Untimely Death (11 page)

“Me? I don’t know anything about how to solve a crime. Why would I want to do that? Wouldn’t it be best to just leave it up to the police? They’ve got DNA testing and forensics and all that stuff you see on TV.”

“True. But sometimes I think they get to like the idea of one particular person as a suspect and they focus on that person, and then they get a bit selective about the evidence, so everything fits neatly together and they can get things wrapped up quickly.” Aaron did not look at her, but kept his head down as he rolled up tape measures and arranged rulers in a neat row on the edge of the cutting table.

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” he said slowly.

“I’ve got a couple of ideas,” Charlotte said. “I’ll help you, if you like.”

“What would we have to do?”

“Well, first we observe everyone very carefully at the party. See if we can pick up anything about Lauren. People tend to let their guard down at parties; they have a few glasses of wine and talk just a little more freely.” Aaron nodded slowly.

“So we eavesdrop,” he said.

“We do. Or rather, you do. Because you’ll be the one passing round the little canapés or whatever and refilling wine glasses. And nobody ever pays any attention to the waiter.”

“I will?”

“Yes, you will.”

“And there’s something else you need to do, and you need to do it tonight.”

“What?”

“I want you to find out from your uncle who cleans that rehearsal room the detectives from the state bureau are using as their, what do you call it, something room.”

“Incident room?”

“That’s it.”

“What do you mean ‘clean’?”

“At night. After the detectives have gone home. Who cleans the room? There must be coffee cups and sandwich wrappers all over the place. Bins that need emptying, surfaces that need dusting. You know, that sort of thing.”

He tilted his head.

“Sorry, you’ve lost me.”

“If we could have a look around the room after they’ve gone home, we might learn something.”

“Are you crazy? You want me to go in there and snoop around the police room? What if I get caught? Anyway, I doubt that there’d be anything to see. They probably use laptops that they take home with them or lock up somewhere, and there’ll be a massive shredder bin. There won’t be any confidential files loaded with clues just lying around waiting for us to come along, you can bet on that.
They’ll have all the good stuff at their headquarters in Albany or wherever.”

“You’re probably right, but still, ask your uncle about the cleaning arrangements. If cleaners go in, find out who and what time. We need to take a look around and see if we can find anything.”

“We? Oh, jeez, I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

“Just find out from your uncle. This evening. And then call me.”

It was just coming up to eight o’clock when Charlotte’s phone rang. She listened for a few moments, thanked the caller, and hung up. She’d had her dinner and had been comfortably stretched out on the sofa with Rupert getting ready to watch a reality cooking show. She admired the contestants’ quick thinking skills. She’d be standing there poking about in the fridge trying to work out what to do with the mystery ingredient, and by the time she’d had a not-very-good idea, the allotted cooking time would be up. She set the DVR to record the show, slipped on her dark raincoat, and stepped out into the night. The air was cold and sharp but felt oddly fresh and welcome on her face. She hurried across to the hotel, unlocked the back door, and slipped inside.

“Oh, there you are. Good,” she said when she saw Aaron waiting for her in the backstage area. “Where did you tell Harvey you were going?”

“I told him I’d left my laptop in the wardrobe workroom and was going to get it, so I can’t be gone too long.”

“Let’s go then.” They hurried down the hall to the rehearsal room. Charlotte stood to one side as Aaron unlocked it, but when he went to enter, she put a hand on his arm and shook her head. “No,” she said in a low voice. “You wait in the hall and keep watch. I doubt anyone will come, but just in case.”

She entered the room, leaving the door open a fraction, and switched on the light.
Damn
, she thought.
I should have brought a flashlight like they do in the movies. Ray would have
. The room, reserved for table reads in the earliest stage of rehearsal, was the size of a modest boardroom, with a large oval-shaped table in the center. Chairs were grouped around it; some had been pushed in, others were pulled out and at an angle to the table as if the occupant had just got up. A couple of paper coffee cups had been left on the table, but the room wasn’t nearly as messy as she’d thought it would be. As Aaron had predicted, there weren’t any computers or much paper lying about.

The large whiteboard at the end of the room caught her attention. She hadn’t seen it in this room before, so she assumed it belonged to the police. A white sheet that almost reached the floor had been draped over it. She lifted a corner and pulled it out and up as far as she could. A large black-and-white photo of Lauren, probably a publicity still, sat in the center of the board,
with black lines drawn from her to other photos: Brian, Aaron, Harvey, and Simon. Were these men the prime suspects? Under each photo, notes had been handwritten in black marker, but she had trouble reading the words, which were somewhere between scribbled and printed. Long lines with arrows on the end connected the photos. While she was trying to work out the significance of the photos and their interconnecting lines, a tap on the door made her turn her head in that direction. Aaron hissed her name and then reached in and switched off the light. The door closed quickly and the key turned in the lock. In the windowless room, she found herself plunged into total darkness.

She reached out both hands and, touching the whiteboard in front of her, moved her hands along it until she felt the edge. Holding on to it with her right hand, she sidled around it and just managed to squeeze between it and the wall as a key turned in the lock and a second later, the overhead fluorescent lights flickered to life.

She held her breath, certain that the sound of her hammering heart would surely reveal her presence to the person who had just entered.

“It would have been safe here until morning, you know,” said a male voice.

“Yeah,” a woman replied. “But you know how it is. We can’t live without our phones, can we?”

“Do you sleep with it?” the first voice said. The woman gave a feeble laugh, and Charlotte covered her mouth.

The only reply was the sound of chair legs being dragged along the carpet. Charlotte assumed that was the sound of the woman pulling out the chair where she’d been sitting to check it for her phone.

Charlotte pressed her back against the wall and exhaled slowly through tightly pursed lips. There is something so clandestine, so forbidden about hiding while others go about their business unaware someone is watching or listening. She found the situation distasteful. But worse, she feared what would happen if she were caught. There was nothing she could say to explain her presence in a way that would sound remotely believable. First, they’d ask what she was doing there, and second, they’d demand to know how she got into the locked room. And it wouldn’t take them long to work out who had keys.

The ping of an incoming text startled her. She reached into her pocket and switched off her phone.

“Did you hear that?” the man asked. “Mmm. Hear what?” said the woman. She sounded distracted, and Charlotte thought she was probably checking messages on the phone she’d just recovered.

“That noise. I thought I heard someone’s phone. It came from over here.”
Oh, here we go
, Charlotte thought, as his voice came closer. She was almost prepared for discovery when the woman spoke.

“Let’s go. We’ve wasted enough time here for one night. I’d buy you a beer on the way home, except you’re driving.”

Desperately wishing there was something she could hold on to, Charlotte held her breath and tried to lock her knees in place. After what seemed an eternity, she sensed him moving away.

“Ready?” the woman said, this time with more than a touch of impatience. “Let’s go. I want to get home.”

“Sure there’s nothing else you’ve forgotten?” the man said. His voice sounded a little further away.

“Nope. I just wouldn’t have slept very well worrying about my phone,” the woman said. “I was sure I’d left it here, but all the same, I just wanted to get it. I feel better knowing I have it. You know how it is.”

From the distance in their voices, Charlotte could tell they had almost reached the door.

“It’ll be good when we get the one missing piece that wraps this case up for us,” the man remarked. The woman did not reply. “In every case, there’s always that one thing that ties it all together,” he added.

“Are you talking about the weapon?” the woman asked. “We can build a stronger case against him when we have that. It’s too bad the search didn’t turn up anything.”

The man said something Charlotte didn’t catch as they closed the door and locked it behind them.

She stood frozen in place, afraid to move. As she was about to emerge from behind the white board, the sound of the key turning in the door startled her. Thinking it must be Aaron, she stepped out from her hiding place just
as the door opened about six inches and a hand reached in and flicked the light switches off. Then the door closed and the key turned in the lock once again.

Her knees finally gave way and her legs dissolved as she lowered herself to the floor, resting there, legs tucked under her. There wasn’t enough room for her to crawl behind the whiteboard; if they came back now, they would see her. But so be it—she couldn’t stand. Her jellied knees were gone.

But the police officers didn’t come back, and a few minutes later, she gathered her strength and, pushing herself up from the floor, managed to stand up. Her breathing was more normal now, the wild wringing of her heart was subsiding, and she could almost feel her adrenaline level dropping. But her mouth was so dry that her teeth felt glued to the lining of her cheek.

She reached out until she felt a chair with her right hand. She put her left hand on it and with both hands worked her way up the back of it until she reached the table. She swung her hand back and forth over the table until a soft thud told her that she’d found what she was looking for.

She could tell as she unscrewed the cap that the bottle had been opened, but she didn’t care. It felt about half full, and not caring that it was lukewarm and had belonged to someone else, she gratefully drank deeply. When she’d finished, she screwed the top back on and deliberated whether to put the empty bottle back on the
table or take it with her. She held on to it and then carefully, mindful that some chairs had not been tucked in, she groped her way down the table length, chair back by chair back, until she reached the end of it. With both hands stretched out in front of her like a sleepwalker, she aimed for the beckoning band of light under the door that seeped in from the hallway. A moment later, she reached the door and placed her ear against it, straining to listen. She heard nothing. She placed her hand on the doorknob and tried to turn it, although she knew perfectly well it was locked.

She leaned against the wall, trying to think, as the darkness pressed on her.
Please, Aaron
, she thought,
open the door
.

And then, as if in answer to an unspoken prayer, a key turned in the lock and Aaron’s face appeared. Thrusting the empty water bottle into his hand, she shot past him and raced down the hall.

A few minutes later, she emerged from the women’s washroom to find Aaron lounging against the wall, waiting for her.

“Did you lock the rehearsal room?” she asked.

He nodded. “Did you learn anything?”

“Well, maybe,” she answered. “They seem to think the case hinges on finding the weapon. But tell me about when the police officers came. Where were you and what did you do?”

“I heard them coming before I saw them. They were talking, and just before they turned the corner, I warned you and locked the door. Then I just walked past them in the hall and waited in the wardrobe room for them to leave. They were in there about five minutes, and when they walked by, I waited a bit longer to make sure they’d gone, and then I came back and unlocked the door for you.”

“Did you hear anything interesting?” Charlotte asked.

“Not really. They were just talking about stuff.”

“Stuff! What kind of stuff?”

“The woman said she hoped this case wouldn’t drag on much longer. She doesn’t like working late.”

“Well, that’s understandable. Who does? Anyway, you’d best get back upstairs. Your uncle will be wondering where you’ve got to. Oh, did you lock up the wardrobe room?”

“Of course. There are strange people on the loose.”

Charlotte laughed.

“Oh,” said Aaron. “I almost forgot. You asked about how the room gets cleaned.”

“The room?”

“The rehearsal room the police are using. It’s cleaned during the day when police officers are there. Not like a normal office that’s done at night.”

“Well, that makes sense. I hope they won’t miss the water bottle.”

“Wasn’t that yours?”

“No. I was just that parched, I took it and drank it. Someone must have left it behind.”

“Eew.”

“I was that desperate.”

As she trudged home, Charlotte considered the photos she’d seen on the police whiteboard and tried to work out what the police thought about them.

Brian Prentice. Well, she could see a motive for him. Perhaps Lauren had threatened to tell his wife they were having an affair. But what she couldn’t see was Brian actually killing her. She doubted he could have been sober enough for long enough to plan something as complicated as a murder or that he had anything like the will or determination she imagined would be required to actually carry out such a crime.

Aaron she could see, reluctantly. He hated Lauren and blamed her for bullying his cousin to death. And the police seemed very focused on the time between when Simon sent him out to get water and when he returned. So it looked as if he had opportunity and motive.

But Simon? She knew of no reason he would be on the shortlist of suspects. As far as she knew, Lauren’s death was an inconvenience—now he had to find a replacement for her. A complication and distraction he didn’t need just at the moment, so what possible motive could Simon have? And also, from everything she’d seen, Simon had been nothing but kind and helpful to Lauren. He’d cast her in the part and treated her well.

Harvey? Well, murder can sometimes be good for business, but not always. Ask any real estate agent trying to sell a house where someone was murdered. Generally speaking, people just don’t like death all that much.

A few minutes later, she unlocked the door to her bungalow and, after enjoying the tail-wagging greeting from Rupert, switched on the light. Still thirsty, she pulled a pitcher of water from the fridge and poured a tall glass. As she took a long sip, her thoughts returned to the list on the police whiteboard. For the names to be there, she thought, the police must not have been able to eliminate them from their inquiry. Maybe the men on that list just hadn’t been interviewed yet. Maybe they didn’t have a decent alibi. She set the glass on the counter and moved into the sitting room.

One name, though, that she would have expected to see there, wasn’t on the list. And that name was Lady Deborah. After all, when a man’s mistress gets killed, wouldn’t his wife be high on the list of suspects? There was nothing new about that particular crime, fueled by jealousy. But perhaps the police had already spoken to her and established her innocence. Or maybe they hadn’t got around to her yet. Or maybe they thought an English aristocrat above a crime like murder. If so, obviously they’d never heard of Lord Lucan.

Charlotte had never met Lady Deborah; they hadn’t moved in the same circles. Brian never told Charlotte where he and Lady Deborah had met, but she assumed
it had been at some smart party in Belgravia or Mayfair. Some women from privileged backgrounds were attracted to the artistic, bohemian side of life—look at Princess Margaret, the Queen’s sister, who had spent her twenties partying until all hours with musicians and actors and married society photographer Antony Armstrong-Jones in 1960 when she was twenty-nine.

Brian had simply told Charlotte in a halting, embarrassed way that he was finished with her and that he was going to marry Lady Deborah Roxborough. And just like that, it was over. She’d seen photographs of her replacement in British newspapers and magazines like
Country Life
and
The Lady
over the years and knew what she looked like. And more important to Charlotte, she could see how she dressed. Camel hair and Burberry coats. Launer handbags and Liberty scarves. Pearls. Understated stud earrings of precious stones. Nothing showy or vulgar: just classic good taste and superb quality that would last for years. And almost always mentioned in the articles were the Roxborough jewels—a fabulous collection that came into the family when the present Lord Roxborough’s great-grandmother, Helen, an American heiress to a candy-making fortune, married the ninth earl in the 1920s. Helen was one of a cluster of rich American girls, known as “dollar princesses,” who married into the British aristocracy in the early twentieth century.