A Date With Death: Cozy Private Investigator Series (Flora Lively Mysteries Book 2) (14 page)

She followed him through a coded door, and down a short corridor with offices on either side. The offices were visible to anyone passing, screened only by windows. He spoke to someone at another desk, this time in the corner of a sort of waiting area, empty except for the three of them, then led her into a small room.

‘Is this a cell?’ she asked, looking around. There were no windows, just two chairs and a long table that could have doubled up as a bed, she supposed.

Jack laughed. ‘There are no cells here. You’d have to go into one of the main towns for that. This is just an interview room.’

She touched the wall nearest to her. ‘Is Marshall in one of these?’

‘He is. Now, sit down and tell me what you know about this note.’

Jack was more forthcoming than Flora had hoped – after she’d shared everything that Sidney had told her, he confirmed that Marshall had indeed mentioned the message himself.

‘And you didn’t believe him?’ Flora said, giving Jack a challenging glare. ‘You thought he was making it up?’

‘Not at all. At this stage it’s not my job to believe or disbelieve. We’re merely gathering information.’

She allowed her expression to soften. He sounded so pompous, so like the Jack she remembered from university, it almost made her smile. He caught her eye and gave a self-deprecating half-shrug. He said,

‘You’ve saved us some legwork, anyway. Now we have Sidney’s corroboration of your friend’s story we can probably let him go.’

‘Probably!’

‘There’s still the material evidence, Flora.’ His eyes darkened. ‘And he hasn’t been what you’d call helpful.’

‘He’s American,’ she said, leaning across the metal table. ‘They do things differently over there.’

Jack grimaced. ‘Well, he’s over here now. And over here we have some respect for the law.’

Flora suppressed a smile. She could imagine what Marshall’s behaviour had been like. She had been on the receiving end of his belligerence enough times, hadn’t she?

‘You said there was something else,’ Jack said, sitting back. He tapped the table with his long fingers. ‘Something about Celeste.’

It was the moment she’d been dreading. Celeste wouldn’t forgive her, Flora knew that. They’d been friends for nearly ten years, but who knew if that friendship would survive what Flora was about to do. She swallowed. Then she told Jack about Celeste’s dismantling of the evidence in Alberto’s room.

As she spoke, his face grew sombre. By the time she finished he was on his feet, pacing back and forth across the cramped room.

‘The stupid, stupid woman! What the hell did she think she was doing?’ His voice bounced around the walls just as he fairly bounced with anger.

‘She was trying to protect the man she loves, I guess,’ Flora said, putting her hands to her ears. She peered up at him. ‘Do you think you could sit down? You’re making me dizzy.’

‘Protecting. Huh. There’s a lot of it about, isn’t there.’ He looked at her meaningfully. Flora felt her face redden.

‘I don’t … I mean, we’re not exactly –’

‘Forget it. It’s none of my business, anyway.’ He looked past her for a moment, considering. ‘So, do you have the note? The message you – someone – sent to Marshall.’

‘No. Not yet. But Sidney is looking for it. He’s fairly confident he’ll find it,’ she lied.

‘And he’ll tell you when he does?’ Jack said. ‘You have his confidence?’

She nodded. ‘I do. I … well, let’s just say he thinks he owes me a favour. Although he doesn’t at all … It’s complicated.’

‘It always was with you, wasn’t it, Flora?’ Jack’s voice had softened again, had reverted to the non-policeman tone she’d become accustomed to these past few days. She glanced up at him, then looked away, embarrassed by the intensity in his eyes.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘Anyway.’ And then she couldn’t think of another thing to say.

Jack moved to the door. He held out his hand for Flora, and she took it, aware of the slight pressure he placed on her palm with his thumb. ‘Let’s go and get your friend,’ he said, putting just a little too much emphasis on friend.

‘He is, you know,’ Flora said. ‘He is just a friend.’

‘And an employee.’

‘Quite.’

‘So, will you have dinner with me? If you and he are just friends.’

The invitation came out of the blue, and in such incongruous circumstances, Flora was momentarily speechless. Jack waited, holding the door open for her. Then he thinned his lips into a rueful smile and shook his head. ‘No worries. I only meant as friends, anyway.’

‘Oh, of course.’ Flora followed him back to the reception area, looking at the stiffness of his back and his neck, and at the way his hair was already starting to thin. Blonde hair often thinned young, she thought. And then she realised that Jack wasn’t really that young anymore. None of them were.

‘Jack.’

He was about to return to the interview rooms, but Flora took hold of his hand. It was dry, and quite slender. Not like Marshall’s rough and ready hands. The policewoman behind the desk stared at them.

‘Jack, it’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just, all this – Celeste, Alberto’s death – I don’t feel it’s the right time. You do understand, don’t you?’ He nodded, was about to speak, but Flora hadn’t finished. She lowered her voice, mindful of the listening policewoman, the potential for Jack to feel embarrassed. ‘And there really isn’t anything between Marshall and me. We work together, we get on well, although we never used to. But he’s never shown … that is, I haven’t … What I’m trying to say is, I am single. Very much so. And I would like for us to get together. When all this is over.’

‘As friends,’ he said, smiling.

‘Definitely.’

He nodded, then squeezed her hand. She returned to the hideous orange chairs and picked up a magazine. Then she put it down and stared up at the walls, suddenly exhausted.

‘Marshall-bloody-Goodman,’ she said under her breath, ‘you had better be really grateful for all this.’

Chapter 9

They didn’t talk until they got back to the Nook. Flora suggested stopping off for fish and chips on the way, and Marshall nodded his agreement. She didn’t press him, knew him well enough not to. The whole time she stood waiting in Tim’s Plaice, the takeaway she’d spotted on the high street in Burton Edge the day before, she’d watched Marshall’s profile through the window. Familiar, and yet somehow not so familiar anymore. He had family members he’d never even told her about; passions and prejudices she couldn’t have guessed at. Suddenly he seemed more complex to her than ever before, and – she had to admit it, if only to herself – more attractive than ever before.

Because it had been growing, this strange attraction between them. He was still maddening, infuriating – he still challenged her authority at every stage. She’d told her Uncle Max only a week or so ago that working with his stepson was like walking a tightrope. A year ago she’d been ready to walk away from Shakers, to leave Marshall to run it as he liked, never mind her father’s legacy. And yet, here she was. Yes, she’d sold her parents’ bungalow and bought herself a flat; yes, she’d looked into college courses to inspire a change of direction. But so far there had been only talk, no action. If she thought about it at all – and she didn’t think about it all that often – she told herself it was because of her dad, because he had wanted to pass the family business on to her. Marshall, after all, wasn’t actually family, had only been brought in to help out when her mum had cancer. And Shakers was in trouble, even though every day the newspapers talked of coming out of recession, of property prices rising and the market booming again. In London, maybe, but in Shropshire? Not so. Not yet.

‘Penny for them?’ Marshall said as she turned into the long driveway to Hanley Manor. It was an expression he’d picked up from her father. It always made her smile to hear it spoken with Marshall’s American twang.

‘Not worth a penny,’ she replied, as she always did.

They ate their fish and chips out of the greaseproof paper, perched on Flora’s bed with their backs propped against both sets of pillows. With the fabric coverings tied back at the doorway, Flora could see only trees, with the very tips of the hills peeping up beyond. She was glad to be away from the main house, glad to not have to see Celeste or Nick or any of the others.

‘I guess I need to say thank you.’ Marshall spoke with his mouth half full, which would have annoyed her any other time.

‘You’re damn right you do,’ she said.

‘And I guess I oughta say sorry.’

She nodded. ‘That too.’

Marshall sighed. It was a long-drawn-out sigh, full of emotion. ‘Jack told you about Ellie, I bet.’

Flora said nothing. She pulled a piece of fish away from the batter with the useless little wooden fork, then popped the fish into her mouth.

‘Well, it was a long time ago now. She’s over it, pretty much. Got herself straightened out. But it was –’

‘Marshall.’ Flora laid her hand over his and swallowed. ‘You don’t need to talk about it. I’m sorry that coming here, taking on this job, brought it all back to you. And I’m sorry that the thought of me taking a part in that stupid film caused you to go and see Alberto. You wouldn’t be in this mess if not for that.’

‘Ah, Flora.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not your fault. I was mad at him, not you. And it wasn’t his fault either. He didn’t deserve to die, anyway.’ He put the rest of his meal aside and turned to face her. ‘I mean, the kinds of movies he used to make are disgusting and all, but it seems he’d left all that behind him. Apparently he was trying to be kinda mainstream now.’

‘Do you think
A Date With Death
was shaping up to be a good film?’ Flora said. ‘A mainstream film? Maybe a candidate for an Academy Award or two?’ She looked at him and smiled.

‘Hm–m. Hard to say. Those backdrops, they’re sort of cheesy, aren’t they?’

‘Cheesy, yes. And the script … It’s not exactly Academy Award material.’

Marshall’s face broke into a grin. ‘You know, I’m not sure the acting’s up to much, either.’

They began to laugh, the tension easing away into the night while they found more and more aspects of Rojo Productions to pull apart.

‘Call themselves a film company?’ Flora said, her eyes twinkling. ‘They have to hire in most of their talent – they don’t even have their own sound engineer.’

‘Their costumes look like they were made by five-year-olds.’

‘Don’t they? And the story – does anyone actually know what the story is?’

Marshall shook his head. He was up on his knees now, looking more animated than he had all week. ‘No, but I tell you what – Alberto’s wasn’t the only murder. If your friend keeps murdering her lines, Jack’s going to take her in for questioning next.’

Flora flopped back on the bed. Too good to be true that they were getting on so well. He always had to spoil it. She said, ‘Celeste isn’t so bad. It’s not her fault it’s such a bad script.’

Marshall got up and deposited their empty wrappers in the bin just outside the yurt. Then he stood in the doorway, looking in. ‘I don’t know why you stick up for her at every turn, Flora. She’s mean to you. Can’t you see it?’

‘She’s not mean. She’s just … It’s just the way she is. She doesn’t think.’ Without meeting his eyes, Flora told Marshall about Celeste’s actions on the night of the murder. She busied herself straightening out the bed, plumping cushions and smoothing the collection of throws. When she finished, she risked a quick glance in his direction. He was staring at her, his expression unreadable.

‘She’s really sorry,’ Flora said. Although even as she said it, she thought: Is she sorry? Had she actually apologised?

Marshall continued to stare. A tiny movement in his bottom lip suggested that he might be biting it.

Oh well. In for a penny, and all that.

‘There’s more,’ Flora said, and she launched into an account of Celeste’s favour, how she needed them to ship her things over to Calais as soon as possible. This time, Marshall reacted. His reaction was not good.

‘Is she crazy? She messes with the evidence at a murder scene – a murder scene! – and then refuses to say anything about it, leaving you to do it for her, and then she has the gall, the audacity, to ask you for a favour? This woman – has she ever sought professional help?’

Flora had started across the room towards him, but now she flopped into the chair, suddenly too tired to argue.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘She probably is crazy, just like you say. But she’s also my friend, and she seems to be in trouble.’ She looked at him, wondering if the helplessness she felt actually showed on her face. ‘What am I supposed to do, Marshall? Tell me that?’

He didn’t answer straight away. He went outside, and she heard water splashing in the sink. The sun had gone down completely now and her legs felt cold, but she didn’t have the energy to get up and grab a blanket.

‘Okay,’ he said, striding back into the yurt with purpose. ‘Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll stay here for one more day, just to tidy up loose ends with Nick so we don’t land Shakers with a bad rep. And then we’ll take your friend’s stuff to Calais. But for double what she offered to pay you, because we’ll both be going. I’m not leaving you alone here with a murderer on the loose. And I’m not letting you out of my sight from now on. Do you understand?’

She nodded, feeling like a little girl getting instructions from her teacher. Or her father.

‘There’s more.’ He knelt down in front of her chair. She leaned forward.

‘Go on,’ she said. Her voice cracked a bit on the second word.

‘Once we’ve done the Channel run, I don’t want to hear the name Celeste, or see her annoying face, for a long, long time. I’ve had just about enough of her and her crazy film crew.’

Flora nodded again, but she didn’t speak. How could she promise that? Celeste was her friend, her oldest friend. In fact, as she’d lost touch with most of her other friends when her mum got sick, Flora would be more accurate saying that Celeste was her only friend. Turn her back on her, not see her again? It just wasn’t going to happen.

***

On their fourth day at Hanley Manor, the weather finally broke. It had been too good to be true, Flora said as she and Marshall ran through the trees to the main house. They’d found a couple of plastic bags to hold over their heads, neither having brought a raincoat or umbrella from home.