The Blue Virgin (23 page)

Chapter Fifty-Six

“A Frenchman named Chamfort, who should have known better, once said that chance was a nickname for Providence.”

—
Eric Ambler,
The Mask of Dimitrios

1 PM

Nora closed the door after Simon and Val left on their third and last trip to her storage unit. Last night she had thought she’d be able to get away to see Wheeler. But when Val called early that morning to see if Simon needed help, there was no way she could gracefully refuse.

  Lottie’s unexpected arrival a minute later interrupted Nora’s thoughts on the sticky problem of interviewing Ted Wheeler without Simon tagging along. Lottie hugged Nora with delight, crushing the shopping bag she carried and chattering about the size of Nora’s growing belly.

  “I’m glad to see you, too, Lottie. Come in, although I warn you, it’s pretty bleak in here with all the packing going on.” Nora led her to the living room, which was empty now except for a pair of pine chairs pulled up to the counter and a wing chair from Connecticut. Several boxes labeled
take
were stacked in one corner; the area rug stood rolled and bundled in another. Their voices echoed in the nearly vacant room.

  “You just missed Val. She and Simon took the last load of furniture and boxes to the storage center. Lottie, you can’t believe how strange it feels watching my things carted away,” Nora said.

  They sat at the counter, and Lottie withdrew two tins, one a large square embossed in gold, the smaller one a circle with a basket of fruit stamped on it, both recycled from previous use. “One to eat now,” Lottie tapped the smaller one, “and one to take back to Bowness. Val told me how much your Simon likes my shortbread. I’m looking forward to meeting him.” Today Lottie wore her black hair twisted up on top of her head, anchored with a clip covered in a bunch of plastic cherries, the wiry ends splaying out wildly. Pink flamingo earrings danced from her lobes. In deference to the warm day, she’d rolled up the sleeves of her madras cotton shift, a bright plaid of aqua, pink, red, and yellow that fell from her shoulders and obscured her full figure.

  “If you can handle tea out of slightly chipped mugs, we’ll surprise him when he and Val get back.”     Lottie said wistfully, “It must be nice to have someone like that in your corner.”

  “How’s the extension application coming with the Planning Board?”

  “There’s a meeting this afternoon. I’m tracking down Val to go over the presentation. We’ve made it past the first part.” Lottie tapped a bright red fingernail on the counter. “Simon’s idea for the new layout will be a big help.”

  Nora had a sudden thought. She examined it with interest, like a child investigating a shiny coin found on the sidewalk. “Who sits on this board, Lottie?”

  “The usual townies, anxious to preserve the integrity of the building, several patrons of the arts, and a few gallery owners. The final decision to let us have a long-term lease is determined by majority vote, but it won’t be worth our while to do the renovations without knowing we can stay there.” Lottie’s knee jiggled to some unheard music.

  Nora’s coin turned over and spun around. “Gallery owners … anyone from Hanson’s?”

  “The big guy himself. Fancies he’s a preservationist, you
know.” The flamingo earrings nodded and swayed.

  “Did you know,” Nora said casually, “Simon had a very successful show at Hanson’s over a year ago? Hanson still has a few of his landscapes and is always anxious for more. He did some sketches yesterday for paintings to work on this fall and winter.”  She shifted on her stool. “Most of those will go to Hanson’s.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Lottie gushed, her knee hammering with excitement. “Maybe it would be a good influence on the board if we mentioned Simon’s association with the project?”

  The coin dropped right into Nora’s pocket. “I think it would be better if Simon went to the board meeting with you and Val in person, don’t you?”

*

Nora was thrilled to see Simon and Val when they returned. “It’s a good thing you came back now or the shortbread would be all gone.”

  “This must be the infamous Lottie, maker of the finest shortbread in the UK,” Simon said genially, pumping the woman’s hand.

  Lottie blushed heavily, red staining her neck and round cheeks. They stood around the counter, munching away. Nora puzzled over bringing up the board meeting without appearing too obvious while Val filled Lottie in on Lou’s second interview. The only new piece of information the girl recalled was that the dog being walked past Bryn’s building was a Schnauzer.

  “Val, do you need me to pick up Janet for tomorrow’s inquest?” Nora asked. “Lottie said you have an important board meeting this afternoon.”

  “Thanks, Nora, but I should be out of that by 6. Those old toadies wouldn’t miss their gins, and Janet’s not expecting me until later.”

  Come on, Lottie, put some of that excess energy to good use. Nora held her breath.

  “Val,” Lottie said suddenly, “what do you think of Simon assisting us in today’s presentation? After all, the new floor chart for the renovation was his idea, and I think his presence would help to sway old Hanson, since his pieces sell from there.”

  Bless you, Lottie. Nora was perfectly willing for Lottie to take credit for the idea.

  “Hanson’s on the board?” Simon asked.

  Keep quiet, and let it all play out. Nora twisted her paper napkin into a tube, then unrolled it and started folding it into an airplane as the discussion took place around her.

  “Do you know him?” Val asked.

  “Know him? My big show there was well attended, if I do say so myself. He calls me his golden boy because he sells my pieces pretty regularly.”

  “Would you come with us? Please, Simon?” Val begged.

  “We need all the help we can get,” Lottie added.

  “Well—” Simon glanced at Nora, who decided it was time to speak up.

  “I’d love to have a few hours to shop,” she said pensively.

  “May rubbing off on you, Yankee?” Val said with a smile, turning to Simon. “You can’t seriously want to be dragged around shops for baby goods when you could be fighting for artistic freedom.”

  Simon put up his hands in surrender. “All right, sounds good to me. But you’d better let me see the whole proposal so I don’t make a damn fool of myself.”

  Nora sat back feeling victorious. Maybe it was another white lie, but again, it was only a small one, and she could always look into one or two shops on her way to visit Ted Wheeler.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

“Love weaves its own tapestry, spins its own golden thread, with its own sweet breath breathes into being its mysteries—bucolic, lusty, gentle as the eyes of daisies or thick with pain.”

—
John Hawkes,
The Blood Oranges

2:15 PM

McAfee put the latest forensic report in front of Declan Barnes with a flourish.

  “Remember you told me to get DNA samples from everyone connected with the Wallace murder, sir?”

  Declan looked up from the memo he was reading. The brass higher up had been patient, too patient. The longer these murders stayed unsolved, the less secure the populace would be (and the less secure Declan’s position would be, if he were reading between the lines correctly). “What’s turned up then, McAfee?” Based on his huge grin, the constable clearly felt his gold star was shining once again.

  “Some hairs on the body didn’t match Val Rogan, but did match—” McAfee said, unable to resist pausing dramatically, “—Davey Haskitt.”

  Declan interlocked his fingers behind his head. “The bakery boy. Hmmm. Of course, he did find the body, so that might explain it.”

  McAfee persisted. “But didn’t he tell us he walked in, saw she was dead, and left immediately for the neighbor’s to get help? Even if he stood over her for a bit, his hair would have been on the surface of her shirt or jeans.”

  It would be difficult not to let the constable have his fun. “And where were these hairs found?”

  “Inside her shirt, sir,” McAfee finished triumphantly.

  Declan put both hands on the arms of his chair. “Feel like taking a walk up to the Covered Market, McAfee? Let’s go see what Davey Haskitt has to say about this.”

  McAfee practically bounced beside Declan as they strode up St. Aldate’s. Bright sun brought out the crowds in droves, and they wove their way through them to the bakery. Davey Haskitt sat in pride of place in the window today, carefully painting the rubber-mouthed expression on a fondant Mad Hatter. The detectives watched silently from the corridor, waiting to be noticed.

  Davey stiffened when he saw them, then looked down and finished his work. When he completed the tiny likeness, he set it carefully aside. They heard him speak to the woman behind the counter. “Going out back for a fag.” She nodded, waiting on a customer in the line. Davey motioned to them with a toss of his head.

  Declan led McAfee down the inner corridor and out onto Market Street where Davey waited for them, lounging against the back of the building and lighting his cigarette.

  “Hullo, Davey. Nice work in there.” Declan hoped to provoke a spirit of cooperation.

  Davey tightened the elastic band holding his lank ponytail. “You here again ’bout that wanker croaked at my door? Still have bloody patches, ya know. Turns me stomach.”

  “Try bleach,” McAfee offered.

  “We need to run over things one more time,” Declan said. “Not about that event, but about Bryn Wallace.”

  Davey stood up straighter, puffing furiously. “I told you all I know ’bout that,” he said peevishly.

  “Are you certain you haven’t left out a tiny detail or two?” Declan asked.

  “Like what?” Davey picked at a scab on his forearm.

  “Like the fact that several of your hairs were found inside the victim’s shirt.”

  Davey flicked his stub into the road with a practiced gesture. He shrugged his shoulders. “So maybe I touched her, you know, just to see if she were breathing or not.”

  “Reasonable, except that still wouldn’t explain contact inside her shirt.” Declan caught McAfee’s eye.

  “Why don’t you accompany us to the station to help us get to the bottom of this, sir?” McAfee asked professionally, unable to resist jiggling the handcuffs in his jacket pocket.

  “Look here, I didn’t fondle her, if that’s what you plods think. She was … she was … ” Davey sputtered and sat down heavily on the upturned crate that served him on his breaks.

  “She was what, Davey?” Declan resisted the impulse to lay his hand on the lad’s shoulder.

  The boy hung his head, his words coming out in thick gasps between sobs as he tried to swallow. “She were all tangled up, lyin’ there, lookin’ all broke … I thought she’d fallen, but the blood … she was cold, too … I fixed her like the angel she was, ready to dance off to heaven. I wanted to keep her pretty. Some blokes mighta tried to change a lezzie’s ideas, but not me. She was fine as she was. Her necklace was up round her eyes, like someone’d tried to yank it off and it stuck there. So’s after I’d—fixed her up, I tucked it back inside her shirt, next ta her heart.” He looked up at them with genuine distress. “But I could never hurt her—”

  “Because?” Declan prodded.

  “Because … I loved her.”

Chapter Fifty-Eight

“In the matter of Jezebel’s Daughter, my recollections begin with the deaths of two foreign gentlemen, in two different countries, on the same day of the same year.”

—
Wilkie Collins,
Jezebel’s Daughter

4 PM

En route to the board meeting Simon and Val insisted on dropping Nora in the town centre for her shopping expedition. Rather than argue, Nora let them leave her on the corner of Beaumont and St. Giles. She waved goodbye after wishing them luck and promised to take a taxi back to the flat the minute she got tired.

  Nora couldn’t imagine being tired anytime soon. She was energized by the hunt, and waited impatiently for a crowded bus careening around the corner as she crossed the road past the Martyrs’ Memorial. She had the irksome sensation that Cranmer, despite his immobility, was giving her a disparaging look as he held tightly to his bible, inscribed “Maye 1541.” Nora smirked, wondering if May Rogan would fancy knowing there was a third way to spell her name.

  Walking down the block across from Balliol and Trinity, Nora paused to linger in front of two shops. Now she could truthfully say she had been shopping. It wasn’t her fault if nothing appealed to her and she’d gotten bored and moved on. She could explain her closeness to Exeter spurred her to do something useful. Sometimes pregnancy had its virtues, she thought smugly, only twigged slightly by the knowledge Simon wouldn’t be thrilled to learn she saw Wheeler on her own. She was disconcerted by what an accomplished liar she had become. No, shrewdly inquisitive. That sounded much better.

  Wilson was on duty, and when Nora stepped over the sill, the porter smiled with recognition and waved her on. Before he could stop her to chat, she hurried through the archway into the quad, winding her way around the green rectangle of forbidden grass and past the 17th-century dining hall. Glancing up at the open windows, she spied a section of the collar-beam ceiling and the top edges of the venerable oil portraits that looked out over the long rows of wooden benches and tables inside. 

  Stairwell C was clearly marked on the outside door, embedded in the ivy-encrusted east wall. She entered, climbing up stone steps smoothed and sloped by thousands of footsteps to the first landing, where she stopped to peruse the cards on the two doors opposite each other. “E. A. Vance, MA, PhD” was typed on one; the other was handwritten, noting “M. Smith-Glass, Lecturer” occupied those rooms.

  She climbed up another flight and, winded, was happy to stop at the second landing, happier to see “T. Wheeler, MA, PhD” written in strong copperplate on the door facing her. She slowed her breathing, rehearsing her story for Dr. Wheeler, as close to the truth as she dared.

  Nora took a deep breath and knocked firmly on the door. She waited a few moments and, not hearing movement inside, knocked again. The stairwell door below opened and shut; rapid footsteps started up. Nora was suddenly skittish about being found outside Wheeler’s door. She hammered the door again, this time calling out: “Dr. Wheeler?”

  The footsteps continued to approach, and Nora saw they belonged to a thin man with large, bony hands and a bald spot on his crown. “I’m Dr. Wheeler—how can I help you?” he said as he completed the last turn of the stairs.

  Nora swallowed. “My name is Nora Tierney, and I’m a friend of Bryn Wallace’s. I wondered if I might speak with you about her for just a minute for a story I’m writing.” She flashed him what she thought her most engaging smile, but the don did not appear pleased. In fact, he seemed disturbed.

  “I’m not certain I knew Miss Wallace well enough to comment,” he answered stiffly, shifting an armload of books he carried to his other side.

  “It would start with her leaving the world of fashion to work on the other side of the camera,” Nora said earnestly. “I was told by Miles Belcher you were very pleased with the work he did on your daughter’s wedding.” She could see by the stubborn set to his jaw that Wheeler wasn’t going to cooperate. Mentioning Miles hadn’t seemed to carry any weight at all. Nora hurried to persuade him in any fashion she could.

  “It would be a very flattering article, if you’re concerned, Dr. Wheeler. My best friend is Val Rogan, Bryn’s partner. I would never write anything to dishonor Bryn’s memory. The point would be about unexplainable and profound sudden loss.” Nora saw this had been a better tack to take.

  “Who did you say you were writing for?” 

  His searching look had Nora clinging closer to the facts. “I’ve just left
People and Places
, and I’m trying to break into freelance. I wanted to start with a profile of someone I knew and admired.” As she said this, Nora realized this was truly an option open to her. She added quickly: “I wouldn’t stay for more than a few minutes.”

  Wheeler tapped his pockets for his key. “Just ten minutes then. Where are my blasted … oh, I gave them to Vance while I added to my notes on
Rebecca
.” He turned the handle, which opened easily, and gestured for her to proceed into his rooms. “Do you know Du Maurier, Miss Tierney?”

  “One of my personal favorites. I know Hitchcock had to promise her to keep the heroine unnamed before she would agree to let him film it.” Hoping this nugget from Simon’s eternal trivia would endear her to Wheeler, Nora entered the room, tripping over the outstretched arm of a man who lay facedown on the rug.

  “Edward!” Wheeler knelt down quickly next to the man and felt for a pulse. His face ashen, he looked up at Nora in disbelief as he pronounced, “He’s dead!”