Shadows in Scarlet (20 page)

"No need,” she said dryly.

He might be smelling roses, but all she could smell was whiskey, its scent alone rising to her head as surely as a stiff drink. Her fingertips sketched the lapels of his coat, the button loops, the leather belt, and moved around his waist to the long coat tails.

"Sally—Miss Armstrong—is indeed a lovely lass, though not so much so as Isabel. I left her behind in a garden, she was promised to me in a garden—I return to the garden, it seems, but so do we all, searching for that first pleasure of mankind within the sacred portals of Eden."

"Before or after the original sin?” Amanda asked.

He grinned. Fabric stirred as he embraced her. It was an elusive embrace, but perceptible. No surprise, she told herself, he was the most focussed and the most centered when he was coming on to her, pursuing the familiar pattern of pursuit and conquest, beyond reason but also beyond doubt. Many a man bolstered his ego on the body of a woman while his id, his subconscious, ran riot with candlesticks and drinking glasses.

James, blissfully ignorant of psychoanalysis, was still grinning. “You are bold enough yourself, Madame, to bandy words with me."

"I'm an American lass, too, you know."

"You ask no apology for the liberties I have taken with your person?"

"No. I'd like for you to take more."

"Indeed,” he said, his gaze moving up and down her body. “If I cannot return to my home, then I shall find a home in you. If I cannot recover my sword, then I shall employ a similar weapon, and you will be its sheath."

Amanda tried not to laugh in his face. But he wasn't putting her on. The pun fell naturally from his lips—as an educated man he knew the Latin word for “sheath” was “vagina.” And, under the circumstances, she forgave him the unsavory male custom of referring to his penis as a weapon.

A spark leaped between their mouths. She pressed against him.... The telephone rang. Amanda found herself posed, arms outstretched, lips parted, touching nothing. “Shit!” she exclaimed, and snatched up the phone—if it was Wayne she was going to burn his ears off. “Hello!"

Several squeals and hums prefaced a recorded voice. “Hello. Have you ever considered the benefits to your loved ones of life insurance?"

She slammed the phone down. She hadn't wanted to be saved by the bell, thank you very much. “James? Come back, James. It was only a noise...."

Nothing.

Amanda threw herself onto the couch and wrapped her arms tightly around her ribcage. She summoned James's image, the smoky eyes, the entrancing smile, the elegant language so typical of his time but so utterly ridiculous today. And the pain, the pain with its edge of anger, beneath his charm.

Either he had one thing wrong, Amanda thought, or he rejected the female role even symbolically. It was Orpheus who had gone to hell to save Eurydice. And he had failed.

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It was the unaccustomed air conditioning that made the back of her neck crawl, Amanda told herself as she entered stately Chancellor manor. Not Cynthia's smiling face. But still she wished she'd worn a crucifix.

Cynthia whisked her into a living room that looked like an advertisement for a furniture gallery. “How are you this morning, Amanda dear? Well, I suppose I should say this afternoon, it's straight up noon. I'd expect you to arrive right on the dot. Would you like a small glass of sherry? Not that I indulge at lunchtime every day, you understand, but today is special."

"No, thank you. Some iced tea would be nice."

"Of course. I'll get it for you. Sit down.” Cynthia's color was high and her flowing skirts snapped as she walked. She disappeared through a swinging door, providing a glimpse of a gleaming country-style kitchen and the two caterers who had fed the garden club on Friday.

Mouth-watering odors wafted to Amanda's nostrils. Inhaling deeply, she perched on the edge of a Queen Anne chair, yanked her skirt down to her knees—odd, how short it seemed—and tried to fluff up her hair. There was something to be said for wearing a cap every day, especially in this humidity.

Wayne lumbered into the room, spruced up in a suit and tie, his limp noticeably absent. “Oh, hi."

"Did you tell her?” Amanda asked.

"Well, not exactly—she's been getting lunch ready, you know, setting the table and stuff."

"What do you mean, not exactly?"

Cynthia spurted back through the swinging door and presented Amanda with a tall glass of iced tea. A green sprig of mint protruded from the top, tickling her nose when she took a sip.

"Mint from my own garden.” Cynthia sat down on a settee upholstered in period flame stitch. Several strings of beads interspersed with tiny agate fetishes hung over the neckline of her blouse, and the matching earrings ricocheted off her cheeks as she talked. “Now, Amanda, I must apologize for embarrassing you Saturday."

"Erk,” Amanda replied through the shrubbery.

"Apparently Wayne was intending to keep things very low-profile, undercover as it were."

Amanda gagged. Wayne's face went puce.

But Cynthia sailed obliviously past the double meaning. “So the least I can do is pretend there's nothing going on. All right? Just our secret?"

"Mrs. Chanceller,” Amanda began, “there's been a..."

The doorbell chimed. Cynthia bounced up, necklace clattering, and went to answer it. Amanda glared at Wayne, who studied the Meissen figurines on the mantelpiece.

"Come in, come in,” trilled Cynthia from the entrance hall. “Only a few minutes late. And here's Bill coming up the walk."

Carrie and Helen hustled into the living room like foxes before a pack of hunting dogs. “Hello, Amanda, hello, Wayne,” said Carrie. “Why is it the phone always rings just at the wrong time?"

"Atlantic Bell's wicked sense of humor,” Amanda replied.

"Where's the food?” asked Helen. “I have to get out to the Shirley plantation this afternoon."

Amanda pulled the camera from her handbag. “Helen, you left this at Melrose on Saturday."

"Oh, thanks.” Helen shook the camera, as though scolding it for wandering off.

Carrie sat down on the settee, quirking an eyebrow at Amanda.

Amanda told Helen, “I made a couple of pictures myself. Photos of my living room. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not. Five more exposures on the roll. When I finish it up I'll make a couple of prints for you, okay?"

"Thanks.” And what if Helen saw James's ghost? Amanda asked herself. Well, she'd come up with something. Maybe even the truth.

Cynthia ushered Bill Hewitt into the room. He greeted everyone with a distracted nod. His tie was askew and an ink stain edged the bottom of his shirt pocket. He'd probably left three-fourths of his brain back in the lab.

"Sherry?” the lady of the manor asked. “Iced tea? Soft drinks? Bourbon, Helen? Well, we'll just pretend the sun is over the yardarm, won't we? Wayne, take care of the drinks."

He plodded off to the wet bar. Cynthia posed before the fireplace. “Isn't this nice? I'm so pleased you could come today to discuss the plans I have for Melrose Hall. How's the summerhouse coming, Bill?"

"Foundations are traced,” he replied. “Carrie found some prints of summerhouses of the period. We're working on plans now. Then we'll estimate the cost of labor and materials."

"Just let me know how much you need,” Cynthia told him. “The summerhouse could be the starting point for a nature trail, couldn't it? An extension of the garden tour. Paths through the woods and down to the river."

"Pedal boats?” suggested Helen with an impish gleam.

"You're way out ahead of me, Helen. Yes, boat rides on the river, although I think pedal boats would be a bit small, don't you?"

Wayne doled out the drinks. Amanda tucked her feet beneath her chair so she wouldn't “accidentally” trip him up.

"Children's classes,” said Cynthia. “We tend to focus on Sally's love affair with Captain Grant, but she was also a little girl at Melrose."

"We deal with quite a few children at Melrose as it is,” Carrie put in.

"We can make the barn into a theatre, and every hour or so show the film Helen and I have been working on. ‘Melrose, A Window into History.’ And, since we're lucky enough to have all this new information about Captain Grant turn up—and Captain Grant himself, for that matter—we're going to make a separate film about him. He was never the faceless enemy, not as far as Sally was concerned."

Helen raised her glass in acknowledgement. Amanda rattled her ice cubes and thought of James's handsome face.

"I have a designer working on Melrose's own web site, linked into the main CW site,” Cynthia went on. “It'll highlight not only the house and gardens but antique and art shows. Rare book sales. Craft shows, as long as everything's good quality. None of that plastic ticky-tacky you see along the highway."

Wayne chimed in, “And you were thinking of a coffee shop in the back of the gift shop."

"A tea shop would be more appropriate, wouldn't it?” Cynthia said. “Tea and scones and butter cookies, that sort of thing."

"Cucumber sandwiches,” offered Amanda, deadpan.

"Exactly! And for the piece de resistance, I can't imagine anything that would draw more tourists than a bed and breakfast right in Melrose Hall."

After a moment's silence Helen essayed, “You expect the guests to use chamber pots and bathe in front of the fire?"

"Don't be silly, Helen. We can convert the sewing room at the end of the second floor hallway into a lovely bathroom. It's right above the kitchen, half the plumbing's already there."

"Breakfast?” asked Hewitt.

"The caretaker can get up early and serve a nice little breakfast in the dining room. Fruit, croissants, coffee or tea."

Thanks,
Amanda thought.
I needed that.

"What if Melrose really is haunted?” Carrie asked. “What if the ghost of Captain Grant scares people away in the middle of the night?"

"You've always had such a delicious sense of humor, Carrie,” said Cynthia. “We'll go into the dining room now."

Amanda jostled Carrie in the doorway. “Couldn't resist that crack, could you?"

"I'm not going to let her live down that seance."

The dining room was as graciously appointed as the living room. The cherry table and sideboard were polished into mirrors. Gleaming silverware lay on starched linen place mats. The centerpiece was smaller than the one for the garden club but just as lush.

Amanda found herself seated at Cynthia's right hand, with Wayne at the opposite end of the table. She counted six kinds of lettuce on her plate. The dressing was a delectable raspberry vinaigrette.

"Tell them about the Grant project,” Wayne urged as the caterer served rolls.

"I was getting to that, dear,” Cynthia told him. “First of all, Captain Grant's sword is indeed at Dundreggan, in a display case in the great hall."

"All right!” Amanda exclaimed. “So the Grants still live there?"

"Why, yes. I hate to think what the place looks like, with their financial difficulties and so forth—I believe they're even running a business there—but I know only too well how hard it is to give up a fine old family estate. I let Melrose go for the good of the community, of course."

"Of course,” said Carrie.

Cynthia nibbled a lettuce leaf with her front teeth, like a rabbit. “The results of the DNA tests are in, aren't they, Bill?"

"The lab in Baltimore used the newer PCR test,” Hewitt replied, crumbs flying from his moustache. “Less precise, but quicker. And we told them we needed quicker."

"The results are hardly going to solve a murder,” said Cynthia.

Carrie and Amanda glanced at each other across the table.

"The PCR uses shorter segments of DNA,” Hewitt went on. “Effective even if the samples are degraded. Which ours were. Couldn't be helped."

"And?” Helen prodded.

"Malcolm Grant sent a family tree along with the blood sample—he's descended from James Grant's grandparents on both sides of his family. And sure enough, the results show a match between the bones’ DNA and his."

"Nice blue blood,” muttered Carrie. “Interbred. Probably not a chin in the lot."

"So with the documentary evidence Carrie found for us,” Cynthia concluded, “we have a positive ID!"

Helen, Carrie, and Wayne made appreciative noises, Amanda chiming in a moment late. The caterer replaced her empty salad plate with a plate of asparagus rolled in thin-sliced ham and smothered in Hollandaise sauce.

"Mother didn't talk to Lady Norah,” said Wayne. “She wasn't in. The son answered the phone."

"The Honorable Malcolm Grant,” Cynthia explained. “Very polite, just as charmingly eccentric as his mother. He must be one of those wonderful British military types, don't you think? Very upright, moustache trained just so, habit of command and all that."

So he wasn't old and doddering, Amanda told herself. No reason he should be. Middle-aged, like John Cleese. She set down her fork. “Why do you call the Grants eccentric?"

Cynthia turned to her as though she were Oliver Twist asking for more food. Wayne seemed faintly shocked. “Oh, well, ah—people of their class, you know, you expect certain—well, a certain style. Lady Norah's clothing—the honorable Malcolm's accent—at first I thought it was a servant answering the phone.” She patted her lips with her napkin, closing the subject.

So The Honorable Malcolm didn't sound like an actor on Masterpiece Theatre. Nor John Cleese. Amanda saw a fierce Highlander like Wallace's friend in
Braveheart,
just this side of a noble savage, with flowing red locks and a claymore clutched in massive hands.

"Bill,” said Cynthia, and Hewitt looked up. “You'll be finished with Captain Grant's bones tomorrow morning."

He swallowed. “I could be. Casts, measurements, samples, photos. It's just a matter of..."

"Good. Then you can have them packed up and out to Melrose tomorrow afternoon.” She cut herself a piece of ham but didn't put it in her mouth. Her utensils rang against the plate as she set them down. “It's just so exciting I can't contain myself! I have these brainstorms, you see, all the time—new publicity angles, new programs. It's a gift.” She surveyed her audience through her lashes, expecting applause, maybe.