Copy Cap Murder (7 page)

“Harrison might have mentioned her on one of our boys' nights out,” Nick said. He was studying the inside of his cup as if reading the tea leaves.

“Oh, really?” I asked.

“Harrison was bevvied,” Andre said. “So we didn't take what he said too seriously.”

“What did he say?” I asked.

“Nothing much,” Nick said. “Just that he really thought hewasgoingtomarryher.”

I stared at him for a full minute. It took me that long to untangle his word jumble. “Marry her?” I whipped around to look at Viv. “Is that true?”

She gave me the sympathetic look a person gives when they're about to tell you something you don't want to hear like your dog died, you lost your job, or the man you're crushing on almost married the vilest woman in existence. I am not exaggerating.

“He was smitten with her,” Viv said. She sighed. She looked like she didn't want to say any more but was forcing herself because she knew I would keep badgering her. “He
did tell me he was going to ask her to marry him, but a few days later she moved out of their flat and he never mentioned her again.”

“They lived together?” I asked. There was no other way to interpret Viv's words, but I was still trying to find a different angle. I'm tenacious like that.

“Yes,” Viv said. “It seemed quite serious at the time.”

I was reeling. It was one thing for Tuesday to announce that they had been a thing and that she planned to get him back. I had assumed they had just dated. But they had lived together, cohabited, shared a bathroom, and Harrison had almost proposed to her! I felt like I was going to have a seizure.

“He never said,” I stammered.

“That's a male heartbreak for you, they don't talk about it,” Fee said. I scowled at her and she shrugged. “Sorry but I've seen it with my older brothers. It's not pretty.”

“On that happy note, I think it's time for us to go,” Nick said to Andre. “I have an early morning.”

They both finished their tea and I walked them to the front door while Viv and Fee headed upstairs. We exchanged hugs and I promised to let them know as soon as I heard anything from Harrison or Alistair.

They stepped out into the cold night, but before I closed the door, Andre grabbed my hand and said, “He's going to be all right.”

“Oh, I know,” I lied.

He gave me a look that told me he knew I was bluffing and then he said, “This might be a good time to let him know you care about him, a fellow facing an arrest for murder could probably use the lift.”

“But I don't—” I began but Nick interrupted me.

“Oh, please, Scarlett,” he said. “This is us, your first mates upon arriving in Notting Hill. We know you, pet, and you fancy the pants off Harrison Wentworth.”

“It just seems that way because I haven't been dating anyone,” I said. “Really, we're just friends.”

Nick and Andre exchanged a look and then shook their heads.

“Deny, deny, deny,” Nick said. “It still won't make it not so.”

“Ugh.” I banged my head on the door frame, yes, intentionally. “Good night, you two, I'll call you tomorrow if there's any news.”

Andre blew me an air kiss and the two of them walked down the street to the flat above their studio.

I watched them walk arm in arm and I envied their relationship. The love and affection that they shared were certainly inspiring. It made me long for, well, that special sort of closeness. That feeling of coming home just because I'd found my soul mate.

Naturally, my thoughts flitted back to Harrison. What was happening to him right now? Was he okay? Why hadn't he or Alistair texted us to let us know what was going on? And how did I feel about Tuesday? Okay, that part was easy. I hadn't liked her before and now I was quite sure I loathed her.

I locked the door and checked the downstairs before heading up. Fee was spending the night at our place in our guest bedroom since she had a fitting with a client early in the morning. I found them sitting at the counter in the kitchen of our flat.

“I'm knackered,” Fee said. She paused to let out a jaw-popping yawn. “G'night, girls.”

She waved to us as she headed upstairs to the room across from mine. Viv stayed seated, eating salted caramel gelato right out of the carton. She handed me a spoon.

“On top of tea and tarts?” I asked.

“Extreme circumstances,” she said.

I tucked into the frozen treat. I thought about Harry and wondered if he was still at the station. Then I remembered his desire to be a spy. I'll bet he wouldn't have ended up in this mess if he had become a spy. I wished I could call him and tell him that. I had the feeling it would make him laugh.

I glanced at Viv. It hit me, like it does sometimes, that she was married. She had a husband somewhere out there in the great big world. Why wouldn't she tell me about him? It was maddening. Then I had a crazy thought. Maybe she couldn't talk about him, maybe she was sworn to secrecy.

“He's a spy, isn't he?” I asked. “Like MI5 or MI6 or CIA or one of those top secret things.”

“Who are you talking about?” she asked. She looked at me like I was mental, not as unusual a look as you would think coming from her.

I stared at her and she heaved a huge sigh and said, “The husband thing again?”

“Just tell me who he is,” I pleaded.

“No,” she said. Just like that. Who gets away with that? Viv, that's who, I could never get away with a one-word answer. Maybe that says something bad about me, I'm not sure.

“Fine.” I nodded in resignation and tucked my spoon into the creamy dessert. We were silent for a moment.

“I don't think I'm going to sleep tonight until I know what's happening to Harry,” I said.

“I know, but Alistair is the best,” she said. “Harrison couldn't be in better care.”

“You're right,” I agreed but still I worried.

It took everything I had in me not to question her about her feelings for Alistair, but there were bigger issues at large, namely Harrison's freedom, so I resisted.

“Ava Carson,” Viv said. She spooned some gelato into her mouth and let the name perch in the air between us like a bird on a wire.

“Are you going anywhere with that?” I asked after a while.

“I know that Nick and Andre like her, but she's odd and it's more than the drugs,” Viv said.

“Agreed.” I thought back to the events of the night. “Even if she was heavily medicated, it's still weird that she didn't look surprised when Win was found dead.”

Viv met my gaze. “I think so, too.”

“She is quite a bit younger than Tyler,” I said.

“And they have no children,” Viv said. “I don't think she's done much of anything since her modeling career dried up.”

“I can see her as a model. She's all sharp angles and straight edges,” I said. “And she likes art.”

“I think she fancied herself an artist at one time,” Viv said with a sniff. Having gone to an art school, Viv was sometimes snobby about the subject.

“Doped up or not, her face when Win fell out of the tarp showed no surprise, nothing,” I said.

“So either she was loopy beyond reaction . . .” Viv said.

“Or she knew who killed him, maybe she even saw them kill him, and she wasn't surprised,” I concluded.

We both reached into the tub of gelato at the same time. We worked our spoons around each other and then mulled over the situation while we ate.

“Or she was more than a witness,” Viv said. “Maybe she is the killer and that's why there was no surprise when Dashavoy was revealed.”

The thought of Ava being so calculating made me shiver, but there was no denying the look in her eyes when Win had tumbled across the steps to the ground. It had been a look of cold satisfaction.

Viv and I packed up the gelato and called it a night. She gave me a hug and told me not to worry but I knew I would. I suspected she would, too.

Viv's room is on the same floor as our kitchen and living room. She moved into it after Mim passed away. My room and the guest room are on the floor above. I had recently painted my room. Previously, it had been a shade of heart attack pink but now it was a soothing pale green color with a creamy white trim. Don't tell anyone but I sort of miss the pink.

Okay, maybe I don't miss the pink so much as I miss the free spirit who painted her room such an eye-watering color. I suppose maturity gives a person better taste but I really hoped it didn't mean I was becoming bland.

After I was scrubbed clean and jammified, I picked up
my phone just to see if there was any word from Harrison. There was not. He was much more polite than me and it occurred to me that he wouldn't text so late, whereas I had no trouble with it.

That being decided, I fired off a text asking him if things were all right.

I picked up the novel I was currently reading while I waited for him to answer. Here's a little-known fact, it's very difficult to read a novel when you keep one eye on your phone at all times. I figured evolution would take care of this problem when we evolve into creatures with tiny fingers for texting and eyes that can go in two directions at once so we can see what's happening around us and read our texts at the same time. It was one of those wee hour ideas that horrified as much as it fascinated.

Finally, after ten whole minutes, my phone buzzed. I snatched it up relieved to see that it was Harrison.

“Hello?”

“Ginger, I just got your text. Why are you still up?” he asked.

Harrison has a nice deep voice and his British accent only makes it all the more charming. I realized that I always enjoyed talking to him on the phone but even more so right now, probably because there was a certain intimacy to having a man speak right into your ear while you're lying in bed in your pajamas.

“I've been waiting to hear what happened,” I said.

“We got it sorted,” he said.

I could tell he was giving me the brush-off.

“What does that mean exactly?” I asked. “Are you a person of interest?”

He was quiet for a moment, too long of a moment, and I gasped.

“Oh, no, you are, aren't you?” I asked. “It's because of the fight, isn't it?”

“Well, it certainly didn't help matters and when several people came forward as witnesses to the fight . . .”

“But I was there and I told them exactly what happened,” I protested.

“I know,” he said. “But there are some issues.”

“What issues?” I asked. “I was with you the entire time. I'll go and see DI Simms tomorrow and tell him that you were with me. I'm your alibi.”

“Ah, see, that's the problem,” Harrison said. “You weren't with me the entire time.”

“Yes, I was,” I argued as if being bullheaded could make it so.

“Scarlett.” He said my name quietly, my real name, which is how I knew he was taking this very seriously. “You know I left you for a few minutes after the fight.”

“Seconds,” I said. “At most, it was seconds.”

He chuckled and then he sighed.

“I appreciate the support,” he began but I interrupted.

“It's not support, you're innocent,” I said. “And I'm not going to let a bunch of drunken toffs railroad you for something you could never do.”

“Did you just say ‘toffs'?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “How did it sound?”

“Awkward,” he said. “Like me saying ‘dude.'”

I laughed and when he spoke again his voice was warm and teasing. “You like me.”

“That's beside the point,” I mumbled. I could feel my
face heating up. I wasn't sure I was ready to have this conversation, especially since he had no idea that I had been watching him pretty much the entire time he had gone to retrieve the wine at the party after the kerfuffle with Win. When I said he hadn't been out of my sight, I wasn't kidding but I wasn't sure I was ready for him to know that.

“I would do the same for anyone I knew to be innocent,” I said. I tried to make my voice sound matter of fact.

“No, you really like me,” he teased. “You more than like me.”

“Are you being difficult on purpose?” I asked. I was beginning to get flustered. “Because it's not attractive.”

“Oh, so you think I'm att—” he began but I interrupted.

“Do not read into that,” I said. “Seriously, Harry, this situation is bad, very bad.”

He sighed. I felt like a bit of a buzz kill but I was relieved to steer the conversation back to a safer port. Whatever feelings were happening between me and Harry, I was not yet ready to discuss them.

“Alistair assures me that it will be all right,” he said. “And I trust him.”

“I'm still going to tell Simms that you were only gone from my side for a few moments at most,” I said. “And that's only if he asks me. I am volunteering nothing.”

“You're something, Scarlett Parker, you know that?” he asked.

The affection in his voice gave me the warm fuzzies, which I promptly tamped down with serious talk.

“Who do you think did it?” I asked.

“No idea,” he said. “Win was difficult. He didn't have
many friends and the ones he did have were more like hostages, beholden to him for a debt or a favor.”

“So there are a lot of people who aren't grief struck to see him gone,” I said.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Sad, isn't it?”

“Terribly,” I said.

“Listen, Alistair is signaling me that he requires my attention,” Harrison said. “Thanks for checking on me. That means quite a lot.”

“No problem,” I said. “We'll talk tomorrow.”

“Definitely,” he agreed. “Night, Ginger.”

“Night, Harry.”

I ended the call and fell back on my bed. I felt better knowing that he was safe at home, but I couldn't shake the feeling that his time in the hot seat was far from over.

*   *   *

“Enid Griswold is the most demanding woman ever,” Viv huffed. “First she wants a fedora then she wants a cloche and why do I have to charge her twice and can't I just bend the fedora into a cloche?”

I said nothing as I watched her cut the ribbon she planned to use on the freshly formed cloche with a pair of very sharp scissors.

“Next she'll change the bloody ribbon from red to blue and I'll go mad, absolutely mad,” Viv said.

“Then you'll officially be a mad hatter,” I said.

“Argh, I can't even go mad without it being redundant,” she said.

“Go batty instead,” I suggested. “The batty hatter sounds much more hip anyway.”

Viv gave me a look that indicated I should stop talking. I am nothing if not receptive to this sort of thing.

“I'll just go open the front,” I said. I gathered up the morning paper and my cup of coffee and left the workroom to Viv and her tantrum.

I switched on the lights, did a check of our stock and then went and opened the window shades and unlocked the door. It was a clear, sunny day on Portobello Road and I found it hard to be pessimistic in the face of such glorious weather.

It was still quiet on the street. We rarely had customers this early in the morning unless they were coming for an appointment for a bespoke hat, you know, one measured and created to their exact specifications.

I unfolded the paper and spread it out on the counter. I assumed there would be an article about Win and, frankly, I'd been gearing up for it all morning. The news media and I are not friends. After my very scandalous public breakup, I've never looked at reporters the same way again.

Sure enough, a professional portrait of Win was on the front cover above the fold. He was smirking and his blond bangs hung roguishly over his forehead. Even his picture gave me a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. The headline shouted in bold letters:
Win Dashavoy Murdered at Guy Fawkes Party
.

I heaved a sigh and then began the article. It talked about Win's position at Carson and Evers and how he'd been considered a star on the rise in the financial world. I wondered who they'd gotten that bit from since as far as I could tell his star had been a dim sparkle at best.

Finally, toward the middle there was a bit about the altercation between Win and Harrison. I leaned over the paper
as if getting closer to the words would make me closer to the story. It stated that several witnesses reported punches being exchanged between Harrison and Win over a plain-faced ginger.

I stopped reading. My eyes read the previous sentence again. I felt my brow furrow. Plain-faced ginger? Were they referring to me? I punched the article with my fist right in the kisser.

“So I take it you got to the part where you're mentioned?”

My head snapped up and there was Harrison, smiling at me as if I was the brightest spot in his day.

“What makes you think that?” I asked. “Do you have a shredder? I think this deserves a good shredding.”

He laughed. “Not on me, sadly, but you know you have to feel sorry for whoever gave them that description of you.”

“Sorry for them. How do you figure?”

“Well, quite clearly, they are blind,” he said.

“Oh.” The word came out of me on a soft sigh. Yeah, it took everything I had to keep from leaping over the counter and putting him in a stranglehold, you know, the good kind where you use your lips. Instead, I just said, “Thanks, Harry.”

I noticed that he didn't correct my use of his nickname, and I wondered if he was just preoccupied or if there had been a subtle shift in our relationship.

“How are Tyler and Reese managing this?” I asked. “I can't imagine that Win's clients are very happy right now.”

“I don't know,” Harrison said. “I tried calling Tyler this morning but he didn't answer. I received a text this morning that the office was to remain closed.”

“They must be taking Win's death pretty hard,” I said.

“Reese is,” Harrison said. “Tyler and Win were not particularly close, or so I assumed but maybe I was wrong.”

Harrison's phone chimed and he checked the display. “It's Reese, excuse me.”

I nodded. Then I did what anyone else in my situation would do, I eavesdropped, trying to hear what was being said without appearing to do so. Harrison did not make it easy as he paced back and forth and around the displays. I picked up the occasional grunt, which sounded unhappy, but not much else.

Finally, he pocketed his phone and came back over. “Well, I guess they are figuring things out.”

“Is the office open again?” I asked.

“It will be tomorrow, but not to me,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“It seems I've been suspended from my position without pay until further notice,” Harrison said.

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “It looks as though they've made up their mind about who is guilty of killing Winthrop Dashavoy. Me.”