Wherever Lynn Goes (6 page)

It was after seven when Lloyd arrived, and although he did his best to conceal it, I could tell that he was extremely worried. In dark gray suit and navy blue tie, he looked even more sober than usual. Still holding the briefcase he had brought directly from the office, he solemnly explained the unexpected conference that had kept him so late. Lloyd's mouth tightened with disapproval when he spied the lanky, raven-haired fellow in sweatshirt and jeans who lolled casually on our sofa.

Brent grinned. His ugly, magnetic face was instantly recognizable to millions because of his success on television as Roger Stone, the hard-hitting private eye who treated his women rough, his enemies even rougher. The role required considerable skill, as Brent was, by nature, lazy, amiable, and, in Mandy's words, an absolute lamb. He had arrived early in order to take Mandy out to dinner before helping us pack the car.

I performed introductions. Brent waved breezily, and Lloyd gave a curt nod. He was dismayed to find me so calm. I had taken a long, hot bath and changed into one of my nicest dresses. Mandy's chatter had been therapeutic, as she had intended it to be, and I felt almost normal as Lloyd and I left to go to a quiet restaurant nearby. He was silent in the taxi, preoccupied. It wasn't until we had taken our table and ordered that he finally questioned me about the murder. My voice was calm. The shock was over, and I could be objective now. Lloyd frowned. Although he realized it was necessary, he didn't like the idea of my going to Devon, particularly after I told him about Aunt Daphne's incoherent phone call.

“I'll be perfectly all right,” I assured him.

“This disturbs me, Lynn.”

“It's not very pleasant, granted, but there's no reason why you should be disturbed.”

“What if the police made a mistake? What if this Colonel March didn't murder her after all? It's possible, you know. These country police aren't nearly as efficient as they should be. Bumpkins, most of them, sloppy in performing their duties. No, I don't like it. Two girls alone in an isolated house—”

“You're being absurd, Lloyd.”

“I keep thinking of those damned phone calls.”

I sighed wearily. He reached across the table and took my hand.

“Look, I'm sorry. I can't help worrying about you. You're all I've got, luv. I feel responsible for you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I seriously doubt that. You're far too innocent and trusting.”

“You're wrong. I'm perfectly—”

He released my hand as the waiter brought our food. We talked about inconsequential things during the meal, but there was an underlying tension that made us both uncomfortable. The night was lovely as we stepped out of the restaurant, the pavements damp, reflecting blurred pools of color from the red and green and blue neon lights. As it was only a few blocks back to the flat, I suggested we walk. Lloyd agreed, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. An old woman in a shapeless gray dress and tattered blue shawl was selling violets on the corner. Lloyd paused to buy a bunch, but he handed it to me without comment, and his manner robbed the gesture of much of its intent. Romantic Lloyd would never be.

We walked on in silence. A group of bright, chattering young people spilled out of a discotheque, scattering around us like a flock of colorful birds. Lloyd gripped his briefcase firmly. We passed a row of cinemas with garish posters, passed pharmacies and tightly locked shops with rolled awnings and steel mesh stretched across dimly lit display windows. Lloyd's arm tightened around my shoulders as we walked down the dark street that led to the square. We stopped beside the wrought-iron fence, directly across the street from the flat. Behind us the dark trees rustled. We stood just outside the radius of light from the street lamp, but I could see his face clearly.

“I guess we won't see the Stoppard play after all,” I said.

“You think
that
matters?”

“You went to so much trouble, making all those arrangements.”

“That's unimportant. I still don't fancy the idea of your going down there, Lynn.”

“It's something I have to do.”

“I realize that. Damn, if only I didn't have to be in court for the next two days. There's no way I can get out of it. If it weren't for that, I'd go with you. I'll come down as soon as I can.”

“There's no need for that.”

“Someone has to look after your interests. I don't trust this Hampton chap you told me about. I'll want to study the documents before you sign anything, and I'll need to examine the property, too, and see that it's properly evaluated before you make any move to sell. These things can be tricky.”

“You're all business, aren't you?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I was merely being bitchy.”

“You think I'm unfeeling, don't you?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You damned well implied it.”

“I'd better go in,” I said.

“Not just yet!”

Lloyd set down his briefcase, pulled me into his arms, and kissed me angrily, displaying a vigor he'd never shown before. I was startled and, ultimately, pleased. His arms held me tightly, his mouth seeking and demanding. When he released me, we were both a little breathless. Lloyd scowled and held me away from him.

“I'm human, you know! Dull, stodgy, serious-minded, granted, but I happen to love you. I may not come on like that actor who was lounging about upstairs. I may not be devastating and clever, but I do love you, and don't you ever forget it!”

“I won't, Lloyd.”

He let go of me, looking suddenly helpless and thoroughly miserable. I was surprised, for I had never imagined there was anything vulnerable about Lloyd. He kept tight control over himself, but I had just glimpsed another Lloyd, one not nearly so rigid, not nearly so sure of himself. The glimpse was a fleeting one. Smoothing down the lapels of his jacket and picking up the briefcase, he stepped back into character. A few locks of hair had fallen across his forehead. I brushed them back. He stood stiffly unresponsive.

“I haven't been very good company tonight,” I said.

“That's perfectly understandable, under the circumstances. We've both been on edge.”

“I do appreciate you, Lloyd. Honestly.”

He did not reply, still a bit sullen.

“Are you coming up?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I have some briefs to go over. I want you to call me tomorrow night without fail, and I want you to keep me informed of any new developments. I'll try to get down.” He unbent enough to give me a quick, perfunctory kiss. “No need to call a taxi. I'll catch one at the thoroughfare. Good-bye, luv. Be careful.”

He walked briskly away, vanishing into the darkness, his footsteps ringing loudly in the night silence. I went on upstairs, deftly eluding Mrs. Wellington, who had several dozen questions to ask. Mandy and Brent came in around ten, along with three other hearty males they'd picked up somewhere or other. Brent carried a huge wicker basket brimming over with expensive gourmet items. Mandy had a bag of oranges. With four robust males to assist, packing the car was simple. Then, somehow or other things got out of hand. George arrived, and then Craig, and then Randy, and a short while later the male cast members of a West End revue came trooping up the stairs. The farewell party lasted until one. At five o'clock in the morning, Mandy and I climbed sleepily into the car. We reached the outskirts of London just as dawn began to break.

CHAPTER FOUR

Mandy took an orange from the bag and began to peel it with studied nonchalance. “I don't mean to
nag
, pet, but we've been on this wretched back road forever. I realize this is your old stomping ground and all that, but are you quite sure you know where you're going?”

“Of course. Cooper's Green is just a few more miles.”

“I'll believe it when we get there,” she said lazily. “You
do
see that lorry, luv?”

“I see it.”

“Just wanted to be sure. Try not to run it off the road.”

As we rumbled past, Mandy waved at the startled driver. Finishing her orange, she settled back in her seat, and sighed contentedly. It had been a pleasant trip, the day sun-spangled, the sky a clear, pure blue. It was good to be getting away from the city, and, despite our reason for leaving, there was a holiday air. In the decrepit, much-battered Rolls, the back seat piled high with food, books, baggage, a typewriter, and bulging gray cardboard files, Mandy and I might have been highly sophisticated gypsies. As her driving was highly erratic and extremely hazardous, Mandy had been happy to let me take the wheel. After declaring herself enchanted with the countryside, she promptly ignored it—and picked up another Brad Carter thriller. We had lunched at the side of the road, snacking in between, and neither of us had so much as mentioned the murder.

It was almost five before reached Devon. We drove past a sprawling, majestic gray stone mansion set far back from the road, surrounded by formal gardens. It was over three hundred years old, festooned with turrets and battlements, rich with history and tradition. Bright red flowers grew in pots placed at intervals along the marble balustrade around the patio, and several giant oaks cast cool shadows over the lush green lawns. It looked like something out of a guidebook, and, indeed, tourists could tour it for a fee during certain months of the year.

“What a lovely place,” Mandy remarked, turning to look back. “Do you know who owns it?”

“The local Lord. He owns most of the land around here, as well as the textile mill that employs many of the villagers. I don't remember his name, but I
do
remember his son.”

“Oh?”

“A perfectly horrid little boy. He used to chase me through the woods at least once a week. One time he tied me to a tree and left me there to starve.”

“Really?” She was fascinated. “Whatever happened to him?”

“He eventually went away to school. I think there was an older brother, but I never met him.”

“It must have been lovely growing up around here,” Mandy said thoughtfully. “All these trees, everything so quaint—”

“It was hell, believe me.”

We róùnded a curve and, in the distance, caught our first glimpse of Cooper's Green. The textile mill was over a mile away, its chunky gray bulk and huge smokestacks hidden behind a hill. Fortunately, it did nothing to mar the beauty of the town. The river that twisted its way through Cooper's Green had several old stone bridges spanning it, and there were many trees to shade the pavements. Small and thriving, the village was undeniably modern, but there was a turn-of-the-century charm, despite the cinema, the Woolworth's, the television antennas perched atop roomy Victorian houses and cottages mellowed with age. There were two historic old churches, and the shops and business establishments surrounding the square were uniformly faded, brown and yellow and tan, adorned with peeling white gingerbread woodwork. People turned to stare as we drove through the village. We must have presented an incongruous sight in the battered old Rolls.

“What a divine little tea shop,” Mandy exclaimed. “I'll bet they actually serve cucumber sandwiches and frosted cakes. Look at that character strolling into the pub. This is enchanting, Lynn, so serene. Of course, I wouldn't want to
live
here.”

“Perish the thought.”

“Where are we going?”

“I promised Sergeant Duncan I'd stop by the station house. I think the constable wants to talk to me.”

“That should be interesting.”

“Mandy, you—you'll behave, won't you?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You won't ask a lot of questions, play private detective?”

“
Me?
I just came along for the ride, pet.”

The red brick station house with its sloping roof was surrounded by oak trees. Untidy beds of daffodils grew in front. Although there were bars over the rear windows, it looked cozy and, inviting with the bicycles parked at one side and a shaggy brown-and-white sheepdog snoozing contentedly on the front steps. He lifted his head and gave us an inquisitive look as we got out of the car, then yawned and went back to sleep. Mandy stretched, the skirt of her yellow dress billowing. She looked fresh and glorious, whereas I was travel-worn and weary, my own dress deplorably wrinkled. We had to step over the dog as we entered.

The tan plaster walls were adorned with sundry official notices, clipboards hanging on nails, and two homemade posters, one announcing the jumble sale to be held in the basement of the church in two days, the other proclaiming an amateur-theater production of
She Stoops to Conquer
opening May first at the school auditorium. A tarnished silver coffeepot perched on a marble-topped table, a bag of doughnuts beside it, and there were two desks littered with papers and telephones and wire baskets. A huge, dusty green shortwave radio stood behind one of them. A door opened onto a hall leading to the back rooms and cells. The place seemed empty. Through the open windows we could hear bees buzzing. The dog snored loudly.

“Overwhelming activity,” Mandy remarked, “but then, I don't suppose a village like this has much crime, the murder notwithstanding.”

“They have the usual trouble with teen-agers, I imagine, and Saturday-night brawls. The mill hands sometimes get restless, if I recall, and of course there are feuds.”

“Charming place,” Mandy said. “Not at all what I expected. Look at that divine calendar. I adore kittens who play with yarn.”

“Don't be bitchy.”

“But I
do
, I assure you.”

There was a rattling noise from the back of the building, then heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. Mandy and I looked up as a plump, middle-aged man stepped into the office. He wore baggy brown trousers and a rumpled brown-and-tan checked sportcoat, his green tie askew. His plump cheeks were rosy, his blue eyes amiable, and his short sandy hair was liberally sprinkled with gray. He undoubtedly loved dogs and children, I thought, and probably spent a great deal of time puttering about in his garden.