But don't tell anyone. Few people in my generation play the game, and I'll be thought weird if they discover I do."

"Not here in England, but how did you come to learn?"

"Dad and Mom played. When I was a teenager, my mother's sister came to live with us for a few years, and they bullied me into learning in order to have a fourth."

"You must have liked the game if you've gone on to teach classes."

"After my husband Stephen died, I found it a useful means of keeping busy and making new friends. I wish Brad and Samantha had learned then too, but they were too young and, back then, I thought they still had plenty of time."

Alice smiled back. "I'll wager no one laughed at you then. Fancy making use of it like that, not by playing for money like Noreen's pals."

However Noreen played the game, her participation was wreaking havoc with my opinion of her. Somehow it didn't fit with the person I had so far imagined her to be.

Alice moved to the hallway. "I must go. I've heaps to do. Get some rest now, luv. I'll knock you up when it's time for dinner." She closed the door firmly behind her.

I laughed out loud at her expression and finished unpacking. When I'd shed my clothes, I put on my traveling robe and slippers and pulled the assigned towels from the drawer. I left the room, saw no one in the hallway, and went next door, hoping to find the bathroom. Sure enough, a tiny metal plate on the door read, Lavatory.

This room, almost as large as my bedroom, held a modern stall shower in addition to a sink, commode, and an extra-long tub. A large, glass-doored cabinet next to the sink contained several rolls of bathroom tissue, soaps, perfume and cologne, even a jar of bubble bath crystals, so I decided to indulge myself by soaking in the tub. The water was hot, and when I draped my towel over one of the racks, I discovered to my delight it was heated. Of course I'd had a few bubble baths in the past, but as I luxuriated in the scented water, I remembered the many servants Alice had spoken of and almost wished my father hadn't been so eager to leave England. I'd have gladly forced myself to adapt to a life of luxury.

Then I thought of my own home and the solitary life I'd left behind. When I headed off to the airport, I doubted that a mere two weeks in a different country could drag me out of the doldrums, but from the time I arrived, I hadn't had even a minute of depression.

Warm and dry, I opened the cabinet and spritzed myself with some Chanel No. 5 cologne before putting on my robe. Then I returned to my room where I lay across the bed and stared up at the oyster-white ceiling with its ornately carved moldings around the edges.

I thought about what I'd learned from Alice and, curious as I am about other people's lives, what I wished I knew about Noreen and Chaz. Were they lovers before she married Edward? During? After? I made up a scenario in which they plotted together that Noreen would marry Edward, and after he died she would marry Chaz so he could become lord of the manor. Apparently something went wrong. When he learned she'd drowned, he didn't look anything like a devastated lover. He'd even called her a witch. Perhaps she had cheated on Chaz as well as Edward. Maybe Chaz had one more reason than anyone else to want to kill her.

*  *  *

I awoke to find the room had grown darker, and outside the sky glowed with streaks of red from the setting sun. I got up, closed the drapes, and found the light switch. In case everyone still dressed for dinner and observed a period of mourning, I put on my go-everywhere, non-crushable black dress and medium-heel black shoes. Sitting at the vanity table, I raked a comb through my hair. Although it's still brown, it's also naturally curly, what I call "wash and wear" hair. I love not having to fuss with it, but I must admit that sometimes it resembles the nest of a deeply disturbed robin. I reapplied my makeup, opened the bedroom door, switched off the light, and entered the hallway.

I found it empty as before but not silent. Faint sounds came from a door on the other side of the lavatory. As I walked toward it, the sound grew louder, but it wasn't human speech. Someone, or something, was scratching on the inside.

I frequently go where angels fear to tread, so I turned the knob and pushed the door open. A small, fuzzy white dog stood inside the room—floppy ears, large brown eyes, and shiny black nose in an adorable puppy face. I assumed that must be Noreen's dog, Mr. Tarkington, his name almost larger than he was.

He sat looking up at me as if I'd rescued him from the local dogcatcher, and I could swear he smiled. His stubby tail thumped on the floor, and I stooped down, reached my hand out slowly and patted him on the head. He rolled over onto his side, so I scratched him behind the ears and rubbed his tummy.

I was in love. "Oh, Tark," I said, "you're beautiful."

He pushed his nose against my hand, and I scratched his head some more. I hadn't felt like this about the dog Brad, Samantha, and I were joint owners of when we were children. That was a large brown Collie, not a little bundle of curly white hair like this, but I couldn't tell a Maltese from a Lhasa Apso, or whatever breed he might be, if my life depended on it. Even better, Tark liked me too. Did I have a special way with dogs, or was he reacting to the Chanel No. 5? If Noreen used that cologne, perhaps he only loved my smell.

Frankly, my dear, I didn't give a hoot. I picked him up and hugged him, discovering from his feather lightness, that he was mostly fur. He licked my chin, making me giggle. Since he was Noreen's dog, I assumed this had been her room, and, inasmuch as she now resided in a morgue somewhere and wouldn't catch me at it, I pushed the door open farther and peered inside.

About the same size as mine, the room's difference became obvious without turning on a light. It held a canopied bed liberally swathed in white tulle intertwined with fake pink flowers and green vines, furniture of white and gold, mauve carpet and walls covered in padded pink silk. Either Noreen had a romantic streak or some decorator made a fancy love nest for her. Plus the fact she not only played bridge but had also chosen Tark for a pet made my feelings for the woman take a slight turn. Anyone who owned this adorable little dog couldn't be all bad.

The sudden rumbling in my stomach reminded me of the approaching dinner hour, but I decided not to leave Mr. Tarkington where I'd found him. He'd obviously scratched at the door to get out and might be hungry. I carried him downstairs and into a kitchen, which, since I last saw it many years before, had been thoroughly modernized.

An older woman, gray-haired but not as wide as Alice, stood at the stove, stirring something in a large pot. She looked up at me when I entered the room. "Evenin', madam. Annie's the name, cookin's the game."

"I'm Olivia Grant, Mrs. Klein's niece."

"She told me you wuz comin', luv."

"I brought Mr. Tarkington down for his dinner. I assumed he'd have a dish for his food in here."

"That he has, in the corner." She pointed with an elbow, and I followed her gaze to a spot near the back door where a small blue rug holding two stainless steel bowls sat on the red brick floor. The bowls were empty.

"Is there some food I could give him?"

This time Annie stopped stirring, produced some dog food and opened the can with a whir of an electric can opener. She handed it to me, along with a spoon.

I put Tark on the floor and spooned the chunky brown stuff into one bowl, then carried the other bowl to the sink and filled it with water. I stood over the dog for a while, watching him.

Annie checked on the pot again, then moved to the counter and sliced a long loaf of bread. "Bonnie little thing, isn't he?"

"Yes. Do you know what breed he is?"

"Some'at 'tween a cocker spaniel and a poodle. She called him a Cockapoo. 'Tis a daft name, if you ask me."

I hadn't guessed the poodle genes and was glad Tark wasn't trimmed the ridiculous poodle way. I often wondered if other dogs think poodles belong to some weird religious cult.

The swinging door opened, and Aunt Alice scurried into the kitchen. "Ah, Olivia. I went upstairs to collect you, and here you are."

"I brought Mr. Tarkington down for his dinner."

She glanced to where the dog stood eating. "He's a little love, isn't he?"

And here I'd been thinking it was just me. "Do you know how old he is?"

"About a year."

"He's not a puppy then?"

"No, he's full grown, won't get any bigger."

"Has Noreen, that is, did Noreen have him very long?"

"Only a week or two." She pushed open the door and held it for me to pass through and kept on talking while we headed for the dining room.

"Surprised us all, let me tell you. I didn't take her for a pet lover. Too selfish, she was. Taking care of a dog requires a bit of a sacrifice now and then, feeding, walking, the odd visit to the vet." Eyebrows raised, her forehead wrinkled.

"I expected the walking alone would do her in. Noreen would ask to be driven to the loo if it was thirty meters off. I thought she'd tire of the dog in a week, and I'd get the chores to do soon enough, but so far she hadn't."

"So she might have been walking the dog last night or early this morning, when she, er, died."

"We don't know that for a fact, but it would explain her being out of doors at that time of day, wouldn't it? Her being a person who thought the night air caused skin rash."

A thought came to me, and I stopped short. If Noreen had been walking Mr. Tarkington and just stumbled into the lily pond and drowned, how did the dog get back into the house?

CHAPTER FOUR

I hadn't time to think more about Mr. Tarkington, because we reached the dining room, and I found everyone else already seated. Except for Chaz, who still wore a T-shirt and jeans, they had dressed for dinner, the women in skirts, the men in coats and ties. On the table's right sat William, Beryl, and Chaz. On the left, Elizabeth and a man I assumed must be my other cousin. Alice, taking a seat next to him, introduced us.

"Olivia, this is Jason. I dare say you wouldn't recognize each other since you were mere children last you met."

"We were about nine years old," I said, "but of course we've both changed a lot since then."

He came to a half-rising position and took my extended hand briefly, and during our exchange of pleasantries, I gave his appearance a once-over. We were close to the same age, he being only a few years older, a fact he liked to insist, even as a child, gave him authority in choosing games to play. I remembered him as a short but strong child with a sullen temper.

As he was Beryl's son from a previous marriage, William had adopted him. Their own son, Chaz, came along after my visit. I also remembered how Jason insisted on being called Jason Cornell, not Jason Mason, not that I blamed him for that.

He'd grown slightly taller than I and wore his straight, light blond hair combed back from a high forehead. He had his mother's small nose and mouth and was good looking in a sort of Leonardo DiCaprio way. Not my favorite movie star, however.

Alice pointed me to a chair on the right next to Chaz, and I realized no one sat at the head of the table. Instead, both the chair at the far end and the one next to it on the left were empty. Perhaps Edward and Noreen had used them, and no one else as yet wanted to claim them.

At this point, Annie came in pushing a wheeled cart laden with a large soup tureen and bowls and served us. While she did so, I looked at the array of forks and spoons spread out on either side of my plate. In my opinion, making a project out of choosing the right utensil was what people did to work out their aggressions in the 19th century before they had video games.

The conversation turned to the weather, which I thought odd under the circumstances but soon enough drifted back to the shocking event that occurred that day.

The cook returned to the kitchen, and Chaz spoke up. "So what's goin' on with the cops? They asked a fair lot of questions but were not so keen on answering any. Are we under house arrest or what?"

"Not a bit of it," Jason said. "I believe I spoke with Inspector Kincaid after everyone else had done so, and he assured me they'd inform us of their findings as soon as possible, perhaps tomorrow."

Chaz let his irritation show in his harsh tone. "But we're to stay in the bloomin' village and not go anywhere, right?"

I'd already noticed that, although Chaz had obviously gone to the right schools, he sometimes affected a lower-class way of speaking, perhaps because of his band.

"Well—" his mother began.

"Never mind I've got things to do, I suppose?"

Beryl tried to soothe her son with a hand on his arm and a soft tone. "I do believe you told me your band doesn't have an engagement tonight."

"But we've got to practice, don't we?"

"You can practice in your studio." She returned her gaze to her soup.

Chaz said no more, but he shifted restlessly in his chair, and I moved my leg out of the way of his.

Alice spoke to me. "Whilst you had your nap this afternoon, the police looked about inside the house. Did they disturb you?"

"No, I didn't hear them, and no one knocked at my door. I'm a rather sound sleeper."

"Inspector Kincaid told me they would be looking into Noreen's and Edward's rooms, as well as into their office downstairs."

It occurred to me the police might have closed Noreen's door when they finished their search, and that probably explained how Mr. Tarkington came to be shut inside, but I wanted to know more about the local police procedure. "Do they need search warrants?" I asked.

Jason answered. "Not if they get permission. Otherwise, yes. The exception, of course, would be rooms belonging to the deceased. I believe they're free to search those."

Chaz, finished with his soup, thunked his spoon down. "If you don't give 'em permission to search your room, you look guilty, right?"

Alice sounded reassuring. "No one said anyone is guilty. I'm certain they'll arrive at the conclusion it was an accident."

"Oh, like no one here wanted to do away with her?" Chaz said.

In the silence following that remark, everyone but Chaz went back to eating or taking long drinks from their water glasses.

Alice turned to Jason again. "As the inspector interviewed you last, is there anything more you can tell us about his investigation?"

"I don't believe so." He paused, then seemed to feel obliged to describe his experience. "He asked my age, relation to, er, Noreen, my occupation, even my hobbies. A bit much, wouldn't you say? Of course, as I'm sure he did with all of you, he also asked where I was at the time, er, she—"

Apparently anticipating the end of his sentence, Elizabeth said, "I thought they hadn't determined a time of death."

Jason cleared his throat loudly. "I believe it's evident the death occurred last night or quite early this morning."

"It must have done," Alice said. "No one saw her between dinner last night and when Olivia found her in the lily pond this morning."

At that moment, Annie returned to replace soup bowls with gold-rimmed dinner plates containing slices of lamb, a mound of mint jelly, roasted potatoes, and Brussels sprouts. In spite of being half English, I've never liked Brussels sprouts.

I felt Chaz's leg brush mine again and moved farther to the left. "Did anyone see her take her dog for a walk last night or this morning?"

Blank stares met me, so I assumed no one had.

"Mother and I watched a program on the telly in the small sitting room until ten o'clock," Elizabeth said. "Then we went to bed. I didn't see Noreen this morning either."

Beryl turned to her husband. "We watched a program in our room, didn't we, William?"

"Eh? What's that?" William looked up from the task of cutting his lamb into neat little cubes, and I noticed he hadn't touched his Brussels sprouts either. "What did you say, my dear?"

Beryl raised her voice and repeated what she'd said, adding, "And then we had an early breakfast, before anyone else."

"Right-o."

"Did you see Noreen?" Alice asked Chaz.

"No. I stayed late in my studio last night and never had any breakfast at all."

"As everyone knows," Jason said, "I went into the city to see a play and spent the night at my club."

"I didn't know you spent the night in town." Beryl pouted, as if even a grown man had to explain his whereabouts to his mother.

"I didn't intend to at first, but during the interval, I decided to stay in London rather than drive home, and I telephoned."

"Yes," Alice said, "I took the call, but I forgot to tell you, Beryl. Sorry."

After a long pause, Jason laughed and turned to me. "Under the circumstances, it would appear that I, and Olivia, who hadn't arrived in this country, have substantial alibis."

"I'm afraid my so-called alibi didn't impress the inspector. He hinted I'd spent too much time between leaving Heathrow and arriving here. Ample time, if her death occurred early this morning, for me to drown her on the way."

Chaz laughed. "You might have done it at that."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I told him, allowing a bit of sarcasm in my tone.

"This isn't about alibis," Elizabeth said, somewhat testily. "Noreen drowned by accident. I thought we asked if anyone saw her walking her dog."

Jason flashed her a stern glance. "That's what I meant."

To my utter surprise, I felt a hand on my knee, a hand that ought to have been in Chaz's lap, not mine. So the leg-brushing business hadn't been accidental after all. I pushed his hand off and gave him a "what do you think you're doing?" look, which, since he didn't turn to me, he didn't see. Nevertheless, his lips turned up in a grin, and when he took a sip of water, some of it escaped from the side of his mouth, and he had to wipe it away with his napkin.

Alice passed around a tray of sliced white bread, which required my attention, but I remained silent, wondering what ran through Chaz's head. Perhaps he'd been teasing me with his hints I might have killed Noreen. So, why the touching? He must have known I was a few years older than he. Yet Noreen had been in her forties, or even fifties, and, if the gossip could be believed, they'd had a thing going.

Maybe he preferred older women. Or, perhaps I wasn't as over the hill as I'd thought. Learning my ex-husband had found someone else's charms more engaging than mine had done considerable damage to my ego, but I doubted a somewhat-brash young man who played with a band made up for that. He was a cousin besides. I had to fight to keep a grin from sneaking onto my face.

After dinner Alice said, "I'll help Annie with the washing-up," and everyone else rose and left the dining room.

Once in the great hall, Elizabeth suggested she and I go into the drawing room, "to catch up on old times." Jason acted as if he'd been invited and followed us.

As Elizabeth and I settled into chairs near the fireplace, Jason fussed with the kindling under the logs, all the while frowning as if someone had got it wrong, and only he knew precisely how it should be done. He finally lit the fire, settled the screen on the hearth with great precision, and then remained standing for a while, arm resting on the mantle like a millionaire posing for a photo spread in Architectural Digest.

Being the newcomer, I felt impelled to say something about the situation we found ourselves in. "I expected to have a pleasant reunion," I started, "not discover Noreen's body. Of course, I didn't know her, so I'm not as upset as you must be."

Elizabeth took a chocolate from a silver candy dish on the coffee table. "I'm more upset by this ruining your visit. I'd made plans, sightseeing and such." She passed the dish to me.

"As for Noreen, let's be honest, Olivia. No one is upset by her death. No one liked her." She nibbled on the chocolate and then added, "Not that any of us killed her, of course. At least, I didn't."

I watched her for a few minutes. She wore black tights under a mid-calf-length dress and still hadn't put on any makeup or loosened her hair, and I wondered why she seemed going out of her way to look unattractive. She could be quite good-looking if she tried. Deciding her looks were her own affair, I helped myself to what appeared to be two mint patties in one brown paper cup and held out the candy dish to Jason.

He came forward, took it, stared awhile at every piece before selecting one, and set the dish back on the table. Seating himself in a high-back wing chair, he spoke with a note of finality. "I'm certain Noreen drowned accidentally." He cleared his throat, announcing his change of subject. "Ever since I heard you were coming, Olivia, I've remembered the jolly times we had that summer when you visited."

"All of us cousins came that year," Elizabeth said. "Mother brought Hildegard, Hans, and me as well."

"I remembered that this morning," I told her, "when I walked outdoors toward the lily pond. We waded in it sometimes, something your mother included in her list of no-no's.'"

"I fear we were naughty children," Jason added, "getting into all sorts of mischief."

My recollection told me Jason usually instigated the mischief. Even though Elizabeth was not much younger than he, Jason, as a permanent resident of Mason Hall, felt entitled to boss us around. Hans was six that year and Hildegard four, so they followed Jason's lead without complaining, except when they skinned their knees or bruised their elbows trying to keep up with some of his wilder exploits.

Elizabeth nodded. "Our toys are still in the old playroom."

"But we didn't spend much time up there," I said. "I remember playing in the great hall. We loved to yell out loud and listen to our voices echo."

"And climb on the chairs to reach the swords and shields hanging on the walls," she added. "We're probably fortunate we didn't maim ourselves with one of those old things."

Jason rose and poked at the fire, in spite of its not needing it. "And now we're grown. Do you have a career, Olivia?"

"After my husband Stephen died, I worked in an office for a few years, but I wouldn't call it a career. I do some charity work and teach bridge, mostly as a hobby." My mentioning bridge reminded me of my earlier conversation with Aunt Alice about Noreen and her gal-pals, and I wondered if anyone else in the family played.

I turned to Elizabeth. "Do you play bridge?"

She frowned. "Mother tried to teach me once so I could be a fourth with her and Uncle William and Aunt Beryl, but I never really caught on."

Again remembering Alice's description of the women who played with Noreen, who, according to her description, were dumb, dumber, and brain-dead, I found it hard to believe Elizabeth couldn't manage to learn. More likely, she didn't want to.

She confirmed my opinion immediately. "It's a game for old folks, isn't it?" then realized her faux pas. "Oh, of course I don't mean—"

"That's all right," I told her. "Like you, I was forced to learn in order to become a partner for my aunt. However, I grew to like it. I admit few people of our generation have taken it up. We have too many other distractions these days, dozens of television channels, for one thing. Perhaps the fact that Bill Gates likes it may renew interest in the game."

"Bill Gates," Jason asked, "the Microsoft bloke?"

"That Bill Gates," I said.

The raised eyebrow and thoughtful expression on Jason's face made me think he might consider taking up the game, as if he just needed confirmation that someone important indulged in it to give him the necessary permission. An "in-crowd" wannabe.

"Do you have children?" he asked suddenly, changing the subject again. "When your mother and father came for Uncle Edward's funeral, I thought they mentioned a boy and a girl."

"They undoubtedly meant the twins, my younger brother and sister. There's a big gap in our ages. Bradley is a police officer in San Francisco, and Samantha works for a women's clothing store right now. What about you?"

"I have no children either. I've been married twice, but neither marriage produced any offspring. Not that it had anything to do with our divorce," he added.

"And what do you do, Jason?"

"Insurance."

I know nothing about insurance except there are a zillion kinds and someone is always urging us to buy half a zillion of them to protect against the uncounted hazards in today's world—mostly litigation-addicted lawyers, I suspect—so I just said the obvious. "And what kind do you sell?"

"Oh, I don't sell it." His tone made it sound as if selling ranked a step below touting horses at the racetrack. "I'm in statistical analysis, actuarial tables, that sort of thing. Very demanding."

Oh, sure.

I turned to Elizabeth. "Aunt Alice told me you're a teacher, and you have a daughter."

"Dorothea, like me, teaches school, but up in Durham. That's in northern England," she explained. After a pause, she added, "We all seem to be typical baby-boomers, don't we? A bit like some of the royals, the three of us divorced."

The thought sobered me, although I felt somewhat comforted to realize I had so much company in that regard. I also remembered I wouldn't have had to consider myself a divorced woman if I hadn't married Lamar Grant the year before, and that wouldn't have happened if Stephen hadn't had the bad luck to be driving a car that became the center of a ten-car smashup on one of L.A.'s highways that killed him before his time. Although it occurred long ago, my eyes filled with sudden tears.

Jason got to his feet and excused himself, left the room, and closed the door to the hall.

Elizabeth looked relieved to see him go, as if she found his company as pleasant as being chastised by an arrogant headmaster. She hadn't smiled all day, and I wondered if more upset her than a sudden—I hoped accidental—death on the premises.

I helped myself to another piece of candy, chocolate, in my opinion, being one of the basic food groups.

"Your mother is the same as ever, makes me feel as if it was only yesterday. Amazing, isn't it, how memories stay with us, even after so many years? I've always remembered the summer we spent here."

"Mum says we stayed three months, but it seemed longer."

"She tells me you've lived here about six years."

"Yes, my daughter was grown-up, so, rather than live alone, I moved here. Besides teaching school, I helped Mum with running the household, that is until Noreen showed up." Her tone told me once more she considered the woman no better than an up-to-no-good floozie.

"If no one liked her, it must have made for a very uncomfortable time."

"That's putting it mildly, indeed. We avoided her as much as possible. The whole family came together only at dinner. None of us learned to cook, and Annie insisted she'd prepare but one meal per evening. Eat then or do without."

I contemplated taking another chocolate from the dish, but decided against it. "Jason's changed a bit, hasn't he?"

"I dare say we all grow out of our childhood selfishness and bullying, even Jason." She paused. "Not that I see him often. We may all live in the same house, but we have different interests, to say nothing of jobs."

"Does he still call himself 'Jason Cornell'?"

"No, he realized the advantage of keeping the family name, so he uses 'J. Cornell Mason.'"

So what do people call him now, Corny? "Cornell was his real father's name?"

"Yes, Raymond Cornell. He died. Jason was five, I believe, when Uncle William married Aunt Beryl, and he adopted him soon afterward." She paused. "I feel sorry for him. He wants very much to have a son to inherit Mason Hall. He's not keen to have Chaz take over. It must have been very difficult for him when William and Beryl had a son of their own."

"Chaz may turn out all right eventually." I tried to sound positive but didn't believe my own words.

"And pigs may fly," Elizabeth said under her breath.

Suddenly, the door burst open, and Jason came back into the room. He'd changed his clothes since leaving us and now wore brown corduroy trousers, a dark shirt, and no tie. I also noticed his face had become almost purple with rage.

"It won't do," he shouted. "It really won't do."

"What won't do?" Elizabeth asked.

"It's the office! It's been ransacked."

CHAPTER FIVE

Elizabeth and I jumped from our chairs. "What?" we asked simultaneously.

"It's been ransacked," he repeated. "Drawers left open, files and papers, everything, gone."

"Surely nobody's broken in." Elizabeth headed for the door. "I'll get Mum. Perhaps she knows something." She hurried away.

Jason and I went into the great hall, turned left and entered the office, a relatively small room with one window, bookshelves, desk, filing cabinet, and a comfy-looking brown leather chair. We'd barely gone inside when Elizabeth returned, her mother in tow.

"What's all the hullabaloo?" Alice asked.

Jason repeated that the place had been ransacked, a giant case of overstatement. Yes, the desk drawers hung open and appeared empty, as did the two-drawer oak filing cabinet in the corner. Books still lined the shelves, however, and nothing lay scattered on the floor, no furniture overturned, not even pictures askew.

"Someone's been in here," Jason insisted.

"So they have." Alice planted her hands on her hips. "The police, that's who."

"And they've been allowed to do this?" His eyes bulged, and his hands clenched at his side.

"They told me they didn't need permission to look in a dead person's rooms, not when that person has died under mysterious circumstances."

"But what about—?"

Alice cut him off. "The inspector said they needed to look through the papers, and they'd return them shortly. Put them in four large boxes, they did, labeled them too. I had no choice but to let them. I meant to tell you."

Jason paced up and down on the carpeting. "But those are private papers. The police had no right—"

"Oh, calm down, Jason." Elizabeth remained in the doorway. "If they return them, what's the harm?"

He whirled to face her. "The harm is that those papers and other things pertain to the household, to our property."

In a way, I could understand Jason being upset. After all, police officers—probably even in England—made mistakes, were known to lose evidence, and so forth. I had a nagging feeling he had more reasons to be upset. Perhaps he knew something the rest of us didn't know, something pertaining to specific papers he normally kept in the office. Yet how could he? Until three weeks ago, Uncle Edward ran the family businesses, didn't he?

He answered my unspoken question while glaring at Elizabeth.

"Don't you see? Now both Edward and Noreen have died, someone has to take charge, see things are run properly."

"Do you mean you?"

"Of course. As next in line, my father should take over now, but you know he'd ask me to do it."

Elizabeth shrugged. "I suppose you're right."

"Of course I am." He pounded a fist into his palm. "This is damned awkward. What if they lose valuable documents?"

Alice looked shamefaced. "Sorry. The inspector told me most particular they'd be careful, but if you're concerned, you may ring him in the morning." As if anxious to avoid any more blame, she left the room.

Elizabeth followed. I lingered in the office, my curiosity aroused. While Jason continued to search all the drawers, as if expecting something to materialize out of the paper lint that might be left in them, I plopped myself into the leather chair. "What documents are kept here?"

He turned to me. "Business papers. You know we own quite a bit of land hereabouts, and the tenants pay rent, so we have receipts and bank statements, things of that sort."

"After Edward died, did Noreen take over handling those things?"

He ran his fingers over the desktop. "She pretended to understand how to manage the property, but she actually knew nothing about it. I offered to help, but she rebuffed me in no uncertain terms. Accused me of meddling." He looked up at me, his eyes narrowed, and his jaw tight. "The opposite is true. She had no right to be in this office or manage anything." His voice rose on the last words.

"Perhaps Edward explained it all to her."

Jason straightened up and glared. "Edward was incompetent as well. I'm the one who took care of things."

"You?"

"Of course I let Edward think he made the decisions, but it's I who made the business run smoothly."

"Even after Noreen came?"

"No, not then. For the past three years, ever since they married, Noreen insisted Edward didn't want my help, that he trusted her."

"And—"

"And now that she's gone, I need desperately to check everything, find out what's happened. For all we know, she's cancelled leases, spent all the money from the banking accounts, squandered our whole life's savings."

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. "Sorry. Didn't mean to burden you with this."

"I'm family too. Naturally I'm concerned for the rest of you." I meant that sincerely, because, as I'd told the inspector, I didn't think I'd inherit anything myself. I got up and moved toward the door. "If I can help—"

He sighed and calmed down somewhat. "Thank you, Olivia. Even so, you can understand, I'm sure, why I'm so upset to find the police have carted off all the records."

"Of course, but Aunt Alice did what she felt she had to, and, as she suggested, you can telephone the inspector tomorrow."

"Right." He sighed again, and as we left the room, he switched off the lights. "Will you be retiring for the night, then?"

"Yes, soon. It's been a long day." Actually, it seemed like a week at least. I found it hard to believe so much had happened since I climbed out of bed in San Ricardo Monday morning. "I'll look for Aunt Alice and Elizabeth and say good night."

He walked away down the great hall, and I went back to the drawing room, but Elizabeth wasn't there. I found her in the small sitting room, the television set tuned to a sitcom featuring working-class characters. She seemed to be staring into space rather than watching it, and I perched on the edge of a chair and listened. I heard a laugh track, similar to American television, so I assumed it was meant to be funny.

Tuning it out, my mind returned to what Jason had said about Noreen. Had she messed up the business? Could Jason have killed her to stop her ruining the family's finances?

Whoa. Why even think such a thing? Surely Noreen drowned accidentally. Yet I couldn't erase my feeling the police considered it murder. Frankly, so did I. Everyone hated the woman. If someone did kill her, Jason seemed to have an especially strong motive.

I forced my thoughts away from the subject, and, after five more minutes listening to Brit-speak I found difficult to decode, I said good night to Elizabeth and went looking for Aunt Alice. I found her in the kitchen, pulling a baggy gray sweater from a hook next to the back door.

"Ah, Olivia. I'm about to take Mr. Tarkington for a walk before bedtime. Not that I fancy it, let me tell you. I'm not keen to be outdoors on the footpath this time of night, not after Noreen possibly got herself killed doing the same." She shivered slightly. "But someone's got to do it, haven't they?"

"There's nothing to be afraid of. You don't really believe some stranger killed Noreen, do you? Aunt Beryl is mistaken about that. Elizabeth thinks she drowned because she was inebriated."

"I'm sure she's right." Still, she made no move to put on the sweater.

"I'll do it," I told her. Tark, apparently already deciding who should take him out, sniffed around my ankles and looked up at me with pleading eyes.

"What a good idea. And see how he likes you." She pulled the dog's leash from another hook and handed it to me along with the sweater.

"You'd best take the lead until he knows you better, but you don't have to go all the way to the lily pond. The little garden out back here will do very nicely."

I pulled on the sweater, a bulky knit that smelled of cooking odors and felt scratchy. Then I fastened Tark's leash to his collar, not an easy task because he knew the ritual meant he'd be going outside, and he could hardly wait. He wriggled his little body and pushed his nose under my hand, as if that would make me hurry.

Grinning, Alice opened the back door. "We shall have to put in one of those little doors they make for pets. A cat flap or, in this case, a dog flap."

Outdoors, the still air smelled like freshly cut grass. I heard distant cars rumbling by on the main road and an occasional bird chirp. Although it was not cold, I hugged the sweater to me, feeling somewhat vulnerable despite my reassuring words to Alice. There's nothing quite so dark as a night sky in the country, far from city lights, and the sliver of moon and sprinkling of stars did nothing to relieve it. The pale yellow square coming from a kitchen window diminished as I walked down the path, and my own body made deep shadows across it.

Tark alternately tugged at the leash to get me to hurry and stopped to smell whatever appealed to him. Where the garden path ended, he stopped again, sniffing for a long time at the underside of a bush, and a sudden tingle ran up my spine. Had Tark found something sinister? I visualized one of those grisly scenes in films where someone comes upon a severed foot or arm.

I told myself not to be foolish, and a minute later Tark abandoned the bush, and my heartbeat returned to normal. I let him loose in a weed-covered spot before coaxing him back into the house, where I hung up his leash, filled his water bowl, and headed upstairs to my room. Finally, dressed in my nightgown, cozy in bed, and drifting off to sleep, I heard a scratching noise in the hallway. I got up and opened the door a crack. Mr. Tarkington stood there, stubby tail wagging, waiting to be let in.

Rather than put on my robe and take him back downstairs to shut him in the kitchen, I let him enter. He looked longingly at my bed but seemed too small to jump up on it, so I pulled the knitted afghan from its spot at the foot of the bed and placed it on the floor. Tark knew at once what to do, got on, turned around three times, and settled down to sleep. I'd been adopted by a dog.

Yet did this dog know something the rest of us didn't?

*  *   *

I woke in the morning to a wet tongue licking my chin. I decided either Tark had somehow managed to climb onto the bed after all or he'd figured out I might not let him stay in the room the night before if I thought he could do it, so he had pretended to be unable. Or perhaps he'd preferred the impromptu doggie bed.

At any rate, I realized my new charge expected me to take him for a morning walk too, so I dressed in the one sporty outfit I'd brought with me, dark slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt, and we went downstairs.

In the kitchen, Annie, standing at the stove, greeted me. "You're up early, I see."

"Are you fixing breakfast?" I felt foolish for stating the obvious, and suddenly I felt transported to San Ricardo a dozen or more years before.

Stephen would come home from work, find me in the kitchen preparing dinner and ask, "What are you doing?"

So it became our little ritual. I'd say something silly, like, "I'm skiing," or "I'm washing my hair." Over time, the jokes became outrageous. I remember telling him I was flying in a hot air balloon, digging the Panama Canal, and killing spies like Double-O-Seven.

Tark brought me out of my reverie by nudging my ankles and then sitting in front of the door, so I announced I'd be taking the dog for a walk (as if Annie couldn't figure that out), fastened his leash, grabbed the baggy sweater, and went outdoors.

Under a bright sunny sky, I saw the garden we'd walked in the night before held both vegetables and flowers, with low shrubs at the edges. As it was now mid-September, those plots were sparsely filled. I recognized tomato plants and the tops of carrots on one side of the path, and a few small flowers on the other. The path didn't end there, as I'd assumed, but took a ninety-degree turn and soon met a gravel road going in two directions: toward a few outbuildings including a garage and then curving in front of the house and leading to the main road.

Tark turned left, pulling on his leash, eager to explore the buildings. The garage, formerly a carriage house no doubt and large enough for at least four cars, was closed, and a stairway at one side led up to a narrow balcony and what appeared to be an apartment above. I saw windows and some wooden doors under a thick tile roof.

Another stone building, covered almost completely with ivy, turned out to be an old stable. Its door stood open, admitting daylight, and Tark, nose to the ground, darted inside. I saw a small tractor, some garden tools and similar equipment, not horses, and tugged the dog's leash to pull him out. Next stood a wooden potting shed, and around the corner I found another garden, this one planted in many rose bushes and some tall flowers whose names I didn't know. I've never been an outdoor person and know little about growing things. Some people want to go back to the land. I want to go back to the four-star hotel.

I looked around for a gardener but didn't see him. Or her. Why not a "her"? Once, in Hawaii, I saw two women delivering full-sized refrigerators.

But it was a male gardener, after all. When I returned to the path, a slender, fiftyish man stepped out of the potting shed in front of me. His face looked like mismatched pieces put together in a collage, and his red hair appeared to have been combed with an eggbeater. He held a battered-looking, wide-brimmed hat in one hand and garden clippers in the other. I stepped toward him, hand outstretched.

Reluctantly, I thought, he placed the hat on his head and touched his gnarled hand to mine. "Mornin', ma'am."

I introduced myself. "I'm Olivia Grant, a cousin from the US."

"Tim O'Brien."

"I've been taking the dog for a walk." I wanted to bite my tongue. Once again I'd stated the obvious, as if he were too obtuse to figure it out. Sometimes I forget my father's good advice, "Never miss a chance to shut up."

"Yes, ma'am. Mrs. Mason said you was comin'. Mr. Peter Mason's daughter, is it?"

"That's right. It's such a shame about Mrs. Mason."

"Nasty piece of business, drownin' like that."

I remembered Aunt Alice's saying she would rehire all the servants Noreen had fired, and I assumed that included a gardener, so I asked him if he'd be back to working full time.

"Aye." He chuckled. "Not that I left exactly."

"Oh?"

"Well, I live up here, don't I?" He pointed with the clippers toward the apartment above the garage. "Had to find rooms as well as a new job, didn't I?"

"And you hadn't done that?"

"Kept out of her way, I did. Went looking for a new place by day, come back here nights. Had to sleep somewhere, didn't I?" He shrugged. "Don't matter now."

I smiled. "That's good—" I stopped myself from saying, "good luck," since, no matter how the family felt about her, it wasn't good luck for Noreen to get herself killed. I changed the subject. "Do you happen to know if the police are still working around the lily pond?"

"No, ma'am. They're gone now, leastways last I looked. The pond needs fixin' up, don't it? Emptied, water changed?"

"I'm sure it does." I shuddered a bit at the thought of anyone cleaning a pond in which someone had died. I remembered how it looked when I found Noreen in it and didn't envy Tim's having to clean it out. Even though I realized such a death wouldn't happen often, that would certainly quell any desire I might have to become a gardener.

Furthermore, my understandable hunger for breakfast took precedence over my curiosity, so I said good-bye to Tim and returned the way I'd come, telling myself I'd check out the lily pond later.

Yet, as I walked, I couldn't help thinking again about Noreen's sudden demise. Since no one liked her, and virtually everyone in the house had a motive to kill her, I wondered if Tim did as well. I dismissed the idea. After all, that would be like a mystery novelist writing, "The butler did it."

Why did I keep thinking she'd been killed anyway? Why not accept Elizabeth's notion that she'd drowned after imbibing too much? Call me a mystery-loving fool, but I found it difficult to accept that theory. Especially since I felt reasonably certain Inspector Kincaid considered it a murder, and I was a suspect.

In all honesty, I had to admit it might be possible, if one accepted all the necessary assumptions, for me to have committed the crime. Suppose my father could inherit something from Uncle Edward? Suppose he'd described Noreen to me and said she planned to take everything for herself? Also, suppose I were a person—after all, Kincaid didn't know me—who would kill for money? I dismissed the idea I could have handled the job during the half hour I actually slept in the library, but I might have got off the plane at Heathrow, gone to Mason Hall, seen Noreen at the lily pond, and then hit her over the head with one of the rocks.

Playing devil's advocate, I protested the scenario to myself. How awfully convenient for me to find her right where she needed to be in order for me to commit the dirty deed. Well, Kincaid could argue, if not then, I would have done it some other time. I just took advantage of the opportunity I'd been afforded.

So, obviously, I'm guilty. I shivered. When would Kincaid come to arrest me? How would I prove my innocence?

CHAPTER SIX

I returned to the house, removed Tark's leash, and gave him food and water, then went into the dining room. Finding it empty, I decided everyone else had already eaten breakfast. In spite of my fear, slight though it might be, that I would soon be arrested for Noreen's murder, my hunger had returned, and I filled a plate with eggs and bacon from the chafing dishes. I poured a glass of orange juice, returned to the warm kitchen, and ate at the kitchen table while Alice sat at the little desk in the corner making telephone calls.

She hung up the phone at last and turned to me. "It's all Noreen's fault. I've not had much luck so far persuading our servants to return."

"They didn't like working here?"

"It's not that. As a matter of fact, they voiced some satisfaction to learn Noreen isn't here anymore. However, two have signed on to work elsewhere, and they need to give at least a week's notice. Becky's mum tells me she's off on holiday in Italy. I can't even ask her to consider it until she returns."

"Luckily Annie is still here."

"Yes, she's moving back into her room on the third floor Monday week." She laid her pencil down sharply.

I remembered my encounter with Tim O'Brien. "You still have a gardener too. I met him while out walking this morning."

"Did you now? He doesn't much like talking to strangers, keeps to himself."

"He was very pleasant. I think he enjoyed the idea he'd put something over on Noreen, not moving out as she expected him to."

Alice grinned.

"Is there anything I can do?" I said next.

Alice's smile turned to a frown, and she poked at her topknot, although every silver strand was held rigidly in place and would survive a category five tornado. "I don't like to ask."

"We're family, after all. I'd be happy to pitch in."

"Would you mind? Just for a day or two?"

"Of course not."

"Since the servants left, Elizabeth's been helping, but today she's had to attend a meeting at her school."

"What would you like me to do, wash dishes, make beds?"

"No, luv. Annie and I have the kitchen under control. As for the beds, I told everyone a week ago they'd have to make their own from now on. However, it is laundry day, and I'd be much obliged if you'd strip the linens and put them down the laundry chute. You can leave the clean things in the rooms."

"Sounds easy enough."

Alice showed me to the double-doored linen closet in the second floor hall, where masses of sheets, pillow cases, and towels filled a half-dozen shelves. The shelving ended at waist height, and below that a small step stool (for reaching high shelves) rested on a trap door in the floor, which turned out to be the laundry chute.

Alice moved the stool and lifted the trap door for a few seconds, so I could see inside the rather large opening. "This goes to the cellar, where the laundry's done. There's another opening to it from the kitchen downstairs."

A memory poked its way into my brain. The cellar, where, as a child on that long-ago visit, I sometimes hid during hide-and-seek. A cold, dark, and musty place, it frightened the other children. They insisted a monster lurked in the shadows ready to pounce, which, since I didn't believe them, made it ideal for me to use. Although I had little fear at the time, and certainly none now, I assumed Alice didn't require me to go there and do the laundry.

She hurried back downstairs, and I pulled some supplies from the shelves and went into my own room. However, I'd only slept there one night and didn't think the sheets needed changing, so I just made my bed and tidied my belongings. As for the other bedrooms, my knocking produced no responses, so I did as Alice instructed, pulled back blankets and removed sheets, leaving clean ones on benches or chairs.

Having decided my assignment gave me carte blanche to engage in snooping, I looked around rather more than strictly necessary. Except for Noreen's room, which I'd already noted displayed Hollywood kitsch, and William and Beryl's, with its small sitting room attached, all the bedrooms were decorated almost exactly like mine. No individual touches, except for a few toiletries, or a picture on a desk, to show who occupied them. Almost as if they were guests instead of permanent residents.

In Jason's tidy room I found the bed already made, and I felt a little uncomfortable having to pull it apart, forcing him to do it over again. So, once more acting like a country cousin who must do her share, I remade the bed for him. While I tucked in the sheet and blanket, my foot caught on something underneath, and I stooped down to look. A pair of gray trousers lay on the floor.

I pulled them out and noticed tears at the bottom of one of the legs. Not that I'd know a Savile Row suit from one bought at Sears, but I noticed that what seemed to be expensive fabric showed several rips near the hem. What on earth could Jason have been doing to tear them that way? Could an insurance office be more dangerous than anyone suspected? Did he moonlight by installing barbed wire, or feeding lions at the zoo? Or did he engage in some violent and disorderly hobby? Since he was otherwise so neat and conventional, however, none of that seemed plausible.

I needed to get on with my assigned task, but what should I do about the trousers? Leave them there, hang them up, take them away? Jason had obviously gone to work that morning, so I couldn't ask him, and I finally decided to leave them where I'd found them, their disreputable appearance and resting place being none of my business.

Yet my curiosity refused to be silent. Wondering about things I shouldn't be involved in always held a great fascination for me. Eventually, I shrugged and moved on.

Chaz's room, I'd theorized, would look different, but, except it appeared a few grizzlies held a turf war in it, that, too, looked the same. Clothes strewn everywhere and furniture askew, it nevertheless offered little to identify its occupant. However, since Chaz also had a studio on the third floor, I thought he'd probably decorated that to his own taste, and I felt fortunate I didn't have to do anything up there.

Then, after I pulled his used sheets from the bed and left the clean ones on top, Chaz himself came into the room.

"Looking for me, were you?" He came close, a broad grin on his face. "I suspected we might get cozy, but I planned to come to your room, soon as you asked."

I backed away. "You weren't about to be asked."

"Come now, luv, are you telling me you don't want a bit of shall we say, er, relaxation while you're here? Sexy-looking bird like you?"

I don't consider myself sexy-looking, but I have to admit his remark made my face feel tight and warm. Who among us is not affected by compliments, even if we suspect they're insincere and know in advance an ulterior motive lurks behind them? However, I recovered quickly, having run into similar behavior back home, indicating it may be a transcontinental character flaw.

"I'm getting plenty of relaxation," I told him. "I think what you propose qualifies as something entirely different."

"See," he went on, inching his way toward me again, "you know what I'm thinking. Doesn't that mean it's already crossed your mind?"

He had a certain animal magnetism that made a woman want to hang around if only to see what would develop. A dangerous curiosity, but one I thought I could handle.

"Be serious. I'm your cousin, remember? First cousin. My father is the brother of your father."

"That 'cousin' stuff is old-fashioned. Some bloke made it up to keep us from having fun."

"But—"

"Look," he said, advancing toward me again, "the Chinese marry their cousins. Didn't some scientist say there was nothing to that old wives' tale?"

He had moved on relentlessly, and I found myself backed against one of the posts of his four-poster bed.

"That's enough." I tried to imitate my old schoolteacher who had scared pupils into obedience by the mere sound of her voice. "I mean it."

"I don't think so." His long fingers slithered up my arm. "I think you'd like a bit of slap and tickle."

I shook him off. "Don't be silly."

"Anyway, we're going to be careful, aren't we?"

He meant, well we know what he meant. That thought put me off guard for a time, allowing Chaz to move closer, caress my hip, and lean in to nuzzle my neck. I squirmed out of his grip and ducked away, then made a hasty retreat to the door.

As I closed it behind me, I said sweetly, "Make your bed, Cousin."

* * *

At four that afternoon Aunt Alice and I sat in the kitchen chatting over tea when the front doorbell rang. Alice went to answer it and returned to tell me Inspector Kincaid had arrived. She asked if I would "be a luv" and bring the tea tray into the drawing room and left again.

For a minute, I thought my fears had been realized, and the inspector had come to arrest me, but then I decided it was far too soon for that. More questioning perhaps, but they were days, if not weeks, away from eliminating every other possibility and every other suspect. I put an extra china cup on the tea tray along with the teapot, sugar, and milk, carried it in, and set it on the coffee table.

Kincaid stood up when I entered, and we shook hands. Mine felt damp with perspiration. Or was it just condensation?

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Grant." His industrial-sized mustache wiggled as he spoke, disconcerting me, as usual, but I felt pleased he'd come alone with no backups in sight. "I've been telling Mrs. Klein I've come to discuss our investigation into Mrs. Mason's death."

I filled a cup with tea and offered it to him, my nervousness making the cup rattle in the saucer, and after accepting it he resumed his seat and busied himself adding sugar and milk.

Alice said, "Inspector Kincaid tells me they think their investigation is complete."

Complete? How could that be?

I sat in a chair facing Kincaid. Fell into it is more like it. I was stunned. Were the British police so superior they could solve a case in less time than it took American tabloids to begin to speculate about one?

"What? I mean, who—?" I couldn't finish. I realized I didn't know what I wanted to ask first.

Kincaid took a sip of tea and lowered the cup. "Due to the autopsy, I think we can say with assurance that Mrs. Mason died as the result of an accident."

"Accident?" I found it hard to believe they had come to that conclusion so quickly.

"In our opinion, the lady fell into the lily pond and struck her head on one of the many rocks, rendering her unconscious for sufficient time for her to drown."

"Then Elizabeth was right," Alice said. "My daughter has said all along that Noreen, Mrs. Mason, that is, must have fallen whilst—er—intoxicated."

"That would be consistent with our findings. She had a high concentration of alcohol in her system which could account for her tripping and falling." He paused. "Particularly as she may not have been aware in the dark."

Dark? They believed she drowned before I had even arrived in England. I was off the hook. I pulled my thoughts together. "Then you believe it happened at night."

"The water having been cold makes it a bit more difficult to establish time of death, but we estimate it occurred between ten o'clock at night and seven o'clock in the morning."

I think I let out a sigh. Seven o'clock eliminated me as a suspect. Yet I wanted to know more.

"Excuse me, Inspector, but did you find any wounds or bruises?"

"The bruises on Mrs. Mason's head are consistent with her falling and striking it on the rocks." He paused then, apparently reading my mind, added, "There appears to be no evidence of foul play."

I still found it difficult to make the switch from thinking murder to thinking accident. "But, Inspector, what about the dog?" Suddenly, I felt like Doctor Watson asking Sherlock Holmes, "What was curious about the dog in the night?"

"The dog?" Kincaid repeated.

"Mrs. Mason has, that is, had, a little dog, and we believed she might have taken him for a walk. Yet, if she fell in the pond and drowned, how did the dog get back into the house?"

Kincaid fingered his mustache before answering. "I should say she must not have taken the dog with her on that occasion."

I let a beat go by. "It seems a little odd that she would walk alone at that time of night."

"As I mentioned earlier, time of death might have been as late as seven in the morning. It's quite light by then."

"Forgive me, Inspector, but didn't you say she might not have seen the lily pond in the dark?"

He frowned. "I believe I also mentioned her blood alcohol level was rather high. Even in daylight an intoxicated person might slip and fall."

"Of course." I began to regret my questions. After all, I couldn't be entirely sure that he didn't still consider me a suspect. I decided it wouldn't do to antagonize him.

He cleared his throat. "We're also unable to rule out suicide completely, although suicide is quite unlikely. In our interviews with the family members, no one has offered any reason why she might wish to take her life. Furthermore," he continued, "such persons don't generally strike themselves with a rock." He paused, as if waiting for Alice and me to laugh at the mental picture he'd conjured up. We didn't.

After a pause, he added, "The pond is rather shallow. One would think the Thames a better choice for drowning oneself."

"Thank you, Inspector," Alice said. "You've relieved our minds, I can tell you. We didn't like to think it was murder."

Kincaid finished his tea and seemed about to conclude his visit. "One can be absolutely certain about very few things in life, Mrs. Klein, but, on this occasion, I think we're correct to rule out both suicide and foul play."

"Then you've finished questioning us?" Alice asked.

"I believe so, although your, er, statements are being checked as a matter of form." He rose and headed for the door.

Alice left her chair and followed him. "And what about the office papers that your men have boxed up and taken away?"

"They'll be returned to you tomorrow."

"And Mrs. Mason?" she asked.

"The body will be released soon as well. Someone will telephone you about the details." He turned to me. "Thank you for the tea."

Alice nodded, and they left the room.

I stayed behind, listening to their footsteps in the hall and then the front door opening and closing, wondering why the inspector had said our alibis were being checked. If they were so certain Noreen drowned accidentally, why would they need to check alibis? Or did they realize by now that almost everyone in the house had a motive to kill her?

Alice returned and picked up the tea tray, and I followed her into the kitchen.

Rinsing cups at the sink, Alice surprised me by saying, "You don't think it was an accident, do you?" Like she'd been reading my mind.

"Not really. It's just that falling that way and drowning as a result seems so improbable, even if she were drunk. I mean, she'd gotten through life to that point without killing or maiming herself."

I stopped. My constant thoughts about murder began to bother me. This was not a mystery novel, nor one of Brad's cases back in San Francisco, where murders happened more frequently. These were my relatives, and to believe in murder meant one of them might have committed it. Although I'd been away a long time, I had already begun to bond with them, and I ought to be ashamed even to consider such a thing. I felt my face flush.

I took a deep breath. I would stop thinking about murder. If the police were prepared to call Noreen's death an accident, who was I to disagree? After all, they were the experts. In addition, even if they were wrong, the world would not come to an end if I returned home without ever knowing the truth about what happened. Yet I wanted to know. I also didn't want to go home yet. I'd planned on a two-week vacation. I needed it.

"On the other hand," I said, "perhaps having a brother in the police department at home makes me more suspicious. Probably the detective has it right." Yet I didn't believe a word I said.

"I'm glad it's settled then." Alice wiped her hands on a dishtowel, as if she were wiping away the entire event from our lives like so much dirty dishwater.

Easy for her. Despite trying to dismiss the event from my mind, I couldn't shake the feeling that the inspector had told us Noreen died accidentally in order to lull us into a false sense of security. He would be doing more than checking our alibis. He would be watching us, waiting to see if we made a mistake and revealed the truth. Then he'd pounce.

Alice's voice interrupted my thoughts. "Elizabeth wants to take you into the city tomorrow to do some sightseeing. I'm sure you're anxious to see Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, and the Tower of London."

Perhaps I did before, when I packed for the trip, and even on the flight coming over. Now, however, with a strange mystery staring me in the face? As they say in British films, "not bloody likely." I wanted to stick around the mansion and snoop.

CHAPTER SEVEN

True to her word, the next morning Elizabeth roused me from bed and hurried me off to the city. Despite the early hour at which she insisted we start, I relished the opportunity to be alone with her so I could ply her with questions. I seldom minded my own business if I could snoop into someone else's.

"I'm curious," I began, "about what Aunt Beryl said the other day, that Edward left everything to Noreen, and if she sold the Hall they'd have nowhere to go. Did the property belong to him exclusively?"

"No, and it's not entailed." As my father had once explained I knew "entailed" meant required to pass to the next male heir.

"Technically," Elizabeth said, "it belonged to Edward, but Grandfather had made provision for everyone who lived in the house, by assigning some profits from land leases to his children separately."

"Through legal documents?"

"No, worse luck, just a private arrangement, but Edward followed it, and William expected to as well."

"Yet you think Noreen had no intention of doing so."

"We can't be positive, because she didn't take anyone into her confidence, but it seemed clear she intended to sell off everything." She turned to me. "You can understand now why most family members, heaven forgive us, are glad she's dead."

"What about her will? Did she have one? Could she leave the property to someone else?"

Elizabeth frowned. "It's possible. We'll know soon enough, I suppose." She shrugged. "No use ruining our day with gloomy thoughts."

Her last statement startled me, being unlike the Elizabeth I had met two days before, who had seemed to hold nothing but gloomy thoughts. Maybe she didn't want to think about the problem at that time, but my curiosity grew in size from marbles to bowling balls. Nevertheless, I put it aside for the time being.

I had always liked Elizabeth. We were almost the same age and played well together that summer we both visited Mason Hall. Now we were both divorced. I still smarted from mine, and, thanks to Elizabeth's occasional surly attitude, I suspected she carried a gunnysack full of bitterness about hers. Yet that day as she drove us in her black Vauxhall, she seemed cheerful enough and asked me why I hadn't visited over the years.

"I came close to it once. The summer after graduating from college, three friends and I spent a couple of weeks tooling around Europe."

"Didn't you get to England?"

"My girlfriends had all been here more recently and wanted to stay on the continent. I suggested we visit Mason Hall, but I don't believe you lived there at the time."

"I expect you're right. Papa died young, as you know, and Mother moved back here. Yet, if you'd finished university at the time of your trip, you're right. I'd left home by then anyway."

"I wouldn't have minded seeing Uncle Edward, but, as a child, I didn't get along with Jason." Truth is I had disliked him and figured he'd probably turn into a person who gives away the endings of suspense films. "I didn't know Chaz at all, and the prospect of being dragged to visit my aunts and uncles didn't appeal to the others. They vetoed it."

"I can certainly sympathize with that." She maneuvered the car skillfully through a roundabout. "Couldn't you have come later?"

"Well, I got married that same year and secured a new job right away too. Stephen and I talked about a trip here, but it didn't happen. Then he was killed in that accident, and I buried myself in work for a long time."

"With your looks, you should have married again. You've got a great figure, pretty face, naturally curly hair. American men must be barmy."

I laughed at her expression. "I had no time to look at men, even if I'd been interested." I shook my head. "No, I waited until last year to take the plunge and then made a huge mistake. Take it from me, if a man sings Spanish love songs to you and brings you flowers every time you meet, run, don't walk, to the nearest exit."

Elizabeth frowned. "No chance of that."

She'd gleaned more information about me than I had about her. "How about putting the shoe on the other foot? Why haven't you remarried?" I'd already noticed she dressed as if she'd taken lessons in how to discourage male attention.

"Schoolteachers don't get many opportunities to meet eligible men. Besides, I don't think I'm the marrying kind. I like being single. No one I must please."

"There's a lot to be said for that," I admitted, "but it does get a bit lonely. Television and microwave meals are okay, but they're not a good substitute for going out to dinner and seeing a movie or play with a person of the opposite sex."

She didn't comment, and feeling again as if she were my sister, I said confidentially, "Speaking of sex, I'd like to experience a bit more before I forget how to do it."

To my surprise, Elizabeth didn't laugh at that, or even smile. Instead, I thought I saw a painful grimace flash across her face. Then, before I could find a nonintrusive way to ask her about it, she announced our arrival into the city and pointed out some local landmarks. I took that as a sign she didn't want to pursue the topic.

I'd been a child the year my parents brought me to England, and after showing me the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace and the Tower of London—complete with gruesome stories of intrigue, torture, and death—they dropped me off at Mason Hall for that summer-long visit while they toured Europe alone. I didn't remember much of that brief trip to the city, so I found myself enjoying doing it all again with Elizabeth. We looked at the Crown Jewels then walked through Hyde Park where autumn leaves had begun to fall. I enjoyed seeing Parliament and Big Ben because I loved to look at buildings that had been around for a few thousand years. At home, city council members voted to tear down anything older than they were.

While we had lunch in a chintz-and-ruffles tearoom near Harrods, I asked her about a revolving restaurant I'd heard about on the top of the post office tower. "A strange place for a restaurant, isn't it?"

"I remember that, but it isn't there anymore. Some years ago, the IRA threatened once too many times to bomb the post office, so they closed the restaurant."

"What a shame. I looked forward to going there."

"That's not all that's changed since then. Money's different too. We went to the decimal system, worse luck."

"I thought that happened a long time ago."

"Seems like yesterday." Her voice took on a hard edge. "I hate that we don't have shillings, crowns, and guineas anymore. Not just the coins but the words are gone. They'd been part of our language for hundreds of years."

"But isn't the decimal system easier?"

"Not to anyone who grew up with the other."

I understood what she meant, and I cringed mentally. The metric system is easier too, but we Americans still clung to inches and feet, rather than switching to meters, grams, and all the rest. And, no, we will probably not have done so by the next century in case you were going to ask.

"We have pounds and pence now," Elizabeth went on. "And they say, 'P' for pence, like 'that'll be two P.'"

I couldn't help smiling. "It sounds a little vulgar."

Again, Elizabeth didn't laugh at my feeble attempt at humor. "And you can't make brass rubbings from the original figures in Westminster Abbey anymore. They've made some replicas, and you can rub those, but it's not the same."

Her pessimistic demeanor had returned, and I began to wonder if more lay behind her negative attitude than a few new rules. Did her divorce leave her bitter? I was having a difficult time adjusting to being discarded for a newer version myself. Did she have the same problem? Or did she hate change? Change is difficult at best. Lately it challenged at the speed of light. Okay, I had a cell phone, and I used a computer, and I liked e-mail. But now I faced chat rooms on the internet to say nothing of spam. Besides, I didn't want to pay my bills electronically. I felt as if my money were disappearing into the ether. Except for that, I managed to embrace all the new technology.

If Elizabeth had visited California years ago and then went over there today, she'd notice those changes too. Yes, the Golden Gate Bridge still stood above San Francisco Bay, and Los Angeles still had stars imbedded in sidewalks, and a venerable movie theatre contained movie stars' footprints in concrete. Yes, we had more skyscrapers, more freeways, more cars, more traffic. Also more people, and most of the additional millions were Asian or Hispanic. Whites were now a minority, at least in California. Except in the movies, I rarely saw blonde or red hair, or eyes of blue or green.

I relinquished my musings in time to notice Elizabeth's frown had laid siege to her entire face.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but I'm afraid I'm not feeling very well. Would you mind awfully if we called it a day?"

"No, of course not." Actually, I did. I'd hoped to go to Carnaby Street and similar hangouts, and I'd promised Brad I'd visit Sherlock Holmes's Baker Street and try to find 221-B, but I didn't want to inconvenience Elizabeth for my little whim.

Back at Mason Hall, she apologized again, said we'd return to London the next day, and went immediately to her room. I went to look for Aunt Alice, wanting to make myself useful but mostly to take my mind off my own gloomy thoughts.

I checked all the first floor rooms and considered giving up, when I remembered another hiding place in the mansion. We children often used the cupboard, what we Americans call a closet, under the stairs. Its stone floor was uneven and cold underfoot, and, as it had no window, and we were not tall enough to reach the light cord that hung above our heads, the little room was always dark. To say nothing of scary, as if bogeymen lurked there. Only Elizabeth, Jason, and I had been brave enough to use it during our games.

I went into the great hall and walked behind the curving staircase, and sure enough, the narrow wooden closet door stood open. The light bulb dangled from a cord in the ceiling and gave a faint glow, revealing Alice rearranging things on shelves.

"Anything I can do to help?" I asked.

"Dear me, no, not this time. You've done enough already. And you our guest, at that."

"I like being busy, and I don't think of myself as a guest."

"I'm just tidying up. We keep the mackintoshes and wellies in here, you know, and with winter soon around the bend, I thought it's time I put them to rights."

As I stood there, idly counting umbrellas in a large oriental-looking ceramic jar, Alice said, "There is something. We need to put an advert in the newspaper, and your dad said you'd done a bit of writing."

I grinned. My father would make me sound like the next J. K. Rowling. "He tends to exaggerate. I wrote monthly newsletters for some organizations I belonged to."

"You're sure to be better at putting words together than I am. If you wouldn't mind."

"No, I don't mind. What is it you want me to write?"

"Something about Noreen."

"What do you mean?"

"Her body is going to be released for burial, and we shall have to hold a funeral, but we don't know if she has any relatives who should be notified."

"She must have had some. Doesn't Chaz know about them? I believe you told me he met her first and brought her here."

"He claims she told him she had no parents, or brothers, or sisters, but of course that might be a lie." Alice shook her head in emphasis. "We all know the woman had an expert tongue for lying."

Good old Noreen. The list of her endearing traits kept lengthening.

"What about when she and Edward were married? Didn't she invite anyone to the wedding?"

"Nary a soul. Naturally, we all thought it odd at the time, but she wanted it very quiet. And quick, I might add. If it weren't for her age, you'd have thought she had to rush into it because she was expecting."

"She never talked about any other people in her life before she met Chaz?"

"She never mentioned any. As a matter of fact, she rarely spoke more than two words to anyone but him and Edward." She paused. "Well, there were those three women she played cards with, but I don't even know their names, much less how I could reach them."

"So you want me to write something like a public notice to put in the newspaper announcing her funeral, is that it?"

"That's right."

"And when is the funeral?"

"Tuesday next. Can't wait too long, but the notice ought to run a few days so people have an opportunity to make plans."

I went to the kitchen desk, pulled out some paper, and tried to compose something. Yet I kept thinking how ever since I arrived, I'd been running into strange or mysterious matters. I'd never met Noreen, saw her only from the back as she floated face down in the pond, knew almost nothing about her, except most people hated her, and she had died fairly young. She seemed a malevolent ghost. I decided I'd ask Alice to let me see a photograph of her. Meanwhile, however, publishing her funeral information might help me to learn more. Perhaps a friend or shirttail relative would show up after all.

Later, dinner over, all retired to their own pursuits, some to watch a favorite television program. I decided I'd take Mr. Tarkington for a long walk. Daylight hadn't quite disappeared, and I headed across the side yard toward the lily pond. I hadn't been there since discovering Noreen's body, and I wanted to see for myself if the authorities had blocked off the pond or if the gardener had cleaned it by then.

Although I've already admitted I'm not a nature lover—believing one should admire it from a distance and not interact in some possibly dangerous way—I rounded the house and stepped off the path to take a shortcut across the lawn. As I bypassed the privet hedge, I could see the pond in the distance but no yellow police tape or other obstruction. I found myself walking more slowly, remembered seeing the body, and my skin crawled. No, I told myself, regaining my tempo, there was nothing to be afraid of.

But Tark, usually sprinting ahead, stopped. I passed him, then felt a tug on the leash. I looked back, expecting him to have stopped to smell something intriguing. He hadn't. He quivered, and a low growl came from his throat. I pulled on the leash, but he resisted, even backed up, whimpering. Was he afraid? I stooped and petted him.

"What's the matter, Tark?" I looked around but didn't see anything that might spook him. I pulled on the leash again. Again, he growled and wouldn't move. Prickles crept up the backs of my arms, answering my question. Mr. Tarkington refused to go near the lily pond.

Truth, or possibly my wild imagination, spoke to me. Tark was warning me not to go near the water. Noreen had taken him for a walk that night, and he must know what I only suspected. No matter what Inspector Kincaid might think, she had not fallen into the pond and drowned. She really had been murdered.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The bedside clock read twelve-fifteen before I finally fell asleep that night. Yes, I climbed into bed and closed my eyes, but my mind replayed, over and over, the scene with Tark near the lily pond. Inspector Kincaid said Noreen fell into the pond and drowned while intoxicated, but if the British police were anything like their American counterparts, it wouldn't be the first time they'd been wrong. In fact, I seemed to recall hearing about a recent faux pas committed by the bobbies. Furthermore, didn't Sherlock Holmes continually show up Inspector Lestrade's incompetence?

True, an accident made more sense than suicide, but somehow murder seemed the most logical of all. Yet, as I'd told myself before, to imagine Noreen murdered meant one of my very own relatives might have done it. Since I couldn't bring myself to picture any of them killing someone, my theory, like Noreen herself, was dead in the water. I'd probably return home without ever knowing what really happened. I wished that possibility didn't bother me so much.

*   *  *

On Friday morning, Elizabeth, Chaz, and I all showed up in the dining room at the same time. Chaz nodded to us and poured himself a cup of coffee. Elizabeth seemed to make a point of ignoring him, and again I wondered why she showed such dislike. He wasn't exactly a model of correct British behavior and might act as if he invented male chauvinism, but he seemed relatively harmless. After he gave me a smile and wink and carried his cup out of the room, I asked her what her problem was.

She made a face but said nothing.

"Come on, Elizabeth, tell me what's wrong."

She busied herself at the buffet table, putting small amounts of everything on her plate, as well as spooning orange marmalade on her toast. Could she possibly be buying time to invent a story for me?

"He's such a waste, isn't he?" she said finally.

"What do you mean by 'waste'? He has a band."

"That garbage." She made a face.

"What kind of band is it? Rock and roll, heavy metal, punk, rap?" I didn't care much for rap myself, since it had no melody, but both Elizabeth and I had grown up with rock. I liked Sammy Hagar, Van Halen, and Boston. Come to think of it, I probably listened to the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, British bands, as much as she did.

"Judging by Aunt Alice's comment about the loud sounds Chaz made, I assume it's some variation, nothing that should upset you." I filled my own plate and took it to the table.

"It's— barbaric," she said.

"Like what: those goth types who paint their faces and wear a lot of tattoos? I don't think Chaz has a tattoo, at least I haven't noticed one."

"Worse than that. They think they're some sort of animals." She paused. "I can't explain it. It's entirely too weird."

"Well, that's what it's about. A new band has to be different from the others in order to get noticed. They do weird things so people will remember them and play their music."

"I suppose you're right."

I thought Elizabeth gave up the argument too easily, but I didn't continue the subject. "Where shall we go today?"

"Olivia, I can't go to London with you after all. I'm sorry, but I must do something at school before the new term begins."

It sounded like a feeble excuse, and I wondered if she wanted to avoid being alone with me. She not only seemed reluctant to talk about Chaz, but I began to think she was afraid she might reveal something she preferred to keep hidden. The mystery was beginning to get to me. I was suspecting everyone and everything.

She insisted, however, that I go myself. After we'd finished breakfast she walked outdoors with me. "Tim O'Brien doubles as our chauffeur. He'll take you."

A chauffeur drive me around? "I couldn't."

"Nonsense. That's what the Bentley is for."

A Bentley? Even worse. "Isn't that the Rolls Royce's twin brother?"

Elizabeth ignored my protest and rattled on. "Jason, Chaz, and I each have our own automobiles, but when we can't take the others where they need to go, Tim does it. That's one of his duties."

Tim duly appeared, his gardening hat replaced by a black cap. Reluctantly, afraid I'd get too accustomed to la dolce vita, I agreed he could drop me off at the depot, where I would take a commuter train into the city. Yet he insisted I ride in the back.

"Wouldn't be proper otherwise, Miss."

So I sat in the rear seat, feeling foolish. I sometimes like to think I'm meant for a life surrounded by wealth and luxury, but the truth is, when actually immersed in it, I feel like an imposter. When Tim dropped me off, I told him I had no idea when I'd return, so I'd take a taxi, and he needn't pick me up.

However, once in the city, I couldn't concentrate on sightseeing because, after finally dismissing Elizabeth from my thoughts, Noreen took her place. If she was walking the dog that night, how did Mr. Tarkington get back into the house? If she wasn't walking the dog, why did she go to the lily pond? I couldn't believe some stranger came upon her and killed her for no reason. Suppose she planned to meet someone there, a man, most likely, they quarreled, and he killed her? Noreen's being unfaithful to Edward seemed common knowledge. Could she have been meeting a lover, someone besides Chaz? If she were two-timing both him and Edward, it would go a long way toward explaining the hatred she inspired.

I stopped and looked at my surroundings. I'd walked clear through Westminster Abbey without my mind registering a thing. I felt foolish again. I forced myself to forget Noreen and do the next thing I'd promised myself to do in London: go shopping. Being on my own made it ideal. I had long ago learned I should always shop by myself. Letting someone else tell me what looked attractive had led to frequent wardrobe catastrophes.

According to the latest magazines, fashion at home leaned toward making women look like something out of Star Wars, but I assumed London shops would have some simple, classic outfits, say a pleated plaid skirt—they called them tartans—and a cashmere sweater to go with it. Something suitable for an English woman like myself. Right. Instead, on Bond Street, I found myself trying on a slinky little black number that made my extra pounds magically disappear. As the sales clerk put the considerable sum on my American Express card, I watched with a boatload of guilt and wondered where I would ever wear the dress. Although black, it definitely couldn't be worn to Noreen's funeral.

I left the shop carrying a trendy-looking silver bag and then, as if I hadn't indulged myself enough for one day, bought an ice cream. English ice cream is richer than American, supposedly because they still have Jersey cows. Anyway, I didn't want to look like those skinny rich women whose major food was probably low-fat toothpaste.

During the train ride back, my mind returned to Noreen, and I wondered if I might be obsessed with trying to turn an accident into murder. Was I gnawing on this particular bone for my own selfish reasons? To be smarter than the police? To prove my self-worth after the debilitating divorce?

No. I wanted to see justice served. I also wanted to help my family. Because it occurred to me I had another reason to try to solve the mystery of Noreen's demise. What if she'd become involved in something shady or even illegal? What if she'd had to be silenced because she knew too much? Furthermore, what if the murderer, Mister X, thought she might have given this dangerous information to someone else in the family and tried to kill again? Didn't I owe it to everyone to uncover this person and bring him to justice before that happened?

Warming to my theory, I made plans for how I would go about investigating the crime I had so brilliantly deduced. First, I'd tackle Alice, who knew the most about the household. Then I'd question everyone else about Noreen's habits. I'd cleverly ferret out clues they didn't even know existed. By the time the taxi stopped in the mansion driveway, I had constructed several fascinating conversations in my head.

However, my plan went on hold when I saw a strange car parked in front and found Inspector Kincaid standing inside the great hall, holding a large box and speaking to Aunt Alice. His sergeant, the young man who had taken notes when Kincaid questioned us about Noreen's death, also held a large box.

Alice turned to me. "Ah, Olivia, look, the kind inspector has returned all the papers he took from the office the other day. Jason will be so relieved." She returned her gaze to the inspector. "Do come this way."

They smiled and followed Alice into the office.

I'd reached the stairs when I had a sudden thought. I'd been handed a perfect opportunity to talk to Kincaid about my theory that Mister X had killed Noreen. Of course, first I'd have to find out if such a person existed, as well as why and how he killed her, but meanwhile I'd get as much information as possible out of Kincaid. I remembered why I wanted to become a private detective. Puzzling over a riddle pushed my adrenaline level to new heights.

I left the silver bag on the stairs and hurried toward the office. The men were coming out. "Inspector Kincaid, may I have a minute?"

"Of course."

He told the sergeant to wait in the car, and I led him toward the small sitting room, invited him in, and closed the door. He sat in a side chair, and I took the sofa.

"How may I help you?" he asked.

"It's about Noreen's, er, death."

"Most unfortunate."

"You think it was accidental because she was intoxicated?"

"So far we've found nothing to suggest otherwise."

"Do you remember my asking you during our last conversation about her dog, Mr. Tarkington?"

"Yes, I recall you said she frequently took the dog for a walk in the evening."

"I suggested to you that if she had accidentally fallen into the pond, the dog would not have been found inside the house the next morning."

He rubbed his chin but didn't answer for a few minutes. Finally, his mustache moved again, and his eyebrows rose. "I believe I said at the time that perhaps she had not been walking the dog on that particular evening."

"Yes, but something has happened which changes that."

I told him about what had happened the night before, how Tark had balked at going near the place, pulled against the leash, whimpered, and even growled. "I'm sure it's because he was afraid."

Kincaid frowned and tugged at his mustache.

"But surely it fails to tell us how he came to be in the house." He paused. "Unless he could enter himself, by way of one of those, er, pet flaps."

"There isn't one." I leaned forward. "Suppose we agree she did not walk the dog that night. Why did she go to the lily pond?" I didn't wait for an answer. "Suppose she met someone there, and that person killed her? A man, perhaps a lover or an enemy."

"If you're proposing this theory to me, I should need some evidence that person exists. No one I've interviewed has suggested such a thing."

I didn't want to launder dirty linen in front of Kincaid, so I hedged a bit. "Perhaps they didn't think it relevant. Yet, after Edward died, Noreen went out alone a great deal. I know everyone in the family believed she probably saw another man at those times."

"Of course, that is possible. However, even if she met someone by the pond, it doesn't necessarily mean she's been murdered. The gentleman might have left, and then she fell and drowned."

"I thought of that, but it doesn't explain Mr. Tarkington's fear."

"He might only sense his mistress died there. I once heard about a gentleman who became ill, and his dog stayed outside his bedroom door. Refused to go with anyone else, refused to eat. However, after the gentleman died, the dog never went near the room again. Perhaps your Mr. Tarkington is like that dog."

His theory made some sense, but my idea that Noreen had been murdered refused to go quietly.

"Tark is afraid of the pond. He's not just avoiding it. Isn't it possible," I argued, "that someone could have killed her?"

He stood. "Anything, my dear lady, is possible. However, one requires a good deal of proof, you see." He smiled again. That is, his mustache widened. "I should think you'd prefer the more obvious conclusion that she died as the result of an accident. Put your mind at rest."

His tone hinted that any normal person would do so, but nothing he'd said discouraged me, and I felt certain he wouldn't provide any helpful information either. I'd have to try to find the truth by myself. I accompanied him to the front door and said good-bye.

I found Alice in the office, amid the large boxes Inspector Kincaid had returned.

"A right awful mess it is too." Grumbling, she pulled a manila file folder from a box and put it into a drawer.

"Why don't you let me do that?"

"Oh, would you, Olivia? I'm not very good at things like this. Give me a bit of furniture to polish, and I'm keen to get on with it, but business papers…"

"I don't know anything about these particular papers," I told her, "but I think I can sort them all right."

"You're a darling girl to help." She rose from the desk chair and offered it to me. "Of course," she added, "no matter how neatly you put them back in order, Jason will find fault, but pay no attention. He'll pull a face in any event. He'd object if he were beaten with a new stick."

I decided she felt I should laugh at her last remark, so I did, thinking she had a much jollier disposition than her daughter.

Alice eased her bulk out the door, and I sat down to begin my task. I had no idea how American police would have handled the matter, but it seemed to me the British showed unusual efficiency. The papers and records, which had been removed and now returned, seemed in remarkably good order. Someone, if not Noreen, had arranged similar things together. Maybe a female police officer, since most men can't organize a sock drawer.

Once again, I told myself I was doing necessary work, not even remotely related to snooping. After all, I had to look at every file folder and every loose paper in order to know where it might belong, didn't I? Into the filing cabinet I put receipts, bank statements, copies of land leases, and income tax returns. Also catalogs for everything from paper clips to farming equipment. Into the desk drawers went deeds, correspondence, invoices, copies of stock market transactions, and miscellaneous papers. I enjoyed every minute.

Especially when I found two odd things. First, a seemingly recent application to a building society for a mortgage on what sounded like some family-owned property. A large mortgage, if I could accurately translate pounds into dollars. Who was the person who had applied for the mortgage? None other than the late Mrs. Edward Mason. Apparently Jason had reason to be concerned about what Noreen might have been up to lately.

The second was an invoice to Noreen from a detective agency for "services rendered." The paper stuck to my fingers, my palms grew sweaty, and my heartbeat accelerated. Had I not been sitting down, I might have fallen.

Why had Noreen hired a detective, and what service had he rendered? Okay, so Inspector Kincaid insisted Noreen died from an accident, not murder, but like Nessie from the Loch, another mystery had just surfaced.

CHAPTER NINE

I wanted to speak to Jason about what I'd found among the office papers, but he didn't return from work until shortly before the dinner hour, so I didn't see him until we gathered in the dining room. Elizabeth looked pale but composed, and Chaz didn't show up at all. Beryl told us his band would be performing that night. Then, since she belonged to several women's organizations, she carried on at great length about her activities.

William spoke only when spoken to but, when prodded, came up with the information he'd played golf that day, as he often did. The remainder of the conversation, as it had the night before, revolved around the late, unlamented Noreen, her drinking, her presumably accidental fall into the lily pond, and that a funeral for her was being arranged.

Afterward, Jason went into the office. "Where are those office papers?" he asked. "Kincaid said he'd return them today."

"Aunt Alice and I put the papers away, and she disposed of the boxes."

"What?" His voice rose at least two octaves, and his face flushed. Just as Alice predicted, instead of being grateful for our help, he carried on like a scenery-chewing actor.

"You had no right to do that," he bellowed.

"Alice wanted to tidy things up and I—"

"Nothing should have been done without my permission."

"But I—"

"The papers in this office do not concern you, and you're not to meddle." He swiveled around in the desk chair, turning his back to me.

I reminded myself that since no good deed ever goes unpunished, I shouldn't have been surprised. Even then, I debated whether I should persevere and tell him about what I'd found. Actually, I was miffed. See if I'd ever help him again. Let Jason find out about the mortgage and the detective's invoice by himself.

Then my conscience reminded me I had been snooping as much as helping, and perhaps I deserved his criticism. Maybe I'd ask Uncle William about those papers. Perhaps, despite what Jason had said the other night, William would know something. After all, he'd known about Noreen's drinking and dallying. I gave Jason one last glare behind his back before I left the office.

* *   *

As it turned out, I didn't speak to William until Saturday. He told me he didn't play golf on the weekends because that's when all the duffers came out to clutter up the links, often using carts rather than walking as one ought to do. Beryl, on the other hand, had gone to oversee a jumble sale at the church.

After breakfast, William and I carried our cups of tea, which I'd begun to prefer to coffee, into the small sitting room and sat in adjoining chairs. He said that, the room being quiet, if we sat close to each other he wouldn't need to use his hearing aids.

"I've become somewhat proficient in lipreading as well," he added.

"What a convenient talent."

"Some people think because I don't hear everything anymore, I'm daft as well." He chuckled.

My mind had already leaped ahead to imagine him reading lips when others thought their secrets were safe. I gloated. I'd been right to seek him out to answer my questions. He seemed very much aware of what went on.

"Jason told me," I began, "that before Edward married Noreen, he handled all the family property matters."

"That's true."

"Then Noreen took over, and now Jason's upset for fear she has put the family fortune in jeopardy."

"We worried, but what could we possibly do? I spoke to Edward many times, but he was besotted with the woman, wouldn't hear a word against her." He closed his eyes and shook his head.

I waited until he again focused on my face. "Yesterday," I said, "when the police returned all the papers they'd taken from the office, Aunt Alice and I returned them to their rightful place." I didn't tell him Jason had a fit over it. "In doing so, I came across papers regarding Mason Square Centre. Is that family property?"

"Yes, we lease the land to the operators. What papers did you find?"

"One appeared to be an application for a loan."

"A loan, you say? In what name?"

"Mrs. Edward Mason."

He sighed. "Then it's as we feared. No doubt she kept the funds for herself, couldn't wait for Edward to lie cold in his grave before getting her hands on his money."

"I found an application for a loan. Perhaps it didn't go through, and she hadn't yet received any money."

He frowned and rubbed his chin. "I say, what does Jason know about this? He promised me he'd look at all the records as soon as possible."

"Since the police took everything and just returned them yesterday, he hasn't had a chance to go over them. Perhaps, it being Saturday, he's in the office doing that now."

"I hope you're right, and it was just an application. However—" He paused. "As she's dead now, perhaps whatever money she received is still somewhere about. I shall have to ask Jason to determine if she had a separate banking account from Edward's." He lowered his head for a minute, then looked up at me again. "I say, thank you for bringing this to my attention."

"I hope you don't think… I didn't mean to meddle."

"Not at all, my dear. You're family. Your father didn't choose to remain at Mason Hall, but he is my brother."

Encouraged by his attitude, I went on. "There's one other thing. While putting papers away, I found an invoice from a private detective agency." William frowned but didn't comment.

"Apparently a paid invoice," I added. "Also made out to Noreen. Do you have any idea what that might have been about?"

"Dear me, no. To my knowledge, none of us has ever engaged the services of a detective. How very odd. What did she require him to do?"

"I've no idea. The invoice read, 'For services rendered.'"

"How very odd," he repeated.

"I assume there are no skeletons in our closets." I smiled as I said it.

He chuckled again. "Not since the early nineteenth century, when Archibald Mason fought a duel with his mistress's husband."

"Did the husband kill him in the duel?"

"Archibald? No, he prevailed. That caused the scandal. He left England afterward and lived on the continent for a few years, took up with a French maid, they say."

"I had no idea I had such colorful ancestors."

"Later they all became prim and proper Victorians." He tilted his head back and closed his eyes briefly again. "And then the war came along and everyone became very serious. Nothing like a war to make you cherish home and family."

"Do you mean World War Two or the Korean War?"

"I meant the first World War. In America, you don't regard it with as much bitterness as we do. My father mentioned it often, how unnecessary, and how deadly. Most of his friends died. It nearly wiped out an entire generation. He survived because he was too old to fight."

"I hadn't realized," I said.

"Thank God the next war didn't claim as many lives. Although both Edward and I served in the Korean conflict, we managed to return intact. However, I'm afraid Edward suffered mentally afterward. Because of that, even though he was the eldest, I took over managing the family business and then gave the task to Jason."

After this long speech, William took another sip of tea, probably cold by then, and looked at me again.

Although everyone knew the facts, I said, "You adopted Jason when you married Aunt Beryl, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"And then your own son, Chaz, came along."

"Yes," William said again, his voice low and somewhat solemn. Not the pride a man generally shows in his one flesh-and-blood son. I wondered if he felt that Chaz's career choice precluded him from taking on the responsibility given to his stepbrother Jason.

If so, William didn't mention it. "If there's been any recent scandal in the family, you may unquestionably blame it on Noreen herself." I barely caught his next word. "Whore."

I seized this opportunity to forward my own agenda. "Do you think it possible, then, that Noreen had a lover?"

"Besides Chaz?"

So he knew about that as well, but why would he bring it up? Surely, it must have been painful for him to think his own son cuckolded his brother. "Then you believe they were lovers even after she married Edward."

"I think everyone in the family believed it, neither of them being a model of virtue."

"Could there have been anyone else, do you think?"

"It's possible, surely." He paused a minute. "It would explain the rows I overheard between them. Chaz accused her of that sort of thing." He paused again. "Why do you ask?"

I hesitated. I didn't want to reveal my belief Noreen might have been murdered. I saw no need to reopen that possibility right then and make everyone nervous, if not suspicious. So I invented a story on the spur of the moment. Not a good story.

"I confess I wondered if there might have been another man in her life because of the detective invoice."

He outsmarted me. "I don't see how that would follow."

"Perhaps she had the detective investigate the other man."

I could see he didn't think the idea had merit but, being polite, didn't brush it off completely.

"Anything is possible, isn't it? Especially these days, when promiscuity is everywhere. I never go to the cinema anymore. All that nudity and words no self-respecting sailor would utter in mixed company. And just one or two programs are worth watching on the television."

"I think it's wonderful you still play golf."

"Rains too much. Then I spend time reading, but my eyesight isn't what it used to be. Better than my hearing, however."

We'd returned to our original topic, and apparently William felt it time to end our conversation, for he rose from the chair. "We must have a chat again soon, but now I think I shall talk to Jason about that mortgage business."

I watched him leave the room, then took both our teacups back to the kitchen, pleased he had validated my theory Noreen probably had a lover. Now I needed to discover who he was and whether she met him by the lily pond that night. Oh, yes, and prove he killed Noreen.

*  * *

At six o'clock I phoned my parents but got their answering machine instead. Then I phoned Brad. Although it was nine in the morning in San Francisco, he sounded sleepy when he answered the telephone.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"I'm not home yet, if that's what you mean."

"You haven't been gone a week. Are you having fun?"

I didn't know how to begin what I wanted to say, so I procrastinated. "Have you checked my answering machine for messages?"

"Yes. Not today, of course. I'll do that later."

"Well," I prompted, "were there any important ones? Anything I should know about?"

"I don't think so."

Men are like that: you have to drag information out of them. "Well, who called?"

"Oh, you want specifics. Well, Parry Williams called. Is she one of the ladies you play bridge with?"

"No, she owns the art gallery on the first floor of the building you looked at last month. Don't you remember?"

"Oh, yeah, now you mention it. I didn't go inside her gallery, so I forgot."

After a pause, I prompted him again. "So what did Parry have to say?"

Brad seemed to be still waking up, and I heard him clear his throat. He often made a great deal of noise in the process, as if dislodging Kermit the frog. I heard him yawn. "Only hello and stuff. I guess she forgot you were going to be gone for two weeks."

"Do you remember any of the 'stuff'?" We met Parry when Brad accompanied me on my search for the perfect office in which to establish our private investigation business. Since her gallery was so close to the lobby entrance, the real estate company handling office rentals often gave her the keys to vacant offices and let her show them to prospective tenants.

"I didn't realize you two had become such good friends."

"That wasn't the first time we met," I explained. "She and I went to the same dermatologist. Although she's a few years younger than I am, we seemed to hit it off right away."

"Good." Another long pause.

"So, did anyone else call?"

"Some guy named Edgar Barth. Is he someone you're dating?"

I laughed out loud. "Not hardly. The man is eighty years old and proud of it."

"So?"

"So he's the one I play bridge with."

"You have an eighty-year-old man for a partner?"

"Yes, and I'm very happy about it. He's a whiz at bridge. In fact, I'm proud he's willing to play with me."

"C'mon, Livvie, you're a teacher. How could he be better than you are?"

"Did you ever hear the expression, 'Them that can does: them that can't teaches'?"

"That sounds like something from a previous century, maybe even the nineteenth."

I had to laugh again. "You could be right. I think I heard my grandfather use it." I turned serious at once. "Edgar is a little eccentric, but he's so good he could write his own bridge book. Except I think part of his skill is inborn, something you can't teach. You either have card sense, or you don't."

"But you have good card sense."

"Not like Edgar. Anyway, why did he call?"

"I wrote it down somewhere. Something about a tournament."

"That's more than a month away, and I haven't forgotten. Anything else?"

"Solicitations for money. I thought the 'Do Not Call' list was supposed to eliminate those?"

"Charities are still allowed."

"Okay, when you get home you'll have your choice. You can give for heart disease or the local firefighters. Personally I'd go with the firemen."

"Of course you would, since you once wanted to be one."

"I think I outgrew that in seventh grade."

"And went with your second choice, became a policeman instead."

"This is costing you money. I don't believe you called just to pass the time. Your friend Edgar may be able to read cards, but I can read your mind. Is something wrong?"

"Yes and no."

"Well, that's ambiguous anyway."

"I'm fine, but Aunt Noreen isn't." I didn't know quite how to phrase the next thing I wanted to say. How does one break the news one has discovered a dead body?

"Aunt Noreen, Uncle Edward's wife, right?" I could hear him yawn again.

"Right." I blurted it out. "She's dead."

"Wait a minute, I thought Uncle Edward died."

"He did. Our parents went to his funeral."

"Three weeks ago. They had to postpone their cruise to the Panama Canal, didn't they?"

"I tried their number. I guess they're not back yet. I thought you ought to know about Noreen. Her funeral is next Tuesday." I paused. "In case you wanted to attend."

"Thanks, but no thanks. From what Dad told me, she wouldn't have been my favorite aunt. Since I didn't go to Uncle Edward's funeral, I can't see myself flying to England for hers."

Apparently Father had given a few others his opinion of Edward's wife.

"So, what's with Noreen?" Brad asked. "I thought Dad said she's a lot younger. What did she die of?"

I felt like saying, "Falling into the lily pond," but I didn't. I stuck to the bare facts.

A long pause on the other end. "You're sure you're not pulling my leg?"

"No, of course not."

"Well, you know you do have a weird sense of humor. Did you call the police?"

"Aunt Alice did. They're very thorough, but—"

"But what?"

"Well, they say they think she'd had too much to drink and accidentally fell into the pond."

"But you don't think so." How could he read my mind from all those miles away?

"No, I don't. Ever since it happened, I've had a feeling—call it intuition—she was murdered. I find it too coincidental that she died so soon after Uncle Edward. And, like Dad said, she had enough enemies to populate a small country. The longer I'm here, the more reasons I discover for their wanting to bump her off."

"So you think someone killed her? Livvie, you're a good detective, but wait until you're home. Don't interfere with the local authorities."

"You're not here. Besides, there's still the dog." I told him my theory about that too. "I'm sure he knows what happened."

He paused again before answering. "Gosh, I'd love to come over and prove you're right, but I can't right now."

"So you agree it might be murder?"

"Well, it does seem you have good reason to be suspicious."

"I think so. In fact, I'm sure I'm on the right track."

"Now, Livvie, don't get involved in police matters. If they're anything like our police, they won't like it."

"But the police think it was an accident. They're not looking for a murderer."

"And don't you be either." His voice took on a stern quality, sounding a lot like our father. "This could be dangerous. If you're right and you get too close, you could be the next victim."

"I'll be careful. I promise."

"Gee whiz," he said, using the expletive he reserves for my ears. "I've got the only sister in the world who thinks she's Philip Marlowe."

"Not Philip Marlowe," I told him, "Sherlock Holmes. I'm in England, remember?"

He laughed again. "I suppose I can't stop you."

No, he couldn't.

CHAPTER TEN

Not a drop of rain had fallen during the entire five days since I arrived in England. Alice proclaimed that I had brought the sunshine with me from California, but the newspapers, unaware of my presence, to say nothing of my so-called weather-altering talent, announced a drought had descended on the land. That changed on Saturday afternoon, pleasing the locals to no end.

The downpour continued all that day and all the next as if anticipating an ark to show up, and the dreary weekend dragged. Although they supposedly expected and presumably even liked lots of rain, the family members seemed out of sorts and secluded themselves in their rooms most of Saturday, which gave me no opportunity to ply them with questions. Elizabeth excused herself, saying she had lessons to prepare for the opening of the school term. Fortunately, I had always loved reading, so I took advantage of the cozy fire in the library and settled down with an old Dorothy Sayers mystery, with vague hopes reading it might inspire me in my own crime investigation.

Saturday evening after dinner Elizabeth, apparently feeling guilty for having neglected me, pulled out the Monopoly board and insisted Jason join us. In spite of the urgency I felt to get on with my search for clues, I didn't want to question more than one family member at a time, so I tried to relax and enjoy the game. At least once Jason got over his snit at my having touched the papers in his office, the three of us got along better than we had as children. No yelling, no claims someone had cheated, no throwing dice across the room.

After lunch on Sunday afternoon, I once again found myself alone on the main floor of the house, everyone else having retired to separate rooms. I suspected they took naps. So when the doorbell chimed, I went to answer it. Three women stood huddling under two large umbrellas to stay out of the rain.

The tallest, about five feet eight, wearing a Day-Glo pink raincoat, spoke first. "You're not Mrs. Klein," she accused.

"No, I'm not. Did you want to see her?" I moved aside to let the women enter, and they thoughtfully stepped onto the rug Alice had placed near the door to catch wet footprints. "I'm her niece, Olivia Grant."

"The American," the woman said, as if she'd categorized me like a variety of garden pest.

I nodded. I wondered how she came to know who I was, then came to the conclusion Noreen must have told her I'd be visiting.

"Charlene's the name." She looked fortyish, had a frizzy mop of dyed red hair that clashed with the pink raincoat, what appeared to be a waffle-deep layer of makeup on her face, and open-toed high-heeled shoes. She made quick head shakes to indicate her friends. "We didn't 'specially want to see her, except to offer our condolences. About Noreen, that is."

The other two women, seemingly about the same age, a bit shorter and wearing more conservative colors but equally as much eye shadow, smiled and nodded.

Pink Raincoat spoke for them. "We read about the accident in the newspapers. So terrible it was."

"Yes. Thank you for coming." As I didn't know what the women expected of me, I wondered if I should try to find Alice anyway, but they seemed to have decided protocol required them to spend a little time commiserating with the family of the deceased.

Next, as if they'd been there countless times before, they removed their coats and hung them on the coatrack near the door. Under hers, Charlene wore a dress of the same wild shade of pink.

I felt I had no choice but to usher them into the drawing room and play hostess. "Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you." Charlene wasted no time moving into the room and taking a seat in the middle of one of the sofas.

The thin, wiry-looking woman behind her spoke next, her voice high and reedy. "Vicki," she said and offered her hand.

"I'm Wanda," said the third woman, her plump body stuffed into a black dress with a too-tight belt. I shook her hand as well, and in a few minutes they joined Charlene, all three of them settling into the sofa. Silence fell.

Pieces clicked into place in my head. These must be the bridge players Alice had told me about. They didn't look too much different from some of the women who came to the Kosy Kard Klub in San Ricardo to play a few hands on a weekday.

"So nice of you to come," I said again. "Did you know Noreen for a long time?"

"Since last August bank holiday," Charlene said. "We played bridge most Wednesday afternoons. Didn't Mrs. Klein tell you?"

"We'll miss Noreen," Vicki said.

"Oh my, yes," Wanda added. "She was the one held us all together. I don't know what we'll do without her. So much fun too."

Until then I hadn't heard anyone speak of Noreen as being a "fun" person, and it suddenly occurred to me I might learn something from these women. If she had a lover, my mysterious Mister X, I surmised Noreen might possibly have told her friends about him.

"Call me Olivia." I smiled and pulled a side chair closer to the trio. "I never met Noreen myself. I came over for a visit the very day she died. I'd be grateful if you'd tell me something about her. What was she like?"

"Very friendly and outgoing she was," Vicki said.

That, too, failed to gibe with the impression I'd had so far, but it gave me an opportunity to pose another question. "Since you were her friends, I wonder if you'd be good enough to help us."

"Help?" Charlene frowned. "Help how?"

"It's about notifying Noreen's relatives and her other friends about the funeral."

"She had no living relatives. Leastways that's what she always said. As for friends, she had a few I suppose." A hint of smugness crept into her voice. "We were the closest."

"So she made few friends but fast ones," I said.

"You could say that."

"Loyal she was," said Wanda. "Generous too. Noreen never minded losing."

Charlene frowned again, and Wanda, catching her look, shifted in her chair and tried to pull her skirt further down over her elephant thighs.

I decided to get right to what I suspected lay behind Wanda's comment. "Did you play for money?"

"A bit," Charlene said, and the others took a cue from her and nodded without saying more.

"I play a little bridge myself," I told them. "It's more fun when there's something at stake, isn't it?" Since many people think so, I figured this wasn't totally a lie. Okay, "a little bridge" didn't quite fit with my being a part-time teacher, but, although I hardly ever played for money myself, I knew other people thought it made the game more interesting. Even the Kosy Kard Klub had no restrictions on its members doing so, provided the sum never exceeded one cent a point.

Wanda squirmed some more, and Vicki fiddled with her hair as if waiting for Charlene to do all the talking. However, Charlene got up, apparently preparing to put an end to their duty call.

I didn't want them to leave before I'd learned something, so I said, "You just arrived a few minutes ago."

Charlene didn't answer, and Vicki and Wanda rose from their chairs.

I got desperate. "I have an idea. Why don't we play a few hands now? Nothing else to do on a rainy afternoon, is there? And we can get better acquainted."

Charlene hesitated. "Well—"

"With a little brandy to warm us up," I added.

"Oh, do let's," Wanda urged.

They hustled right over to the bridge table in the corner, and Vicki pulled the cards out of a small drawer in the end table nearest the window. While she turned on the tall lamp in the corner dispersing some of the gloom from the cloudy day, and the others shuffled the two decks, I went to the bar and poured a small amount of brandy into four glasses.

Charlene got right down to business. "We can't stay long, so how about changing partners every four hands?" This being fairly standard practice at party bridge, I agreed.

"Three hundred points for only two games, fifty for an unfinished game." That was standard as well, and we also mentioned the conventions we played and the similarity of the British and American versions.

"Since you said you like to play for money," Charlene said, "how about making it tuppence a point?"

The Klub limited its members to less than half that amount, but, since we'd be changing partners every four hands, I doubted anyone could run up a huge score and hurt the others too much.

"Noreen liked to play for lots more," she added, "but that wouldn't be fair seeing's you're a newcomer, would it?"

"It's all right." I sat down in the vacant chair they'd left for me.

The first two rounds were dull, with no particularly interesting hands and no big swings in the scores. The women played competently I decided, although occasionally, especially when I might become the declarer, made excessively high bids as if hoping I would go down and hand the other team some penalty points. To say nothing of my money.

By the third round my suspicions had hardened into reality. Not only did they try to land me in unmakeable contracts but, when playing declarer to my dummy, frequently messed up perfect opportunities to take the necessary tricks and score points.

In addition, their comments and occasional smiles and winks soon alerted me to their scheme, one I decided had been used successfully with Noreen. To put it bluntly, I suspected they considered Noreen a cash cow. She not only liked to play for high stakes but did most of the losing. So, in the long run, the other three could make out like bandits. For all I knew, they had an agreement between them to bundle all their winnings and split the take three ways.

That was discouraging enough. Not that I cared that Noreen's playing caused her to lose money, but it was my Uncle Edward's money she lost every week. In addition, my probing for information had yielded little.

As we changed seats after the first round, I brought up the subject again. "So you were Noreen's best friends. When her husband died, she must have been grateful for your support."

"Right," Vicki said. "We were that close."

"Nevertheless she must have been lonely at times. A young, attractive woman like that, all alone."

"Oh, not for long," Wanda said. "Noreen had many admirers."

Vicki laughed. "Admirers? I should say they were more than that. Lovers more likely."

Aha, just as I suspected. I looked from one to the other, waiting to see which one would elaborate.

But Charlene, as if realizing the others had said too much, cleared her throat loudly. "We don't know that for sure, Vicki. She never mentioned anyone in particular."

"Well, there was that one bloke," Vicki said.

"A special boyfriend?" I asked. "What about him?"

"I don't know about special," Wanda said. "He was like the others, I expect. She always liked big men and, you know, sort of macho."

"And he liked to dance," Vicki added.

"They went dancing?"

"At that club where she used to go often with the nephew."

Chaz's club. A dozen more questions flooded my mind, but Charlene reminded her friends they must play bridge not engage in gossip and insisted we get back to the game. I returned to looking at my cards, planning to wait for a further opportunity to ask more questions. None came.

On the last round, Wanda and I were partners, and the bidding was weird. I won't go into detail, because if you don't play bridge, you won't understand it anyway.

Suffice it to say, on the last hand, no matter how conservative my bidding, Wanda managed to steer us into a too-high bid. My suspicions seemed justified. At first she showed a weak hand, but eventually she pushed me into what she probably perceived as an unmakeable contract.

Then, to make matters worse, Charlene, sitting west on my left, said, "Double." That meant if I couldn't make the contract and went down, she'd get double the penalty points, and I felt sure I would go down. I could only grin and bear it.

Then Wanda said, "Redouble." She had compounded our loss by quadrupling the penalties! If I hadn't already been sure of it, she'd now confirmed I guessed right about the situation.

Vicki, on my right, spoke in a petulant voice. "Charlene, are you sure you should have doubled? Now she knows who's holding most of the high cards."

Talking about the hands is strictly forbidden in a normal game, but this one was far from normal anyway.

"Won't do her any good," Charlene said, a smirk pulling up the corners of her mouth. "Anyways, Wanda redoubled. Maybe I don't have all the high cards after all." Nevertheless she laid down the ace of diamonds.

Before Wanda, as dummy, began to place her cards face up on the table, Charlene raised her hand to stop her and looked at me. "What say we have a little side bet, you and me?"

"What kind of side bet?"

"I haven't seen the dummy cards yet, but I don't think you can make this hand, and I'm willing to wager twenty pounds on it."

A twenty-pound side bet? Did they do this sort of thing to Noreen, or did her steady losing at two or five pence a point satisfy them? Or did they wish to cheat me today? Had my normal, conservative playing hampered them and made them desperate to put up one last-ditch effort to score big?

I could barely hide my frustration. I was tired of the sound of rain against the windows, tired of their almost transparent strategy, and tired of getting so little information out of them. More than that, I was angry. I said, "All right," and immediately wished I could take it back. Idiot! Fool!

Wanda laid her cards on the table for all of us to see, and she had a good hand, after all. My spirits lifted.

Charlene's forehead creased into a frown. She, too, looked surprised by Wanda's hand, but she quickly put her smile back in place. Yet there was more bad news to come.

Looking at my own hand I saw I could take nine tricks, but I needed ten, and I could see no way to get the tenth one. I dredged my mind for ideas, but none of them seemed likely to work that time.

Without going into detail, trust me that I found a line of play and won after all. As I claimed the last trick, Charlene stared daggers at me, Vicki looked as if she'd like to slip poison into her partner's brandy, and Wanda looked completely dumbfounded.

"I believe we've played our twelve hands," I said, and Vicki and Wanda wasted no time in getting up from their chairs. Charlene, who had commandeered the score pad from the first, remained sitting, grim-faced and tight-lipped, while she added up the points for each player. The double and redouble had quadrupled mine. Then she fished into her handbag and threw a wad of bills on the table.

I couldn't tell if she gave me the right amount. I didn't much care. As I said, I rarely played for money. It was the challenge of the game that intrigued me: trying to determine by intuition and experience what cards the opponents held and using skill to play my own cards correctly.

Hmmm. Suddenly it seemed to me that playing bridge resembled detective work. No wonder I kept trying to solve the mystery of Noreen's death: asking questions, trying to read answers in people's looks and gestures. Maybe, since I could win at bridge, I'd be pretty good at playing sleuth as well.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

After Noreen's chums departed—with hardly a good-bye among the three of them at the front door—I returned to the drawing room to put the cards and used glasses away. To my surprise, Chaz sat in one of the chairs at the table making a house of cards. He created a third level to his structure with remarkably steady hands.

He looked up when I came in. "I say, this looks like fun. Plus, when I came down to the library, I heard laughing."

I explained that three of Noreen's lady friends had been there. "We were playing bridge, not normally a funny game."

"But you enjoyed it." A statement, not a question. "How'd you like to teach me to play?"

"You knew Noreen played bridge with them, didn't you? If you wanted to learn, you could have asked her to teach you."

"I'm asking you." He picked up the money Charlene had thrown on the table, got up, and came to stand in front of me. "You seem to have come out the winner. Might as well learn from the best, eh?" One by one, he thrust the bills into the neckline of my dress. Gently, erotically.

I backed away, removing the bills. "I don't think so."

"You're attracted to me. I can tell. Why don't we stop this cat-and-mouse game, go upstairs, and spend a cold, rainy afternoon cuddling under my quilt?"

I tried to think of the right words to turn him off. "Chaz, be serious. I'm much older than you are."

"Don't give me that 'old enough to be your mother' routine. We both know that's not true. And what has age got to do with it anyway, so long as we're both adults?"

"This particular adult isn't interested in pursuing a…" I left the sentence unfinished and started a new one.

"My brother Brad is almost your age." Okay, I exaggerated. "You wouldn't want to make love to a woman who was thinking you were her younger brother, would you?"

He moved toward me again, his voice soft and seductive. "You think what you want, and I'll think what I want."

I couldn't help smiling. "If you promise to behave in future," I said over my shoulder, "I won't tell your mother."

His laughter followed me down the hall.

*  * *

Chaz didn't appear the rest of the weekend, which didn't surprise me, and on Monday Jason went back to work, Beryl to another women's club meeting, and William, Alice, and Elizabeth finished making funeral arrangements.

In the evening, no doubt feeling guilty that my visit had turned out so strangely, they took me to a posh restaurant for dinner, and I joined in the conversation about other subjects than the one which preoccupied me.

Despite the still-pouring rain, Noreen's funeral took place on Tuesday. The service was held in the local church, less than a mile from Mason Hall. The doors of the small, moss-covered stone building looked too large for its size, and inside I saw worn wooden pews and a small stained glass window. As we family members sat in the front pews, I didn't have an opportunity to determine if a mysterious stranger made an appearance.

The local vicar read a eulogy both blessedly short and totally unrelated to Noreen's character. Apparently to fill time, we sang several hymns until the vicar determined we'd observed the necessary formality.

No, I did not know the woman, and, yes, I thought she probably deserved her fate, so when I found my eyes filling with tears, I recognized my feelings came from the funeral of my husband Stephen. To keep from making a public spectacle of myself, I tried to think of something less stressful, and I remembered the time Stephen and I went into a funeral home to choose a casket for my maternal grandfather. We descended stairs to the lower level of the building, and the very sight of the caskets made us solemn, especially the small ones made for babies. After touring the entire room, we came upon one regular-sized casket with a sign on top reading, "This is not a casket."

Stephen had looked at me and said, "Do you suppose it's a sailboat?" The tension broke, and we both cracked up.

I tried to stifle my giggles and said, "We mustn't laugh. What if they have microphones down here like used car dealers have in their offices?" Then we exploded into more loud guffaws.

Well, maybe you had to be there.

Now, sitting next to Elizabeth, I covered my face and held my cheeks together lest the memory send me into gales of laughter again.

Afterward, mourners came forward, passed the closed casket, and shook hands with us, murmuring appropriate sentiments. I recognized Charlene, Vicki, and Wanda, but they seemed to go out of their way to avoid me. Alice identified the others for me: friends, shopkeepers, and tenants of the family-owned properties that occupied the village. Everyone accounted for. No one who didn't belong or looked even remotely like a suspect.

Coats pulled tightly around shoulders, umbrellas raised, we all trooped out to the graveyard behind the church. Someone had obligingly set out stiff black runners so we didn't have to walk on sodden grass. Brought up with Hollywood films, where it always rains during funerals, I accepted the dark clouds that dripped water like a leaky faucet. Between grey skies and all the black clothing, the scene resembled a movie shot in black and white.

The outdoor service was also mercifully brief, but due to the hats worn by the mourners and the umbrellas over their heads, I could barely see any faces, even if by looks alone I'd be able to identify someone who might have been Noreen's murderer. Then I noticed Chaz standing off to one side with three young men, presumably his band members. Their attendance surprised me, since I would have thought the ceremony too old-fashioned, too reeking of tradition, for them. Yet could one of them have been Noreen's lover? After all, Chaz had supposedly met Noreen at the club where they played. Perhaps she'd been involved with one of those men as well. Before I could question them to learn more, the four of them disappeared immediately afterward, not coming to the house for refreshments.

While I concocted a substantial lunch for myself from the sandwiches and cakes Alice and Annie had whipped up that morning, I made mental plans to go hear the band perform. The thought of becoming a "groupie" made me smile, until I discovered an elderly woman frowning at my seeming levity from across the room, and I hid the grin on my face behind a cup of tea.

* * *

Afterward, Elizabeth and I helped Alice mop the stone floors in the great hall, where visitors had left wet and muddy footprints. At two o'clock, we joined the other family members gathered at Jason's behest in the drawing room.

Jason stood behind the desk, looking like a political-cartoon senator. He cleared his throat several times, waiting for us to pull up chairs in a kind of ragged semicircle in front of him.

"As you remember," he began, "the solicitor read Uncle Edward's will a few weeks ago. Now it's my task to read his widow's final testament." He paused dramatically, looking at us over the tops of his wire-framed reading glasses.

Aunt Beryl gave a long, slow sigh, and Chaz muttered a remark, probably something cynical, under his breath.

Having caught our attention by making his pronouncement sound ominous, Jason then relaxed somewhat, and his lips curled upward. "I have the good fortune," he said, "to tell you we found no new will signed by Noreen, and, inasmuch as she died three weeks after Edward, the wills they made out together will prevail."

"What does that mean?" Aunt Alice asked.

"A clause in the original wills," he paused while he adjusted his glasses and turned pages in the legal document he held, "states that should the two parties die within thirty days of one another, they are considered to have died simultaneously. Therefore the property did not pass from Edward to Noreen after all."

I knew the concept, which no doubt grew out of times when both husband and wife were involved in an accident together, and one died mere hours or days after the other. I didn't know, however, that British wills also used such a clause.

"Do you mean," Elizabeth said, "that Noreen didn't inherit after all?"

"Precisely." Jason removed his glasses and laid them, along with the document, on the desk.

Chaz stood up. "Then who does?"

William, who I presumed had known about the outcome before the rest of us and had been sitting well back in a wing chair, legs outstretched before him, answered. "I do."

Still, his face didn't betray how he felt about it.

Chaz sat down again. "That's a rum go."

"What else is in the will?" Alice asked.

"Some small bequests to servants," Jason said, "but basically, nothing happens. We all go on as before." He smiled, pleased with himself.

From his tone, Chaz was not so pleased. "Easy for you. You like living in this mausoleum. What about me? Can't I get a little something so I can live normal-like, on my own?"

William sat up straight. "You're free to leave any time you like. You may find some employment, like Jason, to support yourself."

"Jason again. Always Jason. 'Be like Jason,'" he mimicked. "Well, I do support myself. I make as much as him, but I want my own place. It's time I had my privacy."

"You have your room," Beryl said, her voice quavering, as if she feared the exchange between her husband and younger son might erupt into violence. "And a lovely music studio besides."

Chaz vaulted from his seat, and this time he headed for the door. "Thanks for nothing."

A long silence followed his exit from the room, and I wondered if Chaz's animosity extended to Jason as well as Noreen. Jason, tight-lipped, made no comment on the altercation and gathered up the papers on the desk to put them in a folder. He'd finished his little will-reading ceremony.

As I left the drawing room, I thought of my parents having come to Uncle Edward's funeral and hearing the reading of that will, the one giving everything to Noreen. No wonder they were concerned. Even in the short time I'd been in the house, I'd learned that everyone despised her. I marveled she'd lasted three whole weeks.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I still searched for the product of my imagination, Mister X, Noreen's mythical lover who I stubbornly believed would turn out to be her murderer. Later that day I managed to corner Aunt Alice in the kitchen. I'd asked her for a photograph of Noreen the previous week, and now she held out one that had been taken immediately after Noreen's wedding to Edward.

With a backdrop of wood-paneled walls and flowers, they stood together, Edward tall, white-haired, and slender, like both his brothers. Noreen, about average height, thin almost to the point of anorexia, sported a mass of bottle-blonde hair that made her look like a pencil with a fuzzy eraser. She had large, dark eyes and a wide mouth with the full lips Hollywood stars achieved these days through surgical enhancement. She looked younger than the fiftyish person I'd expected, and I could see why she might turn a few male heads.

This being an official wedding photo, it showed other family members on either side of the bride and groom. Beryl, William, Elizabeth, and Jason stood on Edward's right, while Alice, Chaz, Elizabeth's brother Hans, and her daughter Dorothea stood next to Noreen.

I handed the picture back to Alice, and we sat across from each other at the kitchen table. "So that's Noreen. She was prettier than I imagined."

"Oh, she could be a charmer if she liked. Trouble was, once she married Edward, she no longer felt it necessary to act charming. Cut everyone dead, she did. Holed up with Edward all the time, in their rooms or in the office. Hardly spoke to us except to give orders about how she'd run things now she was mistress of Mason Hall."

"'With Edward all the time'?" I repeated. "What about the rumors she carried on with Chaz?"

Alice sighed. "Ah, well, there were the nights, weren't there? Edward falling asleep the minute the sun went down like he did. I don't like to speak ill of the dead, or the living for that matter, but she might have been having a—a to-do with Chaz. Until near the end, that is."

"And then—?" I coaxed. "What about the end?"

"She and Chaz quarreled a good bit. She avoided him, but if they met you could almost see the anger between them. At dinner their eyes threw daggers at each other."

"Do you have any idea why that happened? Did Noreen take up with another man? Uncle William thinks she did and so do Noreen's card-playing friends."

"It wouldn't surprise me. With Edward asleep, Noreen and Chaz would go out to his club together. Then, after Edward died, Noreen took to going out alone. She certainly could have been meeting someone else."

"Someone she might have met at Chaz's club while his band performed?"

"Makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Do you have any idea who it might be? Did Noreen ever drop a name? Might you have overheard something when she spoke on the telephone?"

Alice glanced at the kitchen clock and got up from her chair. She took an apron from its hook and tied it around her waist. "Even if I tried to listen, it wouldn't have been possible. Noreen used her cell phone in her bedroom or in the office. With the doors closed," she added.

That apron business didn't fool me. She had eavesdropped and didn't want to admit it. I'd have done the same.

Then Annie came into the room, nodded to me, and put on her own apron, ready to begin dinner preparations. Assuming Alice wouldn't tell me what she overheard, I felt I'd learned all I could from her for the present. At least she'd confirmed my belief that Noreen probably played footsie with other men.

I'm somewhat tenacious when I decide on a course of action and often impatient, wanting everything to happen immediately. So in my plans to interrogate everyone, I mentally checked Alice off my list and went looking for Beryl. She sat in the small sitting room, watching the early newscast on television, but she obligingly turned it off when I came in.

"Dreadful stuff," she said. "I don't know why I bother to watch. It seems as if good news is no longer news, just the bad. Is it that way in the States?"

"Worse. In spite of that, the broadcasts get longer every year." I'd long since stopped watching local news completely.

I sat next to her on the sofa. Although designated "the small sitting room," it easily dwarfed my living room at home, with a floral-print sofa between end tables, three side chairs, a coffee table, a television set in a large walnut cabinet, and a secretary in a corner.

"I didn't mean to interrupt you," I said.

"Not at all. I've been feeling rather embarrassed that I haven't been more attentive during your visit. This is a very busy time for me. Autumn, you know, when people begin to do things again after a leisurely summer." She patted her steel-gray hair, every wavy strand glued in place from a recent visit to the beauty parlor. "And then I assumed Elizabeth would be entertaining you."

"She has," I assured her, "except school begins soon, and she has had to spend time preparing for that."

"Oh yes, of course." She frowned. "Dear me. We haven't neglected you, have we? Left you too much on your own?"

"No, please don't think about it. I'm having a lovely time." I smiled in emphasis. "With all that's happened, I don't blame you for being preoccupied."

"Still, I don't like to think we've been inhospitable. Is there anything special you wanted to do?"

"No, not really." I paused, and then as if suddenly remembering something, I began my quest for information. "However since you ask, there is something, if you don't mind."

She looked at me expectantly, so I continued. "It has to do with Noreen."

Beryl's expression changed immediately, and I could almost feel the animosity. "What about Noreen?" Her tone could have caused an ice storm on Waikiki.

"She seems to have been generally disliked by the other family members. Not that she didn't deserve their disdain. At least, so it appears," I added.

Beryl looked down and plucked at a fold in her skirt. Like me, she still wore the black dress she'd worn to the funeral, but hers extended to mid-calf, had a high neck, and both a collar and long sleeves. "I believe in being charitable toward others—"

I sensed her pause didn't mean she'd ended. "But?"

"—but she made it rather difficult to like her."

"In what ways?"

"From the very start, when Chaz brought her to dinner, I could see she was, well, no better than she should be."

"Would you call her a—" I searched for the right words, "—a 'loose woman'?"

"She had a certain, er, personality not attractive to women, at least certainly not to me, but men… Well, you know how men are."

I wanted to say "horny" but restrained myself. "Do you think she might have been unfaithful to Edward?"

She paused again, apparently fighting a battle between her desire to speak ill of the woman and her genteel upbringing, which forbade such behavior. "I really couldn't comment."

"Uncle William is quite certain she not only had an affair with Chaz—"

At this point, Beryl's voice dropped but revealed a hard quality I'd never heard before. "She…she…threw herself at him. Chaz…so young, naive…"

Chaz naive? Not in my book. Yet I let her continue.

As if she'd been waiting a long time to tell the truth, Beryl threw discretion to the wind. Her voice became louder. She plucked angrily at her skirt. "She flirted with him, seduced him. Like a tornado, or an army of locusts destroying everything in its path."

"So, in your opinion, she could have been seeing someone else."

Beryl went on as if she hadn't heard me. "She formed a plot to get Edward's money. She used Chaz, persuaded him to bring her here and then manipulated Edward into marriage. The man didn't know what he was doing. We all warned him, but he wouldn't listen."

I took Beryl's hand, which felt hot and damp, in mine, and she finally turned and looked at me. The fire left her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have…"

"I understand. I'm sure it must have been very painful for you." I tried to get back to my original question. "Do you think Noreen had another lover, someone she might have met at Chaz's club, even before Chaz?"

She remained silent for a time, breathing more slowly, collecting her thoughts. "I suppose she might have done. Not before Edward died, I shouldn't think. She wouldn't have risked his divorcing her but after, yes."

"It seems to have turned out all right after all, because the family fortune is still intact."

"Yes, she's dead now. It's all over." Beryl pulled her hand from mine and again twisted the fabric of her dress as if strangling it, once more speaking her thoughts aloud. "She seduced Chaz, then Edward, even Jason…"

Jason? Stunned, I didn't hear her next words. So far no one, including Jason, had even hinted he ever had anything but contempt for Noreen.

Beryl's voice turned low again, and I could barely hear the words. "She was a very wicked woman."

My thoughts raced around like a mouse in a maze. Did Jason have an affair with her too? Furthermore, did she then dump him for Mister X? If so, that would give him one more reason to hate her. Not only did he suspect she tried to steal from the family, she'd made a fool of him.

I looked over at Beryl and saw she'd calmed down again, but for a few minutes she'd let her anger show. Justifiable anger. Noreen had seduced both Beryl's sons, and no amount of British reserve could totally hide her hatred.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Dinnertime arrived, giving me little time to think about what Beryl said, but I realized Jason now had an additional motive to want to do away with Noreen. So did Beryl, for that matter. Okay, she was short and elderly, but she could have done it. How much strength does it take to strike an inebriated woman on the head with a rock and push her under the water to drown? However, I still preferred not to think any family member had committed the murder, and I brushed those thoughts aside. Mister X had done it, and I would find him and solve the mystery.

My plan had been to approach Jason next, but under the circumstances, I decided not to. If she had dumped him for the other man, he would be embarrassed to be questioned about Noreen's possibly having a lover. I didn't want to embarrass him. Instead, I moved on to Elizabeth and Chaz, planning to query two birds in one night.

"I haven't seen you much lately," I said to Elizabeth at dinner, hoping to work on any possible guilt she might be feeling for neglecting me. "I hoped we might spend some time together this evening."

She answered quickly. "Of course. What would you like to do?"

"I thought we might go to Chaz's club and hear his band perform."

Chaz turned and grinned at me. "Jolly good. We'll run out the welcome mat for you."

The promise of red-carpet treatment apparently meant nothing to Elizabeth. Her face flushed, her forehead puckered into a frown, and her mouth turned down at the corners. After a few seconds' pause, she managed, "Really?"

Beryl spoke up. "What a good idea. You young people probably enjoy such music. When I was your age, I liked the popular singers, Vera Lynn and Frank Sinatra."

I didn't tell her that, as a teenager, I secretly listened to my mother's albums in addition to rock and roll. I remembered breaking up with a boyfriend and listening to Sinatra's album, Only the Lonely, after school. Every song seemed written just for me, and I left the album covers splattered with tearstains.

Now, however, I tried to convince Elizabeth that Chaz's music would be exactly what we needed. "Come on, it'll be fun. We need a night on the town, and I've bought a new dress I'd like to try out."

She didn't give in gracefully, but she did give in, probably didn't want to seem churlish in front of the others. So, immediately after dessert, I returned to my room and put on the slinky black number. The neckline revealed rather more cleavage than I remembered when I tried it on in the shop, but I reasoned cleavage was "in," and I'd have no other chance to wear the dress anyway. Plus, I didn't want to have spent all that money for nothing.

After putting on my one pair of heels, I knocked on Elizabeth's door. She called to me to come in, and I found her sitting on the edge of her bed, still in the black dress with long sleeves and high neckline she'd worn to the funeral.

"You're not going to wear that?"

"I'm not going. Please don't ask me."

"Why not? And don't tell me it's because of the music they play. I'm sure you grew up on something very much like it."

"I'd feel… Go without me. You can take my car."

"And kill myself driving on the wrong side of the road? No thanks." I sat beside her and tried to think. Not only would I have difficulty staying to the left, but, being directionally challenged as well, I wouldn't necessarily reach my destination the same day I started out. I needed a driver. Besides, the idea of solving Noreen's murder had bitten me like a snake whose poison I had to remove, and I wanted to see if anyone at Chaz's club had also attended the funeral. At the same time, I hoped to glean more information from Elizabeth on the way. I'd have preferred to take Elizabeth into my confidence, but it didn't seem prudent then. But how to convince her to go? Play on the guilt thing again?

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, but it has been such a long time between visits. You're my sole relatives on my father's side, and I feel as if I hardly know you." I lowered my head, slumped my shoulders to look as dejected as possible. "It would have been nice to get better acquainted with Chaz and see where he works and listen to his band. At least for an hour. Or less," I added.

She sighed. "Well, for your sake, I guess I could, for a little while."

"Good." I got up, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet. "Now change."

"Why can't I go like this?"

"I don't know what people wear to the club, but I hope it's more like what I'm wearing. Don't you have anything similar?" I went to her wardrobe and searched among the garments, finding several quite attractive dresses, making me realize her dowdy appearance must be a recent choice. Judging by the style and skirt length, she must have worn these brighter, fancier things in the not too distant past.

I found a red dress with a low, square neckline. "Here."

"No, not that." She snatched it from me and returned it to the wardrobe. Pushing garments aside, she finally chose a dark blue number that, while not sexy, at least didn't look like a restroom attendant's uniform.

While she changed, I found some high-heeled shoes on a rack and then suggested she put on some bright lipstick and do something with her hair besides tie it back severely.

She sat at her dressing table to apply makeup, then brushed out her hair. I've never been good with hair, mine choosing to do its own thing no matter what, so I couldn't help Elizabeth with hers, but fortunately it looked quite nice hanging rather loose and wavy, slightly below her ears.

"Now remember," she said, getting up from the bench and reaching for a purse, "we're not going to stay long. All that loud music and smoke will bring on a splitting headache sooner than you can say, 'Primal Scream.'"

"Then you've been there before?"

"I think we've some cotton balls in the lav." She left the bedroom but not before I noticed she didn't deny having visited Chaz's club before. Good, that would be a big help.

While she headed for the garage to bring her car around, I took Mr. Tarkington for a short walk in the garden then let him back into the kitchen. I met Elizabeth at the front driveway and climbed into the passenger seat.

I forced myself to observe a two-minute silence then launched into my investigator role. "What good news," I began, "that Noreen didn't inherit anything after all. I'm sure you're all relieved."

"Quite. No telling what harm she might have done if she hadn't drowned so soon after Uncle Edward's death."

"I gather she did enough damage in those three weeks."

"Mum is rehiring all the servants, so I won't have to pitch in and help anymore. Not that I minded," she added, "but the Hall is very large. It takes more than two people to keep it tidy. We appreciate your help."

"Uncle William thinks Noreen instigated more mischief than that." Elizabeth didn't comment, so I went on. "He thinks she had a lover."

"Someone besides Chaz?"

So, everyone knew about that affair. "William heard Noreen and Chaz quarreling, probably for that reason."

"'William heard'?" Elizabeth repeated. "I can't believe he heard anything."

I didn't want to reveal William's ability to read lips, in case he wanted to keep his talent a secret, so I said, "I meant he saw them arguing. And then he noticed Noreen stopped going to the club and other places with Chaz. Your mother thinks she was meeting another man, as well."

"I wouldn't put it past her."

"But you don't know who it might be?"

"No, why should I?"

"No reason." I let the conversation lag for a while. "I understand she met Chaz and his band at the club. I wondered if she might have been carrying on with one of the other band members before him."

"That's possible, but I doubt it."

"Did she ever mention anyone else's name?"

"No. Fact is, she rarely spoke to any of us except Edward and Chaz, of course. Truth to tell, I preferred it that way. Not to speak ill of the dead, but I couldn't stand the woman."

I found it interesting that everyone insisted they didn't wish to speak ill of the dead but then did so anyway. Since I needed all the information I could get, I was pleased they did. However, I expected to get nothing worthwhile from Elizabeth at the moment. She volunteered none, and we arrived at the club.

The building looked like what I would have called a "roadhouse." Long, low, built of stone, with a wavy roof consisting of some substance I couldn't identify and surrounded by trees. The parking lot in front held few vehicles, but two more pulled in before we'd locked up the car and walked to the front door.

The room we entered was smaller than I'd expected and looked rather like a cozy pub. Low-ceilinged, paneled in dark wood, its left side held a small stage containing a few instruments and two loudspeakers. Floor-to-ceiling dark red curtains hung behind the stage, providing some color in the room, and recorded background music provided the sound. True to Elizabeth's prediction, cigarette smoke clouded the air, and the odor mixed with the stale smell of beer. A bar, the four stools in front occupied, took up most of the right-hand side of the room. Round tables with scarred tops and small wooden chairs with curved backs surrounded a tiny dance floor in front of the stage, but no band members occupied the stage at the time. Elizabeth led me to a booth padded in worn brown leather at one side.

A slim young waiter in white shirt, bow tie, and a small white apron around his waist came over almost at once and inquired what we'd like to drink. Elizabeth named something that sounded as if it must be beer or ale, but I don't like beer, so I asked for white wine and hoped it would come chilled.

I removed my jacket, leaving it on the seat beside me, and glanced around the room. Most of the other patrons, I had to admit, sported jeans and sweaters, but a few women, like us, wore dresses, and even some of the men looked a tad formal in coats and ties.

My eyes having adjusted to the room's low light level, I noticed two men at the bar had swiveled around and faced in our direction, but if they'd come to Noreen's funeral that morning, I didn't recognize them. They got up, retreated behind a doorway next to the stage, and about ten minutes later, after the waiter returned with our drinks, four men appeared from that doorway.

At least I assumed they were men. They wore furry jackets with animal tails hanging from the back, wigs with pointy ears on their heads, and a lot of fake hair partially covering their faces.

One, on spotting us, came to our booth, a grin spreading across his face. When he got close, I realized it was Chaz made up to be some sort of scary creature. He even had fake fangs, which he removed before speaking.

"You made it. Began to think you wouldn't." He pulled the chair from in front of our table, turned it backward, and straddled it, arms across the backrest. After a slight hesitation, another band member arrived and did the same.

I acted as if seeing men dressed up like animals was no big deal. "Is that your music they're playing?"

Chaz glanced at Elizabeth, who seemed to be staring at the table top, too embarrassed even to look up, then back to me. "Yeah. They're playing the CD we made last year. Not as good as when we're live, of course."

"Are you on a break?" I asked.

He glanced at his watch. "And time's up." He turned his head to his companion. "Give 'em a good set, shall we?" He turned back to me.

"Randy's our drummer. Randy, these are my cousins, Elizabeth and," he hesitated, "Olivia. Whadda they call you 'sides Livvy?"

"Sorry. That's been my nickname since the age of four."

"That's all? Really?" He curled his fingers in a "come on" gesture.

"You don't need to know."

He laughed, throwing his head back, the strong cords in his neck standing out. "Come on, boy-o, time to put on a show."

They got up simultaneously and joined the other two men on the bandstand. As they took their places and tuned their instruments, Elizabeth reached into her purse, pulled out a cotton ball, and handed it to me. "Here, you'll need this."

I held it in my hand while I focused on the stage. Chaz sat at what appeared to be a sound console where he pushed levers. Randy sat behind a massive drums arrangement, and the other two men stood in front of twin microphones, one with an electric guitar at hip level and a wide strap slung over his shoulder, and the other with a bass. Chaz then swiveled around to the keyboard and, with a nod to the others, began to play.

I hadn't been to a rock concert in more years than I cared to remember, but when a blast like a space shuttle taking off hit me, I ripped the cotton ball in half and put the pieces in my ears. Subconsciously, I felt nagged by my mother. Even reduced to an almost bearable level, I didn't recognize what they played, but its unfamiliarity didn't surprise me. Besides being in a foreign country, I knew most musicians wrote their own music.

Conversation being out of the question, Elizabeth shrugged and gave me a what-did-I-tell-you look. Midway through the number, however, the other players stopped, and Chaz did a solo. His head lowered in concentration, his hands flew over the keys, and I imagined William and Beryl arranging for his lessons, picturing him as a concert pianist, playing Tchaikovsky, not heavy metal rock.

The number ended in a crescendo greeted with applause, and after a smug look in our direction, Chaz nodded to his buddies again, and they took off with a number that was not only decibels quieter, but actually had an occasionally recognizable tune. A few people took to the dance floor to gyrate to it, and the waiter returned, offering to refill our glasses. Talking still being difficult, we sipped our drinks—my wine warm and tasteless—and waited for the set to end.

When it did, the band members retreated backstage, but not before a half dozen young girls swarmed around them, and they had to stop to give autographs. As well as accept an occasional kiss from an over-excited female groupie.

Chaz returned, having removed his costume and makeup, fangs and all, bringing with him not just Randy but the other two musicians as well. Randy appeared to be younger than Chaz, probably early twenties, with both a tattoo and an earring. The two others were named Guy and Izzy and, like Randy, were young, thin, and excessively decorated with jewelry in—in my opinion—a few too many places. Chaz slid into the booth on my side, but the others acknowledged the introductions and then disappeared again into the hallway leading to toilets and possibly a private room for performers.

Chaz leaned over the table, smiled, and tossed his head so his thick hair swayed, and once more I couldn't help thinking he had inherited the family good looks. In addition, his black T-shirt seemed molded to his upper body, sculpting the well-developed muscles.

I slid closer to Elizabeth, and Chaz followed me partway on the leather seat then waved to the waiter who brought him a tall mug of beer. "So, whaddaya think?" he asked.

Elizabeth looked at him with a sneer. "With the racket you make, thinking is impossible."

Chaz laughed. "Doesn't like my music anymore, I guess." He turned to me. "What about you?"

Put on the spot, I remembered times when I had to gush over someone's new baby and said, "It's really something, isn't it?" However, I could be sincere about one thing. "I enjoyed your keyboard solo. You play very well."

"Yeah, wait'll you hear the next set. I don't usually do more than one a night like that, but I'll make an exception for you. I have two rather good ones I've been practicing."

"Don't do it on our account," Elizabeth said. "We're leaving."

Chaz's smile turned into a frown. "You just got here. What'd you come for then?" His grin returned. "Lookin' to pick up blokes?" His leg pressed against mine as it had at dinner my first night at Mason Hall, and I moved away again.

Elizabeth stiffened, and her face turned red, so I spoke up. "No, of course not. We came to hear you. I didn't want to go all the way back home without listening to your band. What do you call it?"

"Hounds of the Hall."

I immediately thought of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Hound of the Baskervilles. Although I realized they'd chosen to look like some kind of feral beasts, I ruled out the possibility they'd named themselves for a Sherlock Holmes story. "How long have you been together?"

I didn't have much interest in how they met and what they'd endured to get to this point in their careers, but I wanted to be polite, and it might keep Elizabeth from saying something we'd all regret. She seemed determined not to enjoy herself, and I didn't want a scene.

I wished I'd found some other way to get there. In fact, I wondered if I'd been smart to think I'd learn much. The other musicians had gone off, so I couldn't question them about knowing Noreen. Actually, after seeing them, even for so short a time, I realized Noreen would have had no interest in them. Obviously, she'd be attracted to Chaz. Who wouldn't? As a classless American, I hated even to think of the term, but his good breeding couldn't be totally hidden under his stage persona. If Noreen made plans to move up in the world, she'd rank him the only candidate in sight. Her then latching onto Uncle Edward seemed proof of that ambition.

Somehow the three of us managed small talk for the next ten minutes, and then Chaz went off to join his buddies.

Elizabeth wanted to leave, but I tried to convince her to stay long enough to hear the songs Chaz had promised to play. "It's still early, and we ought to be polite."

"Since when has Chaz ever been polite to anyone? You don't know him as I do. I came because you begged, and frankly, I'll go crazy if I have to listen to anymore of their playing."

Elizabeth had been more than generous in bringing me to the club, and I saw no way I could get home by myself, so I had no choice. I shrugged and reached for my jacket, when the four men appeared again. Three returned to the stage, but Chaz, apparently noticing our preparations for departure, hurried over.

"Where you goin'? You can't leave now."

"Elizabeth has a splitting headache, and I have to go back with her."

He answered quickly. "I can take you home." He laughed. "We live at the same place now, don't we?"

"That'll be hours from now," Elizabeth said. "Olivia doesn't want to stay so long."

Chaz continued, apparently used to getting his own way. "Won't be too late. We're just doing one more set. Then we're through for the night."

Elizabeth slipped out of the booth and pulled on her coat. "We're going now."

I hesitated. I'd gone there to learn something. I wanted to question him about his affair with Noreen and hoped he'd be more likely to loosen up in this atmosphere. So far, however, except for discovering Chaz's virtuosity on the keyboard, I'd failed. Besides, he was right. He had to go home eventually anyway and could drive me there if Elizabeth didn't.

"Loosen up," he said. "Nobody from the family ever comes to hear us. I like to show what I can do."

I looked at Elizabeth. "I really would like to hear more." I lied, but I didn't need to get more information from her. I needed to get it from Chaz.

She gave me a look, seemingly both fearful and angry, then turned and left.

As soon as the door closed behind her, I felt guilty. I shouldn't have let her go home alone. Furthermore, I remembered Chaz's overtures to me. Could I keep him in his place?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Elizabeth left, the band members donned their costumes again, and the music started up as if programmed for "volcano eruption." I peered around the room, still trying to determine if anyone else who frequented the club might have known Noreen. In spite of what Charlene and Wanda said, I wondered if I had succumbed to foolish optimism. Suppose the women weren't telling the truth? Suppose Noreen lied, inventing another man to impress them? Even if it were true and Mister X had indeed committed hanky-panky with Noreen, I probably wouldn't find him if I stayed at the club for a year.

For confirmation, I looked at the four men then sitting at the bar. Two wore beards, ragged jeans, and scruffy jackets and appeared to be buddies who always came in for a pint after doing some grubby manual labor. The third, thin, with a pock-marked face and sparse hair, slouched on the stool, one filthy hand clutching his beer mug, and exuded all the charisma of a sweat stain.

The fourth one was big and burly but clean-shaven and wore a plaid shirt and tan trousers. He saw me looking in his direction and rose from the stool. As he strolled in my direction, I felt a momentary panic. What had I started? I squelched my apprehension. I'd come to learn something and mustn't be too choosy about the direction from which it came.

Reaching my side, the man stuck out a large, calloused hand. "Frank's the name."

"Olivia."

He appeared to be in his forties and was both tall and muscular, his broad shoulders stretching the shirt taut. I let myself wonder if he might be the man. Had he attended the funeral that day? If so, I didn't recognize him, but that didn't exclude him from my consideration. After all, most murderers probably don't attend their victims' funerals. Or do they?

"You care to dance?"

Dance? Hadn't Wanda said Noreen and her latest lover went dancing? I felt my heartbeat increase. This could provide more clues. I slid from the booth and joined him.

His dance technique consisted of standing in front of me, holding onto my fingers, and swaying to the beat, occasionally twirling me around and catching me again. The band's volume still permitted almost nothing like conversation, and when the number finished, he put a hand under my elbow, guided me back to the booth, and sat next to me.

"You're from the States." He grinned, apparently pleased with himself for deducing that.

"I'm visiting relatives for a few weeks. What about you?"

"I'm on holiday, bound for the lake country to do some hiking and fishing."

"How nice."

He elaborated on his vacation plans. I listened but contributed nothing, since my idea of hiking and fishing is walking through the aquarium about once every five years. When he paused, I returned to my detecting mode. "Do you live in the area?"

"No. I'm a stranger to these parts myself. Just arrived in the village today."

A stranger? So much for my hopes I'd found Mister X. Two minutes into our conversation and I already knew he wasn't the one. Unless, of course, he lied. A murderer would lie, wouldn't he?

I asked what he did when not on holiday, which subjected me to twenty minutes of enthusiastically delivered information about shipbuilding. He seemed so knowledgeable I had no reason to doubt his occupation, and if so, he did it on the coast somewhere, not here in suburban London. I'd struck a dead end.

"Can I buy you another?" He nodded toward my wine glass.

"No thanks. I'll be leaving soon." I let a beat go by. "I'm going home with the band leader."

Before you could say, "Blimy," he made a hasty retreat back to the bar.

After the band members finished playing, they did more laughing and groping with the girls who clustered around them. Finally, however, they turned off the sound equipment and the stage lights. Then all four of them trooped over to my table. "A final drink, eh?" Chaz said.

As they squeezed into the booth with me, I got the strong impression the three others were already high, possibly on more than alcohol or music. I wondered if, during their breaks in the back room, they used drugs. Probably marijuana by the smell.

My knowledge of drug use came mainly from hearsay. Sure, my generation "experimented" with it during our teenage years, but I'd been brought up strictly, and I seldom went to parties where anyone even drank beer, much less took drugs. I'd been on the swim team in school, practicing every minute I wasn't doing homework, and then I went to a private college for three years, spending just one at UC Berkeley. Even there, my most rebellious activity consisted of wearing old clothes from the Salvation Army, growing my hair long and trying to straighten out the curl by ironing it.

Chaz, despite playing with Randy, Guy, and Izzy, didn't seem to have picked up their drug-using habit, if, indeed they did use drugs. He seemed the same as he did without the Hound costume. When the waiter came with their drinks, he asked me if I'd like more wine. "Can't walk on one leg," he said with a laugh. I agreed to one more, preferably chilled.

"Are you sure it's all right for you to quit early to take me home?"

"We don't play long on weeknights. Owner doesn't want to pay for more."

I didn't know what to say next, but I needn't have worried about too much silence. The sound system continued to play their music, and Randy kept loud time to it by tapping on the tabletop with his drumsticks. Izzy and Guy, sitting next to each other, carried on a private conversation, touched hands often, and giggled at private jokes, and I decided they were gay. No mysterious Mister X there, even if I hadn't already decided Chaz's bandmates were too young and immature to have interested Noreen. One more theory that didn't pan out.

Finally we left, but, as for questioning Chaz in private while driving back, that, too, fizzled. Randy recently lost his license to drive, so we dropped him off at his home on the way.

Chaz's vehicle turned out to be a Land Rover with space behind the seats for carrying band instruments. He helped me inside, and, after Randy hopped out at his door, we rode for a mere five minutes before arriving at Mason Hall. Chaz parked the Rover on the gravel driveway behind the house.

Before getting out, I glanced over at him. "Aren't you going to put it in the garage?"

"Don't like to wake Tim when I come in late, seeing his room's up top."

I saw no light coming from the windows of Tim's apartment over the garage, so I assumed he'd already gone to bed. "You're very considerate."

Chaz looked a little sheepish, as if he didn't like being caught doing something admirable. He'd rather be considered selfish. "More convenient for me this way. Just a hop and skip to the door."

We entered the great hall via the door behind the staircase. The first floor swathed in darkness, Chaz snapped a switch on the wall, which provided enough illumination to climb the stairs.

I wondered how I'd manage a conversation with him, but he solved my problem for me. He spoke in a low voice. "Night's not done yet. Come upstairs and see my studio."

I thought about his suggestion for a few minutes. Like going into a man's apartment back home, it was an invitation to sexual activity, and I wanted none of that. However, I was a "woman of the world," wasn't I? Able to handle myself in sticky situations? Of course.

I took off my shoes to keep the heels from making too much noise on the uncarpeted steps. "Yes. I'd like to see it. We didn't get a chance to talk much tonight."

He preceded me up the stairs. "I don't fall asleep straight away after playing, and we can both wind down a bit. I have some good stuff, not like that junk they serve at the club, and you'll like it."

I didn't want a drink. The truth was I rarely drank anything at all. Because of my swimming coach, I'd gone years without alcohol passing my lips, and one glass of wine in social situations usually lasted me all evening. I liked it that way. I'd never have to hear someone say, "Wow, you were the life of the party last night," while I remembered nothing after asking if I could leave my coat on someone's bed. As for that night, I'd look over Chaz's studio, say something complimentary if I could, and ply him with questions about Noreen. That had been my goal for the evening, and I could still accomplish it if I kept my thoughts in control and my feet on the floor.

On the third floor, we walked partway down the hall, and then he opened a door, and we went inside. He flipped a switch on the wall, bringing to dim life a vast room whose walls and ceiling seemed to shiver with some puffy silver material.

"Acoustical stuff," Chaz explained.

The floor, covered with thick, dark green carpeting, held a keyboard, a sound console, two guitars, loudspeakers, amplifiers, and even a sleek, ebony grand piano. Chaz led me to a corner furnished with a black bar fronted by a low, multi-cushioned sofa and several chairs. He pushed me, not ungently, onto the sofa and proceeded to pour something into two glasses. He pointed one at me. "Here."

I didn't take it. "No thanks. Your studio is—well, somewhat different from your bedroom." I stood and walked across the room.

He swallowed both his drink and mine then put both glasses back down on the bar's surface. "You remember my bedroom, do you?" His smile seemed to intimate that our brief conversation there had elevated our relationship.

"Yours wasn't the only bedroom I saw that day. I was helping Aunt Alice put clean linens in all of the rooms."

"I sleep there, but I don't live there."

"You spend your time up here, I suppose."

"Have to. Practice, you know."

"Did Noreen come here too?"

Ignoring my question, he apparently pressed a switch somewhere because I heard music begin to play, soft music, not his usual style. "You like this?"

"Yes, that's very nice, but…"

He dropped into the sofa. "I like all music myself, learned classical when I was a wee lad."

I moved toward the sofa but didn't sit. I was still trying to find an opening for the subject I wanted to discuss. "How did you happen to choose the name of your group? Did Noreen suggest it?"

"No, it was the guys and me. We voted between Mustard Gas and The Speckled Band."

"The Speckled Band?" I repeated. "As in Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah, I thought it was a clever name for a band. We settled on Hounds of the Hall, but they don't understand where it came from."

So I'd been right in guessing it came from the other Sherlock Holmes mystery.

He reached out, grabbed my hand, and pulled me down next to him—a move I hadn't expected. I began to worry. He'd downed both our drinks plus whatever he had at the club, and, even if not inebriated, he seemed eager to pursue his own agenda. I shifted away from him, ready to get to my feet and leave,

He moved even closer to me, and, although I shifted again, I found myself squashed against the sofa arm. "About Noreen—" I started, trying to remind him of what I'd come there to talk about.

He held my arms and looked me over. "You're the hottest thing's come into my life in years. They oughta make you pay taxes on a body like that."

Against my will, I smiled at his compliment, although it appeared my dress had done its job a little too well, but I realized I wouldn't get any useful information from Chaz that night. Not there anyway. "I think I'd better go."

"You can't go now. We're hardly getting started."

He moved again, and I thought if he got any closer he'd be on the other side of me. I tried to push myself to my feet, but between the low sofa and the soft cushions, I couldn't get any leverage. Chaz didn't help. He pressed against me, his cheek against mine, his left arm across my shoulders and the other across my waist.

"Don't!" I twisted in his grasp, but he didn't move. I struggled to rise, all the while trying to keep from taking the situation too seriously. "Come on, Chaz, be sensible." I tried to laugh, but it came out squeaky.

"Sensible is not who I am." He pinned me into place, his mouth came down on mine, his lips firm and warm, a well-practiced kiss.

I'm not making excuses here, but for some reason I didn't move. Perhaps it was the atmosphere, or the wine I'd had at the club, or because we hadn't met before my current visit. I hadn't been kissed in a long time, and thirty-nine is not too old to enjoy lovemaking. Not that, even in the dimmest recesses of my mind, I had any intention of letting it get that far. I just—I can't explain it. For a second—really, only a second—I let myself feel desire again, feel someone wanted me, this good-looking young man, who could make love to any number of women, this cousin…

Whoops. The "cousin" part turned me off at last. He might not think it relevant these days, but I couldn't live the rest of my life remembering having coupled with him. I managed to break the kiss and lean back. "You're being silly. Stop this right now."

"You don't want me to stop. You know you don't." His hand slipped under my skirt and inched upward.

"What are you doing?" My voice rose an octave, and I squirmed and tried to push him away.

"I'm doing what comes natural. You're single. I'm single. Where's the harm?"

"You're—" I couldn't say more. He was kissing me again, this time his lips bruising mine, his body pressing into me, pushing me, sliding me down so I nearly lay flat against the cushions. He was too strong, and I found it even harder to move. I could only turn my face from side to side. Drastic methods were called for. I bit his lip.

The pressure lifted at once, and I thought I tasted blood. I wriggled free, rolled off the sofa onto the floor, got my knees under me and pushed myself to my feet. I made a beeline for the door.

Chaz cursed and followed me. I managed to get the door partway open before he had his arms around mine, pinning them to my sides. He dragged me backward, and then the door exploded inward, and Mr. Tarkington, barking and growling, hurtled into the room. He sank his teeth into Chaz's pants leg and tried to shake it like a rat. I heard cloth tearing, more snarls and growls.

Chaz, spouting expletives, let go of me and reached for Tark, and I grabbed for the back of Chaz's shirt. He turned toward me, and as suddenly as it had started, the fracas ended. Tark let go of his pants, and Chaz glared at me, his voice strained.

"You win." He walked to the bar, then turned and laughed. "Don't think it hasn't been fun."

I snatched Mr. Tarkington into my arms and dashed out of the studio, down the stairs, and into my own room. I even turned the key in the lock. That night Tark slept curled up next to me on the bed.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I came downstairs earlier than usual the next morning, hoping to have breakfast before anyone else arrived. Especially Chaz, although I suspected musicians slept late most mornings due to their late nights. I poured a glass of orange juice and stared at the food. The English are good with eggs and sausage, but I'd grown tired of them, and despite their close proximity to France, British cooks had apparently never mastered the art of crepes. Nor had sharing a language clued them into American pancakes. I took a hard roll from a basket, layered it heavily with butter, and poured a cup of coffee.

Chaz came into the dining room. Wouldn't you know it? The last person in the world I wanted or expected to see at that moment. Plate in one hand and coffee in the other, I headed for the door, hoping to find a secluded place to eat my meal, but Chaz came up to me.

"About last night, sorry. Had a bit too much to drink."

He spoke in a quiet tone that seemed quite sincere, and his words did a lot to melt my anger.

"I don't rape women."

Of course not. I felt sure he didn't have to, but I put my food down and argued anyway. "You gave a remarkable impression of someone about to do that very thing."

"You could've said 'no.'"

"What language did you think I was speaking? What part of 'stop' didn't you understand?"

He grinned. "Touché. Like I said, I wasn't myself. 'Sides, you're a right handsome bird, you know. Can't blame a bloke."

An enigma, one day he sounded as refined as his father, the next like a streetwise cockney. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. "Not that I intend to go back to your studio, but don't let it happen again, okay?"

He held up his hand. "On my honor." I looked down at his jeans and saw he'd put on the same pair he'd worn the previous night. Unless he'd slept in them after I left. The bottom of one leg held tears where Tark had ripped it.

"Your dog put up a good fight too."

"He's not mine, but I'm glad he followed me upstairs."

"Forgive and forget?" Chaz held out his hand, and after a pause I took it. After all, no real harm had been done.

"All right." I picked up my breakfast plate again and carried it to the table. "Why are you up so early anyway?"

Chaz heaped a plate with bacon and eggs, poured some coffee, and joined me. "Hoping to see you, of course, wanting to apologize for last night."

Feeling I had the advantage, I decided on a bold approach to what I wanted to know. "Did the drinks-and-soft-music routine in your studio work with Noreen?"

"What do you mean?"

"You were lovers, weren't you?"

He paused for a second. "Like I said, I don't rape women."

I took that for a "yes." "So she succumbed to your charms. What did you see in her, a woman considerably older than you?"

He grinned again. "I like older women, or hadn't you noticed?"

"When you brought her here to Mason Hall, did you know she intended to make a play for Uncle Edward?"

His eyebrows shot up, like I'd caught him in something he thought he'd hidden, but his voice remained low and steady. "Well, there you are. Things happen, don't they?"

My imagination ran with it. "Did she include you in her plan to marry the old man for his money? Did she promise you some after he died, enough to 'get away' as you suggested yesterday when you learned you didn't inherit anything?"

The smile on his face changed, the muscles around his mouth tightened, and a frown creased his forehead. "You go too far. You don't know anything. You're making it up."

"I'm guessing, I admit, but then," I added, "after Edward died, she reneged. You argued a lot. She dumped you and took up with another man, didn't she? Did he kill her or did you?"

That time I'd gone too far. He leaped from the chair, his fork clattering loudly onto his plate. His face turned red, the cords in his neck stood out, and his hands clenched into fists.

"Don't be daft! She died like the police said, an accident." He whirled around then turned. "When she was blind drunk!" He shouted the last words and slammed out of the room.

Shaken by his outburst, I held my orange juice glass with unsteady hands and took a long swallow. I was on to something. Chaz and Noreen had planned to split Edward's money, and then she changed her mind. Which infuriated him more: her refusal to share or her dumping him for someone else? After all, why should she share it with Chaz? He couldn't force her to. Nor could he stop her from seeing another man. Unless, of course, he killed her.

Elizabeth came into the room. "What was that all about? I heard loud voices, and then Chaz ran past me as if the devil were after him." She didn't go to the sideboard but came straight to the table, staring down at me. I noticed she had again pulled her hair into a ponytail and wore no makeup.

"Elizabeth, I'm sorry about last night. I shouldn't have let you go home alone."

"So, what happened?" Her hands clutched the chair back, her eyes shiny, her face pink. "Did he—?"

She broke off, and my imagination went into high gear again. She'd been about to ask if he came on to me. Why? I said it aloud. "Why do you ask?"

She let go of the chair, turned, and hurried out of the room. I jumped up and followed her. She ran into the library, and I dashed in behind her and closed the hall doors.

"What's the matter, Elizabeth?"

She didn't answer, just slumped into the sofa.

I sat down next to her, but she didn't look at me. "Chaz had too much to drink last night and got a little, er, silly."

She stared straight ahead, eyes narrowed, her arms hugging her body as if for warmth. "Did he take you up to his studio?"

"As a matter of fact, he did. He wanted to show it to me, and I wanted to see it."

"Did he play pretty music? Even rock musicians know what it takes to seduce a woman."

Reality dawned on me. "What are you trying to say?"

"Did he give you more to drink, sit close, kiss you?"

"Did he do that to you?"

Her breathing turned ragged—tears coursed down her face—her body shook. "He raped me."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

My brain went into fibrillation. I couldn't answer.

Having said the words she probably now regretted, Elizabeth then spoke softly. "Last night I thought he might do the same to you."

"He didn't rape me." I tried to sound reassuring. "Probably he thinks he didn't rape you, that you wanted him. Most women would, you know. Anyway, he has a huge ego."

After a long pause, Elizabeth calmed down. "Not always. When I first moved into Mason Hall, he was polite, considerate, always asking me about my school and how I was getting on. We were like good chums. Then he brought Noreen home and I—" She stopped mid-sentence.

"You felt jealous," I filled in.

"Not like you mean. I'm years older than he is, and we're cousins besides."

"Chaz cares nothing about age and thinks that 'cousin' taboo is outdated."

"He told me that too, but I didn't fantasize anything. I missed the camaraderie, a friend to talk to. You know how Jason is. Might as well try to talk to a stone wall, a stuck-up one at that."

I agreed. Jason had less sympathy for others than a houseplant.

"Even though Chaz is younger," Elizabeth continued, "he seemed wiser. He understood things."

"So what happened after Noreen came?"

"Right off she started playing up to Edward, the poor old soul. None of us could believe it when they said they planned to be married. Yet it didn't bother me as much as it did Mum and the others."

"You thought you and Chaz would be together once more?"

"Yes. He started taking me to the club again. And other places. We had jolly times. He said I was too pretty not to get married again, and he'd try to introduce me to some nice men."

"Did he?"

"One or two, but nothing came of it. Chaz kept taking me places though, and I enjoyed his company."

I understood now why those pretty dresses hung in her closet. "But you, like everyone else in the family, knew Chaz and Noreen—"

"I knew he and Noreen were, well, together at night after Edward went to bed. I felt sorry for the old man, but it was none of my business. Then she—"

Her hands shook, and I took one in mine. I couldn't help wondering if she had told the truth about her feelings, if she was jealous Chaz and Noreen were playing house. Yet I also wanted to know what happened next.

"Everyone says that after Edward died, Chaz and Noreen began to quarrel," I told her. "Is that right?"

"He changed. He scarcely talked to me, drank more. Then one night—" She looked up, as if pleading for me to understand how it happened. "We'd been to the club, had drinks in his studio, listened to music." She stopped, took a breath. "You know that American film where Harry comforts Sally and…"

"And they end up making love," I finished. Hollywood has a lot to answer for. I knew now why she didn't want to wear that red dress to the club, and I knew how she'd felt because I'd been close to it myself less than twelve hours before. The man was darn near irresistible, especially to a woman with post-divorce angst.

"It wasn't like that. I knew better. I said, 'no.' Truly I did. You must believe me."

"I do believe you." I considered telling her Chaz hadn't listened to my protestations either, and I might have been in her position had it not been for the dog, but I didn't think it would help her.

She searched in her pocket for a handkerchief and held it to her face. She went on speaking, her words muffled. "I'm going away next term, up to Durham where Dorothea lives. I'd have left by now, but I already signed the contract for the school term here. I couldn't cancel at the last minute, let the school down."

I gave her a mental A-plus for integrity. Despite her anguish, she would do her duty. Was that a British trait, or could our family take credit for it?

Elizabeth wiped her eyes and looked up at me. "You're not to tell anyone what I've said, especially my mum. You're the only one who knows." Her eyes narrowed. "And don't tell Chaz I told you. I'd be too humiliated."

"But you shouldn't feel that way. You've done nothing wrong. He's the one who should go away."

She clutched my arm, as if I'd jump up and oust Chaz from the premises then and there. "No. Noreen's to blame. If she hadn't come here and turned everyone's life topsy-turvy… She ruined Chaz, made him cruel and heartless." She broke off, tears choking her voice.

I put my arms around her. "It's over now. You'll be fine."

After a while, she stopped crying, wiped her eyes, blew her nose. She even gave me a faint smile as if unburdening herself had given her a different perspective. I walked her to the door, and we went into the great hall.

She turned to me and spoke softly. "You know, I think maybe you're right. Chaz didn't rape me. It's true I kept saying, 'no,' all the time, but somewhere along the line I think it turned to, 'now.'" She lowered her head. "I guess I didn't want to admit it to myself, ashamed to think I was no better than…"

I hugged her. "Look, the day we become perfect is the day we ascend to heaven. And, personally, I'm not ready to have you leave the earth."

"Thanks. I think I'm okay now. I guess I needed to tell someone, to sort of put it in perspective. Thanks for listening." She stuffed her handkerchief in the pocket of her jeans and headed for the stairs.

I stood still for a while, thinking about our conversation. Elizabeth was old-fashioned, not realizing, perhaps, we lived in an age of expanding social boundaries and a decidedly lower threshold of embarrassment. Then I went back into the library to be sure I hadn't left my empty coffee cup on the table there.

Rain had been falling, but sometime during the morning it had stopped, and the sun slanted in through the windows, making the brass andirons in the fireplace gleam like gold. The light caught something else, a pair of polished shoes in front of one of the large wingback chairs on the other side of the room. Had they been left there the night before, or did someone occupy the chair then? I tiptoed forward and saw Uncle William leaning back, eyes closed, two fingers of his right hand inserted into a book.

Despite my cautious approach, he apparently heard me or sensed my presence and opened his eyes. He straightened up. "Ah, Olivia. Didn't hear you come in."

I wondered how long he'd been sitting in that chair and how much of my conversation with Elizabeth he'd heard.

"Must have been dozing over my book." He held his hand up, showing me the slim brown volume. I decided that—inasmuch as he was hard of hearing—even if he hadn't been dozing, he probably couldn't have heard us.

I said, "I'm leaving now," and started for the door.

He rose from the chair and followed me. "I say, I've been meaning to talk to you about that mortgage business."

"Yes?"

"It seems to be all right. Jason says it was merely an application, and he rang up the company and cancelled the whole matter." He smiled. "No harm done."

"I'm glad." I remembered the other paper I found in the office that day. "And the detective agency receipt?"

William frowned. "I mentioned that to Jason as well, but he told me there was no detective agency receipt."

"But I saw it."

"He feels you were mistaken. The receipt was not from a detective agency but an appraiser. About the property."

The letterhead I saw read, "Private Investigations." Since when did such a firm do property appraisals?

However, I didn't argue with William about it. "I see." I thanked him and left the room.

I went straight to the office, but of course Jason had gone to his job in the city. I stood in the doorway and looked over the room, as usual uncluttered, everything in its place. I knew precisely where I'd put the receipt: in a folder labeled what else? Receipts. In the left-hand desk drawer. I stared at the drawer for at least ten seconds, but it didn't open and the paper come floating out to me. I'd have to look for it.

First, I closed the door to the hall. The file itself took mere seconds to find. Fat with recently paid bills, it looked exactly the same as before. I pulled it out, set it on the desktop, and opened it. Then I picked up every paper, looked at it carefully, and put it face down on the left. I examined each receipt in the folder, but the one from the detective agency had disappeared.

I wondered if he had another folder of paid bills. But no. I looked at all the other folders and none of them held receipts. Next I looked in all the other desk drawers, then the filing cabinet. Nothing.

It's true I had not looked at every piece of paper in the entire room, but not only had I filed them all a few days before, but also Jason, neat freak personified, surely wouldn't have put a receipt anywhere but in a file with other receipts. So where could it be?

Only one explanation came to mind: he tossed it. Not, of course, in the last day or two, because the wastebasket in the room held just a few empty envelopes from more recent bills and several advertising circulars. One from a company desperate to install new plumbing in the Hall.

Okay, being just a paid bill, I suppose he had no particular reason to keep the detective's invoice. Yet why had Jason lied to Uncle William and called it a receipt for an appraisal? I hadn't seen anything like that in the file.

I pay my own bills and keep receipts. Where would I go next if I were at home? Cancelled checks, of course. A small metal box, about the right size to hold checks, rested in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, but I hadn't looked in it because, unfortunately, it was locked.

I'd read you can open some locks with a paperclip, or even a hairpin, but I drew the line at jimmying locks, even if I had a hairpin and knew how.

However, then I heard footsteps outside the door. My heart pounding, I backed up against the wall on one side of the door and held my breath. If anyone came in, how would I explain why I'd come into the office? Ages passed. Then the footsteps continued on down the hall, and I relaxed. Still, I decided to forego any locked-box caper.

My inquisitiveness refused to be put off, however. In fact, it went into overdrive. I had to find that paper. Or at least know the truth about it. But how? The receipt itself was missing, and I didn't remember anything but the words, "Private Investigations."

Or did I? Over the years I've found that if I see something in a book or magazine and then want to go back to it later, I always remember on which side of the page I saw it, and whether near the top or the bottom. My little slice of photographic memory.

I closed my eyes and tried to visualize the receipt. A sheet of letterhead, off-white, slightly smaller than eight-and-a-half by eleven inches, with the company name at the top, followed by a blank space and then "Private Investigations" in the same black ink, but smaller letters.

In the center of the page were the words, "For services rendered," and then the amount: two hundred pounds. An address and telephone number occupied one line on the bottom, barely legible except to the rare person whose eyes could read a modern telephone directory without a magnifying glass.

Mentally, I moved my gaze to the top of the letterhead again, visualized the printing of the company name. The letters were elongated and in block form, especially the "D's" which almost looked like "O's." I took in a breath, remembering. I'd seen two "D's." David. Immediately, the last name popped into my mind: Ingersoll. The detective's name was David Ingersoll.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I found Mr. Ingersoll's address in the directory and made an appointment for that very day. While Tim O'Brien whisked me to his office in the car, I thought back over my recent activities. I'd expected to spend my time getting reacquainted with relatives, being taken on sightseeing excursions, and perhaps going to the theater in the evenings to see some plays and musicals for which the British are famous. I had wanted to see Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap, but instead, I found myself engaged in trying to solve a mystery of my own. I'd always been a mystery novel reader, and my brother picked up the habit from me. Now, he was a police officer planning to open a detective agency, and I had a mystery on my hands right here.

Although the British police hadn't found anything mysterious about Noreen's death—and why should I second-guess them?—the longer I stayed at Mason Hall, the more convinced I became that someone ought to have murdered her. The facts cried out for a vengeful someone to put an end to Noreen's lying, cheating, drinking, and generally gauche behavior. Preferably the mysterious Mister X whom I still tried hard to convince myself had an assignation with Noreen by the lily pond and then, for some reason, drowned her.

What reason? So far, I'd found zero evidence he even existed. Still, I maintained hope Mr. Ingersoll might provide some answers.

Tim dropped me off in front of a nondescript two-story brick building, telling me he'd be back in half an hour, and I found Mr. Ingersoll's office at number seven on the first floor. The receptionist, a young woman with orange hair, blue eye shadow, and inch-long fingernails, greeted me and waved me into the door to her right.

Inside, I discovered Mr. Ingersoll was a mousy man with no outstanding features. He didn't even wear glasses. A perfect private eye. No one would notice him, and he could spy on suspects without being observed. Unlike his receptionist, who, when she stood, boasted three miles of fishnet-clad legs.

Ingersoll rose when I entered and indicated one of two upholstered chairs in front of his desk. "Do have a seat, Mrs. Grant."

"Thank you." I sat and glanced around at his sparsely-decorated office: tan walls, brown furniture, one window looking out on the street. His desk held a telephone, calendar, and a pad of ruled paper.

"What service may I perform for you?" He had a BBC-announcer accent, with a tone both soft and confidential.

"I've come about an invoice for two hundred pounds for services you rendered recently."

"Did you feel the charge to be excessive?"

"No, not at all." Not that I would know, but someone had paid the invoice, or it wouldn't have been in the file.

"Something else has brought you here." A statement more than a question. Clearly an insightful private eye.

"If you recall, you sent the invoice to Mrs. Mason."

"But you are Mrs. Grant, not Mrs. Mason, are you not?"

"That's correct."

"Now I understand. My services being satisfactory, she has referred me so that I may be of assistance to you."

"No." I took a deep breath and plunged on. "I would like to know what services you performed for her."

His eyebrows shot up and, after a long sigh, he leaned back in his chair. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Grant, but that information is confidential."

"I have an important reason for needing to know." Not that I would tell Ingersoll the truth, but, of course, I wanted to learn the identity of Mister X.

"I'm sure you believe so, but if I were to divulge it, I would be breaching investigator-client confidentiality. I shouldn't remain in business very long if I were to do that, should I?" He managed a tiny smile in my direction.

"I understand. However, inasmuch as Mrs. Mason has died, I don't think you need to fear she will complain."

"Died?"

"Yes, last week." I put my head down as if hiding sudden tears, and I uttered my next words in a tragic tone. "She drowned accidentally."

"Mrs. Mason?"

"Noreen, that is, Mrs. Edward Mason."

His eyes seemed to flash recognition, but he said, "Nevertheless…"

Mr. Poirot's little grey cells never worked any harder than mine when I'd concocted my story, and I now launched into the rest of my act, pulled a handkerchief from my purse, and held it to my face. "You see, Mr. Ingersoll, Noreen was my sister, and we've been separated for several years because I live in the United States." No need to try to hide that fact.

He looked sympathetic, and I continued. "I've come over here at great expense, because she told me she had hired you to find our missing younger brother."

Ingersoll's mouth dropped open, and the words tumbled out. "Younger brother? But Roy Capelli is seventy-eight years old."

Aha!

Having inadvertently given away the very name I sought, Mr. Ingersoll slumped into his chair, looking embarrassed.

I pretended not to notice and thought over what he'd said. Of course, Uncle Edward had been seventy-nine when Noreen married him, so her romantic escapade with young Chaz notwithstanding, she liked older men.

Furthermore, from what I'd been able to gather so far, Noreen's interest in someone else didn't actually begin until after Edward's death. Perhaps she'd lined up another old geezer whom she could marry for his money. Her career path of choice.

Why not, pray tell? Men had been doing the same thing for eons. Of course, most often men died earlier than women, but if the wife died first, the widower didn't waste much time finding a replacement. I'd even heard a name for it: "nurse with a purse." They wanted someone, preferably with plenty of her own money, to care for them in their old age.

By now, Ingersoll had recovered his wits. "Do I understand you wish to hire me to locate Mr. Capelli?"

"I believe you've already done that for my sister."

He went on the attack. "On the other hand, I believe you have told me an untruth. I suspect Mrs. Mason is not your sister, and she didn't tell you she hired me to find your missing younger brother."

Okay, I'm not a good actor. Nevertheless, I continued, this time trying to look repentant and not above stooping to flattery. "You're very clever, Mr. Ingersoll. It's true I'm not looking for a missing brother, but I am related to Mrs. Mason, and I don't need a great deal of information, just what she asked you to find out about Mr. Capelli." His net worth, I presumed.

"I am not convinced I should give this to you. How do I know Mrs. Mason is really deceased?"

"It's easy enough to check. The newspaper reported her funeral."

He pouted. "My time is very valuable."

I gave in. "Suppose I were to hire you? What would you charge?"

He smiled. "Although you're not family, I'll give you a family discount: one hundred pounds."

"You might have had to search all over London, if not the entire country, when you first tried to find Mr. Capelli. Now you just need to search your office. It hardly seems fair."

"Fifty pounds."

"Twenty-five."

"You Yanks are more careful with your money than I've been led to believe."

"You've been watching the wrong films. It's only an ugly rumor that our national pastime is conspicuous consumption."

"Very well." He rose from his chair and went over to a filing cabinet against the wall, one of those low, wide ones where the drawers roll out sideways. The frame was black and the doors mustard-colored. French's, not Grey Poupon. However, several minutes of rummaging through files left him empty-handed. He turned back to me.

"Apparently the folder has not yet been filed. My receptionist is somewhat, er, behind in her work."

Well, duh. With fingernails like hers, the woman could barely pick up a folder, much less file it.

"I'll put the information in the post," he said.

"I'll be going back home soon. I can't wait."

He shrugged and sat down again. "I'm sorry. Tomorrow perhaps." He picked up a pen and pulled his ruled pad into position. "Give me your address."

I did, but I hated to leave without knowing more. "You remembered Mr. Capelli's name. Can't you tell me what Mrs. Mason wanted to know about him?"

Ingersoll frowned and pulled at his chin. "As I recall, she asked about a woman." Long pause. "Can't remember the name. It's in the file. I'll find it."

"Can you remember Mr. Capelli's address so I can talk to him? He may not have heard about Mrs. Mason's death, and I need to tell him."

"Oh, yes, I remember that." He paused and looked at me for several minutes without speaking, and I realized he expected me to cross his palm with silver. I gave him a five-pound note and offered a credit card for the balance.

"He lives at Youngacres House. Not too far away. Anyone can direct you."

I thanked him and left, wondering if I'd given him twenty-five pounds for a mere address, or if Ingersoll would keep his word and send me more information when he found the file. I decided that whether I liked it or not, he had the upper hand.

As it was by then late afternoon, I returned to Mason Hall rather than attempt to visit Mr. Capelli immediately. Besides, I needed to think about what I'd learned. Under the circumstances, the man's advanced age didn't surprise me, nor did it mean he couldn't have quarreled with Noreen and drowned her in the lily pond. I next decided the woman Noreen asked Ingersoll about must be a friend, someone who told her about Capelli. I felt I had made some progress after all.

I left my coat in the closet under the stairs and went into my room to freshen up for dinner. Since I still had at least three-quarters of an hour before I needed to make my appearance in the dining room, I had sufficient time to do more sleuthing. Where would I do that? Why, Noreen's room, of course. Why hadn't I done more snooping in there before this? Surely, if she already had another prospective husband in mind, she'd have left a clue or two lying about.

I opened my bedroom door and peered into the hallway. Saw no one. I tiptoed past the bath and stopped in front of Noreen's room. Looked around again. Tested the door. The knob turned easily, and I darted inside and closed the door behind me. The room looked the same as when I'd seen it before, except her dressing table bench held a large cardboard box I didn't recall seeing there the night I found Tark. The box lid being open, I looked into it. I saw two letters, a pocket calendar, and quite a few loose papers. I reasoned that the police must have taken those things away during their investigation, along with all the papers in the office downstairs, and subsequently returned them.

Good of them to save me the trouble. I placed the box on the floor, seated myself on the bench and removed items one at a time, examined them, and put them on the dressing table. Most were advertisements cut from newspapers and magazines, items Noreen might have wished to purchase. Like a coat made of unborn lambskins (ugh) and a Jaguar (the car, not the animal). Plus travel folders describing cruises to exotic places and two programs from a racetrack. I opened one of the programs and found Noreen had circled the numbers of horses and indicated their finish position. If she'd wagered on them, she'd lost money on seven out of eight. As in the case of her bridge playing, there went some more of Edward's cash.

One letter came from an interior-decorating firm thanking her for her business, and the other from a dog psychiatrist soliciting it. In my opinion, if you even consider hiring a dog psychiatrist, God is telling you that you have way too much money. Except for his recent fear of the lily pond, which Noreen wouldn't even have known about, Mr. Tarkington seemed perfectly normal to me. He aimed to please, similar to the collie my brother and sister owned and, when they were young teens, I often thought was more obedient than they were. Given a command, the dog obeyed instantly, whereas my siblings, when asked by our parents to do something, might say, "Maybe," "Later," or "Why?"

Except for hairdresser's appointments and one day in February in which she apparently made her initial visit to Ingersoll's office, Noreen's calendar pages held no information. The name and address section contained less than a dozen entries, and each had initials and a telephone number. I saw a "D.I.," which I presumed stood for David Ingersoll, but without complete names to go by or sufficient time to think up plausible excuses, I balked at the idea of calling any of those other people. At least for now.

I sighed. Besides having no relatives, Noreen obviously behaved rather secretively and discarded everything that might reveal her life before meeting Chaz. If Roy Capelli meant anything to her, she didn't reveal it with incriminating evidence.

After replacing everything in the box, I searched the room, hoping the police had missed something. Still, the drawers contained nothing but clothes: pastel-colored silk pajamas and lacy teddies. I scrunched down and looked under her bed, delved into coat and jacket pockets in her wardrobe and even behind pictures on the walls. Still nothing.

Finally, I went through the connecting door into Edward's room. As masculine as Noreen's was feminine, it featured drab wallpaper, brown draperies, and heavy, carved furniture. The four-poster, king-sized bed, however, seemed newer than the rest, and I assumed Noreen had a hand in that. I felt like a voyeur, imagining them coupling under the sheets, and decided to leave before someone caught me at it.

I reached the door to the hallway and cracked it open. Voices. I held my breath. However, the people belonging to the voices didn't enter Edward's room, but the one next door. If I remembered correctly from the day I replaced linens, that was William and Beryl's sitting room.

They were male voices—William and Chaz—and they were engaged in a heated argument. All family members raised their voices when speaking to William anyway, but I could tell the subject matter created the high volume of this particular conversation.

"How dare you have done such a thing?" William shouted.

"What I do is my own affair," Chaz answered.

"Not when it involves the family. You've disgraced us, disgraced yourself."

"Hold on. Nobody's done anything to anybody."

I shrank back, wondering what indiscretion Chaz had committed now, and then I heard William speak Elizabeth's name, and it became clear. William had not been dozing in the library that morning. He heard Elizabeth say Chaz raped her. But how could he? Had we been so preoccupied we didn't notice him peer around the corner of his chair and face us so he could read our lips? No, I chose a simpler explanation. The foxy old man had turned on his hearing aids. Unfortunately, we'd gone into the hall when Elizabeth admitted it wasn't rape after all, so he didn't hear that.

I closed the hall door quietly and retreated back into the room. A few muffled words reached me: Chaz insisting grown-ups behaved as they pleased and something about nobody getting hurt. I did what William should have done that day (although perhaps the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, before he could do so), turned around and used the connecting door to reenter Noreen's room and scamper toward the hallway.

Once more safely in the passage, I turned around and saw Aunt Alice. She had her back to me, bent forward, ear pressed to Beryl and William's sitting room door. So, I wasn't the only snoop in the house. It seemed that now five people knew about Elizabeth and Chaz.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Grim silence hung over the dinner table that night. Chaz didn't appear at all, and William sat stiffly, his lips barely opening sufficiently to put food inside. Alice's face seemed flushed, her eyes red, the flesh around them swollen, and Elizabeth touched almost nothing on her plate and excused herself before dessert. Jason behaved somewhat normally, trying to get a conversation going, but only Beryl responded to him, and he finally gave it up.

I felt a little guilty for not making the mealtime pleasant, but my brain refused to cooperate. What could I say? "Guess what, everyone, I think Noreen planned to marry another old man for his money"? Or how about this one: "By the way, Elizabeth told me Chaz raped her, and now William and Aunt Alice heard that and think it's true"?

Instead, my thoughts centered on what Alice must be feeling, and I wondered if she'd confronted Elizabeth with what she'd heard. Poor Elizabeth. She'd told me she didn't want anyone else to know about that evening with Chaz, especially her mother. I also worried she might think I'd been the one who revealed it. So, when I left the dining room, I went upstairs, planning to tell Elizabeth that William had been in the library and might have heard just part of the truth. I knocked on her door, but she didn't open it and said she wanted an early night.

While I stood still in the hall, wondering what to do next, other family members came upstairs as well and retreated into their own rooms. Several doors closed at the same time, like gangster movies with jail cell doors slamming shut simultaneously. I went downstairs again and chatted with cook in the kitchen while she did some washing up. I posed some discreet questions, but Annie either knew nothing or was too shrewd to gossip about her employers.

I took Mr. Tarkington outdoors, then stopped at Tim O'Brien's door and asked if he'd be available to take me somewhere the next morning. Although he announced he expected rain the next day, he agreed.

When Tark and I returned from a longer-than-usual walk, Annie had retired to her own quarters, and the entire family seemed to have vanished. Talk about your deserted mansion. I could swear my footsteps echoed when I climbed the stairs and went into my room. I set my travel alarm clock for an early rising, determined to leave the house and visit Roy Capelli before I had to encounter any unhappy relatives. Before long, the rain Tim predicted began to fall, pelting my windows, but its rhythmic, staccato beat didn't keep me from falling asleep.

*   *   *

Although clouds covered the sky, no rain fell the next morning, and true to his word, immediately after breakfast Tim brought the car around. "Mornin', Miss. Where to today?"

I looked at the name I'd written in my pocket calendar. "A place called Youngacres House. Do you know where it is?"

"Youngacres House? Certain you want to go there?"

"Of course. Why not?"

"Not for me to say, Miss." He turned away from me to face the road and put the car noisily into gear.

The car's momentum pushed me back in the seat, and I pondered what Tim meant. I assumed Mr. Capelli would be wealthy, but could this Youngacres House be so grand as to be out of my league? My imagination took off. Could it be a home the royals used and therefore off limits to outsiders? Perhaps a trysting place once used by Charles and Camilla?

I grinned at that then leaned forward over the seat to ask Tim. "Is there something I should know? Will I be turned away?"

"Oh, no, Miss. You can go there, right enough."

Tim's expression looking as if he considered our conversation finished, I settled back again, reasoning that Mr. Ingersoll had told me Roy Capelli lived at Youngacres, had probably been there himself, and knew I intended to go, so it must be all right.

The place was evidently not a secret hideaway used by the royal family, and I was in no danger of running into Queen Elizabeth. My thoughts wandered as they sometimes did to the entire monarchy concept. The idea of being ruled by a king or queen seemed so terribly old fashioned.

Still, I didn't begrudge the British their ties to a past both colorful and historical. Thanks to my father, I claimed part of that history in a small way, even though I was born in the US.

We drove even farther out into the country and finally came upon a large estate bordered by a high iron fence. Amidst acres of grass, behind tall trees, sprawled a four-story, stone mansion looking large enough to have its own postal code. Tim turned the car in between the iron gates where I saw a sign reading Youngacres and proceeded up the curving driveway to a covered portico. As we approached, I realized someone had misnamed Youngacres. The structure looked older than Mason Hall and in nowhere near as good condition.

Tim stopped the car, then stepped out, came around, and opened my door. "When shall I come to fetch you?" He spoke in a low voice, almost as if we were conspirators, although no one could hear us.

I took a guess on how long it might take to get some information from Capelli. "Three quarters of an hour?"

Tim looked at his watch. "Right-o." Then he climbed back into the driver's seat and took off, no doubt to a pub.

Two shallow steps led to oversized wooden double doors, scratched and gouged and, despite the protective overhang, badly weathered. At the right side a plastic sign read Ring for Entry with a button beneath, which I pressed firmly until I heard it ring somewhere inside.

A husky, bald man who could have doubled for a bouncer in a New York bar opened the door. "Yes?"

"I'd like to see Mr. Roy Capelli."

He stepped aside, and I entered a large dim entryway revealing a cluttered desk behind which another man, older and grey-haired but almost as husky, talked into a telephone. He glanced up at me, finished his conversation, and also said, "Yes?" leaving me to wonder if I'd missed a new law that said from now on people must speak one-word sentences.

"I'd like to see Mr. Roy Capelli," I repeated.

Without answering he picked up the telephone again, punched in a three-digit number, and said something I didn't understand. Except it seemed to be at least four words this time. Next he waved me to a low wooden bench, and I assumed I needed to wait. In a few minutes a tall, white-uniformed, fiftyish woman appeared and gestured for me to follow her.

We passed through an arch suspiciously like the metal detectors at airports and then walked down a long corridor punctuated by many closed doors with narrow barred windows in them. I wondered what on earth I'd gotten myself into. This was no mansion belonging to a British millionaire, but clearly an institution of some sort. A not-very-well-maintained institution requiring extensive security measures. What role did Mr. Capelli play in it, owner, manager, or some other employee?

I caught up to the woman in white when we reached another set of double doors. "Excuse me, but where am I? Where is Mr. Capelli? What does he do here?"

She stopped and turned to me, her expression saying she didn't suffer questioners gladly. "Do? Mr. Capelli is an inmate."

An inmate? My brain had trouble processing the information.

"He's in the day room now. Don't excite him."

She opened the door, and I followed her meekly into a large, high-ceilinged room. Its long windows barred and heavily draped, they let in almost no light. I let my eyes adjust to the semi-darkness, and the nurse/guard—by then I'd figured out her probable occupation—pointed to a man in a wheelchair, turned, and left.

Capelli, like the three other men in the room, wore a bathrobe and sat in a wheelchair separated from the others as if all preferred contemplation to conversation. I walked toward Capelli, past worn sofas and chairs, scarred tables holding dog-eared books and well-used magazines. When I reached his side, he looked up from his magazine and took off dark-rimmed glasses as if to see me better. He didn't look seventy-nine. He looked ninety-nine going on death. His thin body hunched over, he had a narrow face, and his head was bald except for a small thatch of hair that resembled something you'd pull out of a shower drain. If he had ever been good-looking, time and a wayward lifestyle had had their nasty way with him.

"So?" he asked. That one-word sentence again.

I pulled up a chair and sat. "You don't know me, but David Ingersoll gave me your name and told me where to find you."

He thought for a minute, rubbing a gnarled finger over his chin. "Secret agent bloke. Come here spyin'."

At least he was lucid. I considered that a plus. I didn't want to have to deal with someone with a long-gone grip on reality.

"I hope you don't mind if I ask a question or two."

"Don't got nuthin' else to do."

I took that for a "yes." "It's about Noreen Mason."

"Never heard of 'er."

Of course not. I should have sensed the mistake the instant I walked in. Noreen would never have taken up with anyone who looked like that and lived there. Wherever "there" was. I still hadn't much of a clue.

"May I ask what you," I glanced at my surroundings, "what is this place?"

He grinned, showing a few remaining yellowed teeth. "Don't know where you are, eh? Never been to a place like this, eh? It's a quod, a prison. More like a warehouse now, isn't it?"

"Warehouse?"

"A place they put us sods when they don't need to keep us locked up no more." He paused. "Can't do harm no more. No more 'menace to society' moniker for this lot."

So he was a criminal and lived in a hospital for aging criminals. I'd often wondered about prison sentences ending in the words, "to life." Most people go through a decline near the end of their days on earth. Few people, not just jail inmates, play tennis one day and drop dead tidily the next.

"What else you want to know—what I got nicked fer?"

I glanced at my watch. I had time to kill before Tim would return. "Are you sure you never met anyone named Noreen Mason, or Noreen Vickers?"

"Mind's not what it once was, but that don't ring no bell."

"Well then, what questions did Mr. Ingersoll ask you?"

"About what I did for a livin', where I worked, like he was the flippin' Inland Revenue." He chortled. "I ain't no bloody taxpayer."

So he'd started his crime spree at a young age. "What led to your first arrest?"

"Nuthin' much. GBH." When he saw I didn't understand, he added, "Grievous Bodily Harm. Struck me old lady."

"Your wife?"

"Yeah. We had a few shovin' matches, ya know, nuthin' serious. Then one time she calls the coppers, and I'm in the bleedin' cooler. Lost me job." His voice turned bitter. "What'd she expect? Lousy bitch." He shifted in the wheelchair. "Want to know about what landed me here for good?"

"No. I'm sorry I bothered you."

He told me anyway. "Armed robbery the last time. A bloke got offed. Not me. I didn't shoot 'im. But I was there at the time, see? That's how it works. 'Fore that I nicked small stuff. Not good at it though. Kept gettin' caught." He grunted.

So he was serving a life sentence for a crime involving someone's death. At least he was alive. England, like most of Europe, had long ago abandoned the death penalty. I loved my country, but I wished we would abandon capital punishment too.

Although I didn't think Capelli would become violent or that he could overpower me if he did, I decided waiting outside posed a good option after all. I said good-bye to the man, he grunted again, and I found my way back to the entrance. No one spoke to me when I left.

While I stood under the portico, rain began to fall, a perfect accompaniment to my gloomy mood. This had been a wild-goose chase and added to my list of unanswered questions. I still didn't know why Noreen had asked the detective to investigate Roy Capelli, especially since he insisted he didn't know her. I supposed I'd have to wait until Ingersoll sent me his notes. Time was running out. I had less than a week left in England, and maybe Ingersoll wouldn't send the papers he promised before I had to leave. Even if he did, they might tell me nothing valuable. Meanwhile, I hadn't learned anything.

Well, perhaps I had after all. Truth began to dawn on me. I had been barking up the wrong eucalyptus. Maybe, my imaginary Mister X, who might have been having an affair with Noreen and might have killed her, did not exist. Either one of my relatives did it, which I still hated to believe, or I had to accept Inspector Kincaid's theory she drowned accidentally. Neither one satisfied my curiosity.

I shivered and pulled my coat collar up to my chin. Then my conscience pricked. Who did I think I was, trying to play detective with no credentials or experience and in a foreign country at that? I ought to be ashamed of myself for wasting my and everyone else's time. Perhaps all my snooping and asking questions hindered family members from putting the unpleasant past behind them. I felt my face grow tight and hot despite the cold, damp air. Perhaps I should give up.

But I didn't want to give up. I'm not a person who abandons projects I've started. I've walked out of only one incredibly bad movie—whose title I'd thankfully forgotten—in my life, and back in the days when I knitted, I never relegated an unfinished afghan to the back of my closet. Okay, so the fate of the world didn't hang on my solving this riddle.

Yet, if I was right and someone did murder Noreen, maybe he or she would strike again. Maybe, in fact, I had put myself in danger. I shivered again.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

In olden times, I believe, English residences received mail several times a day. Sherlock Holmes could send a letter in the morning and get a reply that afternoon. In the nineteenth century, the US had the Pony Express, but after that, things went downhill. An old joke in the States suggested the Postal Service increased the price of stamps every year or so in order to build warehouses to store undelivered mail.

On the other hand, the British system is still quite efficient. I crossed the great hall, heading for lunch in the dining room, when Alice came up to me.

"The post has come." She handed me a fat envelope.

I had seen the private investigator, David Ingersoll, just the day before, but now I'd received mail from him.

In the drawing room, I found a letter opener in the top desk drawer and settled into a comfortable chair to read the contents. The first page was a cover letter, announcing the enclosure of copies of the pertinent papers from the file he kept on Noreen Mason. The second sheet consisted of notes he'd made about the case. The third was a copy of a marriage license. The fourth and fifth were documents from court proceedings. On the latter pages, I recognized the name, Roy Capelli, and they appeared to indicate when and where he'd been sent to prison. His name also appeared on the marriage license, along with that of the woman he married a few years before, one Beryl Simpson.

I dropped the paper and picked up Ingersoll's notes. Sure enough, he'd written that Noreen had asked him to investigate Beryl Simpson, but he hadn't located her. I didn't know how common the name was in England, but I knew just one Beryl: my aunt, William's mousy wife, a woman I had thought totally lacking any colorful past. She was also Jason and Chaz's mother, and she sat in the dining room that very moment, having lunch. The papers fell from my shaking hands, and I left them on the rug for several minutes.

According to those papers, Beryl had married Roy Capelli, a man who now occupied a wheelchair in Youngacres House, a prisoner waiting to die in order to fulfill the sentence for his crimes. I reached down and retrieved the papers. If this was the Beryl I knew, when had she divorced him? Where was the license for her marriage to Jason's father, Raymond Cornell? Aunt Beryl had been a widow when she married William. Where was Cornell's death certificate?

I told myself not to speculate. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of Beryls existed. My aunt wasn't necessarily the one who married Capelli. Yet Noreen had obviously asked Ingersoll to investigate a woman named Beryl. How many Beryls did she know? Most of all, why, having married this particular Beryl's brother-in-law, did she ask Ingersoll to do such a thing?

I came to the conclusion that my aunt had been Beryl Simpson, and I had never heard that because of living in the US most of my life. Many, if not all, other family members might have known that, but judging by her usual temperament, Beryl didn't want her past dredged up and gossiped about. I returned the papers to their envelope and took a deep breath. I'd have to ask Aunt Beryl herself, and I had to do it right away.

I left the drawing room and walked across to the dining room. She and Uncle William still sat there. I greeted them and poured a cup of tea. My hand shook, making the cup rattle against the saucer, so I put it on the table and sat down.

William eyed the newspaper lying near his now-empty plate, as if he wanted to read it while he finished his tea, but courtesy prevented him doing so in my presence. I feared he might wait me out, so I jumped in with a sudden plan to get him out of the room.

"Are you going to play golf today?" I asked.

"Afraid we're having rain."

"It isn't raining now. Didn't I hear on the radio they don't expect more rain today?" I hadn't heard anything of the sort, but I figured if I turned it into a question, it didn't count as lying. Besides, I'd once heard—and was often tempted to practice it—that people accept your ideas much more readily if you tell them some authority like George Washington or the BBC said it first.

He folded the newspaper and got up from the table. "I say, I'll go and see about it, shall I? In any event, I shan't be gone long." He paused at the doorway. "Hate to miss a day of golf, so few of them left this time of year."

"Yes, do," Beryl said to him.

Now that I had her alone, my throat choked up, and I couldn't find the right words to say. How could I begin such a delicate subject? Yes, I was a naturally pushy person, especially when it came to mysterious things. However, I didn't know her well. How would she react? I laid Ingersoll's envelope on the table and twisted it several times while I thought.

"Aunt Beryl," I said at last, "forgive me, but would you mind awfully if I asked you a somewhat personal question?"

She looked wary for a minute then apparently decided my question would be harmless. "Of course not, my dear."

"It's about how you happened to meet Uncle William and marry him and how he adopted Jason."

"Oh my, such ancient history. Surely you know all about that. We never kept it a secret."

"I know the facts, of course, but I wondered about the details."

A tiny frown appeared between her eyebrows. "Details?"

"How you met, how Jason's father died, things like that."

She tackled the easy question first. "Your uncle and I met one spring at the theater. I was an actress appearing in something by Shaw, I believe. William and I saw each other quite often, fell in love, and married the following year. Jason was seven at the time, and William soon adopted him." She smiled and took another sip of tea, as if she had no more to say on the subject.

I rephrased my question about Jason. "Sometimes children don't adjust well to a stepfather. Did Jason remember his real father?"

"Oh my, no. He was a baby when his father died, doesn't remember him at all."

I decided this might be true. Although Jason had adopted Cornell as a middle name, he seemed a person who would have talked more about his "real" father if he felt any connection to him.

"So Raymond Cornell was your first husband."

"Yes, that's right."

"You didn't marry a man named Roy Capelli?"

The frown came back, deeper than before. Her face turned pink, and she glanced toward the window. "Definitely not. Whyever would you ask such a question?"

I opened the envelope and pulled out the papers but didn't unfold them. "I'm asking because I've been told a Beryl Simpson married Roy Capelli. You're the only Beryl I know. Was your maiden name Simpson?"

She whipped her head around and faced me, her cheeks blossoming quite red, her eyes shiny. She put her hands in her lap where she squeezed her napkin into a tight ball. "Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

I spoke softly. "I don't mean to upset you, and I promise whatever you tell me will go no further."

Suddenly her shoulders slumped, and she put her head down. Her breathing became labored. Her voice quavered. "How do you know these things?"

"Do you remember my asking you a few days ago if Noreen might have had a lover, someone besides Chaz?"

"What has that to do with me?"

"I've been trying to locate such a person because I thought he might have murdered Noreen."

"But the inspector said she drowned accidentally."

"I think he's mistaken." I took a deep breath. "I won't go into that now, but as a result of trying to locate someone Noreen might have known, I found an invoice from a detective agency." I hurried my explanation, telling her Noreen had hired the detective to investigate a Beryl Simpson.

She didn't comment and collapsed further into her chair, her face paler than ever.

"These documents, which he sent to me today, show Beryl Simpson married Roy Capelli, a man currently serving a life sentence in prison."

Her shoulders shook. I was afraid she might faint.

Nevertheless, I continued. "I saw him."

Gasping for breath, Beryl managed to push her chair back and stand. I did the same, grabbing her arm to steady her and keep her from falling.

"We must go somewhere else," she said in a raspy voice. "I'll tell you what you want to know but not here."

"The drawing room," I suggested.

"No, not there, the library."

The notorious library, where William had overheard another confession, the one from Elizabeth. I helped Beryl out of the dining room and across the hall, and this time I checked out every corner and every chair in the library to be certain we were alone. I even locked the door after realizing it had a key.

Beryl chose the wing chair on the far side of the room, and I pulled up a footstool in front of her so I could be as close as possible, and she could speak softly. She wore a long-sleeved dress, and, using a handkerchief she took from her sleeve at the wrist, she wiped her upper lip.

"You must promise me not to repeat what I'm going to say. I would be…"

"I promise." I even raised my hand as if I were giving a courtroom oath, although I felt uncomfortable making such a rash promise. After all, I'd delved into a serious matter. One person had already died.

"I am Beryl Simpson. That is, I used to be. And I did marry Roy Capelli." She paused then turned pleading eyes in my direction. "You have to understand what my life was like during those days. I was young and my parents… They tried to discipline me, but I was a headstrong girl, and I wanted to be a movie star like Betty Grable and Alice Faye. I bleached my hair, and I used to practice acting in front of the looking glass."

The term "looking glass" for "mirror" caught my attention, and I missed her next few words.

"Dancing and singing. I lied about my age and got a job in a nightclub. Not a fancy place but one that catered to the lower classes. It also had more than its share of young men. They loved my performance, used to shout, 'sing it again.'"

"You sang and danced?" I found it difficult to believe that this plump, gray-haired woman, the quintessential English, upper-class dowager, had once graced a stage. Yet, when I visited Mason Hall for the first time at the age of nine, she'd been quite pretty. If I pictured her like that, I could more easily imagine she turned men's heads with her talent and youthful good looks. I tried to remember her face without its lines and sagging skin.

"I performed quite well actually, if I say it myself." Her eyes brightened briefly, as if thinking of those days, but then she frowned again. "That's where I met Roy, and I thought he loved me, so I married him. We lived in London. He got a job as a laborer, restoring buildings, and I worked nights waiting tables."

"How long did it last?"

"Five years. You have to understand—we didn't see much of each other, so I didn't really know him very well. He often spent half his wages in the pubs, and I'd have to pay the rent with my tips." She paused again. "Then Jason came along. Roy didn't like having a child, especially when I had to give up working. We quarreled all the time, and when he came home after drinking, he'd often strike me."

I told Beryl Roy Capelli had admitted to me he'd gone to jail for beating his wife.

"He didn't strike me in the beginning, and maybe I gave him a bit of his own, but after the baby came his abuse became worse. Finally, I called the police. The second time I had to call them, they put him in jail for two months, and that's when I left him."

"Where did you go? What did you do?"

Beryl looked down as if the scene she called up was somehow reflected in the handkerchief in her lap. "Oh, I found it very difficult at first. Jason and I moved into a flat in the east end. Terrible place. Cockroaches and fleas. And I had to hire a wretched old woman to watch the boy so I could work."

"As a waitress?"

"Yes. Being somewhat pretty, I got good tips. However, I didn't want to do that all my life. I still wanted a career on the stage. Nights I earned a bit more with little acting jobs in a nearby theater company. I let my hair grow out to its natural color and discovered I could imitate accents. I played the parts of upper-class ladies or even French characters. I studied hard not just to imitate their speech but how to do things the proper way. Like Eliza Doolittle, you know." She faced me at last and almost smiled. "But I didn't have a professor helping me. I did it all myself." She straightened up in the chair.

She deserved to take pride in her accomplishment, and I felt a sudden sadness that she couldn't tell anyone about her rise from rags to riches.

"And then you met William," I prompted.

"I had the starring role in a play about a princess hiding her royal birth, and he came to see it often. One night, after the performance, he asked to take me to supper. Oh, I'd moved to a better flat by then. I think he persuaded himself I was like the character I played, a princess in hiding."

"What did you tell him about your husband, that he died in the war?"

"Oh, I couldn't say that, because then I might have had a pension, you see. And I couldn't bear to admit what kind of person I'd married, so I called him Raymond Cornell and said he died in a lorry accident." She shook her head. "Offstage, I'm not very good at lying, so then I had to remain with the story I'd invented."

Beryl looked into her lap again and twisted the handkerchief around her fingers. "I've always regretted having to lie to William, but I've been a good wife over all the years."

I patted her arm. "Of course you have. And it's obvious he still adores you."

She smiled at that. "And he adopted Jason." She stopped and the frown returned. "Since Roy is still alive, the adoption isn't valid, is it?"

"I don't know. You'd have to ask a lawyer—I mean a solicitor. It may be legal, but if you never divorced Capelli, your marriage to William may not be."

She dropped her head again. "And there's Chaz. He would be a—"

I didn't let her finish, hoped she wouldn't even think "bastard." "Talk to a solicitor. He'll know what to do."

"I couldn't. My past would come out. Everyone would know what I've done."

"You haven't done such a terrible thing. You lied to save yourself and your child. After all this time, no one is going to care. You can get a quiet divorce from Capelli, and remarry William. Pretend you just want a ceremony to renew your vows."

"You don't understand." She seemed about to cry. "It's not as simple as that."

Someone tried the doorknob, and I jumped to my feet. "The others will begin to wonder what we're doing."

She grabbed my hand, forcing me to sit on the footstool again. Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "You must keep this secret. I thought now that Noreen is dead, no one would ever know about Roy." She cleared her throat, clutched my hand in a painful grip. "Noreen—"

Beryl stopped abruptly. She'd been about to tell me something. Something important, I felt sure.

"What about Noreen?"

"Nothing." In that short, clipped way that means, "there is something, but I'm not going to tell you." As a teenager, I'd often used that "nothing" myself.

"What did Noreen do?" I asked. The obvious answer came to me at once. Why would Noreen go to the trouble of finding out about Beryl's past? Certainly not because she cared. "She was blackmailing you."

Beryl's words came haltingly. "She told me about going to the private detective, that she found out Roy is still alive. She threatened to tell William the truth."

The doorknob rattled again. "We'll talk more later," I whispered. I went to the door, unlocked and opened it.

Alice stood there, grasping the handle of an upright vacuum cleaner. "I was about to do the hoovering in here. If that's all right."

Beryl stood up, remarkably composed except for her flushed face, and hurried toward the door. "We were leaving anyway," she said to Alice. "Hoover away."

CHAPTER TWENTY

The rain returned to the skies over Mason Hall right after dinner, and as if reflecting the weather, the family members became gloomy and dejected. William and Beryl immediately retired to their sitting room, but Alice suggested another game of Monopoly, and Elizabeth and Jason reluctantly agreed to join us.

At a still early hour, however, Alice announced she had things to do in the kitchen, never returned to the sitting room, and the game broke up. After walking the dog, I retreated to my bedroom. Since I'd come to bed earlier than usual, sleep eluded me for a long time, and I found myself rehashing my dilemma. Instead of giving up, I became more determined than ever to learn the truth. Aunt Beryl's confession had increased my desire to muddle through to a conclusion.

Yet I wanted to sleep and perhaps let my subconscious mind work on the problem for a while. I lay still and listened to the rain and what might have been people moving around in the hallway. Sometime before I dozed off I heard a car motor and thought it must be Chaz returning home from wherever he'd been.

Early the next morning, I came down to the kitchen and, since the rain had stopped, took Mr. Tarkington for a walk. I wanted to take advantage of the sunny skies as well as to think about what I'd learned the day before.

Why had Noreen asked Ingersoll to investigate Beryl in the first place? Did she suspect Jason's real father was still alive? How? Why? Did she plan to blackmail Jason too? Her being dead and unable to satisfy my curiosity seemed decidedly inconsiderate.

Beryl presented another puzzle. She had ample reason to want to kill Noreen. Yet, after hearing her recital, I wondered if someone who had reinvented her life so successfully wouldn't have found another way to solve the problem. Who else knew what Noreen had done? Did William? Did Jason? Did Chaz? Since they were still alive and present I could ask them, but should I? Would it be better if I forgot about the family's closet skeletons?

Tark headed for the far edges of the back garden, and I followed him. I detected a strange pungent odor and saw a thin plume of smoke rising from behind the garage, so I walked around to the back of the building. Tim stood near a large, black trash barrel burning something, causing the smell.

Apparently he heard my footsteps on the gravel, for he turned to me, and I could see he looked about as happy as if he'd found an army of fire ants in the rose bed.

"Something the matter?" I asked, my curiosity running rampant again.

"Somebody been burnin' stuff out here, see? Not supposed to. Supposed to ask me to deal with the rubbish." He poked into the barrel with a long sharp stick, and more acrid smoke emerged.

I leaned over to look inside and saw blackened smoldering debris. "What is it?"

"Can't tell, can I? Smells like the devil, though, don't it? Not paper or garden clippin's."

I couldn't imagine anyone in the family dirtying their hands by trying to dispose of something. Brought up in a house with quite a few servants, they'd surely expect someone else to do that.

"Another thing." He pointed to an old bicycle. "Vandals been here. Ruined me bike, see? He pointed to a bent spoke on the rear wheel and then the headlamp fastened to the handlebars.

"They broke the light too?"

"Aye. Can't ride to the pub at night without it, can I?" He shook his head. "Hard to keep 'em off these days. Got no respect for private property, they don't."

I sympathized with him, being old enough to remember when far less vandalism occurred, and public buildings, walls, and highway overpasses weren't liberally decorated with graffiti. "I'm sorry. Do you think it could have been the same person who burned the rubbish?"

He leaned the bike against the garage's back wall. "Queer bloke, isn't it, would come clear out here to burn a thing?"

So I'd asked a foolish question. I often did. Sometimes I got interesting answers. "You wear a few different hats, don't you? Gardener, chauffeur, clean-up officer?"

"Don't do nuthin' inside, but I keep the outside lookin' good enough for the Queen." A sly grin raised the corners of his mouth. He'd apparently recovered somewhat from his annoyance at vandals.

"Expecting the royals to visit, are you?"

"Never know. Be prepared. That's me motto."

I laughed with him. "So you're back on the payroll. Noreen—that is Mrs. Mason's—firing you has been officially cancelled. It's just as well you didn't move out."

"Aye."

Tark had returned from his little excursion and sniffed around Tim's boots. He reached down and petted the dog. "A strange one, that Missus. Treated me like I warn't good enough to walk the same earth then she—" He broke off.

I decided that, like all the others, he didn't want to speak ill of the dead. "I gather no one liked her very much. But, even so, I doubt anyone wanted her to drown."

"Her own fault. Had no business bein' out there late at night, liquored up like she was."

The way he said it made me think he knew something. "Did you see her walking her dog that night?"

"Aye. By the lily pond."

"You can see it from here?"

"Me room's up top, you know." He pointed to his apartment above the garage. "See quite a bit from up there."

My skin began to prickle. "Did you tell the police?"

"That inspector fella? Aye."

So Kincaid knew she'd been walking the dog. Why did he tell me she might not have been? Evidently he hadn't been totally candid with me. Well, why should he? The police at home were no different. They didn't reveal what they knew to anyone but the prosecutors.

"What time did you see her?" I asked Tim.

"Ten o'clock mebbe, or half past. Not certain, I am."

"What else did you see?"

He took off his hat and rubbed a hand over his head, mussing his unkempt hair even more. "You mean the car what drove up?"

A car drove up? This became more interesting by the minute. "What kind of car?"

"Don't know."

"But the road isn't close to the pond. Did the car drive onto the lawn?"

"Must've done. Kept 'is lights on a while, so I recognized Miz Mason on account of 'em shinin' on her white hair. This dog too, bein' he's white hisself. Then he turned 'em off."

"You said, 'he.' Did you see a man, then?"

"Man or woman, couldn't tell."

"Did you see someone get out of the car, approach Noreen?"

"No'm. Without no headlights I couldn't see nuthin'. Not me place, anyway, spyin' on me betters. I went to bed. Get up early in the mornings, don't I?"

"Did you tell the police about the car?"

He replaced his hat. "Don't remember. Anyway they knew, trampin' all over the place next mornin' they were."

My pulse racing, I thanked Tim and pulled Tark back toward the house. I wanted to telephone Kincaid and ask questions about that. He had no obligation to share clues with me or tell me anything, but he'd been friendly before, so I hoped he'd at least be willing to listen.

With the information that a car had driven onto the lawn near the lily pond, my earlier impression that a family member had killed Noreen receded, and my theory about Mister X returned. On the other hand, Mister X wasn't necessarily the driver of the car. Someone in my family could still be guilty. Anyone could have done it. I mentally listed the possible suspects, beginning with Alice.

Well, maybe not Alice. Like everyone else, she probably hated the woman, but I couldn't see her as a murderer unless Noreen tripped and fell into the lily pond, and Alice couldn't or wouldn't help her out.

William certainly had a motive: he might lose the family property. Jason could have done it for the same reason, except for having been at a theatre in London that evening, plus another if Noreen had seduced and then dumped him. Beryl hated Noreen because she was blackmailing her, and Elizabeth hated her because she thought she'd ruined Chaz. Chaz, it seemed, had even more motive than the others.

Chaz. Yes, he could well be capable of violence. What if he came home from playing at the club, saw Noreen walking Mr. Tarkington near the lily pond, and drove his car onto the lawn? Then he quarreled with her, struck her with a rock, and pushed her under to drown?

Another thought leaped into my head. Now I knew how the dog got back into the house. After drowning Noreen, Chaz picked him up and brought him inside. That was why Tark attacked him the night he tried to seduce me. He knew Chaz had killed Noreen, and he was trying to save my life.

Stunned by my latest notion, I stopped in my tracks. Then, before I could act on this theory, the mansion's back door opened, and Aunt Alice rushed down the path toward me, her face flushed, eyes wide. She grabbed my arm.

"Olivia, where have you been?" Her voice shrill, she didn't wait for an answer. "It's Chaz. They found him this morning."

I stumbled over the threshold. "What?"

"He's been stabbed."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Emotions whirled through my body: shock, disbelief, outrage, sadness, more than I'd ever felt at one time before. Chaz stabbed! Who would want to kill him? A thief in a robbery gone bad? A jealous husband seeking revenge? Maybe that made sense. Nevertheless, he didn't deserve such a terrible end.

In some ways I still liked Chaz. He was a talented musician, and I thought he had many redeeming qualities. I also remembered Elizabeth describing the way he behaved before Noreen's arrival.

Wait a minute. I had just decided Chaz most likely killed Noreen, hadn't I? I could be wrong. Had I missed something here? First Noreen drowned. Now Chaz was stabbed to death. What if someone else killed both of them?

Tark ran into the house through the open door, and to my surprise, Alice clutched my arm and pulled me back toward the garage. "You'll want to see him. He's tucked up in hospital."

Tucked up in hospital? "What?" I pulled my arm free from Alice's strong grip. "I thought you said he'd been stabbed."

"Oh, it was horrible, they said, blood everywhere, hardly a drop left in him."

"Then he's not dead?"

"Not yet, but they don't know how long he'll last. Terrible cut up, he was."

Not dead. My brain struggled to adjust.

Alice rattled on. "We're leaving now. Elizabeth is taking William and Beryl. Now Tim must take us as well." She rushed toward Tim, waving her arms.

I stood still, shocked into silence. Meanwhile, Tim apparently got Alice's message and maneuvered the Bentley out of the garage.

Alice ran back toward me, grabbed my arm again, and pulled me toward the car. "I've rung up Jason at his office, and he'll meet us there directly." She looked at Tim. "You must drive as fast as ever you can."

Once Alice climbed in next to me and slammed the door shut, Tim obeyed and put the car in gear, throwing me back against the seat. Alice leaned forward, as if by doing so, she could make Tim drive faster.

The computer in my head rebooted itself and began to work once more. Someone had stabbed Chaz, no doubt intending to kill him. This time the police could not suggest suicide or an accident.

I reached out and grabbed Alice's arm. "Where did this happen?"

"Near the club where his band performs."

"Who found him?"

"Someone going home late at night saw him under the bushes near the road."

"Bushes near the club?" I tried to remember the area's appearance from the one time I'd been there. I visualized lots of trees, but there certainly must have been shrubs as well.

"What time?"

"Early this morning, I believe. The constable rang us up minutes ago, after they'd identified him."

"I thought he came home last night. I heard a car."

"No, he never did. His bed's not been slept in."

That didn't mean much. I already knew Chaz sometimes slept in his studio. Since the housemaid Alice hired had yet to come to work, no one made beds every morning. Even if Alice looked in there today, it didn't necessarily mean Chaz hadn't come home. Nevertheless, I had to admit it made more sense that he had remained at the club the night before rather than made a second trip later in the evening or early in the morning.

We fell silent, each with our own thoughts. After what seemed ages, Tim jerked the car to a stop in front of the hospital, and we climbed out.

I followed Alice, who plunged through the automatic doors almost before they opened fully, and steamed up to the reception desk. Having acquired the information she wanted, she sailed down the corridor to the elevators with me in her wake, banged on the Up button, and made impatient noises.

When we got to the second floor, we went down another long, brightly lit hospital corridor and found Elizabeth, William, and Beryl had already arrived. They looked as concerned as Alice and stood outside a closed door.

"Where is he?" Alice asked, looking from one to the other.

"Intensive care," William answered, his hearing aid apparently turned on and in good working order.

"How is he?" I asked.

"We don't know," Elizabeth said. "Sister said surgery took four hours, and he hasn't recovered from the anesthesia. We're waiting for the doctor."

Beryl, face almost hidden behind a crumpled handkerchief, looked unsteady. William led her to a padded bench against the wall, and they sat. Like William, Elizabeth perched dry-eyed and tense on the same bench.

Alice plopped down next to Beryl, and I joined her, although five people were at least one more than the bench could accommodate comfortably. Alice being wider than most, I felt in constant danger of slipping off onto the hard floor.

Just then Inspector Kincaid, Sergeant Sallow a few steps behind him, came striding down the hall toward us, and I got up from the bench.

He addressed William. "I'm afraid you won't be able to see your son quite yet, Mr. Mason. I understand he's badly hurt and may be unconscious for some time. In any event, we shall want to be the first to question him as soon as the surgeon gives permission."

William also stood, ramrod straight, as if he were an officer whose code of conduct didn't permit slouching. "I understand."

"Meanwhile," Kincaid added, "I'd like a word with each of you." He glanced around the corridor. "I shan't keep you very long. I know this is a difficult time for you, but, in a situation such as this, it's imperative for us to learn the facts as soon as possible."

I considered tweaking him a bit about what he meant by "situation." Would he call it murder or at least "attempted murder" this time?

Kincaid cleared his throat and spoke to William. "Please come with me." He led the way down the corridor, and they disappeared through a doorway into what I assumed might be a waiting room.

The rest of us cast questioning glances at one another, but no one spoke. About ten minutes later, when William returned to us alone, he said the inspector wanted to see Alice, and she took his place in the private room.

Beryl looked up at William. "What did he ask you?"

"When I last saw Chaz."

"What did you tell him?" I asked, curious to know if he'd revealed the heated argument he had with Chaz over his supposed assault on Elizabeth. If he had, the inspector might take that as a motive, although stabbing one's own son seemed far-fetched to me. Especially from William.

"I said we talked late yesterday afternoon at about a quarter past six," William said. He paused and looked back at Beryl. "I told the inspector I didn't see him again all evening or this morning and that Alice informed me someone rang up to say Chaz was in hospital."

"That's all?" Elizabeth asked.

"He questioned me about Chaz's routine: his playing with the band, his friends, any possible enemies. I fear I couldn't help at all. The boy kept to himself so much, you know."

We remained silent again until Alice returned, and she too reported she'd been asked about Chaz's lifestyle and his whereabouts the preceding day.

Next, Kincaid questioned Beryl, and when she returned, she recited the ordeal to us punctuated by sobs and sniffles. She told him she hadn't seen her son at all the previous day because she'd been attending her ladies' club meeting. Speaking through tears, she regretted what she now perceived as the frivolity of her day and acted as if she'd have spent every minute at his side had she known it might be her last chance.

Elizabeth went into the questioning room next and stayed there rather a long time. When she returned, she seemed slightly pink in the face and, sitting back on the bench again, looked down into her lap a long time. She reported she told Kincaid she hadn't seen Chaz the day before, and he'd asked her about his friends or possible enemies.

"Did you mention possible enemies?" I asked her.

She looked straight at me, her eyes narrowed and her mouth a firm straight line. "No, I don't know of any."

I took that to mean she hadn't revealed Chaz's conduct toward her, and I must not mention it either. Her flushed face when she came out of the interrogation must have been the result of once again trying to keep this secret.

When my turn came, I rose slowly. The small waiting room I entered had been furnished with six black vinyl chairs and square end tables topped with dark glass and holding magazines dating from a previous Prime Minister. Kincaid sat in the chair farthest from the door, his sergeant in the chair next to him.

After gesturing to the sergeant who dutifully turned to a fresh page in his notebook and clicked his pen into readiness, Kincaid gestured me to the chair on his other side. "Would you tell me, please, if you saw young Mr. Mason at any time yesterday."

"I don't believe I did." Although strictly true, I'd heard him arguing loudly with his father through the wall. I decided I'd answer all questions truthfully but not volunteer any information. I felt guilty doing it and knew I could never tell my brother, Brad.

"And this morning?" Kincaid asked.

"I took the dog for a walk this morning, and on my return to the house, Aunt Alice told me about Chaz. We came here together a few minutes ago."

"That is all?"

"And that he'd been stabbed and was in serious condition."

"I see. Inasmuch as you've not been in the country many days, you may not be aware of any enemies your cousin may have had. Is that so?" He fingered his mustache.

"No, I'm not aware he had any enemies."

"May I ask your whereabouts yesterday?"

Did he suspect me again as he had for a brief time the week before when I discovered Noreen's body? "I went to Youngacres House to visit someone."

His eyebrows shot up, and his look made me think he intended to question me further about that some other time. He checked his watch, nodded to the sergeant, and rose from his chair to go toward the door.

I stopped him. "Inspector, I've answered your questions. Would you be good enough to answer mine?"

"If I can." He continued out of the waiting room and walked toward the others in the corridor. I followed.

"Exactly what happened to Chaz? All we know is that someone walking by late at night spotted his body near the road, called the authorities, and he was brought here with multiple stab wounds."

Kincaid cleared his throat again before answering. "Right you are. The gentleman who found him said he saw something moving in the bushes and stopped his car to investigate. He found your cousin and rang the police from his mobile telephone."

Alice rose and faced the inspector. "That person is not a suspect then?"

"We've taken down his name and address, but no, he's not a suspect. Otherwise, I doubt he would have telephoned and waited for us to arrive on the scene."

"Do you have any idea who might have done it?" Alice asked.

"We're keeping our minds open at present whilst gathering information."

"They found him near the club where his band played," I said. "Is that relevant?"

"We're investigating the possibility." He looked at William and Beryl before continuing. "There seems to have been considerable drug use at the club. Someone may have been selling illegal substances."

"You mean a drug dealer might have tried to kill Chaz?" I tried to keep my voice down, but it echoed off the walls.

"It's a theory we're pursuing," Kincaid said.

Beryl spoke up in a louder voice than she'd used so far that morning. "My son didn't take drugs."

Kincaid spoke in a kindly tone. "I'm sure the toxicology report will confirm it."

Elizabeth rose from the bench. "It could have been a blunder. Whoever stabbed Chaz might have mistaken him for someone else, someone who did buy drugs. After all, it was late at night and probably too dark to see well."

I tended to agree with her. Naive, perhaps, but I'd already decided Chaz didn't use drugs.

Kincaid turned toward Elizabeth. "We shall certainly look into it." His gaze shifted to Aunt Alice. "Would you have the other gentleman contact me when he returns from the city? Now, if you will excuse me."

"But what about my son?" Beryl said. "How badly is he hurt? When can we see him?"

"I'm afraid, dear lady, I cannot answer your questions. The doctor will be with you directly." With that, he backed away. Sergeant Sallow snapped his notebook closed, and they hurried down the corridor.

No one spoke for a time, all busy with their own thoughts. Mine circled around the irony of Chaz being stabbed over drugs when he was probably the one person in his band who didn't use them. In fact, I didn't believe drugs figured in this at all. In my opinion, the attack related somehow to Noreen.

A doctor strode up next, stethoscope around his neck, white coat flapping. He stopped, his round face pale under a fringe of frizzy hair, and told us that Chaz's condition was critical. He said it hardly seemed possible that after being stabbed so many times, the young man dragged himself toward the road where a passerby found him. The doctor seemed about to describe the wounds and then, seeing William and Beryl's stricken faces, apparently decided against adding the details.

"I don't advise you to remain," he told them. "It could be hours."

"Could I have a quick look at him?" Beryl asked.

"I'm afraid not. We're concerned about infection at this time, so no one but the sisters are allowed near him." He paused. "When he's stable we shall move him to a private room, and we'll ring you the minute he's conscious."

I figured he'd ring Kincaid first but didn't voice my opinion. Instead, while the doctor retreated down the corridor, I turned to Elizabeth. "May I ride back to the house with you?" Before she could answer, I looked at her mother. "Can you take William and Beryl in the Bentley?"

Alice nodded, but Elizabeth hesitated as if once more she didn't want to be alone with me.

I came close to her and spoke quietly. "I have something important to tell you."

She shrugged, pulled her car keys from her purse, and together we walked down the hallway. I wanted to assure her that I hadn't told William or her mother about her relationship with Chaz. In addition, I wanted her to take me to the club. I had a passionate desire to see the scene of the crime.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The club was located rather close by, although not in the direction of Mason Hall, but I said I had a theory about who tried to kill Chaz. That apparently piqued Elizabeth's interest enough to agree to turn the car around and drive to the club.

I spent the time assuring her I hadn't told anyone about what she'd confided to me in the library. I also pointed out that William had heard just the first part of the story and was certain Chaz had raped her.

"You must have a talk with him soon."

She sighed. "I'm afraid you're right."

As for what I hinted I'd tell her, it was far too soon for me to have any theory about who tried to kill Chaz. Noreen had enough faults to make the Guinness World Records, but Chaz seemed to have had no enemies, at least none that I'd heard of. Who wanted both those people dead?

When we arrived at the site, we saw that onlookers had already gathered, attracted no doubt by the official cars and the uniformed policeman standing near the road some twenty yards from the entrance. Behind him other policemen combed the bushes, presumably looking for evidence. On a narrow gravel road that led to the back of the club, I glimpsed a parked Land Rover that looked like the one in which Chaz had driven me home the evening Elizabeth and I went to the club to hear Chaz play.

Now that I could see the place in daylight, I discovered it was not totally isolated as I first assumed. A nondescript building, it had a small parking area in front and trees and shrubs at the sides and rear. Several yards away on its left side I saw more one-story buildings: an automobile repair shop, a tire and parts store, and a "finish-it-yourself" unpainted furniture outlet. On the other side much farther away I detected a few row houses. Between the houses and the club, a gravel road branched off from the street and angled back behind the bushes. That road contained the parked Rover, and I surmised it might be a delivery route for supplies to those businesses.

Elizabeth parked her Vauxhall in the club parking lot, exited, and walked down the street toward the police officers. I also left the car, but I took her arm and stopped her. I wanted to do as much snooping as possible before someone sent us away.

"Let's go that way." I pointed to the back of the building. "I want to look at that car."

She shrugged and followed without further comment, and I rounded the building toward the gravel road. Once there, I hurried toward the Rover. "This is Chaz's car. Why do you suppose it's here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Wouldn't he have parked in front, rather than on this road?"

She didn't answer and stayed well behind me. I made my way across the gravel quickly and approached the Land Rover's right side. The door was closed but not latched, as if it had been abandoned that way. The windows were rolled up, and I looked inside, trying not to miss a thing. A key chain dangled from the ignition switch. The tan-colored seats, either leather or vinyl, were liberally smeared with what appeared to be dried and drying blood. My heart pounded again at the thought that was Chaz's blood, and he still lay in critical condition.

I backed away. "Don't touch anything," I whispered to Elizabeth, but she apparently had no intention of doing so. She shook her head and didn't go near the car.

I don't know if my voice or our combined footsteps had aroused him, but a police officer approached. "Back away," he shouted. "This is a crime scene."

We didn't move, but when the officer came closer, I said, "We're the victim's cousins. We've spoken to Inspector Kincaid at the hospital." Like that entitled us to be there.

He didn't accept my excuse. "Sorry, Miss, no exceptions." He advanced toward us as if he'd physically remove us if necessary, and we retreated. However, I led Elizabeth toward the street, rather than the way we'd come.

Two more vehicles pulled up—a tow truck and an unmarked car—and Kincaid himself emerged from the latter. I headed straight for him, Elizabeth again following my lead. We met near the bushes where bits of cloth stuck to twigs, and the ground seemed damp with water or blood.

The police officer had come up behind us. "Inspector," he began.

"It's all right," Kincaid said. "I know these ladies."

He actually smiled, and I wondered why he'd suddenly become so friendly. Yet I couldn't completely shake my thoughts from what I'd observed and the theory forming in my mind as to what had happened to Chaz.

"I see you've come to play amateur sleuth again." Kincaid shook his head. "You shouldn't be here, you know. You mustn't interfere with our investigation."

Nevertheless, he didn't tell us to go away. I had a strong impression he enjoyed seeing us, or at least Elizabeth. Instead of looking at the tow truck, which backed up toward Chaz's Rover, he kept his gaze fixed on her, and I wondered if a romantic interest might be brewing. Her hair loose, her face flushed, she didn't seem quite as prim and standoffish as she sometimes did. She looked away, as if his flirting—if that's what he was doing—made her uncomfortable.

I spoke to Kincaid. "That's Chaz's…I mean, Mr. Mason's…car, isn't it?"

"Yes, it appears to be." He turned his gaze from Elizabeth to the tow truck operator connecting the vehicles.

"There's blood all over the seats and floor," I said. "He must have bled inside."

Kincaid turned and gave me an exasperated look. "Quite right."

Okay, so I'd stated the obvious. So sue me. "A little while ago, at the hospital, I thought you said someone, perhaps a drug dealer, discovered Chaz outside the club and attacked him there."

"I don't believe I indicated where we think the actual incident took place. We're still in the early stages of this investigation." He pulled on his mustache. "However, as you've pointed out, the blood in his car raises a question."

"So he could have been stabbed while inside the car?"

"Not necessarily. Perhaps Mr. Mason, finding himself severely wounded, tried to drive to hospital."

"Wouldn't his attacker try to stop him?"

"If he were aware Mr. Mason was still alive, he might have." He came closer and spoke in a tone that suggested he felt comfortable discussing that with us.

"Suppose, for example, the assailant only thought your cousin was dead and left the scene. Mr. Mason then dragged himself to the car, found himself unable to drive after all, exited the car, and crawled through the bushes to the road, seeking help."

While the tow truck, now connected by chains to Chaz's car, hauled it noisily into position, I visualized Kincaid's theory. I found two faults.

"Why is the car sitting here, in this gravel road," I asked, "instead of the club parking lot?"

He shrugged. "As soon as Mr. Mason recovers sufficiently from his wounds, I intend to ask him that very question."

"And what about all the blood? If he climbed into the car to drive it away, why is there blood on both seats, passenger's as well as driver's?"

"We don't have all the answers yet. You must be patient."

Kincaid's cooperative demeanor encouraged me to go on. "I noticed his car keys are still inside."

"That would be consistent, would it not, with his trying to drive away and then abandoning the idea?"

"But, so far as I could tell, there's no blood on the keys or the steering wheel."

Kincaid took his time before answering. "You're very observant, aren't you?"

I hadn't expected that comment, but I basked in his praise. "I suppose I am. My parents always told me I was too nosy for my own good. 'Curiosity kills the cat,' they'd say. I'd always reply, 'That's why cats have nine lives.'"

Kincaid turned and walked toward the street. "Curiosity is a fine quality for certain persons. Perhaps you should become a police detective."

Although complimentary, I felt he was trying to dismiss me. In order to keep him from rushing away, I stretched out our interview by doing a bit of gloating. "My brother is a police officer in San Francisco and expects to be a private investigator one day."

"Like Lord Peter Wimsey or that other fellow, Jack Reacher?"

"More like Sam Spade," I told him, and we both laughed.

He approached his vehicle. "I enjoy reading about your American detectives. They're colorful as well as effective, are they not?" His comment reinforced my opinion that police detectives, like mystery fans, kept up with fictional sleuths.

I returned the subject to this particular crime. "Have you found the weapon used to attack Chaz?"

"Not yet. We're still searching for it."

That explained the men poking around in the bushes.

Elizabeth, silent until now, spoke up. "The doctor said his wounds were extensive. Wouldn't that mean a large knife?"

"About eight or nine inches, we believe."

"Like a kitchen knife?"

"I think not. The blade failed to make clean cuts."

"Do you mean not sharp enough?" I asked.

"Not necessarily. The surgeon suggested the wounds came from a blade with an irregular cutting surface."

"Perhaps like a serrated edge?" Elizabeth asked.

"Rather like a series of shallow curves: wavy and double-edged. He didn't recall ever seeing a wound like that before."

"An unusual weapon? In that case," I said, "I should think whoever did this wouldn't leave the knife where it might be found and perhaps traced back to him."

"Perhaps not, but we must search in any event. My men are looking for other evidence as well."

As the truck maneuvered toward the main street we three followed on foot, and I took advantage of Kincaid's cooperative attitude to ask more questions.

"Is it possible Chaz was stabbed while inside the car?"

"If so, whoever did it would probably have to have been inside with him. I doubt he could have inflicted those wounds through an open window, or even an open door."

I challenged him. "Suppose you're wrong, and there was no drug dealer at all? I happen to believe, along with his parents, that Chaz didn't use drugs."

"That isn't our sole avenue of investigation. He might have had an angry row with someone, which escalated. We're checking on possible enemies. We'll know soon enough."

The jealous husband idea had already crossed my mind. If Noreen had indeed dumped him and he took up with another woman… "Could this be linked to Noreen's death?" I asked.

"I doubt that very much. I agree it is a coincidence that two members of your family should meet with, er, accidents, but at the present time, I don't see any connection."

I debated telling him about my conversation with Beryl but decided my promise to her not to reveal her secret came first. Besides, I couldn't be certain one crime led to the other.

Kincaid put his hand under Elizabeth's elbow and led her to the edge of the road. "Meanwhile, you must let us get on with our work." When we reached the car, he dropped her arm.

"As I said before," Kincaid told us, "I shall question all the family members again after we have more information."

He took several steps toward his car then turned about and approached me. "Whom were you visiting at Youngacres House?"

I sighed. I had known that sooner or later he'd want to know why I went to a nursing home for aging criminals. "I didn't know about the place before I got there. I was looking for a man named Roy Capelli."

"Did you find him?"

"Yes." I paused then decided to admit at least part of what I'd learned. "Do you remember I told you I thought Noreen had a lover who'd been with her at the lily pond the night she drowned?"

"I do."

"Well, I thought Capelli might be that person, but as soon as I saw him I realized my mistake."

Kincaid pulled at his mustache again. "Another amateur sleuth question again. Let me assure you, dear lady, that we're proceeding diligently on this case. And, meanwhile, I suggest you and your cousin cease trying to play detective lest you put yourselves in harm's way."

He couldn't put me off that easily. "Speaking of harm, suppose whoever tried to kill Chaz finds out he's not dead and comes back to finish the job? Will you have someone guarding his room at the hospital?"

"I think you've seen too many gangster films. Whether a drug seller or someone with whom Mr. Mason had a row, I very much doubt that he'll make a further attempt on Mason's life. The perpetrator may be relieved to know he didn't kill him after all, not wishing to add 'murderer' to his name. However," he added, no doubt reading my expression, "I assure you that, should we feel it necessary, we will provide adequate protection."

I decided not to argue the point with him, said good-bye, and walked back to Elizabeth's car where she waited inside. As soon as I climbed in, she drove out of the parking lot.

Kincaid had rather adroitly managed not to answer my concerns. The car's location for one. Chaz wouldn't have parked it on that road, the keys still inside. Did his attacker put it there?

Elizabeth interrupted my thoughts. "How can you be so sure Chaz didn't use drugs?"

I looked over at her. "Aren't you sure? You knew him better than I. Do you think he used them?"

She paused briefly. "No. He had his faults, but I don't believe that was one of them." She paused. "It just means he might have been attacked accidentally. Perhaps they're right, and a drug dealer did it. In the dark, he mistook Chaz for someone else."

Although the possibility of a drug dealer/perpetrator or some other person who might have done it remained, I couldn't make myself accept it. I reminded Elizabeth that the blood on the seat seemed to mean that the attacker had to be inside the car to inflict those wounds.

I didn't believe Kincaid's theory that Chaz entered and exited the car while half dead from stab wounds, especially if he was in such terrible condition that his attacker assumed he'd killed him. Why was there no blood on the steering wheel?

If someone got into the car with him, it must have been a person he knew. Not his bandmates, with whom he seemed on good terms. Not someone he didn't trust. Surely Chaz wouldn't have let a jealous husband into the car. Even worse to contemplate was that if I believed such a person had tried to kill him, I'd be back where I'd been with Noreen's killer, looking for that elusive Mister X.

That left one other possibility. Although it had nagged at me for some time, I still didn't even want to think it. Everyone in the family hated Noreen, but no one hated Chaz. They may have disliked his ways, disapproved of his lifestyle, even wished he'd move out, but no one would want to kill him. Except, perhaps, Elizabeth.

My subconscious had at last got its signals through to my conscious mind. Right from the start, she insisted Noreen's death was an accident, obviously not wanting the family to consider murder. Then, although I told her I had a theory about who tried to kill Chaz, Elizabeth had never asked me about it on the drive from the hospital, and then she refused to look inside the Rover. Furthermore, she had often seemed afraid to be alone with me, as if I'd learn something she didn't want me to know. Like hating Chaz enough to try to kill him?

At the close of our conversation that day, she'd agreed with me that probably Chaz hadn't intended to rape her and didn't consider that he had. She even confessed perhaps she'd welcomed it. However, what if she'd lied, saying that to throw me off the scent?

Could a woman—even Elizabeth, tall and fit herself—overpower a man as muscular and strong as Chaz? Perhaps, if she surprised him, began stabbing before he could react. The blood on the seats meant she got into the car with him. He'd have had no qualms about letting Elizabeth get in. No doubt he'd even encourage her.

According to my theory, if one person tried to do away with both Noreen and Chaz, then Elizabeth fit the bill. What if she already sensed my conclusions? I sat alongside her right then, at her mercy.

My brain said I was being paranoid, but was I? I looked over at her. She stared out the windshield, her lips in a thin line, shoulders hunched, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that, had it not been made of sturdy stuff, it would have snapped in two.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Although we didn't speak during the remainder of the drive, Elizabeth returned me safely to Mason Hall and then, claiming to have work to do at her school, drove off in her car. When she came back several hours later, she announced she again wanted an early night and disappeared into her room.

Jason came home later that afternoon, told Aunt Alice and me he'd been to the hospital and then reported to Kincaid's office as instructed, but the inspector didn't show up. I didn't remind Jason, but I calculated he'd been to Kincaid's office at the time the inspector was talking to Elizabeth and me at the crime scene, arranging for the removal of Chaz's car.

"I stopped at a pub and had a bite to eat," Jason told Aunt Alice, "so tell cook I'm not hungry and shan't want any dinner tonight." So saying, he went straight to his room.

Alice grumbled about everyone's lack of interest in dinner. "Not worth heating up the cooker for the little food they're eating these days."

"It's understandable," I told her. "We're all too upset about what's happened around here. Is there any more news about Chaz?"

"I rang up hospital a little bit ago. They say he's out of danger, moved into a private room where he can have a visitor or two tomorrow."

I looked forward to seeing him, although I disliked hospitals and avoided going there as much as possible. I'd recently read an article about the enormous number of deaths attributed to "mistakes," and worried that they'd given up curing people in favor of making sure there was never a parking space within a mile of the building.

I wondered what Chaz would look like. They'd told us he had multiple stab wounds, presumably on his upper body, perhaps his arms if he raised them to defend himself. I hoped his attacker hadn't hit anything so vital it would affect his mobility. Merely thinking about it depressed me.

However, in the meantime, hours needed to be lived through. I turned to Alice. "May I help you with dinner?"

"Won't be much to do. Annie's day off, but she left some soup and meat pie. What say we put that out on the sideboard with some bread and cheese and let everyone help himself?"

While Alice warmed the hot food, I sliced bread and cheese and put out a fruit bowl and some custard, but no such thing as a dinner party took place.

Afterward I withdrew to the library and tried to read, but I found myself seeing words on the page without understanding their meaning and soon gave it up. A vision of Noreen floating in the lily pond returned, and I felt overwhelmed with the conviction her death was no accident. I wanted to know who had killed her and why. Everyone in the house seemed to have plausible reasons to hate her, and almost anyone—except Jason, of course, who stayed in the city that night—could have followed her to the lily pond, struck her with a rock, and pushed her under.

I wasn't present when they answered Kincaid's questions, so I don't know if any had an alibi for that evening, but one of them could have used the opportunity presented by her walking the dog to eliminate her from their lives.

I remembered what Beryl had revealed to me, that Noreen tried to blackmail her. A good enough reason for her to want to kill Noreen, but did she?

Chaz had always seemed to me the one person most likely to commit such a violent act, and perhaps he knew Noreen had been blackmailing his mother. If he did, I now had one more reason for believing Chaz killed Noreen. Frankly, I was beginning to like him for it, but who tried to eliminate Chaz and why? Surely no one who thought Chaz guilty of murdering Noreen would try to kill him for vengeance. If that person wanted a murderer put away, why not just tell the police?

Aunt Alice had been listening at the door when William and Chaz argued, so she thought Elizabeth claimed Chaz raped her, but would she attempt to kill Chaz over it? She could have got into the car with him. He wouldn't have suspected her of planning to stab him, but I couldn't visualize her doing it.

Another thought popped into my head. During my conversation with Inspector Kincaid that afternoon, I'd forgotten to ask him about Tim's observations. He told me he saw Noreen and Mr. Tarkington at the lily pond, and he'd seen a car drive up. Tim had also mentioned his bicycle having been damaged and someone burning something in his trash barrel. Were those clues as well?

Despite the late hour, I placed a call to Kincaid, leaving a message on his answering machine.

Restless, I went into the small sitting room, but television failed to hold my attention. Why watch a suspense film when a real mystery surrounded me? Finally, at nearly midnight, I turned off the lights and went to bed.

Not to sleep. I turned over several times, pounded the pillow into different positions, and tried not to think. I did my little relaxation trick, imagining a large black velvet circle, but it didn't help. Reality kept intruding. A picture floated in my head: someone stabbing Chaz.

For some reason I remembered the old California case of Ron Goldman, Nicole Brown Simpson's friend. His throat cut, head nearly severed from his body, bleeding from a dozen slashes, he'd been butchered like so much raw meat. My heart pounded. No matter what Chaz had done, I didn't believe he deserved to end up like that. I felt a little queasy.

I tried to shake off the image, but another one took its place. This time I remembered talking to Kincaid, how he'd said the weapon used to stab Chaz was double-edged, wavy, and made jagged cuts. Such a knife wouldn't be left at the scene of the crime. Or even thrown away because, should it be found, its unusual nature would surely link it to the attacker.

An unusual weapon. The image lingered, joined with others from the past, from my long-ago visit to Mason Hall. We children played in the great hall often, and, unknown to our guardians, climbed on the chairs and took down the medieval weapons. One shield in particular held a secret. Hidden from view as it hung on the wall, its underside contained a leather thong and under the thong resided a nine-inch dagger.

I sat bolt upright in bed. Could that dagger have been the weapon? I tried to remember what the blade looked like but couldn't. Yet it was definitely unusual and probably could be traced back to Mason Hall.

I looked at my travel clock. One fifteen, a perfect time to go sleuthing and test my theory. I rose from the bed, thrust my feet into my slippers, and shrugged into my robe. I searched my tote bag for my flashlight. Yes, I carry one of those, as well as a tiny clock radio, a sewing kit, Band-Aids, a blow-up neck pillow, candied ginger (to combat motion sickness), roll-up metal tape measure, and a dozen tissues.

I had not brought my tiny manicure set in a wee leather case, because that had been confiscated at the airport on a previous trip. Why? Did they think some terrorist would reach under my airplane seat, drag out my carry-on, find the cosmetic bag, remove the manicure set from its leather case, pull out the tiny scissors, and try to stab someone with a blade half-an-inch long?

I opened my bedroom door a crack and peered into the hall. Nothing. I tiptoed my way to the staircase but didn't turn on the flashlight right away. Faint light filtered in from the large window over the front door and the twin narrow windows at the back of the hall, enabling me to see my way downstairs. I heard my own footsteps, even in my soft-soled slippers. The antique grandfather clock chime startled me.

When I reached the great hall, I shivered. Always awesome, it looked eerier now than by day. I tried to stifle my heavy breathing. Pinpricks of fear crept along my neck. What dastardly deeds occurred there over the centuries? Who might have fought a duel in this very room, perhaps killed someone? Ghosts hovered in the still, cold air.

I took several deep breaths and straightened my shoulders. I would not be intimidated by the dark and my own imagination. I crossed the floor, directing my flashlight beam over the walls. The light bounced off the shields, swords, and battle-axes that hung there for generations. I went straight to the shield containing the dagger and flashed my light on it. Then I tucked the flashlight under the cord of my robe and carefully dragged a heavy oak chair into position in front of the shield.

I stepped up on it, lifted down the shield, and turned it over. The dagger lay there under the leather thong.

A chill went up my spine. I pulled it free, set it on the chair seat, and replaced the shield. Then I climbed down from the chair and turned the flashlight beam on the dagger. Its blade was double-edged, with wavy curves. My throat became tight and dry.

Dark smudges marred the base of the blade where it met the hilt. Smudges that looked like blood. My hand trembled. Then my mind took over. If this was indeed the missing weapon, then I had now put my fingerprints on it. Fool! I knew better than that. But it was too late to take them back.

Holding the dagger gingerly with my fingertips, I set it down on a chair momentarily, then crept silently to the kitchen. Tark rustled in his bed near the back kitchen door, and I went to him quickly, rubbing him behind the ears and whispering to him to be quiet and not rouse the household. He sighed a doggy sigh and lay his head back down again.

In the pantry, I found a box of plastic storage bags and dropped the dagger into one of them. I'd seen movie detectives put objects in bags like this and felt like some dramatic actor in a film instead of a meddling snoop. I planned to take it to Kincaid in the morning. I had no more doubts in my mind about who had tried to kill Chaz. As far as I knew, only three of us knew about the dagger: Elizabeth, Jason, and I.

Since I knew I hadn't done it, that left Elizabeth or Jason. Both had sufficient reasons to hate Chaz, and either one could have remembered the dagger and tried to kill him.

Once more I opened the door to the great hall, this time to go back upstairs. Tark padded after me, his nails clicking on the stone floor. I stooped to pick him up and take him with me, when I realized someone else was coming down the stairs. Someone who also carried a flashlight and seemed to be trying to keep quiet.

I pushed Tark behind the closet, let go of him, and peered around the corner. From this distance, I couldn't make out who descended the stairs, but he or she went straight to the chair against the wall, stood on it and lifted down the shield.

I took a chance and crept closer. I could see the person turn the shield over, no doubt looking for the dagger. No doubt planning to clean it thoroughly this time or dispose of it for good. I could hardly keep from trembling and clamped one hand over my mouth to stop my teeth from chattering.

The person replaced the shield, stepped down off the chair, and turned her face to me. Elizabeth.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Elizabeth moved quickly in my direction, and I had only two places to go: the kitchen or out the back door wearing nothing but my nightclothes.

Since I'd been warned it could be cold in Great Britain and some older homes had no central heating, I had packed a warm nightgown and robe. Not a sexy nylon and lace number from Victoria's Secret, but a full-length flannel thing with long sleeves and a collar. I had no desire to be seen outdoors in that.

I know, I know. No paparazzi skulked in the garden waiting to snap my picture and sell it to the tabloids, but I couldn't help it. It's a "gal" thing.

I ducked back into the kitchen, flipped on the light, and grabbed a dishtowel from the rack near the stove. I barely had time to wrap the towel around the plastic bag containing the dagger when the door opened and Elizabeth came in.

She, too, wore slippers and a robe over a long nightgown, and her hair hung loose and floated around her shoulders. She looked nothing like a murderer. Shows what I knew.

"Olivia. What are you doing down here at this time of night?"

I lied. "Making some hot chocolate. Couldn't sleep." Well, that part was true. As I spoke, I backed up to the laundry chute on the far wall, which I remembered Aunt Alice telling me connected with the one from the second floor and would deposit dirty laundry in the cellar.

"Let me get rid of this towel first. I seem to have spilled cocoa on it." I tried to laugh, but the sound caught in my throat. I pulled open the door, thrust the towel inside, and let it drop. The door snapped shut so I didn't hear the package land.

"Chocolate sounds good." Elizabeth moved farther into the room. "May I join you?"

"Of course." I tried to behave normally, but I could hardly think what to do next. Oh, yes, make chocolate. I pulled a small saucepan from a cupboard and hustled to the refrigerator to find some milk.

"I keep thinking about you," she said.

"About me?" I nearly dropped the milk. Did she know what I'd been doing? Did she guess I'd found the dagger and that I knew she'd stabbed Chaz with it? Would she now try to eliminate me too?

"I feel guilty about the way I've neglected you during your visit."

"Oh, that's okay." I figured she said that as a way to ease my mind before she silenced me forever.

"Did you say you had the cocoa? I don't see it."

"Oh, no, I said I spilled some, er, Bordeaux on it." I'd said the first thing that popped into my head, and I prayed she didn't want to see the wine bottle.

She started for the pantry. "I'll get it."

My brain went haywire, and I imagined that, once inside the pantry, she would put poison in the cocoa, and then, at the last minute, pretend she didn't want any after all. After I drank mine and strangled my way to a painful death.

"No, no," I said. "Don't bother. I'll do it." Too late. She had already entered the pantry, and I stared at the door and counted the seconds until she came out with the brown cocoa box in her hand. Still in my horror-movie mode, I wondered if she'd had enough time to slip in the poison.

I measured two cups of milk into the saucepan on the stove, my hand trembling so much I spilled some down the front of my robe.

"I'll put in the cocoa." Elizabeth took a spoon from the silverware drawer.

I watched her, wondering if she'd also grab a knife while she was at it.

Before she could do anything, I heard Mr. Tarkington bark. I remembered taking him into the great hall and leaving him behind the closet, and now I realized he hadn't followed Elizabeth or me into the kitchen.

"Is that the dog?" she asked.

"Yes, I'll go and get him." I opened the door to the great hall and called, thinking that perhaps he'd protect me as he had that night in Chaz's studio, but he refused to come into the kitchen. He barked once more then sniffed the floor between the back door and the closet under the stairs. I called again, but again he ignored me. He moved steadily toward the closet, intent upon whatever he smelled, and I hesitated, wondering what to do next.

"Never mind him," Elizabeth said.

I turned back and saw her spooning cocoa into the milk on the stove. "I've been wanting to talk to you." She pulled two china cups from the cupboard and placed them on the granite countertop.

I closed the door to the hall and edged toward the table, watching her every move but saying nothing.

Having finished stirring the now-steaming cocoa, she poured some into each cup and brought them to the table, then sat in a chair and motioned me to another. I didn't sit until I saw her take a sip of the hot chocolate.

"Ever since we saw Inspector Kincaid this afternoon," she said, "I've been thinking about what he said. About the knife someone used to stab Chaz."

Puzzled, but at least not afraid she'd poisoned the cocoa, I nevertheless didn't pick up my cup. "What about the knife?"

"The inspector described it as an old one, possibly an antique, and tonight when I couldn't sleep, I suddenly remembered the dagger behind the shield in the great hall. Do you remember how we used to play with that shield and dagger the summer we all stayed here?"

I nodded, wondered what she thought it meant.

"I looked a few minutes ago. The shield is still there, but the dagger is gone."

I waited her out, not telling her I'd had the same feeling and found the dagger, and it had blood on it. I wanted to know what she knew.

"Of course, the dagger might have been removed ages ago." She paused. "Good heavens, we were children when we played there. But, suddenly, I had such a strong feeling that whoever stabbed Chaz used that dagger."

"You did?"

"Yes. Could someone have broken into the house, stolen the knife and…"

The dog barked again. Elizabeth got up, opened the door, and went into the hall. I followed her. "Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"I thought I heard a car drive off."

"Do you mean from here, one of our cars?"

"I think so." She looked at Tark, who was still sniffing the floor. "Whatever ails this dog?"

"I hope he's not looking for a place to pee." I reached for Tark, planning to let him outside, but he squirmed away from me, and, his nose almost touching the stones, he followed a scented trail into the closet.

"Something's wrong," Elizabeth said. She went to the wall and flipped a switch, sending swaths of light across the back hall.

In the sudden brightness, I saw that the floor, normally shiny, now had a dull cast, with streaks across it, as if someone had done an inferior mopping job. Not Aunt Alice, who would rather run naked through Westminster Abbey than leave the floor in such a condition. Even the cement between the stones seemed a darker color than usual. I stooped down and ran my finger across one of the dark patches, brought up a brown sticky substance.

Elizabeth hunched down and did the same, then put her hand close to her face and sniffed. "What is it?"

I took a deep breath before speaking. "I think it's blood, the same stuff that's on the dagger."

She straightened and turned to me, her eyes wide. "What do you mean?"

I felt certain then she hadn't tried to kill Chaz, so I told Elizabeth what I knew. "I saw you look under the shield tonight, but I'd already found the dagger there before you came downstairs. I took it down. It has blood on it."

She swallowed then said softly, "Where is it?"

"I wrapped it in a towel and threw it down the laundry chute."

She pushed her hair back from her face, spoke in slow, careful tones. "Wait a minute. You mean…"

I felt my face grow warm. "If Chaz was stabbed with that dagger and there's blood on this floor…"

"You're saying that whoever did it, stabbed him right here in the hall?"

I straightened up. "And tried to clean off the blood but not well enough, because there's still some between the stones, and Tark can smell it."

Elizabeth stared at me, her forehead puckered into a frown.

"You didn't try to kill Chaz," I said.

"Of course not." She spoke loudly but looked wary, as if not convinced I'd believe her. "At one time I felt angry enough to, but I would never…"

"I'm sorry. For a little while, I thought you had. When I saw you take down the shield…"

"I told you I remembered the dagger and wanted to…" After an even longer pause, she hugged her arms to her body, as if suddenly cold. "That means…"

I finished her sentence. "It means someone in this house tried to kill Chaz. Someone else who knew about the dagger. Not you and not me."

She whispered the word. "Jason."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Elizabeth's eyes widened. "Why would Jason try to kill Chaz?"

"I have some theories." I told her about Aunt Beryl's revelation that Noreen had been having an affair with Jason as well as Chaz.

"You mean you think jealousy over Noreen prompted such a terrible thing?"

"There's more." I then revealed I had discovered Aunt Beryl's first husband in the nursing home for aging criminals, and maybe Jason knew his real father was still alive.

"I don't follow."

"Aunt Beryl never divorced Jason's father, so her marriage to William isn't legal, and Jason's adoption might not be legal either."

"So you're saying, if Jason knew that and feared he might not inherit Mason Hall after William, he could have been moved to act by more than jealousy?"

"Money is a powerful motive."

"Jason stabbing Chaz," Elizabeth said, shocked disbelief in her tone. "I've suspected for years they hated one another, but…"

"We haven't time to think about motives. We've heard a car drive off."

"You mean you think that was Jason?"

"It's possible."

"But he's upstairs in bed, isn't he?"

"Maybe not. You and I aren't."

We stared at each other then apparently had the same thought and headed for the back door. I opened it, and Elizabeth started down the path toward the former carriage house. I followed her, and as we approached I could see that all four overhead doors were closed. She went around to the side entrance that opened onto the entire garage, and I followed her inside.

She flipped on a light switch. Two cars sat there, her Vauxhall and the Bentley. Both Jason's and Chaz's were missing, and we knew the police had Chaz's Land Rover.

"Where has he gone?" Without waiting for me, she answered the question herself. "If you're right and he tried to kill Chaz, he might have run off. What should we do?"

My brain refused to produce an idea. "I don't know."

A deep frown creased Elizabeth's forehead, and she spoke in a whisper. "Should we call the police and tell them what we suspect?"

The supposed moment of truth had arrived, but I felt ambivalent. According to our reasoning, Jason had tried to kill Chaz. Yet what if we were wrong? Did we want to turn him in on mere speculation? Besides, he was our cousin. Or, at least, a step-cousin.

"Maybe he isn't running off. Maybe he's just…" Yet I could think of no other reason for his driving away in the middle of the night.

"Where would he be going now?"

Then a terrible thought came to me. I said it aloud. "Maybe he hasn't run off. Maybe he's gone to the hospital to finish what he started."

Her hands flew to her mouth. "Oh no."

I hoped my idea had no merit. I didn't want to think Jason capable of such a thing. Yet, could we afford to drop the matter? "We have to call the hospital. We have to alert them." I ran back toward the house.

Elizabeth pounded down the path after me. "But this is Jason, after all. Perhaps we're wrong."

I yanked open the door of the Hall. "We can't take a chance. We'll call and tell them to put a guard on Chaz's door, just in case."

She thought about that, biting her lower lip. "I suppose you're right. Best be safe."

We hurried into the kitchen, and Elizabeth made the call from the telephone on the wall. Quicker than running upstairs to find my cell phone. I stood at her side, waiting impatiently. Seconds turned into minutes, and still she didn't say anything.

"What's the matter? Don't they answer?"

She leaned toward me, the receiver still pressed to her ear. "They've answered, but it's a recording. You know, press one for this, two for that."

"Try the zero," I said, and she stabbed the button with her finger. More silence.

"What's happening now?"

"I'm hearing hospital hours."

I wanted to scream with frustration. "Doesn't any human being answer telephones anymore?"

"They haven't done so as yet."

"Hang up. Give me the phone. I'll call the police."

I knew Kincaid's number, but of course I got his voice mail. I left a terse message and hung up.

Elizabeth retrieved the phone and pressed numbers. "I'll try hospital again."

"No, call 9-1-1." As soon as I said it, I realized I'd given her the emergency number at home. I had no idea what they used in Great Britain.

Apparently Elizabeth knew what I meant. She hung up and did it over. I could hear her half of the conversation, which sounded as if the operator didn't believe her request was urgent.

In reality, perhaps it wasn't.

Nevertheless, I could never live with myself if I failed to act on my gut feeling that Chaz was in danger.

Elizabeth hung up. "I'm not sure they believed me."

"Blast." I used one of the expletives I'd heard in England. "Bloody hell!" I jumped up from the chair. "We have to go to the hospital now. To be certain. Where are the car keys?"

"On the dresser in my room."

"Get them."

She looked down at her robe and slippers. "I'll change too. I can't go out like this."

"There's no time," I yelled. "I'll get the keys. You run to the garage and open the door."

Before I'd finished giving orders, I'd vaulted halfway up the stairs. I sprinted down the corridor to her room, and luckily the car keys lay where she said they'd be. Schoolteachers are so predictable.

Holding my robe and nightgown away from my feet with both hands—no longer caring if anyone saw me in my crummy nightwear—I careened down the staircase and flew out the door.

Thankfully Elizabeth already sat in the car, the garage door rolled up. I lunged into the passenger seat and handed her the keys. She fumbled with them for a few seconds then started the motor, and we backed out in a rush, gears grinding when she yanked the shift lever out of reverse, then hurtled down the road in a shower of small stones.

"Do you have a cell phone in here?" I said next.

"A cell phone? You mean a mobile telephone?"

"Yes. Do you have one? I can try the hospital again while you're driving. Maybe we'll get someone this time."

"No." She paused. "Jason has one in his car."

Great!

Elizabeth drove at breakneck speed, and we didn't speak again. My mind became wonderfully clear. I could almost see what had happened to Chaz. He left his Land Rover parked by the back door of the house, as he usually did. Then he came into the Hall where Jason attacked him. After stabbing him, Jason put him back in the Rover and drove him to the road where we found the car.

So far, so good, but how did Jason get back home after leaving Chaz to bleed to death in the Rover? The bicycle! Before leaving the house, he could have thrown Tim's bicycle in the back of the Land Rover, which is how the headlamp got broken. In addition, the mysterious debris Tim found might be whatever clothes Jason wore that night which, because they were stained with Chaz's blood, he'd tried to burn.

Adrenaline rushed through me so I could hardly sit still. Elizabeth drove like a madwoman, ignoring stop signs and not slowing down at roundabouts. Fortunately, we encountered little traffic to impede us until we neared the town. Then Elizabeth slowed the car to a crawl before turning into the hospital parking lot.

"Stop anywhere," I told her. "We don't have time to find a proper place."

She parked in the curved entrance, behind two other cars, and we scrambled out and dashed into the building. I didn't see Jason or any police.

We came to an abrupt halt at the front desk, and Elizabeth asked for Chaz's room. After an eternity while the young woman looked it up, she said, "Fourth floor, room four thirteen. But you can't see him now."

Elizabeth paid no attention. She sprinted toward the elevators.

The nurse or aide or whoever she was sprang to her feet and leaned over the counter, shouting, "Stop," at Elizabeth's back.

"Call hospital security," I told her. "Get the police."

She pointed. "There's a public call box."

"You don't understand. Someone is trying to kill a patient. It's a matter of life and death." I never thought I'd actually say that. I felt like an actor in a B-movie.

She gave me a puzzled look but reached for the telephone on the desk.

I dashed toward the elevator Elizabeth had entered and swung inside before the doors closed. By now my robe had come open, and in the glaring overhead lights, I looked like an escapee from the mental ward. I jerked the silk cord tight around my waist, and the elevator doors swished open on the fourth floor.

At the nurse's station, a woman got up from her chair and came around the partition as if to try to stop us. Elizabeth pointed to the sign indicating room directions, and I tore down the hall, leaving her behind. I flung open the door of four-thirteen.

The only light came from the bathroom's open door and a box like a computer monitor glowing from green squiggles going across the screen. Chaz lay in bed, heavily swathed in bandages, tubes sticking out of him, and connected to plastic bags hanging from hooks on the top of metal poles. A doctor in a while coat leaned over him. I let a relieved sigh escape.

But the doctor had a pillow in his hands, and he pushed it into Chaz's face. I stared at him, a shout stuck in my throat. That was no doctor. That was Jason.

I leaped at him, tore at his jacket, tried to pull him away. He didn't budge. Gasping for breath, tears flooding my eyes, I grabbed the cord on my robe, pulled it free, and threw it over Jason's head. It caught on his throat, and I pulled as hard as I could. He dropped the pillow and reached for the cord. He turned toward me, eyes blazing hate. Oh boy.

He ripped my cord from his own neck and twisted it around mine. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I couldn't breathe. My head felt like a balloon, and my heart pumped.

Alarms went off. A door slammed open, people shouted. I heard a loud noise like a thunderclap. Jason crashed down on top of me, and my head cracked on the hard floor. It was the last thing I remembered.

*  *  *

I opened my eyes and stared at a distant ceiling. Minutes passed before I realized I lay on a gurney in the hospital corridor, and a nurse held my wrist. Apparently noticing I'd come to, she asked if I knew the year, and when I enlightened her, gaining a smile in response, she moved off, probably heading for someone a lot closer to dying.

I heard voices and turned my head far enough to see two people, a man and a woman, standing against the wall ten or more feet from me. I recognized the woman as Elizabeth. I didn't recognize the man. Although I couldn't make out what they were saying, they seemed to be having a rather intimate conversation, and I read their body language as ardent. Elizabeth, hair floating loosely like in a Jennifer Anniston People photo, seemed animated. She actually giggled once, and her fingers fussed with her robe. I sat up, promptly inviting a wave of nausea, feeling pain in both my neck and the back of my head.

Elizabeth and her mysterious friend came up to me. "You're awake. Do you feel all right?" Her mood had changed immediately to concern. "Doctor said you're not seriously hurt."

"Can you answer a question or two?" the man said. Then I recognized him, Inspector Kincaid. He'd shaved off his mustache. Without it, although his nose took on more prominence, his face had a younger look. He seemed a little flushed too.

"I'm fine," I lied, rubbing my throat with one hand and pulling my robe down over my legs with the other. "What happened?"

Elizabeth frowned and grasped my arm. "It was terrible. They shot Jason." She swallowed hard. "He's dead."

"I'm very sorry," Kincaid said. "After I received your message, I sent someone to guard young Mr. Mason, but he arrived in the midst of your being throttled."

"I don't remember that."

"It seems, when the call went out, a rather junior detective responded. He shouted to Mr. Mason to stop, but when he didn't, he fired his weapon. Too hastily. Fatally too."

"Is Chaz—?"

"He's all right," Elizabeth answered. "Jason's smothering him set off alarms, so sisters and ward security rushed in as well. Total bedlam."

"I'm sorry about your cousin," Kincaid said.

"He would have smothered Chaz with the pillow."

"We found evidence of that, but I'm afraid we shan't know everything."

I told him about finding the dagger and dropping it down the laundry chute. His eyebrows went up, but he didn't answer, and I continued with my theory about the bicycle and the burned rubbish. I even told him about the torn trousers I'd found under Jason's bed and how Mr. Tarkington had torn Chaz's jeans in the same way when the dog thought I needed rescuing.

Kincaid smiled, and thanks to his shaving off the mustache, for once I could see his lips curve up. "I'm not keen to put a dog in the witness box." He put on a more serious look. "So you thought…"

"I thought Tark might have tried to save Noreen by tearing at her killer's pants legs. But, of course," I added, "Jason couldn't have killed her, because he had an alibi for the night Noreen had the accident."

Kincaid patted my hand. "Ah, but you see, he didn't have an alibi after all. He didn't ring Mason Hall from the city on the night she died."

"What do you mean?"

"He said he had telephoned from the theater and told Mrs. Klein that he would stay in town overnight rather than return home."

"If not in the city, where?"

"We're not certain, of course, but telephone records reveal he made a call at about half past ten from his mobile phone." He paused for emphasis. "In the area of your house, possibly from the side lawn."

His words made me forget my aching throat. At one time I had visualized Chaz coming across Noreen by the lily pond, arguing, and then killing her. I'd got the scenario right but not the person.

"Jason drowned Noreen, then phoned from his car on the lawn to say he was at his club instead? Gave himself an alibi?"

"It would seem so, but once more, establishing this beyond a reasonable doubt might be extremely difficult. If he did murder the woman, our police officer's hasty shot saved us having to try to bring him to justice on somewhat inconclusive evidence."

"He had plenty of motive," I told the inspector. "I think Noreen was blackmailing him about his real father."

"You mean Mr. Capelli. We know about that." Kincaid rubbed his upper lip, trying to finger the no-longer-existing mustache.

"And Tim O'Brien saw the car parked by the lily pond."

"We could discern a vehicle had crossed the lawn. Unfortunately, we weren't able to get any tire prints, so we couldn't identify the car." He paused. "However, his attempt on the young man is a different matter."

"Has Chaz told you Jason stabbed him?"

"As yet, we've had no opportunity to question him."

I slipped off the gurney and found I could stand and walk without fainting.

Elizabeth took my arm. "I'll drive you home."

She gave a last glance at Kincaid, and we walked toward the elevators passing Chaz's room where commotion still reigned: police, doctors, nurses, all crowding in. Kincaid joined them, trying to restore order, and Elizabeth and I took the elevator down and walked outside to her car.

The dark sky sparkled with stars but no moon, and even outdoors, I thought I smelled antiseptic. When I climbed into the car, the night's events struck me like a fist to the face. Jason had killed Noreen, almost killed Chaz, and attacked me. Now he'd been shot. Dead. I heard myself make queer, choking sounds, and tears coursed down my face. I trembled uncontrollably and felt as if I would never be warm again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

On Saturday night the family finally took me into the city to see Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap, and on Sunday I visited Chaz in the hospital, hoping for a low bacteria count that day. He lay against pillows, head elevated somewhat, and seemed glad to see me.

"I hear you saved my life."

I think I blushed. "Who told you that?"

"Aunt Alice gave me a blow-by-blow. Jolly exciting, I gather."

"Aunt Alice has a gift for exaggeration. I didn't save your life. Give the credit to the police, doctors, and nurses. I'm just a meddling relative. With a bruise or two for it."

I showed him the marks on my neck, although they were beginning to fade. I remembered the sensation when Jason was choking me as if I had my head in an oven set on broil.

"What about you?" I asked. He'd had more than a day to recover from his ordeal with Jason and looked almost normal, no tubes at his nose or mouth, and only a few bandages on his face and neck. I couldn't see what he looked like under the hospital's white sheet and blanket, but his arms, outside the covers, still wore several thick bandages.

"Your meddling sent the police, otherwise Jason might have succeeded in getting rid of me after all."

"But you are going to be all right, aren't you?"

He chuckled briefly. "Right as rain in time, they tell me. I should be able to do everything I did before: play in the band, chase women. Please them too," he added with a wink and a grin. Despite his words, he seemed a different Chaz from the brash one I'd known before. Had his brush with death sobered him?

I pulled the white wooden chair closer to his bed and sat, then changed the subject back to his ordeal. "Did Jason hate you that much?"

"Afraid so. We were never on the best terms growing up. With the difference in our ages we didn't have to be chums, but I endured more than the usual bullying. Later I took to lifting weights in part to be able to hold my own with him."

He paused. "As we got older, he resented me even more."

"He envied your luck with women," I suggested.

"Not likely. He married twice himself. Now I know more, I suspect his cruel streak came out with women as well."

So the traits I had noticed in Jason as a child hadn't completely vanished as he matured. "Did anything go on between him and Noreen? Your mother seems to think Noreen seduced him."

He sighed. "She admitted it. After she finished with me, that is."

I took a chance and repeated my old concern. "Did you and Noreen have a plan to steal Edward's money?"

He looked annoyed. "Steal Edward's money? I'm not that much of a rotter."

"I'm sorry, but for a time it looked possible. I thought perhaps she had persuaded you to introduce her to Edward so she could marry him, and after he died, she'd marry you and give you half."

He shook his head from side to side, and his fists clenched where they lay on the bedclothes, knuckles almost as white as the sheets. "I behaved stupidly, I admit it, but not the way you think. I took it for a lark, her wanting to meet my family, bit of a shock to them, a good joke. Never thought the old man would go so far as to marry her. We kept our own on the side. Rather good in bed, you see." He broke off, as if suddenly uncomfortable discussing it with me.

"So you had no future plans with her?"

"Not on your life. Wasn't until we heard Uncle Edward's will that I understood the consequences, realized what I'd done. She started bragging how she'd take everything she could, leave Mason Hall, how she hated everyone."

"Except you."

"Oh, me included." He raised his head an inch or two briefly. "Get this straight though. She didn't dump me. I dumped her. Wanted to kill her myself."

"I guess Jason saved you the trouble. Is that why he tried to murder you too, because you found out he'd killed her?"

"No, I never did." He shrugged. "I thought what a lucky thing, her getting sloshed and falling into the pond."

"You found out later, though, didn't you?"

"He admitted it the night he stabbed me. Truth is, Noreen learned his real father was still alive, a jailbird no less, and she was blackmailing him."

"I suspected it, and she blackmailed your mother."

Chaz's face turned red, and he seemed to choke up. "My mum? How do you know that?"

"She told me." Keeping my explanation as short as possible, I told Chaz about finding the detective's invoice which, in turn, led me to Jason's real father and my ensuing conversation with Aunt Beryl.

"Noreen, the filthy whore. Had I known she did that, I'd have throttled her with my bare hands."

I returned to my earlier question. "Yet, since Jason knew you didn't drown Noreen, having done so himself, why did he want to kill you?"

"He assumed Noreen had told me about his real father, and I might make it public, and he wouldn't inherit the property. Personally, I didn't care about inheriting it, didn't want the responsibility."

"With Jason dead, it seems you'll have the responsibility after all."

He rubbed a hand over his eyes. "More's the pity."

"How did he happen to overpower you?"

"When I came home that night he met me down by the back door, started talking about how he'd had the row with Noreen, and now it was my turn. At first I didn't catch on he meant he'd killed her. When I went into the cupboard to leave my mackintosh, I felt a blow on my back, like he'd struck me. I turned my head a bit and saw a knife in his hands. He started stabbing. I didn't move fast enough. The room's confining, you know. Next blow sent me crashing to the floor, struck my head and konked out."

"Do you remember being in your Land Rover?"

"Don't remember him putting me inside, but I came to when he pulled me into the driving seat. I decided to act dead, nearly was at that. I heard him doing something in the back, and then he went off. My brain fuzzy, I wasn't aware. I kept going in and out."

"You'd been stabbed a lot, lost so much blood."

"Figured I was a goner, but I got out and crawled toward the road."

"A Good Samaritan found you."

"And then you managed to find the weapon and get word to the coppers. I still think I owe my life to you."

We were back where we'd started. "I didn't do anything so unusual. I just snooped around and got lucky."

"I'm the lucky one, having a pal like you."

I changed the subject. "I've come to say 'good-bye.' I'm going home tomorrow."

"So soon?"

"It's been two weeks. Besides, I don't think I want to stick around for Jason's funeral."

"Can't say I blame you. You'll visit us again soon?"

"Of course. After you've all had time to get over this."

I stood and reached for Chaz's hand, to shake it.

He took mine and pulled me closer. "Give us a kiss."

I obliged, on the forehead, then pulled my hand free, and backed away. "Good-bye, Cousin."

"Coward," he called after me.

*   *  *

On Monday morning, Mason Hall buzzed with activity. All the servants Aunt Alice had hired showed up at once, plus a few more, since she felt the old place needed a real "turning out." I looked forward to going back to peace and quiet in my own house. I could probably fit the whole thing into the great hall, but at least it didn't require servants. Cooks are nice, but they encourage more eating than when I have to fix meals myself. I was sure I'd gained another five pounds and would have to go on the old South Beach Diet. Better yet, one where you ate nothing but beach sand.

I remembered the card game with Noreen's chums and suddenly longed for a few hands with my own friends, especially Edgar, back in San Ricardo.

I'd miss my newfound relatives: lovable Aunt Alice and charming Uncle William. I said a somber good-bye to Aunt Beryl, justifiably torn between mourning for Jason and happiness that Chaz hadn't been killed.

"Will you come back again when William and I, er, renew our vows?" she asked me.

"I'll try." I thought that, what with her having to get a divorce first, it might easily be a year or more before that happened.

I especially regretted leaving Mr. Tarkington. Elizabeth promised to take good care of the dog, but I wondered if she'd have time for him now Inspector Kincaid had entered her life.

"Martin's educated, been to University," she told me, "not like most single men I've met. And he's very sweet when you get to know him." I'd definitely come back for that wedding.

* *   *

I'd always been something of an Anglophile, and after living there for two weeks, I had an even greater appreciation for the place. I felt a strong connection to my English relatives and knew that from now on I'd consider myself part of the extended family, a mere hop over the pond keeping us from fortnightly visits. Fortnightly? See, I'd begun thinking like a Brit already.

Yet, when Brad met me after I came through customs at the terminal in San Francisco, I felt a lump in my throat. For all its faults, I had come home to the greatest country in the world.

Brad, looking fit in a gray turtleneck and blue slacks, gave me a strong hug. "You look wonderful, Livvie."

"I feel wonderful, but I expect jet lag will catch up with me any minute."

He seized my luggage and walked me toward the parking garage elevators. "After what Aunt Alice told me on the phone yesterday, I expected you could fly home sans aircraft. You solved a murder. You should be on cloud nine."

"Alice exaggerates. All I did…"

"Don't deny it. You saved your cousin's life."

"No, the police did."

"But you found the clues leading to the guilty party."

"Well…" I didn't tell him about all the false clues I followed, my theory about Mister X, or my last-minute belief that Elizabeth had done it. Why spoil the moment?

We left the elevator and walked across the upper-level parking area. I stopped and looked up at a clear blue sky.

Brad said, "Welcome to California. I can see you're glad to be back."

I laughed then realized I didn't feel I was back but rather making a new start. I'd left the country in a severely depressed state, upset over my divorce, my self-esteem lower than a dust bunny. Now I could hardly remember the feeling. Noreen and Jason would never agree with me, but murder had given me a new lease on life.

I turned to Brad. "When are we going to open our own detective agency?"

"Livvie, who do you think you are?"

"I'd like to be a private detective."

"Okay, you helped solve one murder. What makes you think you could do it again?"

I smiled and rubbed my fingernails on my jacket lapel. "Elementary, my dear Featherstone. Elementary."

* * * * *

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* * * * *

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Phyllis's credits include nineteen published romance novels and several short stories and articles to national magazines. She was an RWA Golden Heart finalist, won the San Diego Book Award, and was a finalist in St. Martin's Press Malice Domestic Mystery Contest. She has also written a novella in Kindle Worlds series and three novellas about Sherlock Holmes under the name P.J. Humphrey.

Phyllis's non-fiction book was published by John Wiley & Sons, she has ghost-written three non-fiction books and had two 30-minute radio plays produced by American Radio Theater.

She's listed in Who's Who, a member of Mensa, married, and the mother of three children.

To learn more about Phyllis, visit her online at: http://www.phyllishumphrey.com/

* * * * *

BOOKS BY PHYLLIS A. HUMPHREY

Olivia Grant Mysteries:

Dead in the Water

Dead Men's Tales (coming soon!)

Other works:

Free Fall

Finding Amy

Southern Star

Stranger in Paradise

Cold April

North by Northeast

The Green Bough

Tropical Nights

Charade

Flying High

Masquerade

Roman Holiday

Choices

False Pretenses

Romance of my Dreams

Once More with Feeling

* * * * *

SNEAK PEEK

If you enjoyed this series name, check out this sneak peek of another exciting novel from Gemma Halliday Publishing:

MYSTIC MAYHEM

by

SALLY J. SMITH & JEAN STEFFENS

CHAPTER ONE

I was on my third beignet and well into my coffee, the caffeine just kicking in, when my best friend and roomie, Catalina Gabor, finally showed up at the Café du Monde in New Orleans' French Quarter.

"Sorry I'm late, Mel."

I looked up at her and stifled a yawn. "No problem. You're still in time to catch the ferry." I handed her the last warm sugar-powdered beignet. The order was four. I ate three. She was late, and the way I looked at it, she was lucky there was even one left. She tapped the pastry against the side of the plate and knocked off half the powder. It kept her from wearing the sugar on her chest like I sometimes did.

She took a couple of bites and laid the rest of the beignet aside. I made a mental note to myself: Chere, you should try that one too.

Myself replied: But, chere, they're too good to leave on the plate.

"You look tired, Mel," Cat said. "I bet you worked all weekend at the church."

"I did. Putting in some long hours over there, hoping to have it ready for services by Thanksgiving."

The Lower Ninth Ward and Holy Cross neighborhoods east of the city were hit so hard by Katrina, even a decade later they looked like war zones. Churches, schools, and even fire stations were still boarded up and crumbling away. Federal funds went to the more prosperous, commercial neighborhoods of the Crescent City area, so it was left up to the citizenry, all the king's horses and all the king's men, moi, and people like me to mobilize and put St. Antoine's Parish back together again.

My heart lies there. It's my old stomping grounds where Mama and I lived until Grandmama Ida took us in. It's where many of my childhood friends still live. It's where I put any extra money I'm lucky enough to come across and as many extra hours that happen to turn up in my day.

The chapel of St. Antoine's Parish, deconsecrated after Katrina due to brutal damage, was being revived due to the generosity of a celebrity musician who grew up in the area. His money, together with the money and efforts of some of us less celebrated New Orleans folk, was bringing back the simple beauty and sense of community to St. Antoine's. That week I'd spent my days off—eight hours on Thursday and ten hours on Friday—helping put up new siding. Now it was Saturday morning, time to go back to my paying job, and my arms, legs, and back testified to all my hard labor. But I loved every minute of it. And that lovely old church? Why, she was coming back around.

Cat laid her hand on mine. "Melanie Hamilton, girl, you're racking up points in Heaven. And that's the blessed truth." She reached slim fingers with purple-lacquered nails across the table, snagged my coffee cup, and took a swig of the dark, heavy chicory that was both our addictions. We like it regulah, lots of cream, tons of sugar.

I looked at my watch—10:50 a.m.—and stood. "We better get a move on."

She fell in step beside me as we double-timed it along the riverfront walkway to where the dedicated ferryboat for The Mansion at Mystic Isle bobbed against the old-fashioned wooden dock. We jumped onto the brightly painted flat-bottom boat with a few minutes to spare.

George, the ferry conductor, swept off his Mystic Isle cap, offered a toothy smile, and gave us an exaggerated bow. "Miss Hamilton," he drawled. "Miss Gabor. Glorious mornin', ladies. Dat f'sure."

Mid-July. It wasn't noon yet, and the temp had already climbed to the high eighties. There wasn't even the slightest breeze, and the humidity was no less than killer. You almost had to pull the air apart like a curtain just to walk through it. Yep, a glorious day, all right. My T-shirt clung to me like wet wallpaper. The light complexion that went along with my strawberry-blonde hair wasn't ideal for life in a place where the sun beat down like my own personal heat lamp. I was thankful for the ferry's canopy.

While I was sweating like a hooker in a front-row church pew, Catalina bestowed a smile on George that was cool as a spring mist over a clear lake. No wonder he was nuts about her.

The only other passengers were a few of the dinner kitchen staff and the hotel's voodoo priestess (her official title) who ran the Who-do Voodoo We-do Shop at The Mansion.

The Mansion at Mystic Isle was where Cat and I worked. Located in Jefferson Parish across the Mississippi from New Orleans at the edge of a bayou, the main building was an old plantation house set among cypress trees and expansive green lawns. It had been handed down through the Villars family for centuries. Not all that long ago, Harry Villars, the down-on-his-luck, but no less genteel and stylish owner, had the brilliant idea to turn his liability into an asset by repurposing the place into a resort where folks dedicated to the supernatural and all kinds of magic could come and get their creep on.

The Mansion was decorated like the haunted house we've all seen at that theme park—you know the one. Ours was similar—creepy organ music when you crossed the threshold, drafty hallways, creaky doors, secret passages, even fake cobwebs. The whole shebang, chere. Harry Villars sank every cent he had into it and crossed his fingers that the place would raise him to the ranks of the solvent—then he hired all of us, a complete cast of soothsayers and charlatans, to convince hotel guests the supernatural stuff that went on at The Mansion was the real deal. But just between you, me, and the gators, it's not.

Cat was the gypsy fortune-teller, and did she ever look the part. Flashing dark eyes, long, flowing locks the color of cappuccino. Her lips always looked as if they were stained persimmon without any lip-gloss, and her size Ds were nothing short of a masterpiece. When she left our apartment in the French Quarter to head to work, she dressed like any regular twenty-eight-year-old knockout, but once her shift began at the resort, she was decked out in layers of gauzy jewel tones and bling, lots and lots of bling.

Me? I was the designated artist at The Mansion's Dragons and Deities Tattoo Parlor. My work costume was a slinky black gown with a V-neck, empire waist, and a big stand-up collar that fanned all the way around the back of my neck from one collar bone to the other. I think the effect was intended to be darkly glamorous, but most days I felt more like the Count von Count Muppet than Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. I would have preferred that free and easy Stevie Nicks look Cat pulled off, but it wasn't in the cards—not when I was forced to wear a full bib apron on top of that gorgeous creation to avoid spraying ink all over it.

When I walked out of college with my degree in fine arts, I never would have suspected tattoos would be my groceries, and I still don't consider myself to be your typical tattoo girl. No leather bustier or nose ring, and the only tattoo on this girl's milky skin is a tiny Tinker Bell on my right shoulder.

The boat motor revved. The signal horn blew, and the ferry pulled out into the strong draft of the mighty Mississippi River, brown as liquid chocolate and churning like a whirlpool. Cat and I leaned against the railing, shoulder to shoulder, and I turned my face into the wind created by the movement of the boat. It cooled me off a little.

"You look nice today," Cat said.

Oh. My makeup must not have been running down my face like melting Häagen-Dazs yet. "Thanks, Cat. So do you."

"Well," she said without the slightest bit of arrogance, "I look nice every day."

I nodded. When you're right, you're right.

"You hoping to run into Cap'n Jack, girl?" Her voice was sly.

I bumped her shoulder with mine. "You pokin' fun at me?" It was true. I had taken extra care with my makeup and hair that morning. Some VIPs were checking in at Mystic Isle today, and I knew the manager, Jack Stockton, would be up front and present to take care of them.

"Poking fun at you? No, girl, no way. Settin' your cap for a man like that is some serious stuff."

A man like that.

Jack Stockton—Cat and I had taken to calling him Cap'n Jack—was the recently hired general manager at The Mansion on Mystic Isle. The story was he had been the golden boy moving up the corporate ladder at an international chain's premier property in the Big Apple when disaster struck. The hotel chain's CEO had arrived in New York from Frankfurt for a look-see at his crown jewel. The grapevine rumored that Jack Stockton met a stunning blonde with a provocative Marlene Dietrich accent at the hotel lounge. The two hit off and wound up back at his place. The next morning Jack discovered the blonde was the boss's twenty-five-year-old bride of only six weeks. They didn't even let him clean out his desk, and once the story got around, poor Jack couldn't even walk into a hotel without turning every head in the place. At least in the Big Apple.

But New York was a far cry from the Big Easy.

The Mansion at Mystic Isle was just getting a foothold, and the idea of having a man as capable yet desperate for work as Jack Stockton sat just right with Harry Villars, who needed someone with monster talent to manage his supernatural resort project. The weird goings-on, unusual clientele, bizarre employees, and rumors of hauntings at our beloved place of employment had already driven off three general managers. I had high hopes for Jack.

He was smart, experienced, and would probably do whatever it took to make the place a success. And besides, Harry Villars was gay. It wasn't likely Jack would get caught in bed with Harry's significant other, my good friend the Great Fabrizio. Still, Jack would need every bit of skill and cunning he could muster to get this albatross on solid ground. I think I fell in love with him the first time he lifted that chiseled chin and showed me that smile.

Saying Cap'n Jack was easy on the eyes was an understatement of Biblical proportion. Dark eyes, slightly almond-shaped. Smooth, swarthy skin. Full lips that slid easily into a lopsided sexy smile and short, dark hair my fingers itched to lace themselves into. The Fifth Avenue suits he wore to work every day appeared tailor-made to fit his athletic body but still somehow looked out of place on him. My mind's eye insisted on imagining him in boots, jeans, and muscle shirts. And when he came to me in my dreams, he wore a lot less.

He was a really nice guy whose New York ways made him a duck in the desert among the laid-back, slow-talking New Orleanians, Cajuns, and swamp rats at Mystic Isle.

On his first day at The Mansion Jack stood in front of the entire staff and told his tale about the consequences of looking for love in all the wrong places. He made sure we laughed at what had to be a difficult and embarrassing incident in his life and made us all as comfortable with him as he was with himself. Honesty and good humor were just about the two sexiest traits a man could have. And Jack had both—in spades.

Don't get me wrong. I liked his sophisticated style, so much that whenever he even walked into the room, I came apart like a house of cards in a wind tunnel. At least that was how I felt. He made me warm and cold, excited and nervous, happy and scared all at the same time.

I think he might have been interested in me, too, but I couldn't be sure he didn't think I was the village idiot, not the way my tongue tangled itself up whenever I tried to speak to him.

Cat, God love her, was still trying her best to hook us up.

Despite her efforts, it wasn't likely to happen. He was kind and fair and had a great laugh, but he was also my boss. I didn't figure either of us was ready to risk the livelihood of the other, so I went home every night and carried on a steamy love affair with him in my dreams.

"I'm just sayin', chere," Cat closed her eyes and lifted her face to the breeze coming off the river, "dat man is delish, fo' true."

I glanced sideways at her, slid my hand along the railing, and laid it on top of hers. "And I'm just sayin', chere, you're spending too much time with that Cajun cop of yours. And dat f'shore too."

*   *   *

Once we docked, the ride to the resort on Mystic Isle took thirty minutes if there weren't any gators sunbathing in the road or big mud holes that had to be skirted. The shuttle ran back and forth all day every day from seven a.m. until midnight. It was a sight to behold, basically a smallish airport shuttle only N'awlins style. The front end was a purple Mardi Gras mask with headlights serving as eyes. On either side, The Mansion at Mystic Isle was scrolled in gold letters over dark but beautifully screened images glimpsing into the paranormal world of spirits and spells. Its route went via Jefferson Parish into the swamplands near the Barataria Preserve then over the bridge to the privately owned four square miles of swampland that was now the country's first, and possibly only, resort catering to those who believed in all things mystical and occult.

I stepped down from the shuttle just as Jack Stockton jogged up, out of breath, and spicier than Louisiana hot sauce.

"You need to turn around," he told the driver. "The Elway woman and her people are on their way from the airport to the ferry. If you're not there to pick them up, it won't be good."

As the shuttle circled back out, Jack turned and seemed to see me for the first time.

"Good morning, Miss Hamilton," he said quickly. That was just one of the things that set him apart from the locals. You never heard "Where y'at, baaay-beee?" or "Aw right, dawlin'" from his gorgeous lips. No sir, always polite and cultured, my Jack. My Jack? My fervent wish.

He wasn't in such a big hurry that he didn't take the time to notice. "Miss Hamilton, I believe that shirt just exactly matches your green eyes." Interest flared in his gorgeous peepers.

I smiled but didn't answer. As flummoxed as I was, it would have sounded like a foreign language.

After the shuttle turned back around, so did Jack. He stopped at the front entrance, and while the organ music groaned the welcome dirge, he asked Lurch, our obsessed-by-selfies doorman, how his day was going, and then he said to the morose giant of a man, "There are some VIP guests arriving later today. I'm going to request, as a personal favor to me, you not ask them to join you for a selfie. Please."

The fact that Lurch asked anyone and everyone to pose for a selfie with him seemed to bother Jack—the uptight New Yorker in him, I supposed. None of the rest of us cared a whit about it. In fact, it was a lot of fun to sit down with Lurch on a coffee break and have a slide show of all the pictures on his phone.

It didn't hurt anybody, and if someone didn't want to stand beside a seven-foot-tall, pasty-skinned man with hands the size of cast-iron skillets, they could always say, "No thanks."

Lurch groaned but nodded. "Yes, sir."

*   *   *

The Dragons and Deities Tattoo Parlor was located on the first floor of the auxiliary wing next to the hotel spa. The hotel owner, Harry Villars, a genteel Southern man with grand gestures and the soft-spoken mannerisms of Ashley Wilkes, had pretty much given me carte blanche in decorating, and I went with the Medieval Times look. Since the name of the place had to do with dungeons, it was just about my only reference material. The flickering wall sconces, stone masonry wallpaper, and red and gold drapery swags were nothing if not dramatic.

I was not ashamed to admit I kind of got off on wearing that girly garb the mystical theme required, and the skin paintings I created are ethereal and otherworldly. They went hand-in-hand with the theme of the hotel and more often than not challenged my artistic nature.

My first love was oil on canvas. The streets and people of New Orleans, my favorite subjects. When I didn't spend my weekend working at St. Antoine's trying to bring the beautiful old church back, I hauled myself out to Jackson Square and displayed my wares with other struggling artists. A gallery over on Julia Street took the odd painting every now and then. When I sold one, what I got for it went straight to the neighborhood restoration fund.

It was about three o'clock. My last client of the day, a nerdy neurosurgeon from Wisconsin, was still in the chair, just getting up from my work on the wizard I'd inked on his left butt cheek. He'd been all worried someone would see it, so he asked me to put it there, folks. It wasn't my idea. Believe me. The finished product was pretty gorgeous, if I do say so myself. The wizard's light-blue flowing beard, royal-blue flowing robes, and pointy hat were offset with the red sparks that flew from his wand. I had to say it kind of made me grumpy no one would ever see it. But like they say, the customer is always right. If he wanted a tattoo on his butt, who was I to deny him?

He'd just walked out when Catalina and Cap'n Jack walked into my domain.

Jack cleared his throat. "Miss Hamilton…"

"This is the South, Mr. Stockton," I said. "Please call me Mel."

His eyes found mine. "And I'm Jack," he said.

Cap'n Jack—it was all I could do not to say it out loud.

He went on. "I've already asked Miss Gabor—Catalina—but I wanted to ask you personally. Mrs. Elway and her party have arrived a day early. We can accommodate her with rooms, thank God, but the dining room is booked tonight for the annual banquet of the Dead-and-Loving-It Zombie Fan Club. I've arranged for Mrs. Elway and her guests to be served in the small dining room, but it's too late to bring in extra waitstaff from the city to serve them. I know it's not your job, and ordinarily I wouldn't ask, but I'm sure you've heard Cecile Elway and her personal psychic, Penelope Devere, are the president and vice-president of the International Paranormal Society. Their endorsement will put The Mansion on the map." He paused as those eyes and lips pleaded his case for him. I tried to concentrate on what he was actually saying. He was so, as Cat would say, delish. "It's a small group," he went on, "just six of them including the Great Fabrizio."

"She's having dinner with the hotel medium?"

"Yep." He shook his head as if the idea amazed him. "That's why she's here. Her personal psychic told Cecile to come. Said Theodore Elway, Cecile's deceased husband, spoke to her in a dream and wanted Mrs. Elway to have a séance with the Great Fabrizio to learn the secret to her husband's restless soul finding peace." He shook his head. "You know, if you'd asked me six months ago if I'd be lining up ghostly encounters for hotel guests, I'd have laughed you out of the room." He raised his eyes to mine. "And just look at me now, begging you to help me do this ridiculous thing."

I tried to ignore the amber gleam in his eyes. Keep it business, Mel. He is. "I'll do anything I can to help out. Just tell me what you need."

*   *   *

I offered my last scheduled appointment of the day a really nice discount to reschedule her body art, the Gryffindor crest from Harry Potter targeted for her right calf, and closed the parlor early. After changing into the proper uniforms, typical black-and-white antebellum-style long dresses and aprons, Cat and I took a crash course in table service lessons from the main dining room maître d'.

The smaller dining room was furnished with lovely period furniture that could well have been used in The Mansion during its plantation days in the 1800s. The oval table seated up to ten people. Mrs. Elway and the other five guests were comfortable that evening.

The widow was Cecile Elway, a fifty-something aristocratic-looking dishwater blonde with blue eyes, a strong chin, and aquiline nose she kept so high in the air I was pretty sure she had a stiff neck from it. She was haughtily lovely for (who my mama would call) a woman of that certain age.

Her stepdaughter, Rosalyn Elway Whitlock, on the other hand, looked like a small-town librarian with poodle-cut curly hair, watery grey eyes, face scrubbed so clean it shone, and a brown suit jacket over a white blouse buttoned all the way to the collar. A pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses dangled on a beaded chain around her neck. Her head stayed down, and her eyes stayed glued to the place setting in front of her.

Elway's stepgrandson, Billy Whitlock, was college-aged from the look of him, probably still had to have his nose wiped by his mama. He was skinny with an Adam's apple that sat in the middle of his throat like a golf ball. He only smiled at me, but when Cat walked by he jumped to his feet, took hold of her hand, and made a big deal about kissing it. I was surprised she didn't run into the kitchen and grab a bar of soap.

Then there was Terrence Montague. He was introduced as the President of the Society for the Preservation of the Lepidoptera Alien Caterpillar (say that fast three times). There was something about his smarmy good looks I didn't like. The Buddy Holly glasses didn't fit his persona. The fuzzy caterpillar pin on his lapel looked like it might have been solid gold, but it was as out of place on him as a My Little Pony T-shirt would have looked on me. Beside him, Cecile had her hand on his thigh.

Mrs. Elway's personal psychic, Penelope Devere, was there too. She was a short woman built like a fireplug. She might have been cute at one time, but today's look, the Little Dutch Boy haircut and her plain unmade-up features, didn't do much to add to her mystique.

Last, but no way least, was Fabrizio, the hotel's resident medium and a person dear to my heart, also known as the Great Fabrizio. He was one of my favorite people on the planet. Born in Yorkshire across the pond, he grew up poor, as he said, "With little more than a pence or two in the pocket of the hand-me-down trousers from my older brother. Fancied myself a bit of an Oliver Twist." He was about as much a psychic medium as I was the Dalai Lama.

Talk around the hotel was, back in the salad days he'd been honored by the Queen for his performances as Macbeth and Hamlet. There was little trace of that left in him these days. Formally trained or not, his career was flagging in his fifties, and I had the impression if this job didn't pan out, he had nowhere else to go. That night he was dressed all in black, like a riverboat gambler. His greying hair was covered by a silver turban with an enormous fake ruby in the middle—all the better to cement his celebrity status with the clientele.

And that, ladies and gents, was the cast of characters for the evening.

The menu was simple but elegant—puree of squash, Cajun-blackened salmon, rice pilaf, and grilled asparagus with hollandaise.

Cat and I were confident and sure-handed, balancing the serving trays as smoothly as The Mansion's resident juggler—that was until Billy Whitlock, whose baby brown eyes had been glued to Cat's swaying backside all night, suddenly whipped sideways to stare at her as she bent over to retrieve a dropped napkin from the floor. The bowl of soup I was about to set in front of him tipped backward when he hit it and landed on my chest before falling to the floor. The lovely puree, of course, stayed on the front of my service uniform.

All eyes turned to me as I scrambled to pick up the bowl off the floor. "Sorry," I said.

"No, dude, it's all me," Billy said, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in this throat. I swore he looked at me like he wanted to lick it all off, but I didn't say anything else. Seriously? Hadn't he ever seen a woman bend over before?

While I stood back and took a napkin to my soup-laden chest, Cecile Elway lifted her hand to Fabrizio. "Oh, Fabrizio," she cooed, "I forgot to mention we have a special requirement for the séance." She exchanged a meaningful look with her psychic, who nodded what I interpreted to be encouragement. Cecile went on, "And since it's just the tiniest bit unusual, I wanted you to have ample notice for its procurement."

Fabrizio, with lifted chin and half-closed eyes in full-on medium character, smiled and said, "Of course, madam—"

As I turned to go back to the kitchen and change into a clean uniform, Mrs. Elway gushed, "Oh, Cecile, please," and batted her lashes, flirting with Fabrizio like a schoolgirl. She crooked a finger at him and whispered in his ear as he leaned his head toward her.

When she finished, he pulled away and gave her a look I can only describe as dumbfounded. "Really?" he asked. "For the séance?"

She smiled and nodded.

"Did I hear you correctly?" He stammered a little. "Did you say…clams?"

CHAPTER TWO

By the time we finished with the dinner service, the ferry had quit running, so Cat and I couldn't make it home. Jack found an empty room for us. It was on the second floor in the auxiliary wing about as far away from the main building as you could get, and the remodel hadn't reached it yet, but the beds were soft, the linens dense and luxurious. We both slept like newborns in the T-shirts we wore to work. The next morning we dressed for work in a fresh change of costumes housekeeping had put in our lockers.

Cat had an early appointment. My first, the elaborate Gryffindor crest, wasn't until ten thirty. I was in the employee lounge lingering over a cup of chicory (so strong it threatened to straighten my hair) and a warm cream cheese pastry (so yummy I was pretty sure it had been concocted by a voodoo priestess).

"Melanie, my girl, just like your name, your song strums the strings of my heart."

"Good morning, Fabrizio."

Some of the performers at the hotel worked the day shift—Cat, me, the masseuse, Mambo the voodoo priestess, for example. The entertainers took the evening shift—the magicians and Aurelia the Aura Reader fell into that category, the musicians, of course, and so did Fabrizio.

Fabrizio lived on the island in la petite maison with his sweetie, Harry Villars. He was seldom seen at The Mansion itself unless he was working.

I turned. "What are you doing here so early?"

He was dressed like a regular Joe that morning in a golf shirt and a pair of faded jeans. No eyeliner or pancake makeup. I liked him better that way. He sat down across from me and drew circles on the table with his index finger until the buff twentysomething golden boy who gave massages refilled his cup and left the room, and I was alone with Fabrizio.

"I've a favor to ask, m'dear," he began.

I smiled at him over my cup. "You know I can't refuse you."

He patted my hand. My grandparents took care of me when I was a child. They were aging flower children and encouraged me to express myself in whatever way I wished. My grandfather owned a detail shop where he painted cars and motorcycles with flames, buxom women, and skulls. It was where I learned about design. He died when I was eighteen, and I still missed him every day.

Fabrizio looked just like him, right down to the longish, grey locks he sometimes slicked back and put in a ponytail.

Being a gay man and only recently liberated, Fabrizio was never blessed with offspring. He and I had sort of adopted each other.

"The séance Mrs. Elway booked to contact her deceased husband, Theodore Elway, is set for seven thirty this evening."

I nodded. We had all been told why Cecile Elway and her family had come.

He went on. "I was hoping you'd consent to staying over tonight to sit in on it."

Hmm. "Well…why?"

"Mr. Stockton…"

My heartbeat quickened. Really? Did I have it so bad that just the mention of Cap'n Jack's name got me going?

"…has declared there's a good deal riding on my performance tonight. He's indicated that Mrs. Elway and her psychic adviser, Ms. Devere, are in a position to bring a goodly amount of business to this fine establishment—that is, if all goes as they expect. And I worry for Harry's investment, as I'm sure you're well aware." His eyes went soft when he said Harry's name. The two had only been a couple a short while but seemed totally devoted to each other. "Not only that, but Mrs. Elway has promised me personally a bonus of a hundred thousand dollars if I'm successful in…" he paused, "…contacting the late Mr. Elway."

Everyone who worked at The Mansion knew all the supernaturalists hired by Harry Villars were just actors.

A hundred grand? Wow. "Well, that's a good thing. Isn't it? But," I asked, "what does that have to do with me?"

He pulled back his shoulders and raised his chin. So dramatic. "I've prepared for tonight as much as I possibly can. It will be one of the premier performances of my career. While stage fright has never been a malady with which I'm afflicted, I would be uttering an untruth if I denied that I'm bloody well scared to death."

He lifted his eyes to mine, eyes just like Gramps's—eyes I knew I couldn't deny.

"I need your moral support, my dear. It's that simple."

I reached across the table and covered our two hands with my other. "Of course," I said. "I'm yours for the evening, sir."

*   *   *

In the afternoon, I took the ferry back across to the Big Easy. If I had to spend yet another night at The Mansion, I wanted to have a change of clothes, my cell phone charger, and an assortment of all the other little things a girl needs to make it through the night. I packed a bag for Catalina as well. If I had to stay over, I wanted sympathetic company.

As the ferry carried me back across to Mystic Isle, George slipped up beside me. "Y'at, Melanie?" he said. "You flying solo today? Where's your partner in crime—Miss Cat?"

The hope on his face was a beacon.

Cat was a good person, one of the best, and consciously never did anything to hurt anyone's feelings, so she'd never consider shunning George. She said it would "harvest bad karma."

But it made me sad that he wore his heart on his sleeve when he had absolutely no chance of winning her. "You know, George," I began, "Catalina has been seeing someone for quite a while now. They're very close. He's just gaga over her," Like everyone else. "And she's just as crazy about him." Even though that cocky Cajun can be more pain in the patoot than he's worth sometimes.

He smiled that big old Howdy Doody grin and bobbed his head. "Oh, yes, dawlin', I know. Deputy Quincy Boudreaux, he comes around all the time just to make sure I know Miss Catalina's well-being is real important to him, and I best be payin' all kinds of attention to my job while she's aboard."

"Oh," I said. "So you know about Quincy and Cat?"

"Aw, hell, Miss Melanie—pardon my language—ain't nobody in N'awlins don't know 'bout Deputy Quincy."

*   *   *

It was after six o'clock by the time I'd dressed in what I hoped was appropriate attire for a séance—long-sleeved, V-necked black dress. I put my hair up with an elaborate comb studded with fake emeralds I'd found at a secondhand store in the Quarter. The room phone rang, and I was summoned to the kitchen by Chef Valentine Cantrell.

Curious as hell, I went straight there.

The Mansion's kitchen had been added on around the turn of the century. Once there were no more slaves to haul the food from the original kitchen located in an outbuilding, the plantation owners added a regular kitchen on to the house. It had been updated through the decades, the most recent renovation only a couple of years earlier when The Mansion was converted to a hotel, and expanses of stainless steel surfaces and commercial appliances became the dominant elements.

The lovely Valentine Cantrell ruled over it like a Creole queen, a soup ladle her scepter, her crown the elasticized plastic cap over her Afro.

I walked in to find her chastising a kitchen worker for under seasoning the crawfish etoufee bubbling on the stove.

"Miss Melanie, my favorite skin-painting woman, yes?"

I curtsied. "At your service, Lady Cantrell."

She waved a hand at me. "You go on with yourself, now." Ladling stew into a clay bowl, she sprinkled cayenne on top and set it on a nearby stainless steel table beside a basket of fresh cornbread. "You eat now, girl. Can't be conversing with no spirits on an empty stomach."

I didn't hesitate but sat down and dug right in. Valentine's crawfish stew was legendary. "How'd you know about the séance?" I asked.

"Oh, Fabrizio, he come down here a while back and say he need you to take something with you when you go dere."

I looked up at her. "What?"

"Never you mind," she said. "All in good time."

I sopped up the stew with the crusty bread and watched her work. It had been a real coup for The Mansion when Valentine Cantrell signed on, and from what I knew, she could pretty much write her own ticket. At thirty-six, she was famous among culinary circles. Her golden eyes were always crinkled and plump cheeks always creased in a pleasant smile. Skin like butterscotch satin gave her the exotic appeal of a movie star. A kind and generous nature made her as beautiful inside as out.

And the food. Nothing else like it inside the sixty-four parishes. For some of the hotel employees, the food and a chance to sit down to leftovers was why they came here to work. A true lagniappe, as Valentine herself would say, a bonus.

Jack walked in just as I was finishing. I looked up at him. The bright kitchen lights bounced off his dark hair, bringing out auburn highlights I'd never noticed before.

"Miss Hamilton," he said softly. How the heck did my name turn into an aphrodisiac coming from his lips? "You look amazing."

I'm embarrassed to tell you I batted my lashes. "Why thank you, Mr. Stockton."

"Did Chef Valentine talk to you about the clams?"

"Did you say…?" I looked over at Valentine, who was slaving over a chopping block, her knife reverberating like a machine gun. She didn't look up. She didn't dare if she wanted to keep all ten fingers.

"Clams," he repeated.

"Oh," I said. "No, she didn't get around to it yet."

He turned his head and lifted his chin, a New York gesture if I'd ever seen one, toward a stainless-steel kitchen cart against the wall. A clear glass dome covered a good-sized platter. Clams on the half shell sat atop a generous bed of salt crystals on the platter. Parsley and lemons decorated it.

"Clams?" I said again. "For the séance? I don't—"

"I didn't either at first," he interrupted. "But Fabrizio insisted Mrs. Elway asked for them specifically. A dozen fresh clams on the half shell. It seems they were her husband's favorite dish, and she is convinced having them there will encourage his—I can't believe I'm saying this—his spirit to manifest."

"Oh." What else was there to say? I glanced at my watch. "Well, looks like it's getting to be about that time." I stood.

He didn't step back from the table, which put me right next to him. I could have leaned over and laid my head on his shoulder. I sighed. Better not.

But Cap'n Jack seemed to have something similar on his mind. He laid his hand on my shoulder and leaned over me. I closed my eyes and held my breath, anticipating…what?

A soft cloth caressed my upper lip. I opened my eyes.

He smiled down at me. "There you go," he said and laid the napkin down. "You just had a little sauce there."

Of course I did. "Thank you," I said. "I'll just…"

I crossed the room, took hold of the cart's handle, and pushed it from the kitchen.

*   *   *

Séances were held in a small but lovely room where Miss Marple might serve tea. Burgundy drapes swagged corner to corner. Blue flames flickered low in the fireplace courtesy of a special-effects chemical log Fabrizio swore would bring up the ambiance.

A medium-sized round table sat smack in the middle of the room, seven chairs around it and a purple cloth covering it. The lights were low. So many candles were lit that the place was warm enough for bread to rise.

Fabrizio was already there, looking nervous as a crawfish next to a pot on the boil. He knew, and I knew, and he knew I knew he wasn't exactly what you'd call a genuine medium, but I had to give him credit. He looked like one, every inch, from the top of his turbaned head to the bottoms of his white patent-leather boots. His long face glistened with perspiration.

"Fabrizio," I said. "Why don't we blow out a few of these candles? Your makeup and eyeliner are going to run."

He nodded, and I set about doing it. The poor guy had to be pretty warm. His long-sleeved white jumpsuit was layered under a full-length sequined white cape. A cross between the Great Houdini and Liberace.

Within a few minutes, Mrs. Cecile Elway and company arrived. Five in all, just like at dinner the night before. There were low murmurs of appreciation as they glanced around the room, taking in the whole experience.

Fabrizio opened his arms wide. His bellowing voice carried all the drama of his training at the Royal Academy. "Welcome—welcome, all."

The group circled the room, all heads swiveling this way, that way, taking in the authentic ambiance the hotel owner's checkbook—fortified by a winning streak Harry and his cousins enjoyed on Family Feud—had bought.

Fabrizio lifted fingertips to his temples and closed his eyes. "Come, my friends, let us be seated. I sense the spirits gathering."

Glancing around nervously, they all converged on the table where Fabrizio stood in front of a high-backed chair with a red velvet seat that looked more like a throne than anything else.

"Hey, I remember you." Billy Whitlock, Cecile's stepgrandson, peered at me in the semidarkness. "You're the girl from last night. Right?" His eyes dipped below my chin to my cleavage. "I see you're not wearing the soup tonight."

Well, wasn't that special? Nice to be remembered. I tried to smile.

Cecile seemed to have just noticed me. "Who is that young woman, and what is she doing here? This is supposed to be an exclusive affair."

Mrs. Elway looked doubtful until Fabrizio took her hand and patted it. "Miss Hamilton is here at my invitation. She's been known to be a soul sympathetic to the world beyond the veil, an asset when summoning spirits. Mrs. Elway, if you would sit to my right, please. Miss Hamilton to my left." He glanced around to the others and spread his arms to indicate the empty chairs.

Cecile took the chair to Fabrizio's right. Terrence Montague, who I'd decided was shacking up with Mrs. Elway on behalf of his caterpillar conservancy organization, took the chair next to Cecile.

Rosalyn, the stepdaughter, twittered like a nervous little bird as she sat down beside him.

Penny Devere, the psychic, was opposite Fabrizio. Billy Whitlock flipped the next chair backward and straddled it. The remaining chair looked like it had my name on it.

The look on Billy's young face said a lot about his attitude, and his words only served to confirm it. "Really? This is uberlame."

"Billy, shush." His mother put a finger to her thin lips.

Fabrizio clasped a hand to his forehead, his expression pained. "We must all be of like mind as we call on your grandfather's spirit. We must have harmony, or the psychic energy will not flow freely."

"Harmony? What a crock."

"That will be enough, Billy!" Mrs. Elway said.

When it came to séances, I pretty much agreed with Billy.

Everyone settled in.

"As you glance around the room," Fabrizio began, "you'll be aware of the tools required to summon your loved one." He rolled his hands over his "crystal ball." I was pretty sure it was a big snow globe he appropriated from the reading room. "A bell for Theodore to signal us when he's arrived." Fabrizio's eyes cut over to me then back to Cecile. "Did you bring a picture of Theodore with you as I asked?"

Cecile fished in her big purse and pulled out a small photo, which she handed to Fabrizio.

He laid it on the table beside the crystal ball. "Everyone must join hands, close your eyes," he said, "and open your minds."

As silence settled over the room, Penny Devere looked around the table. "Do we have everything we need?"

Cecile spoke suddenly. "Oh," she said, "the clams. Don't forget the…"

I disengaged from the minor tussle with young Billy, who'd been trying to stroke my palm when our hands were clasped, and stood, went to the trolley, took the cover off the tray, and picked it up.

"Where should I…?"

Fabrizio glanced up then over at Cecile. "Put them in front of Mrs. Elway, please."

I carefully set them before her.

Rosalyn took a hanky from her bag and covered the lower half of her face.

Billy waved his hand in front of his face. "Ew, really? Gross."

Cecile only smiled. "Theodore's favorite. He always came to the table when we served clams on the half shell."

I actually didn't think they smelled bad. To each his own. I took my seat at the table as the Great Fabrizio went into his act.

He closed his eyes and threw back his head. His voice deepened. "Center yourselves. Reach out with your minds and souls. Think of your loved one. Call him."

The voices sounded.

"Theo?" Cecile's tone was uncertain.

Terrence Montague mumbled something I couldn't quite understand, but I could have sworn it sounded like, "Yeah, whatever."

"Daddy," Rosalyn twittered. "Daddy?"

"Mr. Elway." That was Penny, her voice soft. "Theodore."

"Hey, Granddad. S'up?" Billy's voice rang above everyone else's.

Fabrizio cleared his throat. "I feel the vibrations. Theodore? Theodore? Our beloved Theodore, we bring you gifts from life into death. Commune with us, Theodore, and move among us. Give us a sign."

The room grew cold as a stiff breeze circled the room, extinguishing the candles. The lights went out. I couldn't have seen my hand in front of my face. A collective gasp circled the table.

The bell tinkled, fell over, and rolled across the table.

It was Fabrizio speaking, but it wasn't his voice or accent. "Dammit all, Cecile, you forgot the hot sauce."

Cecile cried out. "Oh. Oh. Theo? Theo, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Simple questions, Mrs. Elway," Fabrizio said, his normal pitch and British accent back. "Only yes or no questions."

"Daddy! Daddy!" It was Rosalyn's voice. "Daddy, tell us. How did you really die? Did someone murder you?"

A soft moaning came from somewhere above us. The table began to vibrate then to shake. And then the crazy thing lifted off the floor.

"Whoa, dude." Billy seemed to be enjoying the show.

If I hadn't known better myself, I'd have believed old Theodore had joined us. The table crashed back down. And suddenly I wasn't holding anyone's hand anymore. There were soft whimpers, the scraping sound of chairs scooting back, and feet shuffling.

It was scary. Damn, Fabrizio. Good job.

The room grew quiet. No one seemed to be moving anymore.

The only sound in the room was the low hum of Fabrizio's voice as he continued with the farce, staying fully "connected" to the spirit world. After a few minutes, the lights came back on for no apparent reason I could see.

Everyone had stood and moved away from the table except Fabrizio, who was still in his chair, eyes closed. The rest of us all looked around the room at each other, relieved to have made it all the way back from the world beyond.

Or maybe we all hadn't made it after all.

Cecile Elway was still in her chair, slumped over, her face buried in the platter of clams. A few empty clamshells were strewn around in front of her.

Montague lifted her wrist and let it drop back. "My word," he said. "I believe she's…but she can't be. Can she?" He looked around at all of us. "Dead? She can't be dead."

But she was.

"Hmm," Billy said. "Bad clams?"

MYSTIC MAYHEM

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Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

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BOOKS BY PHYLLIS A. HUMPHREY

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