Black & Blue (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Book 4) (23 page)

"That good, huh?" he said, giving her his most winning smile.

"Hmnh?"

"Your book? It's that good, eh?"

She squinted at him. "What do you mean?"

"Never mind. Little joke. Too small to be seen!" Even behind those perhaps unnecessary glasses, Fiona Leeds was intimidatingly beautiful, and he was starting to babble. Sometimes he went off a cliff when his icebreaker fell flat.

"Let me sign that for you." She reached for his copy of the book.

"It's so nice to meet you," he continued, clutching it with both hands to slow down the interaction. "Can I ask a question? Is old Barney as mental as he seems?"

"He has anger management issues," she said, sitting up straight as the publicist gave her the eye. Apparently Fiona had been drilled on how to answer this sort of query and was eager to show off. "I've asked him to seek therapy. Chapter Seven provides all the details."

"Yeah, it's only—punching out a coach. You don't see that every day. Does he just go round attacking anyone who looks at him cross-eyed? I mean, with a wife like you, it must have been tough. Every time you stopped traffic, did he run into the street and beat his chest?"

"Oh, he was mad with jealousy," Fiona agreed, flashing dazzling veneered teeth. "Always telling me what I could wear and who I could talk to. I felt like a prisoner in my own life. That's what drove me into the arms of a sophisticated older man. Chapter Twelve: the affair with Mr. Name Withheld."

"Right. Granville Hardwick, wasn't it?"

The publicist cleared her throat. Fiona was so surprised, she whipped off her smart gal glasses, probably to see Paul better. "Who told you that?"

"Oh, I have friends who live on Euston Place. Lots of gossip after the murder. Shocking, wasn't it?"

"So shocking! I mean, when all was said and done, I hated the little bugger. But they wouldn't let me put that in the book."

The publicist said, "Fiona! Darling! There's another lady waiting, and I do believe this gentleman's about to commit."

The unimpressed-looking man seemed offended by the hint. Snapping the book closed, he replaced it on one of the towering stacks and moved toward the chocolatier.

"Dating Gran was fun at first," Fiona continued, "but all he wanted was arm candy. He didn't care about my mind—my soul—any more than Barney did. And at least when I left Barney, he had the decency to punch a hole in the wall. Gran just smiled and said 'Sayonara.' Can you believe that? We spent months together, and all I got was a goodbye in Spanish?"

Not surprisingly, the publicist moved to intercept. Just as Paul braced himself to be ejected from Harrods bookshop, something crashed behind him. He turned to find Sharada standing beside a five-foot stack, now collapsed. She was the very picture of confused regret.

"I have no idea how… Oh, please, let me help you," she told the publicist, who looked angry enough to tear a page from Barney Leeds's book. "I'll gather them and you can restack them. Will that do?"

"My mum. She's mental," Paul told Fiona conversationally. "Anyway, I know for a fact that everyone on Euston Place hated Granville Hardwick. Even organized a protest group against that barmy white house. Police may never find out who killed him, sorting through so many leads."

"Especially since they arrested the wrong person."

Paul blinked at Fiona. "Wrong person? Why do you say that?"

"Because they led a man out in handcuffs. But I saw a woman leaving the house."

Chapter Fourteen

Paul looked around to see who might be listening. A few shoppers had been drawn by the crash of falling books, but otherwise, folks seemed to be giving the signing zone a wide berth. No one was nearby except his mother, who shot him an excited look, and the publicist, who seemed utterly focused on the stack she was rebuilding.

"You saw something?" he said, trying to sound like a bloke hypnotized by Fiona's pretty face, not a cop salivating over a lead.

"Of course I did. I keep an eye open," Fiona said a touch defensively. "Since Barney left, I don't have a man around to protect me. And London's never been less safe. Men with knifes, serial killers, a mugger on every corner. Pull your wheelie-bin to the curb and you're dead!"

This didn't quite describe the Mayfair Paul knew, particularly not Tony's street, but he had the feeling Fiona almost believed it. Perhaps ratcheting up her own fears about shadowy evildoers gave her a good reason to gaze out the window toward her ex-lover's house.

"Gran always had lots of people in and out. Delivery men, artists, that nutter ex-sister-in-law," she continued. "Visible from space, she is, with the crazy hair and the housedresses. When I came home Thursday night, it was twilight. I looked over at Gran's and saw a man going inside. Tall fellow. The one they arrested."

Paul nodded. Would his mum choose this moment to shriek Buck's name or rush over, demanding explication? He dared a sidelong look. Sharada was still rebuilding the stack alongside the publicist and a sullen clerk who'd apparently been pressed into service.

"Later I checked back and saw daft old Georgette heading toward Declan's. No hat, no coat, and it was freezing outside. She climbed his garden wall right before my eyes. And not long after that, there were blue lights everywhere."

"Miss Sevrin climbed into Declan East's garden? You're sure?"

"Told you. I could see that hair from orbit. I'll bet she killed Gran. Snapped or something. After all, she ran away, and the tall man stayed."

"But if it looked like she was fleeing the scene, why didn't you tell anyone? You could have crossed the street and told an officer—" Paul stopped, remembering he wasn't the bad cop, the good cop, or even a cop at all, as far as Fiona knew. "I mean, call a tip line or something?"

"I've been busy." She cast a resentful look at her publicist, who was putting the final book atop the restored stack. "Seriously, I've been a cocktail waitress. I did a little exotic dancing. I've never had to sell myself as hard as in the writer biz!"

"I'm sure it must be terrible," Paul said, passing over his copy for her signature. "But Georgette? Any idea why she'd want Hardwick dead? He was letting her stay with him, after all, and they'd been close for a long time."

"Yeah, but she wanted closer, didn't she? When Gran and I dated, she was a nightmare. Always interrupting, walking in at the wrong time, making demands on his attention. When I started seeing Gran, I was afraid Barney would catch wind, storm over, and rip his lungs out. I had no idea the real stalker lived in the house." Her pen, gorgeously crafted and suitable for signing a royal decree, hovered over the book's flyleaf. "Who do I make it out to?"

"Um… Emmeline Wardle. That's E, m, m…." He spelled the rest. "So your ex, Barney, never got up to his old tricks? Never threated Hardwick or tried to settle the score?"

"Nope. Too busy with his coked-out friends and their skanky party girls. He left for Manchester a month ago and may never come back. There!" She'd signed "Fiona" with a heart over the
i
. "Enjoy!"

* * *

"Investigating is fun," Sharada burbled happily as they traded Harrods warm interior for Brompton Road's bracing cold. "Exciting!"

"Yes, well, expensive fun," Paul huffed. Not only had he been obligated to pay for his copy of
More Than a Footballer's Wife
, Sharada had insisted on getting one, too, then wandered off to the chocolate cases, leaving him to settle up with the expectant clerk. "And remember, if anyone asks, we were not investigating. We were supporting your quote-unquote colleague."

He'd already texted everything to Kate. She could use her Met connections to double-check Barney Leeds's whereabouts on the night of the murder. If he was in Manchester, that eliminated one suspect.

"That woman with the wild hair and the staring eyes, she's the culprit, you'll see," Sharada said. "My Buck will be free any day now."

"I don't know. I think Fiona might actually need those specs. Need them adjusted, at any rate. What she claims to have seen makes no sense."

"Why shouldn't Georgette run from the scene of the crime?"

"Because she didn't leave, remember? She was there all along. Buck called you. You called me. I turned up at East Asia House, and five minutes later, she popped out of the wardrobe."

"Oh." Sharada led them to a sheltered place beside one of the famous Harrods window displays, where they could stand and talk without arousing the ire of busy pedestrians. "What about this? Suppose she fled, got rid of the murder weapon, and came back?"

"The weapon was left behind. The statuette, remember?"

"Maybe her clothes were bloody, and she needed a friend's help to conceal them."

"She still had bloodstains on her housedress and carpet slippers when Tony interviewed her." He pinched the bridge of his nose. Why was he working the Hardwick case, which was forbidden, and ignoring the task his new chief had set for him?

"All right, Mum. This has been wonderful day out. A little hard on the bank account, but lovely. Now I have to do the thing that allows me to pay for it. Go to Mrs. Nibley-Tatters' house and convince her to testify."

"Lucky for you, I have ideas about that, too." Sharada waved at a passing cab. "Taxi!"

* * *

Mrs. Lobelia Nibley-Tatters lived in Fitzrovia, in what was once called a rather promising address, back when the Duke of Wellington was called a rather promising young man. Alas, the sun had set on those days, and Mrs. Nibley-Tatters's house had aged badly. Her fence was missing a section. The gate was gone from its hinges, and her porch swing was off its chains. The roof had been patched many times, and the woodwork along the windows was rotten. But all that was merely cosmetic; the real trouble was the junk.

Dirty, discarded children's toys surrounded the porch. They'd been there so long, wild shrubbery had grown up around them. Broken clay pots decorated the front steps. As for the front door, it was impassable, owing to a collection of rain-soaked shipping boxes, all open, all overflowing with garbage. On Paul's first visit, he'd attempted to ingratiate himself with Mrs. Nibley-Tatters by offering to haul the rubbish away. She'd reacted with alarm, informing him the clutter was placed there deliberately, as a home invasion deterrent.

"Deepal." Sharada, whose housekeeping approached obsessive levels, stared at the mess. "Is this where the drug dealers lived?"

"No. Arry's house is there." He indicated a modest but pin-neat cottage that looked for all the world like a math tutor's home, not a den of iniquity. "Follow me around back."

If the front porch was unpromising, the back garden was post-apocalyptic. There were more cracked flower pots, many bearing the skeletal remains of unlucky plants. Also an old steamer trunk, its leather sides warped and rotted, full of overstuffed rubbish bags. And everywhere there were piles of rusted and broken tools—rakes, hoes, shears, shovels—interspersed with out-and-out junk, like takeaway boxes, dented soda cans, and decomposing coffee cups.

"Deepal! What's that?" Sharada cried, pointing at a pile that rustled.

"Rats. Feral cats. Foxes, maybe. Foxes are the new dingoes. Steal your baby," he said heartlessly, enjoying her discomfort. He'd been counting on the sight of Mrs. Nibley-Tatters's house to frighten his mum into minding her own business.

"She's covered the windows in tinfoil," Sharada said, stepping carefully around a bucket of rusty screws and nails. "Why? Because she's afraid of Arry's friends?"

"Probably because she's afraid of Environmental Health. They've taken action against her because of the garden. If they see what's inside, they may remove her altogether," Paul said, approaching the back door even more carefully than Sharada. On his first visit, he'd stepped on a concealed garden rake, hit himself in the face with the handle, and gouged a hole in his secondhand Gucci horsebit loafers.

"No soliciting!" Mrs. Nibley-Tatters cried from behind the back door, which stood a few inches ajar.

"It's me! DS Paul Bhar." Holding out his warrant card, he advanced up the steps despite the toy cars, hubcaps, and rusty hand trowels that tried to repel him.

"Who's that lady? No social workers, Paul. I said no social workers!"

"Oh. Er, no, she's—"

"Witness protection," Sharada supplied, puffing out her chest, as if she not only arranged for bodyguards, but functioned as one, too. "Here to assure your safety."

"Why are you carrying a Harrods shopping bag?"

Sharada seemed to have forgotten she was holding it. "Appearances. Can't be too obvious."

"As far as protection," Mrs. Nibley-Tatters said, "it's not mine that matters." Although she was slender, even she had to work to extrude herself through the narrow space between door and jamb. Having once sweet-talked his way into the house, Paul knew why: inside lurked veritable mountains of clutter, reaching the ceiling in some spots.

"It's my cat Jinxy's safety," the septuagenarian continued. Despite her sprigged dress and long white hair, she did resemble a member of Monty Python in drag. "Arry took against poor Jinxy from day one. Cross when he got in his garden. Grumbling when he took a squat in his hedge. Now Arry will have his revenge, even from the inside."