The Semi-Sweet Hereafter (16 page)

What if Andrew Davies genuinely
were
harmless?

I stepped forward with my arms outstretched, ready to run interference between Liam and Hambleton & Hart's CEO. But it turned out I didn't need to. Before Liam ever reached us . . .

“Liam! Liam!” All the kids abandoned the “vitality bar” station and swarmed the enormous personal trainer instead. They jumped up and down, waving their arms to get his attention. They dogged his footsteps like puppies. They laughed. “Liam! Hey!”

In the center of the mêlée, Mr. No Treats beamed.

He high-fived some kids and hugged others. He traded grins and laughed with joy. Amid those children of all ages, sexes, ethnic backgrounds, and family situations, Liam seemed happy.

Our eyes met over the pint-size crowd. He grinned.

His gaze swerved to Andrew Davies. Momentarily, Liam put on a scary face, then gave the CEO one of those “I'm watching you” gestures. He pointed from his eyes to Andrew's terrified face.

Andrew took another step back. “I didn't think
he'd
be coming today,” he muttered, “after what happened to Jeremy.”

He wasn't pleased to see his onetime spokesperson's personal trainer, either, I saw as I turned to reassure him.

I didn't know what I planned to say.
I'll protect you
sounded ludicrous, but I honestly didn't think Liam would go through me to get to Andrew Davies—no matter how much he objected to the “vitality bars” the CEO had been handing out.

That's when I remembered where I'd seen one of those “just 150 calories!” bars before. In Phoebe's cardigan pocket.

Maybe she'd attended one of Jeremy's charity events and picked up one for herself. Maybe Hambleton & Hart had given Jeremy and Phoebe boxes full of their products as thank-yous. Maybe Amelja had purchased a package of “vitality bars” to help her power through cleaning the Wrights' immense town house and Phoebe had helped herself to one. Maybe it just didn't matter.

I was grasping at straws, I realized. But DC Mishra's visit had left me feeling as though I were running out of time. If I was going to find Jeremy's killer, I had to do it quickly.

In that spirit . . . “Yes, about what happened to Jeremy,” I said in a low voice, picking up where Andrew had left off. “We're putting together a memorial for him, of sorts, and I'm gathering remembrances from his friends and colleagues. I was wondering . . .” I rummaged in my handy crossbody bag and pulled out one of my Moleskine notebooks. “Would you care to share your thoughts?”

Hey, if everyone thought I was Jeremy's assistant, who was I to argue? Maybe I could use my inadvertent insider status.

Children milled around us, hollering with glee. Someone brought out a soccer ball; Liam led the kids in an impromptu match farther out in the park. The adult volunteers seemed absorbed with the foundation's shoe-donation station, a food bank offering boxes of Hambleton & Hart instant-pudding mixes, ready-bake cakes, and what appeared to be a new breakfast cereal range, plus a spot for swapping outgrown clothing and toys.

Jeremy's Foundation seemed to be doing good work.

Andrew Davies, on the other hand, appeared to be hesitating over sharing reminiscences about Jeremy. I had to goose him.

“It's going to be my final task,” I confided in an even more circumspect voice. I sighed, trying to appear on the verge of being made redundant (being “unemployed,” to us Yanks). “I really want to do a good job with this. For Jeremy's sake.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Andrew nearly tutted. For a fairly young man, he seemed preternaturally mature. “What do you need?”

“Well, you know . . . any last remembrances of Jeremy would be good. Thoughts of his special qualities. Amusing anecdotes.”

Now Andrew seemed petrified of
me.
He licked his lips, then shifted as he studied the distant soccer game. “I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm not especially gifted at amusing anecdotes. I'm more of an ‘embarrassing mishap' sort of chap, actually.”

“It could be anything, really. Anything at all.” I gave him a bolstering pat on the arm. “How did you and Jeremy meet? What was he like on his final day? You were there, weren't you?”

“I'd, erm, rather not talk about that day.” Andrew tugged on his collar. His face shone with perspiration. His glasses were slightly fogged. “It wasn't our finest hour together, you see.”

“Oh no? That's too bad. What happened?”

He tossed me an uncertain look. I tucked my elbow beneath his arm, then led us both more deeply into the shade, where we wouldn't be disturbed. We passed clip-boarded sign-up sheets for intramural soccer, for tutoring sessions, and (for the older kids) for culinary apprenticeships at Jeremy's restaurants.

I wondered, with Jeremy gone, if there would be any more Hughs, Poppys, or Myras getting a toehold in the work world. If Jeremy had truly been responsible for the direction of his foundation—and he seemed to have been—things would change now.

“You can tell me,” I promised Andrew reassuringly. “Go on.”

He seemed transfixed by my hand on his arm. Maybe I'd overplayed my instincts. I wasn't exactly on Gemma Rose's level of flirtatiousness, but I do have a knack for making friends.

With a man as awkward as Andrew, too much friendly touching could be easily misinterpreted. Gently, I disentangled myself.

He blinked and blushed, fussing with his sleeve as though its expensive wrinkly fabric had unfortunately repelled me. Oddly enough, that overtly overcompensating gesture made me like him a little more.

Who hasn't felt socially awkward? Nobody, that's who.

“I apologize for surprising you this way,” I told Andrew as I flipped past my notebook's list-lined pages to a clean sheet. “Ordinarily, I'd have been better prepared”
—for my imaginary job—
“but my predecessor left me quite a lot to deal with.”

“Nicola. Mmm. Yes.” He gave a sage nod. “I remember her.”

He meant
I fancied her.
(In U.S. speak, he had a crush on her, in case you're not familiar.) I detected all the signs.

I'd been expecting
yes, mousy Nicola
, though. I regrouped.

“Nicola always took special time to speak with me.”

I figured that was because she'd been pumping him for information to include in her book. I didn't want to say so.

A short distance away, the soccer game continued. Liam whooped, obviously enjoying himself. He couldn't be a killer.

“She told me how nice you always were,” I improvised. In truth, she'd suggested Andrew Davies had been browbeaten by Jeremy, but he didn't need to know that. Ever. “That's why I made it a point to seek you out today. I knew you'd be able to help me with Jeremy's memorial. You know, ahead of the funeral.”

A little time pressure couldn't possibly hurt, I reasoned.

“Ah, yes. Well, I'll see what I can do, shan't I?” Andrew seemed distinctly pleased that Nicola had spoken well of him. He gave me a wobbly smile. “You see, Jeremy was very important to me. To the whole Hambleton & Hart family, honestly. Ours is a very old and esteemed company. Recently, we'd encountered a few . . . problems, as any firm does. But we were counting on Jeremy to boost our flagging sales and
skyrocket us back to success!
”

He said the last in a chipper tone, with a goofily awkward fist-pump gesture to go along with it. I felt positive Andrew had practiced both in a mirror at home for quite some time.

Inevitably, I liked him even more because of it. What can I say? Travis and Danny aren't completely wrong about me. I do have a soft spot for the underdogs of the world. Despite Andrew Davies's position of affluence and authority, he seemed hapless.

“I'm afraid we're in a bit of a pickle now, though.” He leaned nearer to me with a confidential air. “With Jeremy gone, that is. He wasn't always the easiest man to get along with. He had a bit of a temper. I'm afraid, regrettably, so do I.” Andrew gave me a sheepish look. “But he was also brilliant and funny and terribly, terribly talented. Just terrific at making food seem irresistible. I'd staked my reputation with my shareholders on Jeremy's cooperation—that's how highly I thought of him.”

“I'm sorry things didn't work out. What will you do now?”

I felt genuinely concerned about him. Shareholders could be sharks. Andrew Davies didn't seem up to battling them for long.

“Oh, well, erm, we'll think of something, won't we?” Andrew gave me a jolly laugh that wasn't the least bit convincing. The breeze lifted his wispy, sandy hair, revealing a burgeoning bald spot at his crown. “You don't maintain a company for more than a hundred and fifty years without having a few tricks up your sleeve, do you?”

“No, I guess not.” I almost volunteered to consult with Hambleton & Hart for him. They had chocolate . . . - ish products. Maybe I could help. But that would blow my cover. “You'll manage!”

Now we were both doing it. The faux-jolly routine.

For a moment, we watched the activity around us. More of the older children—teenagers and young adults—had arrived now. They were chatting with volunteers, practicing knife skills at a portable chef's kitchen setup, trying on much-needed new shoes.

Andrew turned to me. “How is Phoebe holding up?”

I hesitated, wondering how Jeremy's wife was supposed to fit into my fake personal assistant shtick. I frowned, fumbling.

“I'd assume she's been directing your efforts in Jeremy's absence?” Andrew's voice broke on his former spokesperson's name. Gruffly, he cleared his throat. “She's faring well?”

“Well enough,” I hedged. “Do you know one another?”

A vague wave. “We run in the same circles, don't we?”

“Of course.” I should have anticipated that. “It's been very difficult for Phoebe, naturally. She
so
loved Jeremy.”

As I said it, I watched Andrew's face, hoping to glimpse what he thought of their marriage. Nicola was biased. Liam was too fond of his own “expertise” in reading people to be reliable.

“Ah, that's where you've gone a bit wrong,” Andrew said.

This was it.
Jeremy's and Phoebe's plans to divorce were about to be confirmed—and by an unbiased third party, too.

“Jeremy
so
loved
her,
” Andrew corrected me, eyes twinkling.

Hmm. I couldn't guess why he looked so pleased. Maybe he was simply a nice guy who was happy to see someone else happy.

Whatever the explanation was, I'd learned all I was likely to from Hambleton & Hart's CEO. I wrote a few scribbles in my notebook to bolster my spur-of-the-moment cover story, then prepared to volunteer my genuine help with the foundation.

Wanting to make a graceful exit (and, okay, feeling guilty for having taken advantage of Andrew Davies's kindly nature), I nodded to the soccer match. “Are you going to join the game?”

For a moment, he appeared to ponder it. With unambiguous satisfaction, he watched the Jump Start kids chase the ball, then clump up to kick it. An instant later, Liam hove into view, shouting coach-like encouragement. “Go on, my son!” he yelled.

Liam's typically British shout of encouragement (roughly, “Attaboy!” to you and me) seemed to break Andrew's spell.

“No,” he mused, “I'm more of a cricket man, myself.”

I didn't wonder, what with Liam waiting there to crush him—all for the innocent “crime” of handing out “junky” health food.

But I didn't want to let on that I suspected Andrew was (reasonably) afraid of Liam. “Oh, sure.” I nodded. “Remind me, is cricket the one with the ball and the scrum, or the bats?”

Andrew treated me to the same indulgent look that Danny sometimes did when I tried to talk about sports with him. I like football—I'm
passionate
about football—but everything else to do with balls, courts, nets, and scoring leaves me cold.

“Rugby is the former,” he told me. “Cricket is the latter.”

Maybe, I thought, I should broaden my horizons. If I were to continue sleuthing—however unwillingly—I might need to know such things. There were a lot of sports fans in the world. Talking about games was an easy way to bond with people.

Andrew glanced at me. I must not have appeared suitably impressed, because he added, “I'm one
hell
of a batsman.”

Taken aback by his very crisp swearing, I remained mum. What was the correct response to that?
Congratulations!
felt wrong.
Wow!
was probably overstating things.
Way to go?

“That's the hitter,” he informed me, crossing his arms as he watched Liam and the kids play. “I can knock it straight down the lines, right past the bowler, and clear out of the park.”

“Good for you!” I said, having settled on that a moment ago. But I doubted I sounded convincing. Because I'd just recognized Andrew Davies from the cell phone photo that Ashley, the intern-turned-journalist we'd met at the pub, had been showing around. She must have heard he was a suspect in Jeremy's murder and had been trying to gather information about him.

That was pretty incriminating on its own. But combined with having just heard that same man brag about how hard he could swing a bat, only days after Jeremy had been bludgeoned to death with a very bat-like instrument?

Well, that was significant, for sure.

It looked as though it didn't matter how many suspects I already had or how tricky it was to deal with them. Because I'd just found another one in mild-mannered Andrew Davies, all the same.