Wherever Lynn Goes (12 page)

“Come on,” he said irritably.

I remembered the supply of candles Aunt Daphne had kept on hand in the hall chest, and suggested we look for them. Scowling impatiently, Bart held the torch for us while Mandy and I opened the chest drawers, searching. We found a dozen candles and a stack of old pewter holders, and in five minutes we had all the candles burning, stationed in strategic points throughout the rooms downstairs. By now I was bored with the whole thing, and beginning to believe that Mandy and I had imagined the noise. Even if there had been an intruder, he wasn't likely to still be in the house. I was perfectly content to wait in the front parlor with Mandy while Bart searched the rest of the house.

Fifteen minutes elapsed before Bart came clumping loudly down the hall and flung himself into the room. He tossed the cricket bat down and glared at us. His belt had come undone, and the moth-eaten old brown bathrobe hung open. His vivid blue eyes were snapping, and those improbable eyebrows had never looked more comically slanted.

“Did you check the basement?” I asked, just to taunt him.

“I checked everywhere! Not a sign of anyone. All the doors and windows are still securely locked. No one broke into the house. You pulled me out of bed for nothing. Women! If you think it's amusing to be—”

“You're mistaken,” Mandy said calmly.

“What do you mean?”

“Someone did break in,” she said.

“I just told you—”

“Look at this latch, luv.”

He walked over to the windows to examine the latch. I peered over his shoulder. The latch was completely broken, hanging loose on one nail. As we watched, a gust of wind swept across the veranda, and the windows swung halfway open.

“Well?” Mandy said.

“It's broken, all right,” he admitted.

“All these windows were locked before we went to bed. Sergeant Duncan and I checked. Someone—someone heaved a shoulder against the windows and broke the latch. That's what we heard.”

“Not necessarily. It could have been the wind.”

“The wind?” I said impatiently. “Do you expect us to—”

“These latches are very old, very flimsy. They'd give way at the least little pressure.”

“Are you trying to say—”

He gave me a weary look, sighing again. “Watch,” he said. Opening the windows, he stepped onto the veranda, crossed over to the next set of windows, and stood peering at us through the panes. As we watched, he leaned his shoulder lightly against the center section, where the windows met. The latch, securely fastened, rattled, creaked, fell clattering to the floor. The windows flew open, and Bart, still leaning, lost his balance and came hurtling into the room.

“What's that supposed to prove?” I inquired icily.

“Just a practical demonstration,” he said. “The wind was fierce last night. A particularly strong gust could easily have caused the latch to break. It's a wonder all these windows down here didn't fly open.”

“So you don't believe there was an intruder?”

“Not for a minute. You didn't see anyone, did you? You didn't
hear
anyone. Nothing's missing. The silver service is still on the sideboard. The Meissen box is still on the coffee table. The—”

“All right!” I snapped.

“I'm only trying to be reasonable,” he said, hurt.

Mandy studied the broken latch, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “I suppose a strong-enough burst of wind
could
have broken the latch,” she conceded.

I was secretly inclined to agree with her, but I had no intention of letting Bartholomew Cooper know that. I didn't intend to give him that satisfaction. The open windows rattled noisily. I picked up the latch he had broken off with his impromptu nudging.

“Well, this one was certainly broken off,” I said crisply. “It will have to be replaced.”

“I'll buy a new one today! Hell, I'll buy new ones for
all
the windows, strong ones. I'll bring a hammer. I'll put them on myself.”

“I'll hire someone to do it.”

“Like hell you will!”

“Really, Mr. Cooper—”

“I think we could all use some coffee,” Mandy said. “It's getting light out. We don't need the candles any more. I'll snuff them out and put them away. Lynn, why don't you go brew the coffee?”

Mandy blew out the candle in the parlor, took up the pewter holder, and left the room. I closed the windows, though I hadn't much hope they would stay closed as long as the wind was so brisk. Bartholomew Cooper pulled his robe more securely around him and retied the belt, striving to look a bit more dignified. Then he followed me into the kitchen. I filled the coffeepot with water and reached for the canister, deliberately ignoring him. He leaned against the door frame, those vivid blue eyes watching every move I made.

“I'm really a nice guy, you know,” he said casually.

“Indeed? Perhaps some people think so.”

“And what do you think?”

“You really don't want to know that, Mr. Cooper.”

“Bart. How many times do I have to tell you? The name's Bart. You don't find me an engaging chap?”

“I find you insufferable.”

“Not really. No—not really.” He sauntered over to the table and sat down, resting his elbows on the tabletop. “Look, I guess I ought to apologize for storming around like that. I'm not at my best when I'm pulled out of bed in the middle of the night.”

I lighted the gas burner and set the coffeepot on it “When
are
you at your best, Mr. Cooper?”

“When I'm alone with a beautiful woman.” His voice was heavily seductive.

I smiled to myself, amused by his brashness. He had charm all right, I couldn't deny that, and he was almost indecently handsome, the tousled hair, the rumpled pajamas and old bathrobe only heightening his virile magnetism, but I was immune. Totally immune, I told myself, watching the coffeepot begin to boil. Charm might dazzle some, but it could never take the place of intelligence, authority, stability, the qualities a sensible woman looked for in a man. Lloyd was intelligent. He had authority. He was nothing if not stable, and … The coffeepot began to rattle violently, geysers of boiling liquid spewing over the stove.

“Damn!” I cried, turning off the burner.

Bartholomew Cooper chuckled. I wanted to slap him.

“Careless of you,” he said.

“I can't cook, if you must know!”

“You mean you can't even make a pot of coffee?”

“I didn't say that! I—”

“I can't either,” Mandy said, entering the room. “Cook, I mean. It's most distressing—”

“I expected a big breakfast,” Bart said, surly. “I think I
deserve
one, don't you?”

“Definitely,” Mandy replied.

“There are eggs in the fridge. Bacon, too.”

Mandy and I exchanged glances.

“I have a marvelous idea,” she began.

Grumbling angrily, slamming pots and pans around with reckless abandon, Bartholomew Cooper began to prepare breakfast as Mandy and I went upstairs to dress. The sun was shining brightly now. The house was filled with shimmering rays of early-morning sunlight. I had almost forgotten the nightmare that had awakened me, and I resolutely refused to think about the disturbing dream that had preceded it.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I don't know when I've had a better breakfast,” Mandy said. “Bartholomew may be temperamental, but he's a marvelous cook.”

“It was a delicious breakfast,” I agreed.

“Sweet of him to offer to take us to the funeral. I'm surprised you agreed to let him.”

“We need an escort. He'll have to do.”

“He was quite charming at breakfast, don't you think? Trying to make up for his previous churlishness, I suppose. He's a fascinating man, a man of many moods.”

“I really don't care to discuss him, Mandy.”

Mandy didn't say anything, but her eyes betrayed amusement. She was convinced that I was attracted to him, that I had had a crush on him when I was a child, and nothing I could say would convince her otherwise. Reaching for a sheaf of neatly typed pages fastened together with a paper clip, she examined it idly.

“Here are your notes on the Duchess d'Orleans. Where's the folder? Poor Henriette. I wonder if the king's brother really did poison her? I wouldn't put it past him. There it is, luv. Hand it to me, will you?”

I gave Mandy the folder, glad she had changed the subject. I was in a bad mood, weary from the loss of sleep and nervous about the funeral that I had to face later in the afternoon.

I had taken a short walk after breakfast, wanting to be alone to sort my thoughts out. Mandy remained to help Bart wash the dishes, and they were engaged in an intense conversation when I returned. They broke off when I entered, and I had the curious impression they were hiding something from me. What had they been discussing? I wondered. Bart left, claiming he intended to take a long nap. Mandy said nothing about the conversation in the kitchen, and I was too stubborn to ask her what they'd been talking about.

Was it about last night? Had Bart discovered something he didn't want me to know about? Had his tempestuous conduct been merely a sham to cover up something else? He and Mandy had been almost like conspirators when I stepped into the kitchen, and Mandy had seemed worried …

We were in the library now. It was only ten, and since we had three hours until the funeral, we decided to begin refiling my scattered notes.

“You're slipping, luv. You just put Montespan in the folder reserved for Madame de Maintenon. Both ladies would turn over in their graves. You look a bit peaked, Lynn. Sure you don't want to go up and take a nap? You have time.”

“I'm perfectly all right. Anyone can make a mistake.”

“You're edgy, luv. Something wrong?”

“I keep thinking about last night.”

“It'll make an amusing story when we get back to London,” Mandy said lightly, reaching for another folder. “But I for one was petrified.”

“Do you really think it was the wind?” I asked abruptly.

“It must have been, pet. There were no signs of an intruder, and we didn't actually hear anything after that first loud crash.”

“I did. I heard footsteps. When I first woke up. I—I thought it was part of the nightmare.”

“
I
didn't hear any. You must have imagined them. We were both tired, Lynn, both a bit nervous. It was an amusing little adventure, but … Let's forget about it. All right? Bart's going to buy new latches and put them on this afternoon.”

“‘Bart'? You suddenly seem very chummy with him.”

“Does that make me a traitor? Really, Lynn, he's an interesting man. Not my
type
, of course, but that doesn't mean I can't be friendly. I felt almost sorry for him, the way you were treating him.”

“Yesterday you said you had your doubts about him. You said you'd seen his face before in connection with something vaguely sinister. You seemed suspicious.”

“Did I? Well, I was wrong. Like you said, luv, anyone can make a mistake.”

“Mandy—”

Both of us were startled by the loud, jangling clatter that suddenly filled the air, followed by a shrill, piercing quack like that of a wounded duck. Hurrying to the front window, we peered out to see a plump, middle-aged woman pedaling furiously up the drive on a battered bicycle, the roses on her black straw hat bobbing. She squeezed the rubber horn. There was another deafening quack. Alighting from the bicycle, she kicked the stand into place, pushed the hat from her brow, and turned to see us standing at the window. She smiled, waved merrily, and scooted up the front steps.

Mandy and I exchanged puzzled glances.

By now our visitor was pounding heartily on the front door. I opened it to find a pair of bright, vivacious brown eyes studying me with a lively curiosity.

“Lynn? It is Lynn, isn't it? You poor, poor child. You won't remember me, of course. Wouldn't expect you to. I've put on a few pounds since you saw me last. More than a few, actually. I
do
love my chocolates. Can't resist 'em. Never could. I'm Myrtle, ducky.”

“Myrtle?”

“Myrtle Clarkson, your Auntie Daphne's oldest and dearest friend. We had our spats, Daphne and me, some rip-snortin' ones, I don't mind telling you, but we were like that.” She crossed her fingers. “Like sisters, we were. Poor Daphne. I still get all choked up, just thinkin' of it …” Her eyes grew sad. “And you, you poor, dear child. Such a blow. Such a dreadful blow for one so young. I just had to pop by and express my sympathy before the funeral.”

She took my hand in both her own and squeezed it tightly, as though to give me courage. I vaguely remembered her now. I had rarely payed any attention to my aunt's friends, being either out on my own or fast asleep when they called on her, yet I seemed to recall a thinner, less flamboyant Myrtle who had come now and then to play cards and gossip.

“Won't you come in?”

“I know how it is in time of grief, ducky. I really shouldn't intrude like this …”

Wild horses couldn't have kept her out, I thought, watching her bustle into the hall with astounding alacrity. The house was, after all, the scene of a brutal murder, and I knew for a fact that the police had kept curiosity seekers away. Bart had chased off several himself. Gripping her enormous black patent leather purse tightly, Myrtle peered up and down the hall until she spotted the bloodstains. Her eyes widened.

“Oh my! That's where it happened. The police wouldn't let anyone come in, ducky, not even me, and me Daphne's oldest and
dearest
friend. I gave that sergeant a piece of my mind, I did, gave him what for, but he wouldn't budge an inch. Brutes, these coppers. As soon hit you over the head as
look
at you.”

She stepped over to take a closer look at the bloodstains. I gave Mandy an exasperated glance. Mandy was wearing a benign expression; I could tell that she was planning something.