Stolen (4 page)

I
RWIN PULLED THE LIMOUSINE
to a halt beside the curb. The luxury car almost filled the street and drew the attention of a few neighbors.

Before Michael realized what Iris was doing, she had opened the door and slid out.

“Iris.” Michael scrambled after her but was hard pressed to catch up. The years hadn't seemed to slow the housekeeper and she was thin as a greyhound.

“Don't forget to take pictures, Michael.” Iris never turned around as she headed straight for a three-story building. “I'm sure the inspector would prefer a photograph of the murderers instead of our descriptions.”

Frustrated but recognizing she had a point, Michael hurried back to the car and reached inside for his computer bag. By the time he'd grabbed the digital camera from one of the pockets—he never traveled without a camera—Iris was already across the street. He silently cursed, but his heart was pounding fiercely and he knew he was equally caught up in the anticipation of the chase. He thrived on competition and relished physical exertion.

But
murderers!

At the back of the limousine, Irwin opened the trunk and took out a tire iron. Michael stared at the crooked metal rod.

“I hope you don't think that's going to be necessary.”

Irwin grimaced. “I rather hope not, Mr. Graham. But I
don't like taking chances considering the situation we're presently in.” He tried a smile but it didn't quite come off. “Personally, I'd prefer a handgun. Something chambered in large caliber and possessing a huge magazine.”

Not for the first time, Michael wondered about Irwin's past. The man hadn't always been a caretaker, but he'd never bothered to fill in all the blank spots on his resume. He knew the oddest things.

Michael sprinted after Iris and caught up with her on the second-floor landing. “Do you know which flat Abigail lived in?”

“Number three.” Iris kept her hand on the banister as she pulled herself along. “At the corner.”

Michael stepped in front of her. “Would you please wait here with Irwin?”

Iris hesitated, then she nodded in obvious irritation. “Rather than have you worrying about me and be distracted, I'll agree to that. For the moment.” She stared into his eyes. “If you should need help—”

“You'll know.” Michael walked along the narrow landing toward the flat at the end.

“Be careful.”

He wanted to tell her that being careful involved staying in the limousine. Instead, he concentrated on the flat ahead of him and tried not to think of all the private investigator movies he'd watched where the hero got whacked on the head for his troubles.

When he found the door slightly ajar, Michael hoped it meant they were too late. Unless Abigail Whiteshire hadn't closed her door well on her way out.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Iris straining to watch him. Irwin stood silently beside her, the tire iron hanging from his hand.

Michael took shelter beside the door and hoped that
the men they'd come after had somehow lost their guns. Knives would be bad enough, but it was possible to outrun a knife. He made himself breathe out because he was hyperventilating.

Then he used his elbow to open the unlocked door.

Nothing stirred inside.

“Whatever are you doing?”

The voice came from up above and Michael almost bolted when he heard it. He tracked the question to an elderly woman standing on the landing, peering down at him.

“Call the coppers.” Michael shook his head at his choice of words. The term had come too easily.
Too many crime movies.

The woman disappeared, presumably to make that very call.

After he fished his iPhone from his pocket, he switched on the flashlight app. The beam from the rectangular screen wasn't strong, but it illuminated the dark interior of the flat. Feeling fearful, he walked inside.

Overturned furniture lay scattered across the carpeted floor. Michael assumed that Abigail Whiteshire was normally much neater, but hardly anything looked organized now. The living room was sectioned off into a dining room, as well, and a closet door stood open, coats and clothing spilling onto the floor.

Whoever had broken into the house had obviously been in a hurry.

“Michael?”

“I'm all right, Iris.” Michael turned and shined the phone around the room. Sudden movement to his right sent him into a panic. He dodged to one side and managed to topple a vase of flowers, which smashed against the floor.

“Michael!”

A soot-gray cat on the window ledge hissed and spat. Its eyes lit up as orange as cigarette coals in the phone's light. Fear rippled its muscles and it arched its back.

Feeling foolish and inept, Michael regained his balance. “It was nothing. I tripped. Abigail had a cat.”

“I should have mentioned the cat. He's very territorial. His name is Ambrose.”

Michael gave the cat a wide berth as it followed him with its malevolent gaze. He started to relax despite the shambles of the flat.

If the men who had killed Abigail Whiteshire and broken into her home were still about, surely they would have confronted him by now.

And if they had, you might be dead.
It wasn't a pleasant thought and he tried to dismiss it, but it hovered there at the back of his mind.

“Have they already gone, then?”

Glancing over his shoulder, Michael spotted Iris in the doorway. “Couldn't wait?”

“I didn't see the need to. Other than the vase breaking, there were no other sounds. Except your breathing. Besides, I knew that Ambrose would be awfully upset.” Iris went to the cat and reached for it.

With obvious reluctance, the feline allowed Iris to pick it up. After a moment, though, the cat nestled into her embrace.

“I gather we're alone, sir?” Irwin stood in the door with the tire iron in hand.

“For the moment, I suppose. I'm sure the neighbor upstairs has called the police by now.” Michael wondered just what had just happened here. He looked at Iris. “Any idea what they could have been after?”

“No.” Iris glanced around her as she stroked the cat. “But it's easy enough to see they were after something.”

Out in the street, tires screeched on pavement. Then doors opened with metallic pops.

“The police have arrived.” Irwin remained as solemn as ever.

“Perhaps it would be better if we met them outside.” Michael led the way.

Two uniformed officers pounded up the stairs as Michael stepped onto the landing. They froze and drew truncheons.

“It's all right.” Michael held his hands up to show they were empty. “I'm not here to hurt anyone. I came to check on Mrs. Whiteshire's home, that's all.”

Quietly, the policemen started up the steps again.

“What's going on, mate?” The older man shined a light in Michael's eyes.

“Came here to check on the flat, like I said. Found it already broken into.”

“That right?” The policeman's tone indicated that he wasn't all that trusting.

“That's right.” Michael sighed; he wasn't going to get back to his game design and thoughts of mermaids any time soon.

 

M
OLLY SAT IN THE COLD ROOM
and tried to summon warm thoughts. Instead, all she could think about was Abigail Whiteshire and how small the dead woman had looked in the alley.

The Blackpool Police Department was currently headquartered in an old converted Victorian house only a few streets back from the marina. Amid the hum of computers and ringing telephones, the clangor of rigging slapping against boat and ship masts out in the harbor could be heard, pulling the station's atmosphere back to the
nineteenth century. The small rooms and bay windows furthered the illusion.

The room Molly sat in was bereft of creature comforts. Only a small table bolted to the floor and four folding chairs around it provided any kind of furnishing. Bleak and empty, the walls seemed to close in on her as she sat there awaiting Paddington's convenience.

Molly's eyes burned from fatigue. Before tonight, she'd put in a lot of long hours preparing for the event at the theater, and paving the way in the community for the documentary crew. But now everything was up in the air. The realization soured her mood.

The door opened and Paddington walked through carrying a folder under one arm and two cups of coffee.

Sitting up straighter, Molly watched the inspector take a seat across from her. The chair legs screeched on the floor as he drew in closer to the table.

“Coffee?” Paddington held up a disposable cup.

“Please.” Molly accepted the proffered drink. “Thank you.” Her hands wrapped around it and gratefully absorbed the warmth.

“You're welcome. Usually I drink tea, but this promises to be a late night.” Paddington flipped open the folder and pulled out his notebook. “We picked up your husband. Apparently he got it into his head that he might intercept Abigail Whiteshire's murderers at her flat. Do you know why he might think that?” He fixed her with his piercing gaze.

“Iris—our housekeeper—and another woman, Rachel Donner, witnessed the murder. Iris—”

Paddington held up a big, rough hand. “Please, Mrs. Graham, spare me. Your husband evidently arrived at the address only minutes after the murderers ransacked Mrs. Whiteshire's home and departed. Thankfully they didn't
hang about to crack his skull for his trouble. He could have just as easily been in the hospital for his foolishness instead of outside in the waiting room. What he should have done was call the police.”

“I agree. But apparently Iris didn't leave Michael much choice. She can be quite…forceful.” Molly didn't actually agree with Paddington, though if Michael had gotten hurt she might have felt differently.

Paddington seemed surprised by her answer. He sipped his coffee to cover his reaction. “We also found Mr. Wineguard.”

“He's well?”

“He is. Apparently he thought he might be hurt next. Is there any reason for him to believe that?”

“Simon tends to be high-strung and perhaps a trifle paranoid. Comes from a creative mind, I guess.”

“Or a guilty one.”

“Why would Simon harm Abigail Whiteshire?”

Lacing his thick fingers on the table, Paddington shrugged. “Perhaps you can tell me.”

“Simon met the woman once.”

“People have been known to kill individuals they've never met, Mrs. Graham. And Mr. Wineguard wasn't sitting in the audience where he was supposed to be. Maybe he was coordinating the attack with two of his cronies.”

Molly didn't have an answer for that. She hadn't known where Simon was before the introduction. Not for the first time, suspicions slithered through her mind, though she could find no basis for them.

“So you can't imagine a motive for Wineguard to murder Abigail Whiteshire?”

Molly forced herself to remain calm. “Inspector, let's make one thing perfectly clear—if I'd thought anyone
was in danger tonight because of this event, I would have canceled it.”

Paddington leaned back in his chair and scratched his head tiredly. “I'm sure it was also just fortuitous that Liam McKenna happened to be at the theater tonight to start tongues wagging with his tales of vengeful pirate ghosts? That will certainly create a lot of gossip.”

More than the murder?
Drawing a breath, Molly looked at Paddington. “The whole evening tonight was designed to draw most—if not all—of Blackpool into the area. That was why we had a free movie and catering. Am I really supposed to be surprised that Liam McKenna was there hoping to hawk his ghost tours?”

The inspector's eyes remained dead. “I told you from the beginning that this whole affair was a bad idea.”

“You can't prove that Abigail Whiteshire's murder was connected to the documentary.”

“Do I need proof, Mrs. Graham? This…
event
…is the only unusual thing that's going on at present. The festival coming up will be a pain in the posterior, but that's something we here in Blackpool have come to accept as a necessary evil.” He waved a hand. “This bit with the train robbery, though, isn't.”

“The train robbery occurred over seventy years ago.” Molly forced her voice to remain even. “It seems very unlikely Mrs. Whiteshire was murdered because of that.”

Paddington rubbed his jaw. “And yet it would be to Mr. Wineguard's considerable benefit to have one of these seven
survivors
murdered. I suspect that the attention that would generate would be nothing but good news for him.”

That Paddington could even believe people on the documentary crew would have committed the murder for mere publicity sickened Molly.

“Fred Purnell is beside himself because one of the BBC
news channels is sending a group of reporters out to Blackpool to cover the investigation,” Paddington continued. “He's certain they're going to scoop him on a murder played out in his own backyard.” He scowled. “I don't have to tell you that I'm not overly sympathetic to his concerns.”

Molly's mind spun. She would have to address the outside media, as well. And their presence in Blackpool was definitely going to throw off the documentary's shooting schedule.

“So now I have to deal with out-of-town reporters set on turning a molehill into a mountain.” Paddington shook his head irritably. “If I could, I'd lock down the whole lot of them as soon as they step into town.”

“That attitude certainly won't win you any friends.”

“Frankly, Mrs. Graham, I have enough friends. And now I have more than enough murders to investigate.”

Molly didn't have a response to that, so she decided to keep quiet.

“For the time being, I'm going to let you go.” Paddington closed the file.

“I haven't done anything wrong. You have no right to hold me.”