Memory and Desire (11 page)

Each red and yellow stamp was emblazoned with the rampant lion of Scotland. The tiny cameo of the Queen in the corner was turned away from its open-mouthed roar of defiance, not particularly amused. “I like those,” Claire said. “I saw one yesterday, on a letter Richard was reading."

“Yes, I noticed that one myself. Square envelope, Scottish Parliament stamp. Altogether like his letters last summer."

“Last summer?” Claire repeated lamely.

“Oh yes. I am very much afraid I offended him by asking about his London correspondent, if it was his former girlfriend wanting to join him up again. But the post is private, after all. And the addresses were typed, so they were probably not a woman's letters at all."

So those letters upset him, too, Claire told herself. Judging by that evil look he'd given her last night, they had something to do with Melinda ...
Don't push your luck.
“Speaking of Richard, I need to get to work. I'll take the postcard stamps and a plate block of the Parliaments, please."

“Thank you,” said Sarita, making change. “Place the cards in the basket on the counter. Roshan will be taking them away to Derby very soon now."

Claire stuck the stamps on the cards and left them in the basket. Then she started off up the street, telling herself that it'd be useless to ask Richard point-blank about the letters. Whatever they were, they weren't bills he'd already paid. She'd caught him in a lie.

And what had she just done by telling Sarita she had a nephew who collected stamps? Testified that the end justified the means? That two wrongs made a right? On top of any ethical issue, she now had to remember she'd said she had a nephew when she didn't even have any siblings.

The Lodge was silent. The gardens before the Hall drooped gently. A light or two glinted in the windows, but most of them were dark, abstracted, as though the mist emanated from the damp stones themselves. The Gothic air of the place was not only appropriate to a haunted house, it almost demanded that the house be haunted. Which came first, Claire asked herself, a ghost or a place for it to walk, the artifact or the template?

She strode into the entrance hall, exchanged greetings with several people, and discovered Janet waiting for her on the staircase. “How about lunch in the tearoom today?"

“Love to."

“See you then.” Janet bustled away and collided in the back hall with Richard, who apologized for getting in her way.

When he saw Claire standing on the steps he called, “How are you getting on with the Morris canvas?"

“I should finish it tomorrow."

“Don't take it off the frame on your own."

“Okay.” She bit her tongue to keep from returning,
Aye, aye sir.

The long gallery was much darker today in the mist than it'd been in yesterday's sunshine. She found a light switch hidden in a corner and looked dubiously up at the bulbs spaced along the ceiling. They spilled only a few watts into shadows that could have been either romantic or sinister. Claire voted for sinister.

She moved her chair and adjusted the frame so she could sit with her back to the wall. Only once did she sense Richard's silent acetylene gaze from the doorway. Odd how she actually missed it, even though it was like working with burned fingertips.

She glanced up at every odd creak or rustle in the room. Only Alec, though, came strolling by. He nodded amiably but said nothing, very much the cop on duty. By the time the cry, “Lunch break!” echoed through the house, Claire was ready to go. She tucked her needle into its pincushion, turned off the lights, and promised herself she'd ask for a lamp. And maybe a space heater—sneaky little drafts played up and down the room even after she'd scooted away from the window. Maybe she should bring her CD player and earphones ... No, that just wouldn't fit.

On the staircase she met Janet, her face and arms sprinkled with dots of gold like fairy dust. With her were Fred and Mrs. Zielinski, who introduced herself as Susan. Outside the mist had thinned a bit, but still both sky and ground were low on definition, open to impression, not quite real.

The tearoom was a brighter version of the pub, its windows larger and its ceiling higher. The four Americans found a table in the corner and ordered from a waitress wearing a starched uniform and blond corn rows. Claire's hands were cold. Fred, the only one of the group working outside, had hands that were red and raw with chill. And with scrapes, Claire noted. “Having a rough time with the masonry?” she asked.

“No worse than usual.” He wrapped his fingers around a warm cup of tea.

“Richard bought the stone from a couple of old houses that were being demolished,” Janet explained. “So it'd match the Hall, right? That's what he was doing when we first got here last year, waving the truck down to the foot of the lawn by the rose garden."

“He wanted to use the same stone for the garden walls,” added Susan.

Claire closed in. “So you were here last year, too."

“Oh yes. I just fell in love with Somerstowe, had to come back this year. Do you know I'm one of the few people who've actually seen the ghost of Elizabeth Spenser? Not just a kind of sparkle in the air—several people have seen that—but the actual woman, long dress, collar, and all."

“In the gallery?” asked Claire.

“No, in the portico late one night. Very pale and spectral. I went off in the other direction pretty fast, let me tell you!"

“She told Richard about it,” Janet said, “and he just gave her one of his Mr. Spock ‘fascinating’ looks."

“Richard doesn't fuss at me. I'm old enough to be his grandmother.” Susan's dark eyes twinkled in a face furrowed deep with long experience and well-earned knowledge. Her hair was a teased crown of a mauve color Claire had never seen in nature. If Diana Jackman fought her age, and Priscilla Digby accepted hers, then Susan Zielinski declared to the world,
if this be age, make the most of it!

Claire waited while the waitress distributed soup and sandwiches, then said, “So you knew Melinda Varek."

“Claire's a friend of hers,” Janet put in. “She'd like to find out what happened to her."

“We wondered if she just ran off,” said Susan. “But her leaving her things behind, that didn't look good. You must be very worried."

Claire spooned up thick pea soup and nodded. “Yes, I am. Maybe you can help. Sarita tells me Melinda had a lot of friends here."

“She was friendly,” muttered Fred into his sandwich. Something in his tone suggested that “friendly” wasn't quite the word he had in mind.

Janet shot a sharp look at him. “Yeah, she was friendly, all right. And stunning. I'd say I disliked her—sorry Claire—but she was so nice, with such a great sense of humor ... Well, you can't blame all the men for flocking around her. Bees and flowers, you know."

Susan fished a packet of artificial sweetener from her fanny pack and poured it into her tea. “Every night, almost, Melinda would sit in the pub with her laptop and ask questions about Somerstowe, Elizabeth, and the Hall. There're several families who've been here so long they must've evolved right on the spot. She could've written five books."

“All these people with the huge family trees,” Janet muttered. “My great-grandparents came through Ellis Island and some official wrote the name down as ‘Harlow.’ Big deal."

And now Melinda's laptop was gone, Claire told herself. “I guess she took lots of pictures, too? She had one of those digital cameras that'd download right into the computer."

“It looked to me like she was mainly interested in the Hall, that stone circle, and the church,” Susan said. “Not that I was with her all the time."

“She was taking pictures at the cast party, last time anybody saw her,” said Fred. “Showed me how to use the camera. High-tech. Really cool."

“If kind of dislocating to see a woman in a seventeenth-century gown taking pictures with a digital camera,” Susan added.

“She didn't change her clothes right after the show?” asked Claire.

Janet shook her head. “No. Not everybody did. Just having fun playing dress-up, I guess."

“Melinda told me she liked that dress,” Claire went on. “She only hinted, though, that she had something going with one of the men here."

“Wouldn't surprise me one bit,” said Susan. “I was cleaning the fireplace in the long gallery one day, right before she disappeared, and we got to talking. She pretty much ran down the list. She said Elliot was so fake he was charming. ‘A hoot,’ she said. ‘Lots of laughs.’ They spent a lot of time together since she had a major role in The Play. Could've been him."

Yeah, Claire thought, and Elliot isn't volunteering any information, is he?

“Hey,” offered Fred. “I saw Melinda drive off with Rob Jackman once. He's married, yeah, but I mean, look what he's married to."

“Rob has to run all the errands for the pub,” said Janet. “Diana can't drive, and I don't think she's much help any other way, either. He was just giving Melinda a ride, like you did that time. When you got lost and stopped for a beer and everything?"

Fred pulled himself up, dignity wounded.
"I
didn't have anything going with Melinda, okay?"

“I imagine it was all very—well—innocent,” Susan said. “I can't imagine Rob appealing to her, he's pretty rough around the edges."

“Having someone else do the driving,” said Janet quickly, “you can't beat that."

Susan nodded. “Melinda drove all over the place, no problem. It takes intestinal fortitude to drive on the wrong side of the road and negotiate those roundabouts, but she had plenty of that. You drove here, didn't you, Claire?"

“You gotta do what you gotta do.” Maybe, Claire worried, one of the volunteers from last year had killed Melinda and not returned to the scene of the crime ... No, it had to be someone who was in The Play—the letter shoved under the door pointed to that. It was someone Melinda had known. “What did she say about Alec?"

“I saw them in a heck of a clinch in the upper great chamber one night after rehearsal,” said Janet. “He's so tall and she's so petite she looked like a rock climber working her way up a cliff face."

Claire nodded. Alec had said right up front he'd “seen” Melinda.

“Not that a kiss means much in this day and time,” Susan said. “She told me she liked Alec just fine, that he was ‘sweet,’ but then she added, ‘his heart belongs to another.’ Not that I've ever seen him with anyone. Some sort of long-distance relationship, I guess."

Oh? Claire asked herself. That was interesting. Who was the lucky woman, then? Someone on the Isle of Man? “And Richard?"

“She said Richard was a real looker and damned smart, but too honest."

Too honest? Richard?
Claire let her spoon drip soup back into the bowl. “Alec told me Melinda used to tease Richard."

“Oh yes, she did. She teased everyone. There was some sort of static between her and Richard, though. She'd twit him about being descended from Cecil and Phillip and acting like such a pill about the house. Just trying to get him to lighten up, I guess. Not that he's all that grim, just a little—intense."

“Even so,” said Janet, “Melinda told me she had a date with Richard at the Lodge right after the cast party. But they got into a real knock-down drag-out upstairs while the rest of us were still partying."

Again with the argument.
Claire put the spoon down. “What were they fighting about?"

“Who knows?” asked Susan. “They weren't shouting, it was just their voices, you know. Very sharp. Alec walked over and turned up the volume on the boom box—it was playing the Rolling Stones right then, that would've covered up anything short of a train wreck. After a few minutes Melinda came sweeping down the stairs, smiling as though nothing was wrong, and started dancing with old Jimmy Hawkins. Then Richard came down. You could've cut stone with his face. He said good night and took off. Soon after that the party broke up."

“So did she actually see him later that night, do you know?"

Susan looked at Janet and shrugged. Janet looked at Fred and shook her head. Fred looked at Claire's half-empty bowl. “Do you want the rest of that?"

“Ah, no. Help yourself."

Fred pulled her bowl toward him. Claire shoved the last quarter of her sandwich at him, too. If Melinda met Richard after the party, he might have been the last person to see her alive.... She reminded herself that only on TV detective shows was the most likely suspect always innocent. In real life it was the other way around.

She waited until after the waitress had taken away the plates and produced gooseberry tart with cream to ask, “I guess the police questioned everyone in town when Melinda disappeared."

“You'd better believe it,” Janet replied, rolling her eyes. “That Blake, and his sergeant, Pakenpork..."

“Pakenham,” corrected Susan.

“Just a joke,” Janet told her. “Blake and Pakenham grilled everyone between here and the reservoir where they found Melinda's car. Even Alec, who's on their side. Talk about leaving no stone unturned, or no turn unstoned, or something."

“Nothing,” said Fred, and burped gently. “Sod-all. Sweet Fanny Adams, as the Brits say."

Susan took out her change purse and started counting out pence. “Me, I think she's dead. Sorry, Claire."

“I'm sorry, too,” Claire replied, without expanding the issue to include murder.

She paid her portion of the bill and walked back to the Hall a few paces behind the others, wondering whether Melinda had accidentally tripped over Fred and Janet's relationship. Ditto Rob and Diana, who seemed to be on somewhat less than the best of terms. But then, running a business was stressful.

And did it even matter who Melinda had had her eye on? Someone could've killed her because, say, she'd uncovered some financial plot. The international illegal antiquities trade was booming, and the villagers were in a good position to be selling off bits of the Hall to wealthy and unscrupulous collectors—it happened all the time.

Just as Claire started up the stairs she remembered to ask Susan about the lamp. “I'll find Richard and ask,” Susan returned. “Can't have you ruining your eyes."

Claire expected Richard to bring a lamp himself. He had a slight problem delegating responsibility—possessive perfectionists usually did. But it was Susan who returned with an angle-arm lamp about thirty minutes later. “He sent me down to the Lodge for it,” she explained, and helped Claire clamp it onto the tapestry frame.