Memory and Desire (23 page)

Claire picked up a pile of pink cotton, glanced at the “DCJ” marked inside, and called, “Diana?"

Diana laid down her cup and reported to the table, where Claire and Sarita lifted the yards of fabric over her head and settled them around her. “A bit snug,” said Sarita.

“I have me other clothes on beneath,” Diana pointed out. “It'll fit a treat, just as it did when I first wore it."

“This was Diana's costume as Elizabeth,” Sarita explained as they levered the material back over Diana's helmet of blond hair. “I added fancy buttons and lace, as befitting the lady of the manor."

Judging by the minuscule rows of stitch punctures paralleling the seams of the dress, Claire suspected that Sarita had also let it out—without consulting Diana. Technically the pink dress, like Trillian's teal and Melinda's blue, wasn't historically accurate garb for a servant, but the drama demanded that Elizabeth be set off by color.

Elliot walked Trillian in the kitchen door, bending condescendingly over her dark head. “Do try to remember your lines, there's a good girl."

Roshan loomed up behind them, disengaged his daughter, and led her to the tea table, where Alec plied her with cookies and reassurances until her red lips lost their pout and smiled. Now, Claire thought, someone needed to erase the worry that not only thinned Alec's lips but stiffened his entire face, as though he'd been taking tension lessons from Richard.

If he hadn't had The Play to occupy his time the last two weeks he might just as well have left town—although suspects weren't allowed to do that, were they? Blake and Pakenham had made the young constable as welcome as a wizard at a Puritan revival even before he became a suspect. Now they were going to relieve him of duty. For having been so congenial when Claire first arrived, Alec now seemed ill at ease around her. She couldn't turn back time and tell him not to find Melinda, though. She'd come here to find Melinda...

“Lacey, Richard Callander,” Richard's voice said in Claire's ear. “That's initials RCL."

...and she'd found Richard, too. “An eighteenth century costume kind of stands out from the rest, you know. Here you go. Frock coat, knee breeches, stockings, gold buckles. Even your ponytail and ribbon, unless you can grow your hair out before Friday."

“I think not. Sorry.” He grinned. The strain still lurked at the corners of his eyes and mouth, but tonight his hair was a bit more relaxed, the kitchen lights striking auburn gleams from its soft dark bristles.

She grinned back. “Good. I like the mood hair just as it is."

“Eh?” Richard asked.

“Oh dear,” said Sarita. “I have no more pins. Where is Roshan, he must run to the shop."

Claire tore herself away from the vision of Richard. “There's a box of pins upstairs. I'll get them."

Blake and the constable were still outside. Kate was smoothing a farmer's smock over Fred's narrow shoulders. Claire started to signal to her, then paused. They could hardly go around joined at the hip.

“I'll fend off the bogles,” Richard said under his breath. “Come along.” A swift touch of his hand to her back urged her into the corridor.

In the sudden darkness it seemed as though the dusty lamps in the kitchen had been bright as limelight. Claire blinked and stumbled. Richard slipped his arm around her waist. “I know the place like the back of my hand."

“I'm sure you do.” She draped her own arm over his shoulder and leaned into him, captured in the warm gravity of his body even though her eyes quickly cleared. It felt good to touch him. There was nothing wrong in touching him. She could trust him. Blake trusted him. He'd even told Richard who Kate was, since she had to be slipped into the volunteer program.

True to his word, Richard needed to switch on only two lights on their way upstairs. The bare bulbs hanging from elegant plaster moldings grudged out a few watts. The voices in the kitchen faded and died. Except for the gentle creak of the floors the house was so silent Claire found herself tiptoeing in complement to Richard's discreet tread.

The chill, musty, darkness parted before them and closed behind them. In the long gallery the windows were networks of pale light. Claire picked up the box of pins, put the top on it, and tucked it into her pocket.

Footsteps moved along the corridor at the far end of the gallery. She spun around. “It's Elizabeth,” Richard whispered.

“I think it was Diana said something about her being more active or more substantial the last couple of years."

“She has been that."

“It's all about her, isn't it? The Play and everything. And Melinda teasing you about ‘the truth behind’ it.” Claire looked over at him. “I was checking out Elizabeth's embroidered cloth today, thinking about the significance of the designs. Do you think maybe Melinda didn't mean the truth about your parents writing The Play but the truth about Elizabeth, that she may really have been—well, a wise woman, you know what I mean?"

Against the spectral gleam of the marble fireplace Richard's profile listed into a wry smile. “You're still the canny one, aren't you? Yes, I imagine Elizabeth was after making healing and weather magic. Which was enough to condemn her. But we'll never know what Melinda..."

The footsteps came back the other way. A skein of yarn fell with a plump off the tapestry frame. In spite of herself Claire jumped. No surprise that she'd jump toward Richard and find herself pressed against his chest. His arms tightened around her. Her nostrils filled with his scent, clean wool, shampoo, and a hint of wood smoke. She didn't wrench away.

There was the calico cat. For several long seconds it batted the yarn across the floor, its paws making a faint rustle. Then it vanished, leaving the yarn in a tangled heap against the wooden planks.

After a long count of ten, Claire whispered, “How did the Cranbournes like living in a haunted house?"

“There's not a word about either ghost in their letters and diaries. A classic case of denial, I should think."

“Surely your father had a close encounter or two when he was looking over the hidden room. Or was he of the stiff-upper-lip school?"

Richard shook his head. “He wasn't, no. But he didn't know about the room, not until Alec and I found it."

“Really?” Claire tilted her head so she could see his face.

Its angles were softened by shadow. A spark flared in his eyes. His voice was so soft she could hardly hear it, and leaned in even closer. “I was perhaps twelve, Alec ten. And yet he was the bold one, keen on following the ghost up the stairs. I went along because I wouldn't let a younger and smaller lad—and he was smaller then—show me up."

“Cool,” Claire said, but she wasn't at all cool. Richard's breath stirred the fine hairs around her ears. His body was firm and steady against hers. His hands moved slowly down her back and circled her flanks. His voice had sent a shiver down her spine. His caress drew a shudder of delight from her entire body.

She traced the musculature over his shoulders to his back, the wool of his sweater tickling her fingertips. His heart beat against her breast like a snare drum setting the cadence of a reel. His face was inches away from hers, his eyes bright glints, for once easy to read. Oh yes, she thought.

The kiss wasn't at all tentative. They went lip to lip, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue so fiercely Claire's breath caught in a muffled gasp.
Yes!

Of course Richard was focussed, thorough, meticulous. Of course she went at him with banners flying from every nerve ending. No more secrets. No more hidden emotions. All that he was, all that she was, not only revealed at last but flaunted and savored. Every fiber of her body vibrated like a strummed harp string. Lightning flashed ...
Oh.

Kate stood with her hand still on the light switch and her face set in a sheepish smile. “Sorry, sorry—Sarita said you were after fetching the pins—Blake'd have my guts for garters if anyone got at you—if you'd told me you were off with Richard—sorry."

In one simultaneous movement they stepped apart. “No problem,” Richard said. His mouth was set so tightly Claire couldn't believe that just a moment earlier it'd been so flexible. She cleared her throat and shook herself.
Whoa.
They'd leaped several stages of relationship there. Suddenly that bedroom seemed like a real possibility. Or the living room couch. Her own hide-a-bed. The back seat of the Rover ... Well, no, they could do better than that.

Together the three of them walked down to the kitchen, Kate in the lead, Richard and Claire sharing quick, curious, cautious looks behind her back.

Everyone was filing back outside. “Claire!” Elliot called. “Musicians on-stage!"

Her knees shaking, her hands for once trembling with pleasure instead of fear, Claire walked outside and took her place at the beginning of the next act.

The view from the back window of Claire's flat was of an alley and the rear of a row of shops. Beyond their lichen-freckled roofs green fields stitched with silver stone fences billowed toward a closed and shadowed horizon. Birds sang arias in the uncertain sky.

Close by a nasal voice was ranting, anything but uncertain. Who was Pakenham hectoring at eight o'clock in the morning? Claire opened the window and leaned out into the chill.

The shop directly behind her was Blake's command post. Through one window she could see a constable staring at a teakettle, apparently not believing that a watched pot never boils. Through the other window she saw Pakenham, three-piece suit immaculate, mouse-colored hair slicked back, standing beside a table littered with papers. A shirt-sleeved forearm resting on the table was Blake's. Across from him two female hands picked at a tissue. Each one glinted with a fleck or two of gold. So what's up with Janet? Claire asked herself. But she'd probably be hearing all about it.

She drained her cup of tea, washed her dishes, and brushed her teeth. A knock on her door was Kate coming to put her on her leash for the rest of the day. Dutifully Claire called, “Who is it?"

“Kate here."

“I'm ready.” Picking up Trevor's umbrella and opening the brand-new dead bolt, Claire went outside and locked the brand-new lock. She followed Kate down the steps, telling herself not to be irritated—the WPC was only doing her job.

In fact, she might be doing too good a job. Claire had the queasy feeling she was playing the part of the goat, staked out to attract the village predator. Not that any woman-eating beasts would attack bait so closely guarded. If Kate abandoned her post, though, she, Blake, and Pakenham would be blamed for every tooth-mark on Claire's body. Not that Claire herself would be too thrilled. Catch-22. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

She didn't like being frightened. She didn't like being manipulated, by the murderer or by the police. She didn't like feeling helpless.... At the end of the street Richard emerged from the Lodge and strode toward the Hall, his lean, lithe body moving with the ease of a hunting cat. And she didn't like being chaperoned, she concluded.

Blake and Pakenham appeared from the side street. “Good morning,” said Blake. He looked so tousled and woebegone, in contrast to the dapper Pakenham, that Claire expected him to add, “not that there's anything good about it.” He fell into step beside her, leaving Pakenham and Kate to elbow each other on the narrow sidewalk behind.

“I had a profitable interview this morning,” Pakenham announced.

Kate, obviously not wanting to encourage him, said nothing. But Claire figured she might as well get it over with. “Yes?"

“Janet Harlow admitted she had a one-night stand with Rob Jackman last year."

Aha—that explained a few looks and gestures across the bar. Unfortunately that wasn't all it explained. “Which happened to be the night Melinda was killed,” Claire stated.

“Got it in one,” Pakenham told her.

Blake stepped off into the street to avoid a car parked over the curb. A couple of volunteers veered in another direction, avoiding him. “Miss Harlow rowed with Mr. Siebold over him spending an afternoon with Miss Varek. He went back to their B&B. She went on to the church, arriving there at a quarter past twelve or so, as Mrs. Digby already told us. What Mrs. Digby didn't notice, though, is that Miss Harlow slipped out again at a quarter to one, meaning to return to the B&B. She met Rob Jackman walking his dog in the high street and stopped for a chat. When she told him about the row, he told her Fred was probably—er—with Miss Varek at that very moment."

“So she thought she'd have herself a bit of a giggle and get her own back, all at once.” Claire could hear the nudge-nudge, wink-wink in Pakenham's voice. “She finally came forward, she says, because she was afraid my asking questions would have her precious Fred putting two and two together."

Claire didn't even try to imagine what it would be like having sex with Rob. It wouldn't be making love, that was for sure. “Sounds as though that'd give Fred a motive to murder Rob or Janet, not Melinda. You never can tell how people's minds are going to work, though."

“Janet Harlot—get that, Harlow, Harlot?” Pakenham snickered. “She says Fred wouldn't kill a fly. He's a bit wet, right enough. But then some murderers are mild-mannered little sods pushed just a bit too far."

“Money, jealousy,” murmured Kate, “when it comes to motive we're spoilt for choice."

“As for PC Wood,” Blake went on, “Miss Harlow says she saw him and Miss Varek in what she described as a passionate clinch right after dress rehearsal, a couple of days before she died."

Claire nodded glumly. At least that didn't take her by surprise.
Damn Alec.
She was prepared to believe anything he said, if only he'd say something about his letter more substantial than “just a bit of mischief."

“Village is a bleeding knocking-shop,” stated Pakenham, who always had something to say. “Not surprising the nosy Miss Melinda knew something she shouldn't have known. Of course, if she'd just kept her mouth shut, hadn't gone about making trouble for people..."

Claire stopped so abruptly Kate bumped into her back. She spun around and fixed Pakenham with her hottest glare. “How about looking for the killer instead of passing judgement on the victim? Or on anyone else, for that matter. Or don't y'all believe in innocent until proven guilty, let alone common courtesy?"