Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall (20 page)

“From the
dog
?”

“Yes. From the dog.” Patty thrust out her jaw. “And then thrown the bag away to frame me.”

“Why would a complete stranger want to frame you?” I exclaimed.

“Eric was out working in the fields with his tractor yesterday,” said Patty. “You should ask him.”

“I have asked Eric,” I said.

“Did you ask your railway man? Did you think of that,” said Patty spitefully, “or were you too loved up?”

“Valentine Prince-Avery?” I said. “I hardly know him to be—as you say, loved up—”

“He's been prowling around here, why couldn't he have taken it from that dog? Stan said he paid for his room in cash,” Patty went on. “Maybe that's where he got the cash from? Did you think about
that
before accusing me?”

Our conversation was going nowhere. Taking in the squalor of the cottage, lack of heating or phone, and Patty's new circumstances, I tried a different tack.

“Look, I know you found the money, Patty,” I said gently. “And that's okay. Why don't you give it back to me and we'll say nothing more about it.”

“My word's not good enough, is it?” she spat.

“Of course it is—”

“You think you are so special, don't you? The famous Katherine Stanford! What's it like to be you?” Patty's outburst took me off guard. “You think throwing all your money around will buy you friends but it won't. You'll never belong here. Never! Get out! Get out of my house and leave me to grieve.”

“I'm sorry, Patty,” I said quietly. “Just think about what I said. I'm serious about the reward and we'll say no more about it.”

“No! You think about what
I've
said!” Patty stabbed a finger at my chest. “I'm going to report you for harassment. And what's more, I'm going to the papers and I'm going to tell them everything about you and your
Valentine
.”

My stomach flipped over. It was exactly what I'd hoped to avoid. Sympathy for Patty had rapidly changed to anger. I just knew she was a thief! Without another word, I turned on my heel and tripped my way to the front door.

Outside, I gave into my anger. I was going to go straight to the police, which was exactly what I should have done right from the start.

It was on the outskirts of Dartmouth that all thoughts of Patty and the police vanished. Sitting on the forecourt of Ogwell Car Hire and decorated with ribbons and silver balloons was Valentine's metallic-blue Suzuki, license plate
LUXRY
1
.

On impulse, I pulled off the road and parked my Golf in one of the three slots designated for customer parking.

Of course, it explained who had towed Valentine's car the afternoon before, but again, I wondered who had made the phone call. I still couldn't shake off the feeling of foreboding—not helped by Alfred's dramatic “channeling” performance from the night before.

It was no good. I just wanted to know that there was nothing sinister about Valentine's disappearance. I just had to be sure.

 

Chapter Sixteen

Ogwell Car Hire used to be a filling station. Three rusting Shell petrol pumps stood outside a brick building that was now boarded up although the sign—
GARAGE
—was still visible in stained-glass lettering above the double doors.

As car rental companies go, this establishment was definitely on the low end of the scale, which didn't tally with the sophisticated Valentine I had met—albeit it briefly. It was also such an odd location to choose. It was miles from the main line station to London Paddington and made me wonder how Valentine had gotten here to pick up his car in the first place.

I heard my phone vibrate in my tote bag and grabbed it. Unfortunately, it was from David. Again. Today's text differed from his usual “
Thinking of you
” to “
Must talk to you. Urgent.
” Obviously he was trying a new tactic.

I headed for the Portakabin that served as the office.

Inside the cramped space, two women in their late forties were standing engaged in an animated conversation next to a bank of filing cabinets. A kettle was on the boil. On top of the mini fridge sat a tower of Styrofoam cups, a jar of instant coffee, and a bowl of sugar sachets and powdered Coffee-mate. In the background I could hear the Judi Spiers Show playing on BBC Radio Devon. It was one of my mother's favorite radio programs—and mine, too.

The waiting area consisted of a small vinyl bench and a table strewn with a stack of maps of the area. The pale green walls were plastered with posters advertising local tourist attractions—most notably Greenway, Agatha Christie's summer home. On the ceiling I noticed a whisper of last year's Christmas tinsel.

On one of the two workstations along with the usual office clutter, sat a copy of the
Daily Post
.

I called out a greeting and they both turned around and seemed surprised to have a customer.

The pair reminded me of Laurel and Hardy, the comedy double act from the 1930s. One was thin and nervous-looking with short lank hair whilst the other was overweight with hard, piggy eyes. They were dressed in matching black trousers with white shirts and black ties.

“I was looking for Mr. Ogwell?”

“He's dead,” said Hardy bluntly. She pointed to a name badge on her shirt pocket. “I'm his daughter, Susan.”

“I'm sorry.” I just couldn't seem to say the right thing today.

“Oh. My God!” tittered Laurel, who was, to my amusement, actually called Laurel. “You're Rapunzel from
Fakes & Treasures
.”

Here we go.

“We love that show, don't we, Susan?” she gushed.

“I prefer the soaps.”

“What have you done to your face?” Laurel asked. “Walked into a door?”

“I fell off a horse,” I said.

“It's funny seeing people in the papers and then in the flesh,” Laurel went on. “Like I'm in a dream. I was just reading about you this morning in the
Post.
”

“Oh, is that what you were gawking at,” said Susan. “She loves celebrity stories. Now we'll never hear the end of it.”

Laurel reddened. “And if you don't mind me saying so, I'm glad you gave David the boot. I never thought he was good enough for you. I think his wife, Trudy, looks like Cruella de Vil from
101 Dalmations
, don't you?”

With Trudy's sharp angular bob I'd always thought the same but just gave a polite smile. This was exactly why I had turned my back on being a C-list celebrity. I loathed being public property where complete strangers felt they knew me well enough to comment on my personal life.

“And we've already met your new man.” Laurel giggled. “Haven't we, Susan?”

“I told her I'd fire her if she called the papers,” said Susan.

A familiar sinking feeling began in my stomach. Laurel was already reaching for the
Daily Post
. She handed it to me. “Look.”

Trudy Wynne's infamous
Star Stalkers
column was on the front page. In the bottom right corner was a photo that Trudy constantly recycled showing me, wiping away my tears. It had been taken a year ago when I'd attended a “Wish-Upon-A-Star” charity event for terminally ill children. One brave little girl had fulfilled her dream of swimming with dolphins and it just made me cry. Today, however, the caption said
BROKENHEARTED RAPUNZEL FINDS LOVE AGAIN. TURN TO PAGE
3
AND MEET HER NEW MAN.

“Good for you, I say,” said Laurel. “He was ever so charming. A real
prince
!”

Even though I knew it was a mistake, I couldn't help myself and took up the newspaper.

I turned to page 3 to find an old photograph of David and me pictured at a London restaurant. Photoshop had put in a jagged black line between us—
RAPUNZEL! DUMPED!
Alongside were two more images. One showed the Hare & Hounds pub sign—
SECRET RENDEZVOUS
—and the other, a photo of me emerging from Valentine's bedroom—
LOVERS' TRYST.
It had been heavily Photoshopped so that Valentine's hand that had been innocently hanging by his side was now firmly placed around my waist.

I was furious. No wonder David had been calling me. He must have seen it.

There was no prize for guessing the culprit. It was either Patty or Angela—both had seen me on the landing and yet could they have gotten the photographs out so quickly? The meeting had been held on Monday night so the images would have to have been e-mailed immediately to make the Wednesday edition. Patty had made it clear that she disliked me and was definitely hard up for money but, as she kept on saying, she did not have a landline let alone a mobile phone—and definitely not the Internet. Angela, however, did—unless someone from the village was the culprit.

Yet over the past few weeks, I'd found the locals very protective of my celebrity status. Mum liked to compare my presence to that of “Kate and William” when they lived in Anglesey. I just couldn't think who else would have done it unless it was one of Trudy's professional photographers.

I wouldn't put it past her. Her wretched column wasn't called
Star Stalkers
just for fun. I recalled seeing three little alcoves dotted along the landing that could easily hide a photographer. The pub had been full of people—many of whom I didn't recognize—and even though I'd used the back staircase through the Snug, I knew from experience that the paparazzi just seemed to have an instinctive homing device for their prey.

“Do you know who took it?” Susan said, breaking into my thoughts.

“No. There were a lot of people in the pub that night.”

“Can't you sue them for libel or something?” said Laurel in a complete turn about face. “I think it's awful that people can pry into your private life like that. It's bad enough when the next-door neighbor overhears me and my husband having a row.”

“It's not pleasant,” I said.

“Well, you can tell your Mr. Prince-Avery that we're very annoyed with him,” said Susan. “That Suzuki is our only luxury car.”

“But we're very grateful that he called to tell us where it was,” Laurel said hastily.

“Valentine called you?” I said.

“Yesterday after lunch,” said Susan. “But he didn't bother to leave the keys in the car and Laurel lost the spare set.”

“They're here somewhere, Susan, I—”

“So we had to hire a tow truck to go and pick the car up.”

“The AA came out so it was okay,” said Laurel.

“It was
not
okay, Laurel,” Susan exclaimed. “It cost money that we won't get back. Not only that, we had to replace one of the headlights.”

“I thought it was cracked before,” protested Laurel.

“I would never allow a luxury car to be rented with a cracked headlight.”

“Can't you ask Mr. Prince-Avery to post the keys?” I said, hoping to save Laurel from further misery.

Susan glared at Laurel again.

“I … I—”

“Laurel did not get his address and he is not answering his mobile phone,” said Susan. “Perhaps you could ask him?”

Of course I had had no more luck in reaching Valentine than they had. “Didn't he pay by credit card?”

“Cash,” said Susan. “We're one of the few car rental companies in the area that don't use credit cards. That's why we can offer better rates. We don't have to pay a commission.”

“But surely he gave you his driver's license?” I said.

“What do you think?” Susan gave Laurel another icy glare.

“I've already said I'm sorry, Susan.” Laurel thrust out her jaw. “We got to talking about Africa. My husband is going to take me on safari for my fiftieth birthday. He told me I should visit some island off the coast of Zanzibar. Pemba something.”

I remembered Valentine's lucky key fob. “You mean, Pemba Island?”

“That's it!” said Laurel excitedly. “You see, that kind of inside information isn't in the travel brochures, is it?”

“Good. I'm glad we've got that straight,” said Susan sarcastically. “I suppose you've come to pick up the stuff he left in the car? Laurel…?”

“I'll get it.” Laurel went to the back of the room and returned with a plastic container marked
LOST PROPERTY.
She set it down on the table and took off the lid, removing a pair of brown leather gloves and the Chillingford Court auction catalog.

“Here. Take them—and you can tell him that we disposed of the placards that he left in the boot.”

“The placards?” I said sharply.

“We had to jimmy the lock open,” said Susan. “Another expense.”

“Did the placards say
HS3 CROSSES FROM HERE
?”

“Is that something to do with the new railway line?” said Laurel.

“Yes.”

“We thought so. I'm against it, we're all against it, aren't we, Susan,” said Laurel. “And I thought, good for him for taking them down.”

I didn't want to explain that it had been Valentine who had put them up.

“The placards were broken, weren't they, Susan?” said Laurel. “All smashed—”

“We chucked them in the skip out the back. If you want, I'll show them to you.”

“They were like that when we found them, honest,” said Laurel.

“You're welcome to take them,” said Susan.

I shook my head. “No thanks.”

“Do you want to take his gloves?” said Susan.

I suppressed a sigh. “Yes. Of course.”

There was an awkward pause until Laurel blurted, “Susan took the two bottles of wine. It looked really expensive.”

“As far as I'm concerned, that was payment for the cracked headlight,” said Susan coldly.