Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall (22 page)

Roxy's eyes widened. “
And
he left the meeting in a hurry. Where is he now?”

“He went back to London,” I said as I realized exactly what Roxy was implying. “There is something else,” I went on. “Ogwell mentioned that one of the SUV's headlights had been broken.”

“We'll want to see that,” Roxy said. “Bastard must have run Joyce off the road.”

“Let's not jump to conclusions,” said Shawn.

Much as I didn't want to agree, I had a feeling that Roxy could be right. I'd seen the skid marks on the road myself. It would certainly explain Valentine's hasty disappearance.

“Thanks,” said Shawn. “You've been really helpful, Kat. Roxy—we'd better get down to Ogwell and take a look at that car.”

I headed back to my Golf feeling very unsettled. If Valentine had hit Joyce's mobility scooter, why would he then go and remove the placards, leave his ox bone cane in the field, and abandon his SUV on Hopton's Crest? Wouldn't he have at least called an ambulance? Pulling out my iPhone I tried to call Valentine one more time.

To my astonishment, this time it connected.

“Hello? Valentine!” I exclaimed. “It's Kat. I've been trying to reach you.”

There was a long pause. I knew someone was there. I could hear the sounds of breathing. “Hello?” I said again. But with a click, the phone went dead.

I was completely baffled. What on earth was going on? Why would Valentine answer and then promptly hang up?

Frustrated, I tossed my mobile into my tote bag, switched on the ignition, and set off for Dartmouth.

I'd just had a brilliant idea.

 

Chapter Eighteen

At Buzz Café in Dartmouth, I ordered my coffee and bought three baguettes for Mum, Alfred, and me for lunch.

After settling into my favorite corner, I jumped on the Internet and started to search.

Valentine Prince-Avery's name popped up in several places and, yes, it would appear he had been listed as a consultant for several projects with the Department for Transport but the last entry was dated in 2012. There was, however, an article on a horrific car accident that he had caused that led to his being banned from driving for four years.

Things started to fall into place.

On Monday night, Valentine had not only been driving illegally, he'd been driving drunk as well. Little wonder he'd not reported Joyce's accident and simply rushed back to London.

I was disgusted. What a coward. I doubted he'd show his face in Little Dipperton again.

I turned my attention to finding out all I could on HS3. A paragraph confirmed that a bid for a high-speed line from Cardiff to London had been submitted to the Department for Transport. There was no mention of an “extended line” to the West Country but that didn't mean anything. When the highly controversial HS2 was first discussed, the long-term goal to have the route continue all the way to Scotland had been a closely guarded secret.

I Googled Operation Bullet and was surprised to see that a website was already in place with StopBullet as a domain name. There was one of my many recycled headshots along with the usual publicity spiel that mentioned
Fakes & Treasures
. A donation link with a barometer showed that fifteen thousand pounds had already been raised. The fund-raiser auction announcement took up half the page. I felt really uncomfortable. As I feared, the whole thing had been positioned as if the entire campaign had been my idea!

I turned my attention to Benedict Scroope but the only reference I could find was connected to the sale of the Thornton Park estate in 1995. Benedict was mentioned as the sole heir and—just as he had told us—had been forced to sell to pay the death duties. Benedict had then “gone abroad,” which was exactly what Lavinia and Eric had said.

A quick check of my e-mails confirmed that my appointment with Colleen Fraser, my estate agent, was set for Saturday afternoon at 4
P.M.
She'd sent a photograph of the details of the shop close to Spitalfields Market. It was a Grade II listed property that had been built in the early 1800s with large sash windows and plenty of light. The flat above had been “tastefully” renovated with the installation of a new kitchen/dining room on the first floor and two spacious bedrooms and a bathroom on the second. The attic had been extended into an open-plan sunroom with skylights in the roof and a tiny balcony. Colleen had said there were two other interested parties and urged me not to wait too long.

Even though I suspected it was just a ploy to get me to put in a quick offer, I knew I wasn't ready to leave Mum with Alfred quite yet. I stalled and sent back an e-mail saying that I had limited access to e-mail—which was true—and that I would call to discuss the property toward the end of the week. If it was sold in the meantime, so be it.

I swiftly dealt with a dozen or so work-related e-mails including two requests for me to do valuations from collectors who would pay generously for my time and travel. Once again, I was annoyed at being put on the spot for the auction. My plan of returning to London seemed to be fading fast.

I decided against checking my fan club e-mails because there was bound to be something scathing following my appearance in the
Daily Post
with my “new man.” I had thought, when I retired from television that all this hoopla would be over.

Finally, out of habit, I checked my mother's “Krystalle Storm” website. There she was, airbrushed to death with her coiffed platinum hair and a string of fake diamonds around her neck. If I didn't know better, I'd never have recognized her in a million years. On Mum's lap was a caramel-colored Pekinese she liked to call Truly Scrumptious—a dog that did not exist. Since Alfred had helped create my mother's physical alter ego and now claimed to be her business manager, I knew I was making the right decision by staying in Devon a little longer.

Mum's home page on her website announced that following Vera Pugsley's unexpected “fatal accident,” her husband Eric was determined to “live his beloved Vera's lifelong dream” and visit her favorite author in “honor of Vera's memory.”

The three winning short stories were listed. I printed them off for Mum. Maybe she'd get inspired to spice up her current book from other lovers' tales of lust and angst.

Fiona—the barista—brought over a brown bag containing the baguettes and a carafe of coffee. She topped up my cup. “We're so pleased that you've agreed to be the spokesperson for Stop the Bullet,” she said shyly. “Eric was in here yesterday,” Fiona went on. “He said the village is really determined to fight it.”

“Eric Pugsley comes in here?” I said sharply.

“He uses the Internet,” said Fiona. “He's got an eBay account.” She pointed to her shoes—black Chanel pumps. “I bought these from him on eBay and Eric delivered them personally. I didn't realize that Eric was selling shoes. I asked him if they fell off the back of a lorry because they're designer but he told me there was nothing wrong with them. Aren't they great?”

“They're very pretty” was all I managed to say.

I was dumbfounded. Eric's wife Vera's collection of designer shoes had rivaled those of Imelda Marcos and Vera had had at least one hundred and fifty pairs. I had seen her collection at their cottage and calculated that Vera had to have spent at least thirty thousand pounds on shoes alone.

Eric selling his dead wife's shoes was a macabre idea but although it was something I could never imagine doing, I wasn't surprised to hear he was.

The moment Fiona was back behind the counter, I signed into my own eBay account. It took me less than a minute to find Eric Pugsley.

“Oh. My. God,” I whispered.

It wasn't just Vera's shoes that Eric was selling.

M
EET WORLD
-
FAMOUS AUTHOR
K
RYSTALLE
S
TORM AT HER LUXURY HOME IN
I
TALY

T
AKE YOUR LOVED ONE OR A COMPANION ON
A
N ALL
-
EXPENSE
-
PAID TRIP TO THE
A
MALFI
C
OAST

T
IME TO GO
:
2DS 23 HRS

S
TARTING
B
ID £2000

C
URRENT BID
:
£6
,
575

I was flabbergasted. Eric was auctioning off Vera's prize!

Mum was going to have a complete meltdown when I told her.

Wearily, I turned off my laptop, gathered up my belongings and the bag of baguettes, and went back to my car to head home.

Twenty minutes later I pulled into the Carriage House courtyard to find my mother waiting for me outside. She was huddled in a winter coat and perched on the top step of the stone mounting block.

I opened the window. “You know what they say happens if you sit on a cold surface.”

But Mum didn't laugh. She got into the passenger side and slammed the door.

“Did you buy any lunch?” she demanded.

“Yes.” I handed her the brown bag.

Mum peered inside. “Why did you buy three?”

“One is for Alfred.”

“Sod him.”

I took one look at her face and knew something had happened.

“I'll give it to him,” I said. “I have to get my catalog anyway.”

Inside the Carriage House the mess was indescribable. There was even a hole in the plaster where a chair leg had punctured the cob wall. It was impossible to get to the kitchen without scrambling over the furniture that now completely blocked the hall. The other option was to walk out of the front door, around the building, and in through the kitchen. Primrose-yellow paint was splattered everywhere.

“Here,” I said, handing Alfred his baguette. “I'm afraid I can't get to the kitchen to get you a napkin.”

“Iris isn't very happy with me,” said Alfred. “But I swear on my mother's grave that this will all be cleared up by the time you get back.”

“I hope for your sake it is.”

I dashed upstairs and got my catalog and returned to the car where Mum was sitting, arms folded with a long face. We drove off, back in the direction I had just come from.

“Did you see it?” Mum said finally. “Did you see all that mess?”

“Alfred said he was going to clear it up. He said, I quote, ‘I swear on my mother's grave.'”

“Of course he'd say that. Aunt June didn't have a grave. Her ashes were scattered over Lake Windermere.” Mum gave a heavy sigh. “Frank was so tidy. Frank wore overalls and put down dustsheets. Frank took great care with his paintbrushes.” Mum bit her lip. “Why isn't Frank here?”

I reached over and squeezed Mum's hand. “I'm sorry. I'm sure Alfred will do just as good a job.”

“He's not even using a primer!” she wailed. “Are you sure you can't stay longer? I know it's your life and I don't want to be a bother, but—”

“It's okay, Mum,” I said gently. “Of course I'll stay a bit longer. At least until Uncle Alfred finishes painting the sitting room.”

“That means you'll move back permanently.” She cracked a small smile. “But I don't want him in your bedroom.”

“Nor do I!”

“You know what I mean!” Mum said. “It's all coming back to me now. Getting old is a funny thing. I'm remembering odd things about Alfred now.”

“It's called selective memory,” I said. “And believe me, I have that, too.”

“He was always messy when he was a boy,” Mum grumbled on. “He's only got a few things in that horrible old duffel bag but somehow, he's just spread himself out.”

“We'll just have to force him to take William's flat,” I said.

“What happens if William comes back?”

I stifled a groan. “It's highly unlikely but let's cross that bridge when we come to it. Alfred may hate it here and leave of his own accord.”

“From your mouth to God's ears.”

Mum stared out of the window at the countryside speeding by.

“Mum…” I began tentatively. “There's something else I found out today.”

“Don't tell me,” she muttered. “You've discovered that Alfred is a serial killer.”

“Of course not,” I said. “It's just … when I was in Dartmouth I went on the Internet—”

“If this is about me and my website, I don't want to hear it—”

“Eric is auctioning off his trip to Italy on eBay.”

“What!” Mum shrieked. “He's
what
!”

“I just thought you'd like to know. Maybe you can talk to your publisher. After all, they're funding the trip. Surely they can say he can't win the holiday and then sell it.”

“How much is he selling it for?” Mum said suddenly.

“The bid is at six thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds and there is still two days to go.”

“You bid for it.”

“Why don't you bid for it,” I retorted. “No one will connect Iris Stanford with Krystalle Storm.”

“Don't be ridiculous. My publisher wants photographs of the winner having dinner with me. You have to bid for it. We could build a fake terrace and have Alfred Photoshop us drinking Prosecco.”

“And I'll be recognized and everyone will think I'm a Krystalle Storm fanatic.”

“You are a fan, aren't you?”

“Fine. If it makes you happy, I'll do it but first, call your publisher and tell him what's happening. Maybe he can prevent it.”

“Oh
God
! This is going to kill me! All this worry! I can't write when I'm worried,” she wailed again. “The last thing I can think about is tiffin—did you find my money?”

“Of course I didn't,” I said. “I would have told you if I had.”

“That dog must have buried it somewhere,” Mum said with a wail of dismay. “It could be anywhere!”