The Secluded Village Murders Read online

  After more blundering, Alistair dropped Emily off at Kemwell’s. There she encountered more hassle, dickering over the frequent-flyer discount while being hit with the 17.5 percent value-added-tax and the rate of exchange.

  Once she’d adjusted to sitting behind the wheel and driving on the right, she took the mile-and-a-half route west at a steady clip. In virtually no time, she pulled up to the private car park fronting a Georgian country house.

  At the outset, the ochre stone building seemed deserted. There was no sign of movement behind the elongated windows on the first or second floor, as though it hadn’t been occupied since the early nineteenth century when the Duke of Wellington had it built for his mistress. The current proprietor, Clive, hadn’t done a thing with the scruffy grounds or any aspect of the weathered façade since the former owners let it go to seed years ago.

  But any concern over this additional annoyance was quashed the second Harriet Curtis shambled through the portico and barged straight toward Emily. “You’re late,” Harriet said. “Extremely late.”

  “Just a minute,” said Emily, intercepting her before she took another step.

  “Sorry?”

  “First of all,” said Emily, starting to lose it despite herself, “let’s get a few things clear. I’m a tour guide, not a flunky or a taxi service. And, as I pointed out before you ran out on us, the contract for this tour also includes your brother and stepsister. Plus, it has provisions that take into account all four of us, which, again, you know full well.”

  Harriet was obviously taken aback as Emily added, “This means that somehow or other, we all have to try and get along.”

  While Harriet remained speechless, Emily was surprised at her sudden outburst. She’d always been deferential to her elders growing up, especially those who possessed a lineage like Harriet’s that could be traced way back.

  Regaining her composure, Emily reached into the inside pocket of her windbreaker and handed Harriet the bill from the Warwick Hotel. “In the meantime, this came to my attention.”

  Still at a loss for words, Harriet retreated a few more steps, stumbling over the loose gravel.

  “It’s from your stay at the Warwick, Harriet, something else you seemed to have skipped out on. I promised Mavis I’d help her collect.”

  Harriet didn’t question the fact that Emily must have gotten an early start to track her down from Victoria all the way to Paddington station. All Harriet could say was “I don’t see that it’s any of your concern. And I certainly don’t like your tone.”

  “Fine,” Emily said, determined to remain on a professional, even keel. “Except that it reflects on me when my clients sneak into empty rooms and make long distance calls without paying.”

  And it especially concerns me when my clients make doodles of gravestones and secret calls to the Sharon hospital, along with muttering about being an accessory, she desperately wanted to add, but kept it to herself. If she knew anything about entrapment, she certainly didn’t want to make unsubstantial accusations and put her suspect on guard.

  Harriet’s hawk-like features twitched as she floundered for a reply. “As you well know, or should certainly be aware, I was overcharged for those accommodations. Just a few international calls or even a simple call from London to Bath, and you’re charged an arm and a leg unless you prepay.”

  Harriet crammed the bill into her bulging shoulder bag, told Emily she would see to the phone charges in her own way and in her own good time, backed off a few more feet, and almost lost her footing again.

  Under the fickle sunny intervals, Emily spent the next few minutes trying to eke out a few telling replies, but Harriet kept changing the subject. Then and there, Emily had to come to terms with the fact that she had no authority to get a statement on or off the record from anyone. So she eased off. Moments later, a taxi pulled up alongside her rented wagon.

  Harriet’s fretfulness became more pronounced as Alistair slid out first, followed in turn by an ever-rumpled-looking Silas and a flouncing Pru in a mock peasant blouse and long skirt.

  “Well, I never,” announced Alistair, yanking out their bags from the trunk while Pru took in the surroundings. Silas held still and peered over his bifocals at Harriet.

  “I says to myself,” Alistair went on, “I am doing a proper deed, reuniting a brother and sisters, now ain’t I? Lovely, I say to that. And hello again, Miss Emily. See you made it here without my assistance.”

  Getting no response from the quartet, Alistair tried a little harder. “Would you fancy a sightseeing tour of what’s known hereabouts as a world heritage city? Been here since the Romans, even longer than me.”

  Yet again, Alistair failed to get a laugh.

  “Oh, I’m sure Emily will take us where we want to go,” Pru said. “It’s all been arranged. You see, she’s our guide. Knows all about this area and the moors and Cornwall and you name it.”

  Glowering at Harriet, Pru added, “And if we try real hard, perhaps we can still make the best of it.”

  Undaunted, Alistair chipped in with, “Well, if you change your mind, or your Emily needs a break, all you have to do is ask for Alistair and Bob’s your uncle.”

  “Bob?” Pru said.

  “It means that I’m at your service.” Alistair bowed and scraped a little before shuffling back behind the wheel. It wasn’t until Emily nudged Silas and indicated Alistair was waiting for a tip that Silas complied.

  Alistair let out a hearty “Lovely,” and presently the foursome found themselves alone.

  Continuing to peer at Harriet, Silas lapsed into one of his mumbling, running commentaries under his breath which ended with “Didn’t have to . . . wasn’t necessary. Not good, not good at all, Harriet.”

  During the few times Emily had had any dealings with all three of them, there had always been an undercurrent of tension between Harriet and her siblings. This time, given the volatile, mysterious rift, Emily truly had her work cut out for her.

  “Look,” Emily said, fully resigning herself to the awkward situation, “we’re going to have to come to some understanding. And it looks like it’s going to depend on Harriet.”

  “Well,” Pru said, as if scolding a misbehaving child, “if she would stop worrying us and if she would promise on her word of honor—”

  “Oh, shut up, Pru,” said Harriet in a feeble attempt to reassert herself.

  Clive, the proprietor, peeked out past the thick stone walls of the portico and beckoned to Emily. With his weak chin, diminutive frame, and receding hairline that went with his subservient manner, in Emily’s mind, Clive only added to the charade.

  “Just give me a minute,” said Emily to the trio, hoping that the siblings would just manage to keep still.

  Following Clive into the airy, high-ceiling alcove, Emily did her best to convince him she had the situation in hand. Nevertheless, Clive kept waffling. “But, if I may presume to say, now that the other two have indeed arrived, the situation is, to say the least, rather a muddle. First, I’m told there is only the one and she must make haste. And suddenly it’s ever so different.”

  Reaching for some way to keep things from unraveling any further, Emily said, “You have to understand, Harriet Curtis has never been abroad before. And she has a big responsibility judging the flower show at the fete.”

  “But I simply don’t follow. Whatever does that have to do with the reservations?”

  “Well, if you consider the logistics, it’s no wonder she got her dates mixed up and didn’t realize we’re leaving tomorrow.”

  Still perplexed, Clive said, “But you see, I’ve been receiving inquiries as to availability. For this evening, that is. And when she insisted she was departing immediately . . .”

  “She was confused.”

  “And the tour of the Jane Austen Centre and the Museum of Costume I arranged for Pru Curtis? May this go ahead as scheduled?”

  “Give me a minute.”

  Emily glanced out the French windows to make sure the three of
them weren’t at each other’s throats. Clive went on to mention the gardens at the Royal Crescent and the antique shops by the cobbled North Parade, also prearranged.

  “We’ll work it out,” said Emily, hoping, for the time being, all four of them could actually fake their way through this.

  Emily left Clive standing there, still wringing his hands. She rejoined Harriet, Silas, and Pru and found that no one had moved an inch and nothing had been resolved.

  Sidling over to Emily, Pru said, “I don’t know, Emily, I just don’t know. I hate to think we’ve come all this way only to find Harriet still being impossible.”

  “I don’t have to answer to you, of all people,” said Harriet. “As if things weren’t bad enough.”

  “Listen,” Emily said, “I just told the owner there was a little mix-up over the reservations, but everything was going according to plan.”

  No one spoke or changed their positions. Breaking the standoff, Silas said, “Yes, maybe we could give Harriet a second chance . . . the benefit of the doubt. As long as we’re able to . . . a trial run, that is.”

  “A kind of wait-and-see,” said Pru.

  “Oh, really?” said Harriet.

  “What then?” Pru answered back. “Let you do your worst? Is that the choice?”

  “Enough.” Feeling more like a nanny than ever, Emily said, “Let’s all back off, okay? It’s been a long day, and I’m sure everyone’s just overtired.”

  Harriet picked up her suitcase in some kind of defiant display of independence, wheeled around, and made her way back to the portico. “Very well,” she announced. “We’ll go on with this untenable situation for the time being, until . . .”

  “Until what?” Pru called out as Silas shuffled past her, following Harriet.

  “That’s for me to decide, thank you very much.”

  Tugging on the sleeve of Emily’s windbreaker, Pru said, “I am so worried, absolutely exhausted, and thrilled to be here all at once.”

  “Like I said, Pru, the best thing right now is to give it a rest.”

  Dissatisfied with this answer, Pru said, “Did you know that right before we left, Martha Forbes, the realtor, came by? She asked about Harriet and what her plans were. When I told her I wasn’t sure, she asked about Brian, her own husband, and his dealings with Harriet. As if Brian and Martha kept secrets from each other. Now what do you make of that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Pru dawdled a little while longer, snatched up her suitcase, and excused herself.

  “Well, you think about it. As for Harriet, it all hinges on what’s going on in that brain of hers.” Pru let out a big, storybook sigh and began traipsing after her siblings. “At any rate, I might as well lie down for a bit. That’s always best if ever you feel yourself getting out of sorts.”

  Assuming Clive would show them to their rooms, Emily circled the premises until she found a wrought-iron bench. She took in the deep-green, rolling hills in the far distance and basked in the shimmering afternoon sunlight, more than grateful for a break from all the trepidation. More than grateful for a chance to just hold still for a moment.

  Chapter Fifteen

  In contrast, Babs was champing at the bit. After all, the GDC was a major developer from New Jersey. And since it was a New Jersey chain that had swallowed up the paper she was writing for, what better way to get a leg up and some notoriety too? Move forever from cutesy features and, at the same time, boost circulation by giving the locals what they wanted—juicy leads and sidebars that would make them beg for more. If she could shake things up, she’d be a force to reckon with for once in her life.

  On that breezy Wednesday in the Connecticut hills, Babs found her opportunity. From the way Emily had been acting and the way she sounded over the phone, she’d made the right move in handing the ball over. No matter how you looked at it, it would be hard enough for Emily to pull off this latest tour with the wacky Curtis trio, much less handle the fate of her mother’s B&B and the shifty tactics of the GDC while she was way across the Atlantic.

  Babs lingered just for a moment on the Green, gave her bib overalls and bright-yellow top a once-over, and smirked. Right, she would keep him guessing. Let Brian Forbes think one thing and hit him with another. Keep him off-balance, just like Woodward and Bernstein from The Washington Post in that old Watergate flick when those two were really clicking and bringing down the White House.

  Clutching her steno pad, Babs hurried across the street, climbed the stone steps of the bank in stride, and passed through the white colonnades and foyer. She whisked by Chuck the security guard, brushed aside the wooden gate, and plunked herself down directly in front of Brian’s polished, maple desk.

  Sporting a powder-blue suit and candy-striped tie, Brian faked a plastic smile before looking out into the lobby as if seeking help. Then he smoothed back the temples of his grayish-blond hair and straightened his posture.

  Babs figured she had Brian positioned right where she wanted him. In his corner niche, only a few feet beyond his low-hanging swing gate, he was in full view of every bank customer at each and every teller window. That, of course, was the whole point of Iron Bank’s policy of homey accessibility. That also accounted for Brian’s fixed smile and smooth delivery. He couldn’t afford to get upset or allow Babs to raise her voice and draw any kind of attention. That would ruin his image.

  “Well, well,” said Brian, looking askance, “it’s been quite a while, Miss Maroon. So what brings you here? Don’t tell me. Some human-interest story about our helpful services? Have you finally decided to include our own venerable village bank in your reporting?”

  Fully enjoying this moment of one-upmanship, Babs said, “No, Brian. Good guess but no cigar.”

  Brian kept up his smile, but from the way he kept glancing about, Babs could tell she definitely had him off guard, especially in calling him Brian instead of Mr. Forbes, something she never would’ve done with any other bank vice-president who was her senior.

  Obviously attempting to disarm her, Brian said, “You know, we still talk about the comments you made when you had that trouble with your checkbook. Remember? All those overdrafts? And I said, ‘Did you do your statement?’ And you came back with, ‘What statement? I believe in the constitution and the Bill of Rights.’ And then I said, ‘But surely you’ve looked at your outstanding checks.’ And you said, ‘Well, my most outstanding check is the one I made out to the Oklahoma tornado relief fund.’ Let me tell you, we still get a chuckle out of it.”

  “No chuckles this time, Brian. I wanted to get your side of it first. I’m talking something along the lines of conflict of interest.”

  Fingering the knot in his tie, Brian hung onto the smile and said, “Now, now, Babs. If you’ve come to play games, I happen to be very busy.”

  “No chuckles and no games. Where would you like to begin? We know that just before she cut out of here, Harriet Curtis accused you of starting something, yelling so loud everybody could hear. Then we’ve got the check to Harriet from the GDC, which you gladly okayed so she had the funds to suddenly take off. Plus the fact that Chris Cooper is permanently out of the picture after telling me about the loophole in the zoning application.”

  Noting the dumbfounded look on his face, Babs said, “You know about the loophole, right? The one that could very well put the kibosh on plans for gutting the high-meadow tract? The one the GDC is slavering over? And we’ve also got you in the catbird seat for tonight’s hearing, taking over Chris Cooper’s place as chairman. At the same time, your role as head of the Business Association means you’re dying to see this thing go through. You still with me?”

  “You print any of that and you and your paper will face the biggest libel suit you ever saw.”

  Scribbling away, Babs raised her voice and said, “Is that your answer? Is that really what you want plastered all over the next edition? About the conflict of interest issue, I mean? Oh, and I forgot to mention the pressure on your wife to foreclose the Curtis property
. At the suggestion of your pals at the GDC, of course.”

  A portly couple were leaning over the bank counter, straining to hear more. Noticing them, Brian rose to his feet, held the swing gate back and said, “If you’ll step this way, Miss Maroon, I’m sure we can clear this up.”

  Waving to the eavesdropping couple, Brian ushered Babs behind the tellers’ counter, up a flight of stairs into a wood-paneled conference room, and closed the door. Babs seated herself in one of the ladder-backed chairs on one side of the long table. Brian positioned himself directly opposite.

  “Now hear me out,” said Brian, “and don’t interrupt. All right?”

  “All right, shoot.” Babs flipped open her steno pad again and held her pen at the ready.

  Brian immediately began carrying on as though he’d rehearsed this speech and was trying it on for size. “In the first place, it was the elder Curtis, now deceased, who was responsible for the second mortgages and the non-payment of taxes, which is all a matter of record. All I did was inform him that the low rate of interest we were currently paying was unlikely to change and he’d have to look elsewhere for a higher return. But even so, that wasn’t going to prevent the inevitable loss of his property or keep his two children and stepchild Pru solvent.”

  “So,” Babs cut in, “you waited till the very last moment, with the axe hanging over her head, to tell Harriet that, as the oldest and the one her dad left it all to, her option was to either sell out or wind up on the street. Herself, Silas, and Pru, that is. However, if you had let them know much earlier, they all could’ve—”

  “What? Gone to work, paid off the debt, and made enough to live on? Or relied on Silas’s flaky antique trading? Oh, please.”

  Brian continued to twiddle with the knot in his tie, loosening it, straightening it, and loosening it some more.

  “Still and all,” Babs said, “Harriet sells out at your suggestion.”