Empty Nest (22 page)

On the last leg of our journey, as we passed Chelmsford, I confess that my mind unhitched itself from the murder of Freddy Peacock and Geoffrey Addleton's involvement to more pressing issues. St. Ives had not been kind to my clothes: Estella had spit up on my good cardigan as well as a serviceable jacket, and Emmet had dribbled tomato soup onto my only decent pair of trousers. I'd scraped sheep dropping from my shoes, but couldn't wear them again until they had a proper cleaning, and so had wrapped them in a plastic bag. Now I had on denims frayed at the bottom, a sweater pilled and with a hole at one shoulder, and trainers, one lace broken. Would Villiers let me in the door?

We traveled down a long drive, tires crunching on the chippings. Darkness surrounded us. Villiers Country Hotel, nee Netherford House, sat on a rise proclaiming its superiority and, just in case someone hadn't noticed, spotlights threw up their illumination on the stone edifice. Michael pulled up to the front entry, and we were at once surrounded by uniformed young men who opened car doors and took the key and our cases.

I stopped just inside, unable to go further. The grand entry, twice the size of the one at Hoggin Hall, had red walls, green brocade drapes, and two-story windows with pillars and desks in burled wood. In the center of the room, a curved staircase as wide as a street swept up to a mezzanine. I was sure everyone in the room wore designer clothes. I draped my arms over my chest. Where was my flirty pink dress when I needed it? Stuck in the wardrobe at Hoggin Hall, doing me no good.

“What do you think?” Michael asked.

“We don't have to stay here,” I said. “We could find a B&B in the next village.”

He put his arm round my waist. “I think we deserve it,” he said.

A short woman dressed in a teal business suit approached us, phone in hand. “Michael, lovely to see you again.”

“Char,” Michael said, shaking her hand. “Thanks so much for squeezing us in. Julia”—he turned to me—“this is Char Arkell, manager of Villiers. Char, Julia Lanchester.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, and we shook.

“You're very welcome to Villiers—Michael said you remember the place when it was Netherford House?”

“Well, I've heard tell of it. I work with Lord Fotheringill on his estate near Bury Saint Edmunds.”

Her phone went off. “Sorry, I must run,” Char said to us. “Enjoy your evening.”

I glanced at a server walking past—even she was better dressed than I.

Michael gave me a nudge. “You can come further in, you know.”

“No, I don't think I can.” I picked at my sweater. “I'm not quite dressed for it—and I've nothing to wear to dinner.”

“I don't think it would matter to them—and it certainly wouldn't matter to me. But if you'd like something else…”

He nodded toward the staircase. Behind it, I could see an arcade. Shops! My spirits lifted. After all, what had I been spending my money on? Nothing.

“Well, I suppose I could take a look. Where will you be?”

“I'll check in and go up with the bags,” Michael said. “We've a table booked for eight o'clock. Will you come up and change?”

No time for that. “No, I'll meet you back down here. Wish me luck.” He gave me a kiss.

I crossed the lobby, bypassed the jewelry window, and didn't bother with the china and crystal. I slowed at the dress shop, took a deep breath, and strolled in, hoping the clerk would think I was an eccentric rock star who dressed as she pleased instead of some commoner.

“Hello, good evening,” said a voice. I didn't see her until a frock hanging on a dress form wiggled. From behind it appeared a young woman with elbow-length, jet-black hair, pearly white skin, black fingernail polish, a fair-sized stud in her nose, and maroon lips lined in kohl. Her clothing followed suit.

“Are you still open?”

“God, yes, we're always open,” she said as she carried a stack of cashmere scarves to the counter without looking at me. “It's our remarkable service, you see—we must be available at all times, because you never know when this dame or that marchioness might forget that she's spending the weekend at such a place and not bring a thing to wear and must rush in and buy a dress that cost eight hundred quid to be worn only the once.” The scarves deposited, she glanced up at me and blushed. “Sorry, that isn't you, is it?”

“Not for eight hundred quid, it isn't,” I said, losing all hope.

“Nah, I didn't really mean that—it's only my mum made me come in today because Sarah that works here is off sick.”

“Your mum…”

“She's the hotel manager.”

“Char?”

Panic crossed the girl's face. “Do you know her? You won't tell her I said all that, will you?”

“Certainly not”—I took a quick look at her nametag—“Brit. I'm Julia.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she said as she hung up a shimmery skirt that had lain in a heap on the glass counter. “I don't mind working, really—I hardly ever get over here these days. Reminds me of when I was growing up. My mum was housekeeper here when it was Netherford House.” As she spoke, Brit pulled a few frocks off the rack and held them up to me, one by one, in an absentminded fashion.

“You lived here?”

“Yeah, well, we moved here when I was eleven. Mum stayed on when the hotel people offered her the manager's post,” she said as she chose the most amazing emerald green dress with a black-beaded bodice and low, squared-off neck. It had a cinched waist with a keyhole back, and a full, bell-shaped skirt with black petticoats beneath. I loved it.

“Here”—she held it out—“why don't you have a go?”

I reached out and had almost touched it when I saw the price tag dangling from the sleeve. I pulled my hand away as if I'd been stung.

“I'd better not.”

“G'wan. Can't hurt. It'd look lovely with your hair.”

“Right, well, cost nothing to try.”

The dress slipped on as if it were made for me. Brit stood behind me as I gazed at my transformed self in the mirror. “Suits you,” she said.

“Yeah, well, I can't get this one. Do you have anything on sale?”

Brit disappeared in the back, coming out with a perfectly serviceable but totally unromantic sheath number in a pale pink that was well within my budget but left little to wonder why it had been relegated to the back room. Behind the curtain again, I shed the green beauty, handed it out to Brit, and pulled on its pallid replacement. “Do you know of anyone else besides your mum who stayed on to work when this became Villiers?”

“There were a few, but I'd say they've all left by now.”

I frowned at myself in the mirror—let down by the dress and by the dead end I'd hit in this tiny inroad into Villiers and its past life.

“Except old Mrs. Penny, of course,” Brit said. “She's still here—couldn't shift her if you tried. Or her stuff.”

I stepped out from behind the curtain. Brit looked at the dress and wrinkled her nose.

“Who's Mrs. Penny?” I asked, my back to the mirror and the emerald green dress that hung next to it.

“She was housekeeper before Mum—been here eons. The family gave her a cottage when she retired and had it written into the sales agreement that the hotel owners would let her stay—she must be about a hundred and ten by now. She's a recluse—won't talk to anyone but Mum.”

Mrs. Penny. Recluse. I filed that away to tell Michael. I looked again at the price tag on the pale pink dress. “Well,” I said, but didn't have the conviction to continue.

“So, you having a weekend break with that special bloke?” Brit asked.

I smiled and blushed. “Sort of.” I went back behind the curtain. I should pay for the dress and walk out in it, but instead, I took it off.

An arm thrust through the curtain. It held the emerald dress.

“Brit, I can't. I wish I could, but it's too…”

“Borrow it. It's just the one night. Mum can't say no—it's one of mine.”

I poked my head out. “This is your dress?”

“My design. I'm in fashion,” she said, casually flipping a long piece of hair over her shoulder. She shrugged. “Well, trying to be. Mum lets me slip one or two of my own creations into stock. It'll be good publicity for me, you walking all over the hotel in it.”

I clutched the dress to my chest. “Oh, thank you.”

“If anyone asks, tell them it's a Brilliant by Brit! design. You can see the tag on the side seam.”

“Do you have cards? I'll hand them out.”

Brit had even let me borrow a pair of strappy black heels from the inventory. I thought I might take several strolls through the lobby and around the bar and dining room—I could be one of those models that stops at your table and speaks in a quiet voice. “Beaded bodice and cinched waist give the design a detailed and handcrafted look. A Brilliant by Brit! design. You can find her…”

I peeked into the bar mumbling those words, wondering if I should go ahead in and order a drink. There, I saw more elegance. Scattered round the room were leather chairs with wide, cushioned arms, low tables with clusters of votive candles, and leather-backed stools along the bar. Mirrored shelves with colorful liquor bottles lined the wall. I scanned the bar seats and spotted a free stool next to a woman who, even from the back, oozed sophistication. In front of her sat some dark cocktail in a short glass—it had a cherry on a spear that rested across the rim. She sat ramrod straight, her broad, graceful shoulders bare except for the crisscrossing of thin burgundy straps. Her gray hair, quite short, was swept back on the sides. She looked into the bar mirror, and my eyes met her frosty gaze—Detective Inspector Callow.

My heart leapt into my throat. I stumbled back into the lobby and fell against the wall, gasping for breath.

Michael walked up and took my hand. “What's wrong?”

I grabbed his arm and shook my head. Before I could speak, DI Callow appeared in the doorway. Tall to begin with, she wore heels and so now towered over us. Her strappy burgundy dress clung to her figure and ended midthigh. Her cheeks were tinged pink, although from embarrassment or makeup, I couldn't tell.

“Ms. Lanchester,” she said. “Mr. Sedgwick.”

“Inspector Callow,” Michael said, smiling, “a weekend break, is it? Nowhere better than Villiers.”

“Yes, it's lovely,” she replied with a glance round. “And you two?”

“Michael's family PR firm represents Villiers,” I said. “It's always a good idea to maintain a relationship with clients. We've come up just for the night, and I'm doing my bit.” I swept my arm down the front of my frock. “This is a Brilliant by Brit! design. The shop here at Villiers carries a few of her dresses. Stunning, don't you think?” I whipped out one of Brit's cards and handed it to Callow. “You really should stop in.”

“Thank you,” Callow said, taking it. Her mild manner worried me more than if she had used her usual icy DI tones.

Crossing the lobby toward us was a tall, slender black woman with white hair cut so short it looked as if her scalp had been dusted with talc. A high-waisted sky-blue dress fell almost to her ankles and it looked as if she didn't walk so much as glide. She smiled broadly when she spotted Callow.

“Oh, there you are,” the inspector said, leaning forward and giving the woman a kiss on the cheek. She introduced us to Chloe, we wished each other an enjoyable evening, and went off to our separate corners of the bar.

My hand shook as I lifted my glass of sherry and struggled with the realization that Detective Inspector Callow had a personal life. Michael and I sat across from each other in the oversized leather chairs too far away to speak, until a couple on a love seat nearby vacated, and we took possession. Callow and friend were out of sight around the other side of a pillar.

“Do you think she's undercover?” I asked in an unnecessary whisper.

“She's not under much cover,” Michael said, leaning over me to glance at the yin and yang couple. He clinked his vodka and tonic against my sherry glass. “That was quick thinking earlier. The bit about the dress.”

“It's all true,” I said. “Well, most of it.” I explained about Brit. “And I've found someone for us.”

“Mrs. Penny?” Michael asked, and I nodded. “Char told me about her.”

“We need to talk with her. But how? We can't just march up to her door and demand information.”

“Char will sort it out for us. And it may be that Mrs. Penny's been here long enough to recall little Freddy, but would she remember some under gamekeeper out on the grounds?” He took a drink and exhaled. “This is nice,” he said, and leaned over, his lips working their way from my cheek to behind my ear. “You look gorgeous.”

I shivered. “It's only a loan. Don't let me spill anything on it. And no ripping it off me later.”

“I don't know—might be worth it.”

“You haven't seen the price tag.”

In the dining room, we sat at opposite ends from Callow, oriented so that neither table had a view of the other. Luck, or had she requested it?

“Should we tell her what we know?” I asked, beginning to doubt myself.

“What do we know?” Michael asked. “Nothing. Better to wait until we talk with Mrs. Penny and then you can give your favorite sergeant a ring.”

Good, we wouldn't have to talk about any of that for the rest of the evening. I started in on our tray of bread and olives, and looked forward to my braised steak casserole and beyond. “This is lovely,” I said.

The elevator had mirrors all round it, making me think an infinite number of couples were watching us—half a bottle of wine contributed to the impression, I'm sure. I took my heels off and stood next to Michael, the crowd of us waiting to get to the third floor. This had to be the slowest elevator in the world—it stopped on the second floor for no reason, its doors squeaking open and closed before we began moving again. Michael drew his finger up the back of my dress, slowing when he reached bare skin before the buttons.

He opened the door of our room, and I walked into paradise. An enormous canopied bed occupied one side of the room, with plenty of space for the love seat, table and chairs, wardrobe, and chest of drawers. A full-length mirror with carved wood frame took up the area between two tall windows, black now at night, but they must look out on the park.

“This is amazing,” I said, touching a bed poster. I peered inside the bathroom. “The tub is huge—it's a Jacuzzi!”

“Now I see,” Michael said, his eyes sparking and a grin on his face. “This is what it takes—the most expensive room in the place.”

I approached him slowly. “You think I need all this, do you? May I remind you,” I said, putting a finger on his chest, “of that tiny bed of yours where one of us can't turn over without the other doing so. And a blanket on the grass in my back garden.”

“That thrush was watching us,” he said, pulling me up snug against him. “Mistle thrush?”

“Song,” I whispered. “Now”—I began unbuttoning his shirt—“you need to be still. Very, very still.”