Dead in the Water (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 1) (14 page)

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.

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."

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.