Dead in the Water (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 1) (6 page)

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?

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.