The Semi-Sweet Hereafter (27 page)

Except I couldn't wait for my security expert to get there, I saw as I peeked out the other window and glimpsed Phoebe in the town house. She'd taken out her own (designer) luggage. She was currently scurrying around, packing it with far less deliberation and organization than I'd just employed.

I'd have bet a million pounds she was headed for Venezuela or Costa Rica—or any other sunny non-extradition country.

I had to
do
something. At the best of times, I'm no good at waiting—my long night with Danny was proof of that. If I didn't act, Phoebe Wright would get away with murder. Jeremy's murder.

I stuffed a few things into my trusty crossbody bag, then slung it over my shoulder as though I were on the verge of leaving. I picked up the folder containing my consultation report, put on a smile, and then headed toward the town house.

I didn't know if my plan would work, but it was all I had.

Nineteen

I knocked on the terrace door.

Phoebe startled, then stared in my direction. For a second, I thought I saw murderous intentions cross her face. Then I realized that the Honourable always looked slightly annoyed.

There was nothing special about this situation except that now I knew Phoebe was a murderer. Other than that? Piece of cake.

I flexed my grip on my report folder, trying to keep my hand from shaking as I watched Phoebe glide gracefully across the dining area. She frowned at me through the terrace door.

It would have been her right to simply ignore me.

I gave her my biggest, cheesiest American grin and waved my folder. “I forgot to give you my chocolate consultation report!”

That did it. With evident reluctance, Phoebe opened the door. “Hayden, shouldn't you be on your way to France by now?”

“Yes, and I would have been too.” Ignoring all the expected British etiquette, I barged inside. “But there's been a strike. You know French rail workers! I've been delayed.” I gave her an elaborately disgruntled face. “Better to wait here, I figured, than cram in with everyone else at St. Pancras, right?”

At my boldfaced lie, Phoebe didn't even blink. “Oh, that
is
tiresome, isn't it? That's so selfish of them, to inconvenience everyone that way. They should all be sacked, wouldn't you say?”

I wouldn't. But I should have known someone like Phoebe wouldn't be a supporter of workers' rights. While it was true that travel abroad and in France itself was sometimes disrupted by unionized workers, all they wanted was fair treatment. But I wasn't there to debate social and economic issues, was I?

I was there to keep Phoebe from getting away. Somehow.

First, I tried stalling her. “How did it go today?”

While you weren't being arrested by the police?

“Oh, brilliant!” Phoebe bustled around some more, gathering paperwork and stuffing it into her luggage. She was not an organized packer—probably because she usually had Amelja to do such things for her. “You should have been there. The reception was very positive. The Bakewell tart was a tremendous success.”

“I'm happy to hear it.” I wasn't. “How were the hosts?”

“Tediously chipper, as always. But that's their job, isn't it?” She scrutinized her luggage, then glanced up at me. “I'm terribly sorry, but I'm in a bit of a rush. If you'll just put down that report someplace, I'm sure I'll get to it later. Just be a dear, won't you? Right there is fine.”

Her elegant wave indicated the dining table. I was being dismissed, I realized, and my report along with it.

I held onto it. “There are some things we should discuss,” I spitballed. “Some procedural improvements, product ideas—”

Phoebe stood still, a perplexed frown on her face. “What part of ‘I'm in a bit of a rush' don't you understand?”

“Oh!” I laughed. “Sorry. Are you taking a trip too?”

Her curt nod confirmed it. I swallowed hard, unable to stop picturing her with that metlapil in hand, sneaking up on Jeremy.

“Yes, and I'm running late, thanks to that television show.” Phoebe smacked down a printed boarding pass.
CARACAS
leaped out at me from the destination line. “Excuse me,” she said.

She brushed past me, leaving me clutching my report folder and my bag. Two steps away, Phoebe stopped. She turned to me.

She'd caught me. I laughed again, then gestured at her paperwork. “Venezuela is nice this time of year,” I improvised.

“Oh?” Her eyebrows arched. “Have you been?”

“Of course, to visit cacao plantations.” I launched into a dialogue about cacao fruit. “The people are very friendly.”

“Ah.” Phoebe accepted my story. “Well, won't that be nice?”

As she hurried into the next room to get something else, I finally had my chance. Keeping my ears open for sounds of her return, I sneaked closer to her bag. I pulled out that N
₂
O cartridge, ajar of artisanal hot-fudge sauce, and the caffeine.

The first would make sure that Phoebe wasn't allowed past security and onto the plane. The second (a liquid, believe it or not, according to the authorities) would make sure that her luggage was flagged for inspection. The third would make sure that if the first two failed, all hope wasn't lost. It would require expert (and time-consuming) verification at the airport security gate to prove that Phoebe wasn't smuggling cocaine.

I tucked everything close together into Phoebe's luggage. I was betting by the size of it that this was a carry-on item. With the click-click of Phoebe's high-heeled sandals coming ever closer, I hastily covered the cartridge, the hot-fudge sauce, and the baggie of powdered caffeine with some filmy silk clothes of Phoebe's. They would turn into a wrinkled mess if she ever made it to Caracas. It was obvious she'd never been there.

It was equally obvious, unfortunately, why she was going now. As I gave a final covering yank, my cell phone rang.

It sounded like a rocket firing. I jumped and yelped.

I almost knocked the whole bag off the tabletop. My heart leaped into my chest, pounding even faster. I hurled my hand upward, hoping I wasn't having a stress-induced heart attack.

Nonchalantly, Phoebe click-clicked in. “Aren't you going to answer that?” She smiled. “I can never ignore a ringing phone.”

Her insouciance completely spooked me. How could she be so carefree, knowing she'd coldly bludgeoned her husband to death?

Because she knew she was about to get away with it,
I answered myself, then glanced anxiously at my phone screen.

It was DC Mishra. My hand shook even harder. I felt Phoebe's curious scrutiny and knew I had to be smart. More than anything, I wanted to answer the detective constable's call and scream, “Come to Phoebe's! Come quick! She's getting away!”

I forced down my panic and returned Phoebe's smile. “It's just my financial adviser, calling about my next chocolate-whisperer job.”
As if I would ever refuse a call from Travis.
I clicked the button to send it to voice mail. “We'll talk later.”

The screen went dark. My heart sank along with it.

“All right. Well, thank you, Hayden.” Phoebe strode to me with her hand extended. Her jewels gleamed. So did her eyes. I thought I saw madness there. “I appreciate your help very much.”

She was saying good-bye. Maybe I could still delay her. With any luck, the London Metropolitan Police were on their way.

For real, this time. I devoutly hoped so.
Come on, Satya.

“Maybe we can share a cab?” I suggested. “I should probably be heading to the station by now, anyway. I'll just get my things.” I wheeled around as though intending to do so. I'd already packed, so I could bluff convincingly. “I won't be long.”

Phoebe sniffed. “I don't travel to Heathrow by cab,” she told me in a dismissive tone. “I have a private car for that.”

Bingo. Heathrow. “That sounds great! You won't mind giving me a ride to St. Pancras, will you? It's awfully kind of you.”

She glanced at the clock. “I'm afraid that won't be possible.” No longer interested in having a cordial farewell, Phoebe zipped her luggage. She added it to a larger suitcase—one she must have wheeled in while I'd been trying to booby-trap her carry-on—then picked up her phone. She dialed. “I'm ready.”

She was getting away.
“Don't go yet!” I yelped.

Okay, so it wasn't smooth. I'm new at this, remember?

Archly, Phoebe confronted me. “If you're hoping to wangle a reference from me, I'm afraid you're spoiling your chances.” She shook her head. “Mr. Barclay is correct about you brash Americans. You simply don't know when to call it a day, do you?”

Was that a threat? Nervously, I stepped backward.

After all, Phoebe had handled her luggage with ease. It was possible that she was stronger than she looked. There we were, too, in a kitchen full of knives and meat mallets. Yikes.

I sneaked a glance at my phone, desperate to press that voice-mail icon and find out what DC Mishra had had to say.

I didn't. “It's just that I'm so sad our consultation is finished,” I dithered. “I've grown very fond of Primrose.”

Phoebe flattened her mouth. “Yes, well, haven't we all?” She took my arm and walked me to the terrace doors. “Good-bye.”

It was the most amiable bum's rush I've ever received.

“Won't you miss the chocolaterie-pâtisserie when you're in Caracas?” I was all but clutching the doorjamb in my efforts not to be dismissed. “How will the bakers get on while you're gone?”

Phoebe gave me a chilly smile, then opened the door. I wished I'd glimpsed police cars and diligent officers outside.

“That's really none of your concern now, is it?” she said.

She was right. And I was out of delay tactics.

“You're right.” I considered shaking Phoebe's hand, but I couldn't bear to touch her. Although I did wonder, once again, if she was a lefty . . . the killer's handedness. She had to be. Forcibly, I switched gears. “Have a nice trip, Phoebe. Bye!”

Then I hurried across the terrace and onto the garden path, hoping against hope that Phoebe wasn't a secret knife thrower. If piercing glares counted, I was sure she'd have been an ace.

I banged into the guesthouse and grabbed my cell phone.

DC Mishra answered on the first ring. “It's Heathrow,” I told her. “Phoebe is taking a flight from Heathrow to Caracas.”

The significance of that destination wasn't lost on the savvy detective constable. Neither was my belated call.

“We're on our way,” Satya said. I heard talking, traffic, background noises—enough to give me hope. “Just sit tight.” There was a pause. Then, “Don't leave town, Ms. Mundy Moore.”

* * *

Danny was there when the police arrived to pick me up. He wasn't happy about having missed my showdown (such as it was) with Phoebe. He wasn't overjoyed about riding to the police station with me, either. These days, my security expert prefers to avoid run-ins with the authorities. But he did it. For me.

Satya Mishra was there to greet us when we arrived. The detective constable shook Danny's hand first, then turned to me.

“I want you to know, you're not being arrested,” she said.

I'm not embarrassed to say that I sagged with relief. I guessed the specter of jail time had been haunting me more than I'd been willing to admit. But I recovered quickly enough.

Quickly enough to cut straight to the point, at least.

“I hope you've arrested Phoebe.”

DC Mishra smiled. “Come into my office and we'll talk.”

Danny and I followed her there. As we did, I aimed an inquiring glance at the front desk. “Where's Constable George?”

“We'll get to that.” Satya ushered us inside, then shut the office door behind us. At her desk, she steepled her hands. “You
were
a suspect. You should know that. Given your history, that was unavoidable. You should avoid these situations in future.”

I nodded. “I'd like to do that, believe me.”

A scanty smile enlivened her face. Then she got back down to business. “We weren't sure we would catch up to Mrs. Wright at Heathrow. As you know, traffic can be horrendous in London. While we can alert the security officers to detain someone, that wasn't necessary in this case.” DC Mishra pinned me with a stern look. “You wouldn't happen to know how 300 milliliters of unallowable liquid, one N
₂
O cartridge, and an undisclosed quantity of powdered caffeine came to be in Mrs. Wright's hand baggage, would you?”

Danny gave me an alarmed look. But I knew it was time to come clean. “I planted them on her, to delay her at security.”

For a moment, DC Mishra was somber. Then, “Good work. That was quick thinking on your part. I don't approve of your being involved, of course. That is the department's official stance, and I support it wholeheartedly. I have to say, though . . . without your intervention, we would not have caught her in time.”

I straightened in my dingy desk chair. “Really?”

“Really,” Satya confirmed. “We were certain that Jeremy Wright's murderer had to be one of three people.” She caught my expectant look and shook her head. “I'm not telling you who those people were. Suffice it to say that Ms. Wright was one of them.” She gave me a wry look. “A tip? It's often the spouse.”

Nodding, I filed away that helpful hint. Not that I wanted to be in the position of tracking down a killer again. I didn't. But it's always good to expand your knowledge base, right?

“Between the statement and evidence you provided and the evidence we'd compiled, we were able to obtain a confession.”

“From Phoebe?” I almost wished I'd been there for that.

A nod. “And a corroborating confession from Hugh Menadue. He came in to see us very late last night.”

I shot Danny a triumphant glance.
Told you so.
I'd been right to have faith. “I hope this won't be too hard on him.”

“It will be.” DC Mishra frowned. “But Mr. Menadue's cooperation has already helped us build our case against Mrs. Wright.” She stacked some papers on her desk, then looked up. “I apologize for what you've experienced with Constable Smith.”

I blinked. “Who?”

“George,” Danny told me. He appeared no less comfortable to be an invited guest of the police than he would have been as a suspect. “Constable Smith
was
the crooked one.” He gave DC Mishra an unyielding look. “She used you to get to him.”