Booked for Murder (6 page)

Meredith nodded. “Waste of time and money. She'd have no more to do with me over here than she would back home. I guess she just about wore me down. The day she died, I left her another message on the answering machine. I swore it was going to be the last, and I told her so. I said it was her last chance to put it back together, otherwise I was going to assume she meant what she said and take appropriate action.”

“Ah.”

“Exactly.”

“I was wondering how the cops got to you so fast.”

“Wonder no more,” Meredith said wryly. “I left the number, of course.”

“And you knew all about the plot?”

“Oh, sure. Penny used to discuss her plots with three people—her agent, her editor and me.”

“Is that all?” Lindsay asked, dismayed at seeing her circle of suspects shrink towards zero.

“She ever talk about them with you and Sophie?”

Lindsay shook her head. “She once asked Sophie for some background information about HIV, but even then she didn't explain why she wanted to know. We had to wait till the book came out before we knew what it was all in aid of.”

“Exactly. She always said if she talked about it too much, she got bored with the story, then she couldn't be bothered to write it.” Meredith's words clearly jogged a painful memory, for her eyes glittered with tears again. “I can't believe it, you know? It's like some sick joke. Like the phone's going to ring and she's going to say, ‘Hey, have you suffered enough yet?'” She clenched her eyes shut, but tears still seeped through.

Unsure what to do for the best, Lindsay stood up and crossed to Meredith's side, putting a careful arm round her shoulder. “I know,” she said softly. “Just when you think you've learned everything there is to know about pain, something creeps up on you and lets you know you're only a beginner. And everybody tells you you'll be all right, that time's a healer. I'll tell you something, Meredith. I don't think it ever gets better. It just gets different.”

Meredith half turned and buried her face in Lindsay's chest, her body jerking with sobs. As she wailed, Lindsay simply held her close, one hand rubbing her back, trying not to think about Penny. Or her own Frances, all those years ago. It couldn't last for ever, she told herself.

Eventually, cried out, Meredith pulled away and blurted, “I miss her so much,” her voice choked with emotion. She pulled herself upright and staggered across the room into the hallway. Lindsay, hesitantly taking a step or two after her, was reassured by the sound of running water. She went back to her seat and waited. Long minutes passed, then Meredith returned, her eyes even more bloodshot, her face glowing from the scrubbing she'd clearly given it.

“Okay,” she said briskly. “This is not getting you any closer to finding Pen's killer. What do we do now?”

“Who had a motive?” Lindsay demanded. “Apart from you, that is?”

Chapter 4

L
indsay hadn't expected London temperatures to be nearly as high as California's. She was still dressed for the air-conditioned coolness of the plane, she thought, shrugging her shoulders to unstick shirt from skin. In this heat, jeans and cotton twill were not the ideal outfit for climbing four flights of narrow, dusty stairs with the smell of urine from the entrance still pungent. She wondered how many prospective clients were put off by the approach to Catriona Polson's office. Then she remembered that those climbers would be pre-published authors full of hope. “None,” she muttered under her breath as she rounded the curve of the stairs and reached the final landing.

In contrast to the understated brushed-steel plaque on the downstairs wall and the ambience of a stairway which clearly doubled as a hostel for the homeless, the offices of Polson and Firestone indicated that somewhere on their client list there were some major earners. Even when Lindsay had left Britain, before Soho went up-market and sexually ambivalent, office suites in the area had commanded high rents. Now that the district was almost chic, it must take a sizeable bank balance to secure the whole top floor of a building with a view of Soho Square.

The offices lay behind tall double doors of pale gray wood and brushed steel. Lindsay opened the right-hand door and walked into a reception area that was still lurking in the previous decade. The bleached gray wood was the keynote, looking like the ghost of
trees. What wasn't wood was leather or brushed steel. Including the receptionist, Lindsay thought grimly. She was glad she'd employed a ruse to ensure Catriona Polson would be in. Looking at hair blue-black as carbon steel and a jaw with a higher breaking strain than a girder, she knew she was about to be given the brush-off for having the temerity to arrive without an appointment or three chapters and a synopsis. The sweat on her forehead from the sudden transition to air conditioning didn't make her feel any more confident of success.

Lindsay had felt slightly guilty about ringing up and pretending to be an American publisher's assistant breathlessly booking a noon phone call to Ms. Polson, but not guilty enough to miss making sure she wouldn't have a wasted journey. The receptionist's grim glare gave her immediate absolution. She smiled. Nothing altered. The receptionist continued to stare at the screen of her computer. Lindsay cleared her throat. The receptionist's plum-colored mouth puckered. Lindsay found herself irresistibly thinking about cat's bottoms. Then the lips parted. “Can I help you?” haughtily, in a little girl voice that would have shattered crystal.

“I'd like to see Ms. Polson. No, I don't have an appointment. I know she's in the building and I'm absolutely positive she's not in a meeting.” Lindsay's smile grew wider as her voice became more honeyed.

The receptionist's whole face tightened, eyeliner and mascara almost meeting in a smudge of black. “I'm sorry,” she said smugly. “She's expecting an important phone call.”

Lindsay assumed her Southern belle accent. “I know, cher. I was the one booked the call. I just wanted to be good and sure Miz Polson would be here to see me.” Then she grinned. “Would you tell her I'm representing Meredith Miller?”

The receptionist did her cat's bottom impression again. But she condescended to pick up the phone. “Name please?” she demanded as she keyed in a number.

Resisting the temptation to respond with her Sean Connery impersonation, Lindsay simply gave her name. The receptionist spoke into the phone. “Catriona? I've got a person here called Lindsay Gordon who says she's representing Meredith Miller. She also says she made a hoax phone call to us earlier, booking your call from New York . . . She says she wanted to make sure you'd be here . . .” She
flicked an ostentatious glance up and down Lindsay's outfit. “No, she's definitely not from the tabloids . . .” A malicious smile crept across her face at those final words. She replaced the handset. “Ms. Polson will be right with you.”

Lindsay perched on the edge of the desk to irritate the receptionist while she searched her business card wallet for something appropriate. When she found it, she slipped it into her breast pocket for later. Just then, the inner door opened. Now Lindsay realized why all the doors in Polson and Firestone reached right up to the Victorian ceilings. Any lower and Catriona Polson would have been perpetually banging her head. She was one of the tallest women Lindsay had ever seen, and she must have been aware of the effect she had on people meeting her for the first time. Yet there was nothing apologetic or clumsy about the way she carried her six feet plus. Lindsay imagined with relish the effect on some of the more effete males of the publishing world whom she'd met. She wore a swirling skirt of Indian cotton, flat strappy sandals and a loose embroidered cotton camisole. Flyaway blonde hair was cut in a twenties bob and framed a round face that looked as if its normal expression was cheerful and welcoming. Right now, wariness was the predominant aspect.

She peered down at Lindsay without stooping. “Ms. . . . Gordon, was it?”

Lindsay nodded. “Catriona Polson?”

“That's me. When you say you represent Meredith Miller, in what capacity are we talking here?” Her voice was firm and clipped, her accent straight out of a girls' school story.

Wishing she had a discreet card saying, “Private Investigator,” Lindsay said, “I think it would be better if we conducted our business in private.”

Catriona frowned. “I'm not at all sure we
have
any business. All I know about you is that you perpetrated a time-wasting hoax on my company and you claim to ‘represent' someone who is not one of our clients and who, as far as I am aware, has nothing to do with publishing.”

It was hard not to feel intimidated by the whole package. Lindsay struggled to maintain any sense of control over the confrontation. Just then, the outside door opened and a middle-aged man in a leather
jacket came in. Shit or bust, she thought, dredging up an ancient memory of an interview with a private eye. “I'm a legal agent acting on Ms. Miller's behalf,” she said firmly. “I'm trying to conduct this matter discreetly, but if you prefer to discuss business matters in the lobby, that's fine by me. You are Penny Varnavides' literary executor and my client is her residuary legatee. My client wants to know what exactly . . .”

Before Lindsay could say more, Catriona had stepped back and was holding the door open for her. “This way,” she said, her voice ten degrees frostier than the air conditioning.

Once she'd ushered Lindsay inside, Catriona stepped in front of her and led the way down a corridor lined with framed book covers. A couple were prize-winning Penny Varnavides Darkliners titles. At the end of the corridor was another steel and wood door which led into a small boardroom. The table and the chair frames were the now familiar ashen wood. Lindsay began to wonder if they'd taken over the offices from some failed financial consultancy. More book covers lined the walls, interspersed with author photographs. Penny was still there, in the center of one of the side walls. Catriona walked determinedly to one end of the table and sat down, stretching her long legs in front of her and crossing them neatly at the ankles. “So,” she said. “Why are you really here?”

Lindsay pulled out a chair a couple of seats away from her and sat down. “What makes you think I'm not here to talk about your executorship?”

“Pointless before probate's granted,” she said dismissively.

“So why march me in here?”

“When people waltz into my office intent on causing trouble, I prefer not to give them the satisfaction of an audience.” She dug into a pocket of her skirt and pulled out a packet of the mild cigarettes Lindsay had only ever smoked when she was kidding herself she was about to give up. As she lit one, she kept an eye on Lindsay. “So who are you, and what are you really doing here?”

The best lies, Lindsay knew, were the ones closest to the truth. “I'm an investigator. Meredith Miller is innocent, and she's engaged me to make some inquiries about the death of Penny Varnavides. I'm here to talk to you about Penny,” Lindsay said, watching the smoke curling
upwards and remembering how the business of smoking had always made her feel much better than the physical sensation.

“What makes you think I've got anything to say?”

“You had plenty to say to the police. And you were quick enough to say it.”

Catriona leaned back in her chair and stretched for an ashtray sitting on a sideboard. “The police are the appropriate people to talk to when one believes a crime has been committed. And given Meredith's status as prime suspect, I'm not at all sure it would be appropriate for me to talk to you. Besides, there's an issue of client confidentiality here. Penny was my client, and I'm not inclined to breach our professional relationship.”

“As soon as probate is granted, it'll be Meredith who benefits from your work even more than you will yourself. She will, in effect, be your client. Don't you think it would make life a little easier for everyone if you cooperated with me?” Lindsay tried.

“If Meredith did kill Penny, she won't be earning a shilling from the estate, will she?” Catriona inhaled, then released what was left of the smoke from her nostrils. It was hard not to read self-satisfaction into the gesture.

It was clear that Catriona and Lindsay were never going to become friends. With nothing to lose, Lindsay went on the attack. “But you will, won't you? Ten, twenty percent of what Penny earned must have made you a lot of money while she was alive. Dead, she's going to generate a small fortune, isn't she? Even if it was just an accident, her sales are going to climb. But if it's a particularly gruesome and mysterious murder, using the very method outlined in her next book, her sales figures are going to go through the roof.”

Catriona's eyebrows furled together in an angry frown. “That's an outrageous suggestion. You take my breath away, Ms. Gordon.”

“You're not the first woman who's said that,” Lindsay said suggestively, gambling that Catriona was straight.

“How dare you!” Catriona said with contempt.

“Penny used to say it all the time,” Lindsay continued blithely. “I wasn't entirely candid with you, Catriona. I live in California, you see. Penny and Meredith are very old friends of mine. I know a lot more about you than you do about me. I know, for example, how much
you'd hate a story in one of the middlebrow newspapers that pointed out how much you stand to gain from your little trip to the police station. And how, when it actually comes down to it, you knew much more than Meredith about the murder method. She'd only heard Penny talk about it, but you'll have read it. And if we're talking
cui bono
. . .”