Dead in the Water (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 1) (5 page)

She confirmed my opinion immediately. "It's a game for old folks, isn't it?" then realized her faux pas. "Oh, of course I don't mean—"

"That's all right," I told her. "Like you, I was forced to learn in order to become a partner for my aunt. However, I grew to like it. I admit few people of our generation have taken it up. We have too many other distractions these days, dozens of television channels, for one thing. Perhaps the fact that Bill Gates likes it may renew interest in the game."

"Bill Gates," Jason asked, "the Microsoft bloke?"

"That Bill Gates," I said.

The raised eyebrow and thoughtful expression on Jason's face made me think he might consider taking up the game, as if he just needed confirmation that someone important indulged in it to give him the necessary permission. An "in-crowd" wannabe.

"Do you have children?" he asked suddenly, changing the subject again. "When your mother and father came for Uncle Edward's funeral, I thought they mentioned a boy and a girl."

"They undoubtedly meant the twins, my younger brother and sister. There's a big gap in our ages. Bradley is a police officer in San Francisco, and Samantha works for a women's clothing store right now. What about you?"

"I have no children either. I've been married twice, but neither marriage produced any offspring. Not that it had anything to do with our divorce," he added.

"And what do you do, Jason?"

"Insurance."

I know nothing about insurance except there are a zillion kinds and someone is always urging us to buy half a zillion of them to protect against the uncounted hazards in today's world—mostly litigation-addicted lawyers, I suspect—so I just said the obvious. "And what kind do you sell?"

"Oh, I don't
sell
it." His tone made it sound as if selling ranked a step below touting horses at the racetrack. "I'm in statistical analysis, actuarial tables, that sort of thing. Very demanding."

Oh, sure.

I turned to Elizabeth. "Aunt Alice told me you're a teacher, and you have a daughter."

"Dorothea, like me, teaches school, but up in Durham. That's in northern England," she explained. After a pause, she added, "We all seem to be typical baby-boomers, don't we? A bit like some of the royals, the three of us divorced."

The thought sobered me, although I felt somewhat comforted to realize I had so much company in that regard. I also remembered I wouldn't have had to consider myself a divorced woman if I hadn't married Lamar Grant the year before, and that wouldn't have happened if Stephen hadn't had the bad luck to be driving a car that became the center of a ten-car smashup on one of L.A.'s highways that killed him before his time. Although it occurred long ago, my eyes filled with sudden tears.

Jason got to his feet and excused himself, left the room, and closed the door to the hall.

Elizabeth looked relieved to see him go, as if she found his company as pleasant as being chastised by an arrogant headmaster. She hadn't smiled all day, and I wondered if more upset her than a sudden—I hoped accidental—death on the premises.

I helped myself to another piece of candy, chocolate, in my opinion, being one of the basic food groups.

"Your mother is the same as ever, makes me feel as if it was only yesterday. Amazing, isn't it, how memories stay with us, even after so many years? I've always remembered the summer we spent here."

"Mum says we stayed three months, but it seemed longer."

"She tells me you've lived here about six years."

"Yes, my daughter was grown-up, so, rather than live alone, I moved here. Besides teaching school, I helped Mum with running the household, that is until Noreen showed up." Her tone told me once more she considered the woman no better than an up-to-no-good floozie.

"If no one liked her, it must have made for a very uncomfortable time."

"That's putting it mildly, indeed. We avoided her as much as possible. The whole family came together only at dinner. None of us learned to cook, and Annie insisted she'd prepare but one meal per evening. Eat then or do without."

I contemplated taking another chocolate from the dish, but decided against it. "Jason's changed a bit, hasn't he?"

"I dare say we all grow out of our childhood selfishness and bullying, even Jason." She paused. "Not that I see him often. We may all live in the same house, but we have different interests, to say nothing of jobs."

"Does he still call himself 'Jason Cornell'?"

"No, he realized the advantage of keeping the family name, so he uses 'J. Cornell Mason.'"

So what do people call him now, Corny? "Cornell was his real father's name?"

"Yes, Raymond Cornell. He died. Jason was five, I believe, when Uncle William married Aunt Beryl, and he adopted him soon afterward." She paused. "I feel sorry for him. He wants very much to have a son to inherit Mason Hall. He's not keen to have Chaz take over. It must have been very difficult for him when William and Beryl had a son of their own."

"Chaz may turn out all right eventually." I tried to sound positive but didn't believe my own words.

"And pigs may fly," Elizabeth said under her breath.

Suddenly, the door burst open, and Jason came back into the room. He'd changed his clothes since leaving us and now wore brown corduroy trousers, a dark shirt, and no tie. I also noticed his face had become almost purple with rage.

"It won't do," he shouted. "It really won't do."

"What won't do?" Elizabeth asked.

"It's the office! It's been ransacked."

Elizabeth and I jumped from our chairs. "What?" we asked simultaneously.

"It's been ransacked," he repeated. "Drawers left open, files and papers, everything, gone."

"Surely nobody's broken in." Elizabeth headed for the door. "I'll get Mum. Perhaps she knows something." She hurried away.

Jason and I went into the great hall, turned left and entered the office, a relatively small room with one window, bookshelves, desk, filing cabinet, and a comfy-looking brown leather chair. We'd barely gone inside when Elizabeth returned, her mother in tow.

"What's all the hullabaloo?" Alice asked.

Jason repeated that the place had been ransacked, a giant case of overstatement. Yes, the desk drawers hung open and appeared empty, as did the two-drawer oak filing cabinet in the corner. Books still lined the shelves, however, and nothing lay scattered on the floor, no furniture overturned, not even pictures askew.

"Someone's been in here," Jason insisted.

"So they have." Alice planted her hands on her hips. "The police, that's who."

"And they've been allowed to do this?" His eyes bulged, and his hands clenched at his side.

"They told me they didn't need permission to look in a dead person's rooms, not when that person has died under mysterious circumstances."

"But what about—?"

Alice cut him off. "The inspector said they needed to look through the papers, and they'd return them shortly. Put them in four large boxes, they did, labeled them too. I had no choice but to let them. I meant to tell you."

Jason paced up and down on the carpeting. "But those are private papers. The police had no right—"

"Oh, calm down, Jason." Elizabeth remained in the doorway. "If they return them, what's the harm?"

He whirled to face her. "The harm is that those papers and other things pertain to the household, to our property."

In a way, I could understand Jason being upset. After all, police officers—probably even in England—made mistakes, were known to lose evidence, and so forth. I had a nagging feeling he had more reasons to be upset. Perhaps he knew something the rest of us didn't know, something pertaining to specific papers he normally kept in the office. Yet how could he? Until three weeks ago, Uncle Edward ran the family businesses, didn't he?

He answered my unspoken question while glaring at Elizabeth.

"Don't you see? Now both Edward and Noreen have died, someone has to take charge, see things are run properly."

"Do you mean you?"

"Of course. As next in line, my father should take over now, but you know he'd ask me to do it."

Elizabeth shrugged. "I suppose you're right."

"Of course I am." He pounded a fist into his palm. "This is damned awkward. What if they lose valuable documents?"

Alice looked shamefaced. "Sorry. The inspector told me most particular they'd be careful, but if you're concerned, you may ring him in the morning." As if anxious to avoid any more blame, she left the room.

Elizabeth followed. I lingered in the office, my curiosity aroused. While Jason continued to search all the drawers, as if expecting something to materialize out of the paper lint that might be left in them, I plopped myself into the leather chair. "What documents are kept here?"

He turned to me. "Business papers. You know we own quite a bit of land hereabouts, and the tenants pay rent, so we have receipts and bank statements, things of that sort."

"After Edward died, did Noreen take over handling those things?"

He ran his fingers over the desktop. "She pretended to understand how to manage the property, but she actually knew nothing about it. I offered to help, but she rebuffed me in no uncertain terms. Accused me of meddling." He looked up at me, his eyes narrowed, and his jaw tight. "The opposite is true. She had no right to be in this office or manage anything." His voice rose on the last words.

"Perhaps Edward explained it all to her."

Jason straightened up and glared. "Edward was incompetent as well. I'm the one who took care of things."

"You?"

"Of course I let Edward think he made the decisions, but it's I who made the business run smoothly."

"Even after Noreen came?"

"No, not then. For the past three years, ever since they married, Noreen insisted Edward didn't want my help, that he trusted her."

"And—"

"And now that she's gone, I need desperately to check everything, find out what's happened. For all we know, she's cancelled leases, spent all the money from the banking accounts, squandered our whole life's savings."

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. "Sorry. Didn't mean to burden you with this."

"I'm family too. Naturally I'm concerned for the rest of you." I meant that sincerely, because, as I'd told the inspector, I didn't think I'd inherit anything myself. I got up and moved toward the door. "If I can help—"

He sighed and calmed down somewhat. "Thank you, Olivia. Even so, you can understand, I'm sure, why I'm so upset to find the police have carted off all the records."

"Of course, but Aunt Alice did what she felt she had to, and, as she suggested, you can telephone the inspector tomorrow."

"Right." He sighed again, and as we left the room, he switched off the lights. "Will you be retiring for the night, then?"

"Yes, soon. It's been a long day." Actually, it seemed like a week at least. I found it hard to believe so much had happened since I climbed out of bed in San Ricardo Monday morning. "I'll look for Aunt Alice and Elizabeth and say good night."

He walked away down the great hall, and I went back to the drawing room, but Elizabeth wasn't there. I found her in the small sitting room, the television set tuned to a sitcom featuring working-class characters. She seemed to be staring into space rather than watching it, and I perched on the edge of a chair and listened. I heard a laugh track, similar to American television, so I assumed it was meant to be funny.

Tuning it out, my mind returned to what Jason had said about Noreen. Had she messed up the business? Could Jason have killed her to stop her ruining the family's finances?

Whoa. Why even think such a thing? Surely Noreen drowned accidentally. Yet I couldn't erase my feeling the police considered it murder. Frankly, so did I. Everyone hated the woman. If someone did kill her, Jason seemed to have an especially strong motive.

I forced my thoughts away from the subject, and, after five more minutes listening to Brit-speak I found difficult to decode, I said good night to Elizabeth and went looking for Aunt Alice. I found her in the kitchen, pulling a baggy gray sweater from a hook next to the back door.

"Ah, Olivia. I'm about to take Mr. Tarkington for a walk before bedtime. Not that I fancy it, let me tell you. I'm not keen to be outdoors on the footpath this time of night, not after Noreen possibly got herself killed doing the same." She shivered slightly. "But someone's got to do it, haven't they?"

"There's nothing to be afraid of. You don't really believe some stranger killed Noreen, do you? Aunt Beryl is mistaken about that. Elizabeth thinks she drowned because she was inebriated."

"I'm sure she's right." Still, she made no move to put on the sweater.

"I'll do it," I told her. Tark, apparently already deciding who should take him out, sniffed around my ankles and looked up at me with pleading eyes.

"What a good idea. And see how he likes you." She pulled the dog's leash from another hook and handed it to me along with the sweater.

"You'd best take the lead until he knows you better, but you don't have to go all the way to the lily pond. The little garden out back here will do very nicely."

I pulled on the sweater, a bulky knit that smelled of cooking odors and felt scratchy. Then I fastened Tark's leash to his collar, not an easy task because he knew the ritual meant he'd be going outside, and he could hardly wait. He wriggled his little body and pushed his nose under my hand, as if that would make me hurry.

Grinning, Alice opened the back door. "We shall have to put in one of those little doors they make for pets. A cat flap or, in this case, a dog flap."

Outdoors, the still air smelled like freshly cut grass. I heard distant cars rumbling by on the main road and an occasional bird chirp. Although it was not cold, I hugged the sweater to me, feeling somewhat vulnerable despite my reassuring words to Alice. There's nothing quite so dark as a night sky in the country, far from city lights, and the sliver of moon and sprinkling of stars did nothing to relieve it. The pale yellow square coming from a kitchen window diminished as I walked down the path, and my own body made deep shadows across it.

Tark alternately tugged at the leash to get me to hurry and stopped to smell whatever appealed to him. Where the garden path ended, he stopped again, sniffing for a long time at the underside of a bush, and a sudden tingle ran up my spine. Had Tark found something sinister? I visualized one of those grisly scenes in films where someone comes upon a severed foot or arm.

I told myself not to be foolish, and a minute later Tark abandoned the bush, and my heartbeat returned to normal. I let him loose in a weed-covered spot before coaxing him back into the house, where I hung up his leash, filled his water bowl, and headed upstairs to my room. Finally, dressed in my nightgown, cozy in bed, and drifting off to sleep, I heard a scratching noise in the hallway. I got up and opened the door a crack. Mr. Tarkington stood there, stubby tail wagging, waiting to be let in.

Rather than put on my robe and take him back downstairs to shut him in the kitchen, I let him enter. He looked longingly at my bed but seemed too small to jump up on it, so I pulled the knitted afghan from its spot at the foot of the bed and placed it on the floor. Tark knew at once what to do, got on, turned around three times, and settled down to sleep. I'd been adopted by a dog.

Yet did this dog know something the rest of us didn't?

*  *   *

I woke in the morning to a wet tongue licking my chin. I decided either Tark had somehow managed to climb onto the bed after all or he'd figured out I might not let him stay in the room the night before if I thought he could do it, so he had pretended to be unable. Or perhaps he'd preferred the impromptu doggie bed.

At any rate, I realized my new charge expected me to take him for a morning walk too, so I dressed in the one sporty outfit I'd brought with me, dark slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt, and we went downstairs.

In the kitchen, Annie, standing at the stove, greeted me. "You're up early, I see."

"Are you fixing breakfast?" I felt foolish for stating the obvious, and suddenly I felt transported to San Ricardo a dozen or more years before.

Stephen would come home from work, find me in the kitchen preparing dinner and ask, "What are you doing?"

So it became our little ritual. I'd say something silly, like, "I'm skiing," or "I'm washing my hair." Over time, the jokes became outrageous. I remember telling him I was flying in a hot air balloon, digging the Panama Canal, and killing spies like Double-O-Seven.

Tark brought me out of my reverie by nudging my ankles and then sitting in front of the door, so I announced I'd be taking the dog for a walk (as if Annie couldn't figure that out), fastened his leash, grabbed the baggy sweater, and went outdoors.

Under a bright sunny sky, I saw the garden we'd walked in the night before held both vegetables and flowers, with low shrubs at the edges. As it was now mid-September, those plots were sparsely filled. I recognized tomato plants and the tops of carrots on one side of the path, and a few small flowers on the other. The path didn't end there, as I'd assumed, but took a ninety-degree turn and soon met a gravel road going in two directions: toward a few outbuildings including a garage and then curving in front of the house and leading to the main road.

Tark turned left, pulling on his leash, eager to explore the buildings. The garage, formerly a carriage house no doubt and large enough for at least four cars, was closed, and a stairway at one side led up to a narrow balcony and what appeared to be an apartment above. I saw windows and some wooden doors under a thick tile roof.

Another stone building, covered almost completely with ivy, turned out to be an old stable. Its door stood open, admitting daylight, and Tark, nose to the ground, darted inside. I saw a small tractor, some garden tools and similar equipment, not horses, and tugged the dog's leash to pull him out. Next stood a wooden potting shed, and around the corner I found another garden, this one planted in many rose bushes and some tall flowers whose names I didn't know. I've never been an outdoor person and know little about growing things. Some people want to go back to the land. I want to go back to the four-star hotel.

I looked around for a gardener but didn't see him. Or her. Why not a "her"? Once, in Hawaii, I saw two women delivering full-sized refrigerators.

But it was a male gardener, after all. When I returned to the path, a slender, fiftyish man stepped out of the potting shed in front of me. His face looked like mismatched pieces put together in a collage, and his red hair appeared to have been combed with an eggbeater. He held a battered-looking, wide-brimmed hat in one hand and garden clippers in the other. I stepped toward him, hand outstretched.