A Share In Death

CHAPTER 7

Kincaid thanked Mrs. Wade as kindly as he could, taking her small hand in his for a moment. She had drifted away again while he was upstairs, and her eyes focused on him with difficulty. She smelled faintly, he noticed, of chewing gum and fresh-cut tobacco, the aromas of the tobacconist’s shop.

“What about the shop, Mrs. Wade? Have you got someone to take over for you?”

“I’ve shut it just now. Didn’t seem right. I meant to leave it to Sebastian, you know. Not for him to serve behind the counter, not with his advantages, but he could have hired someone and still had a nice little income. I put all the insurance money from his dad into it. It should have been his.”

Kincaid patted the limp hand, searching for some words of comfort. “I’m sure he would have appreciated it, Mrs. Wade. I’m sorry.”

The brass knocker winked brightly at him as he closed the door. The morning had turned fair and blowy while he’d been inside. A piece of yellow paper fluttered under the Midget’s wiper like a butterfly trapped in the sun. He’d collected a parking ticket for his trouble-the local traffic constable, at least, was vigilant.

Kincaid retrieved the ticket and stuck it into his wallet. He folded the Midget’s top down, lowered himself into the driver’s seat and sat in the silent street, thinking. What to do, now, with this unexpected information? He couldn’t ignore it. Why, in the name of all that was competent, hadn’t Nash’s men searched the room already? It had been nearly thirty-six hours since Sebastian’s body had been discovered, and Nash had only sent a W.P.C. to break the news-he hadn’t even interviewed the mother, for Christ’s sake. Actually, he amended, ‘thank god’ might be a better qualification, as he couldn’t imagine that Nash would have done anything to ease her distress.

Nash would have to be told, there was no help for it. And help, decided Kincaid, was just what he needed. He turned the key in the ignition and lifted the car phone from its cradle.

Kincaid counted himself extremely fortunate in his immediate superior. Chief Superintendent Denis Childs was an intelligent man whom Kincaid liked personally and respected professionally-and Kincaid knew that the luck of the draw could have just as easily given him a chief like Nash, although he liked to think that a copper of Nash’s caliber would never make it past Detective Constable at the Yard.

Denis Childs was a massive man, dwarfing Kincaid’s rangy six feet, and with his olive skin and bland inscrutability of feature, he sometimes made Kincaid think of an Eastern potentate-one finger on the political pulse and the other on his harem.

“Sir,” Kincaid said, when they were finished with the standard greetings, “I’ve run into a little problem.”

“Oh, you have, have you?” Childs said equably, with his usual disinclination to be ruffled. “And just how little is it?”

“Um,” Kincaid hesitated, “the situation’s a bit tricky. Yesterday morning I found the house’s assistant manager electrocuted in the swimming pool. The local D.C.I, is of the opinion that it was suicide, but I think he’ll find it’s not when the lab reports come back. At any rate, I’m not too happy about the whole thing. I just… um… happened across some files of the victim’s that contain some fairly damaging information on some of the timeshare owners.”

“Just happened, my ass. You’ve been snooping, Kincaid, where you’d no right to stick your nose.” Childs’ voice contained a note of approval. “Blackmail, eh?”

“Funnily enough, I don’t really think so. Not directly, anyway. I wondered if you could smooth the way for me to make a few discreet inquiries. Don’t want to step on any toes-” Kincaid paused. “Actually, I’d like to stomp the bastard’s shins, but in the interest of departmental good will…”

“I imagine you’ve already stepped on plenty, if you’ve been looking about. The A.C. will appreciate your restraint,” Childs added sarcastically. “But I’ll see what I can do. I believe the Chief Constable up there is an old friend of the A.C. Perhaps the A.C. would be willing to have a word with him on your behalf. Offer the Squad’s assistance if the business does turn nasty. I’ll have a word in his ear. In the meantime, try to keep out of trouble.”

“I’ll tread like an angel,” Kincaid said. “All right if I call Sergeant James?”

“On your head be it,” Childs answered, and Kincaid hung up, satisfied.

Gemma James shoved two combs into her ginger curls, one more attempt on her part to bulldoze them into professionalism. She frowned at herself in the mirror, pulled the combs free and quickly brushed her hair into a pony-tail at the nape of her neck. “I give up,” she said aloud. If God had seen fit to give her red hair and freckles, she might as well accept them gracefully and stop harboring secret desires to be an icy blond or a sultry brunette. A little make-up toned the freckles down to a barely noticeable dusting, and that would have to do.

The phone rang just as she scooped up a rambunctious Toby, ready to take him to the sitter’s. The morning off had improved her outlook, and she reached for the receiver with a return of her usual energy. “No, no, love. Let Mummy get it.” She gripped Toby’s clutching fingers with one hand and picked up the phone with the other, shifting her handbag and balancing the toddler on her hip. Gemma rested her cheek for a moment against his flaxen hair. It was straight as a die, thank god, a genetic wild card, unlike either her own or his dad’s dark mop.

“Gemma?”

“Sir. How’s your holiday?” Gemma grinned into the phone, both surprised and pleased to hear Kincaid’s voice. She toed the uneasy line between Christian name and title.

“Sorry to interrupt your morning, Gemma. Are you working on anything in particular?”

It was business, then, and she’d called it right. “Not really. Why?”

“I’d like you to do some checking for me, and I’d like you to do it as unofficially as possible. I’ve cleared it with the Guv’nor, but I don’t really have any official jurisdiction.”

“Gossip with the old biddies?” Gemma knew Kincaid’s indirect methods.

“Right. Although in some cases you may have to speak directly to relatives. The problem is that I don’t really know what I’m looking for. Anything in these people’s lives that doesn’t mesh, doesn’t seem quite right. Let me fill you in.”

Gemma listened, and wrote, having long since set the squirming Toby down. With half her mind she heard him pulling pots and pans out of the cupboard, his favorite pastime, but her attention was concentrated on Kincaid, and when she finally hung up she wore a small, satisfied smile.

As Kincaid locked the Midget and started across the gravel toward Followdale House, Inspector Peter Raskin came out the door and ran nimbly down the steps to meet him.

“Sir, I’d just about given up on you,” said Raskin, by way of greeting. “Thought you might like to know what the scene of crime lab came up with.”

Kincaid glanced up at the blank faces of the windows above them. “We do need to talk. Let’s move away a bit.” They strolled down to the bench at the end of the garden-the same spot where he and Hannah had stood two nights before and thought how gay and welcoming the house looked with the light spilling from its windows. “You first,” said Kincaid, when they had settled themselves on the bench.

“You were right about the heater and the plug. There’s not a smudge of a print anywhere on it that doesn’t belong to Cassie Whitlake. So, either Cassie plugged it in, and in that case why would she implicate herself, or the person who did wore gloves. Now, if it were Sebastian-and I never heard of a suicide wearing gloves-what did he do with them? His clothes, his shoes, his wallet, even his handkerchief and comb were folded in a neat stack by the bench. Did he plug the heater in, go dispose of the gloves somewhere, then come back and undress and hop in? I don’t buy it.” Raskin paused. “The heater might have shorted itself out before he could get in the pool. And I never knew a neat suicide not to leave a note.”

“I didn’t buy it, either,” said Kincaid. “What about the p.m.?”

“The best the doc can give us from the stomach contents is between ten and midnight.”

“Not much help, but then I didn’t expect it would be. None of the guests have a definite alibi?”

“Not to speak of.” Raskin ticked them off his fingers. “Cassie says she went to her cottage, alone, around ten, and didn’t come out again. The Hunsingers had gone to bed and to sleep, after tucking in the children and having some herbal tea. Marta and Patrick Rennie say they were in their suite all the time, but she doesn’t look too comfortable about it. The MacKenzie ladies retired around ten, were both asleep by eleven. Janet Lyle had a headache, and her husband fixed her a cup of tea. She then went to sleep and he did, too. Um, let’s see, who’s left?”

“The Frazers?” Kincaid prompted.

“The Frazers, father and daughter, arrived back from dinner in York about ten-thirty, whereupon they both went to bed.”

“And Hannah and I,” Kincaid continued for him, “were walking in this garden around eleven o’clock-”

“After which you each went, alone, to your separate suites,” finished Raskin, and stretched his fingers until the knuckles popped.

“Pretty bloody useless, the whole lot,” said Kincaid in disgust. “Any of them could be lying and we’d never be the wiser. For starters, I don’t think Angela Frazer has a clue whether her dad was in the suite or not. They had a terrible row on the way home and she locked herself in the bathroom. Went to sleep on the tiles.”

Raskin grinned. “Your interrogation technique must be a sight better than my chief’s-he didn’t get more than sullen ‘yeses’ and ‘noes’ out of her.”

“I don’t doubt it. Peter,” said Kincaid, feeling his way cautiously, “I paid a call on Sebastian’s mum.” Raskin merely raised his eyebrows. “I had a look at his room. He kept files on the timeshare owners, some of them potentially damaging.”

Both Raskin’s eyebrows shot up this time. “Nash’ll have you on a platter, sir. Since the lab work came back he’s sent a team round there-he’ll likely have a stroke when he finds out you’ve been there before him.”

Kincaid grinned a little guiltily. “It wasn’t premeditated. I’ve since repented and pulled a few strings to smooth your chief’s ruffled feathers. But it might be wise on my part to stay out of his way until things have had a chance to percolate down from the top. If Nash chews me out and then has to eat his words, it’ll make him even more difficult to deal with.”

Raskin gave him a considering look. “Scotland Yard going to be ‘helping us with our inquiries’?”

“Could be. All very politely and politically done, of course.”

“Of course,” Raskin responded, and they grinned at each other in complete understanding. “All right,” prompted Raskin, “could you tell me, sir? Just what sort of dirt did the ever-curious Mr. Wade dig up?”

Kincaid stretched out his legs and contemplated the toes of his trainers meditatively. “There were files on a number of guests who must own other weeks, but I think it would be practical to assume that we should concentrate on those who are here this week. Somehow Sebastian came across a rumor circulating in Dedham village that Emma and Penny MacKenzie helped their dear old dad to a speedier end than nature intended.” Raskin looked startled but didn’t interrupt. “He was diabetic and they administered his insulin themselves-they could have increased his dosage a bit.”

“I suppose it’s possible. I’ve heard more unlikely stories. Next prospect?”

“Graham Frazer. It seems that he’s been carrying on a very torrid affair with Cassie Whitlake-a situation that doesn’t appear to be too damaging to either of them, except that Frazer is involved in a bitter custody battle over Angela and any misconduct might provide ammunition to be used against him. Those are Sebastian’s assumptions, by the way. He was very thorough.

“He also noted a growing sense of marital discord between the Rennies. That’s all on this lot-except a note of an old drug conviction against Maureen Hunsinger.”

Raskin spluttered. “Our Lady of the Earth? I thought nothing unnatural ever passed her lips.”

Kincaid grinned at his reaction. “It’s really not too unlikely. The natural foods movement is in some ways an outgrowth of the hippie culture of the sixties and seventies, and this conviction was twenty years old. How Sebastian found out about it I can’t imagine.”

“What about the others?” Raskin asked.

“This is the first visit for Hannah Alcock and the Lyles. Maybe he hadn’t come up with anything.”

“The same is true of the MacKenzies,” Raskin reminded him.

Kincaid frowned. “That’s something to consider. I wonder how he got hold of that little story.”

“Nothing on your cousin?” Raskin’s eyebrow tilted at a wicked angle.

“No, thank god,” Kincaid said with relief. “Jack was clean as a whistle. That would have put me in a spot.”

“And who,” said Raskin deliberately, “would you put your money on as the blackmail victim?”

Kincaid didn’t answer for a moment. He gazed at the silent bulk of the house, and when he spoke it was almost inaudibly. “Oddly enough, no one. I’m not sure Sebastian was blackmailing anyone. At least not for money. It looked like he kept a file on almost every owner. Mostly harmless stuff-almost like character studies. Maybe he only wanted emotional leverage.” Kincaid rubbed his face with his palms. “I don’t know… I’m riding completely on gut reaction. I just can’t see him as an extortionist.”

“I can imagine what my chief would have to say about that. He doesn’t go in much for gut reaction. Uses his for putting away beer.”

“I’ll bet.” Kincaid laughed, feeling restored by Raskin’s easy humor. “And speaking of your chief, I think I’ll make myself scarce for the afternoon, until my Guv’nor has had a chance to drop a few stones in the pond. Otherwise Nash might just run me in. Think I’ll do a bit of hiking. I am, after all,” Kincaid said ruefully, “supposed to be on holiday.”

The sight of Emma MacKenzie on the bench above the tennis court made Kincaid detour from his course toward the back of the garden. She peered intently at the tree tops through her binoculars, her concentration undisturbed even when Kincaid sat down beside her. He waited silently, following her gaze, and after a moment he saw a flash of red. “Blast. Lost it,” said Emma, lowering the binoculars.

“What was it?”

“A male bullfinch. Common enough but don’t often see them. They’re very shy.”

“I’ve never watched birds,” Kincaid offered. “Must be interesting.”

Emma gave him a pitying look, as if at a loss to explain a lifetime passion to one who could make such an innocuous remark. “Hmmmf.” She looked away from him, her gaze drawn to the trees. “An art. You should try it.” She thrust the binoculars at him. “Take them. I’m going in for the afternoon, worst time of day.”

“I will.” Kincaid took the binoculars and lowered the strap carefully over his head. “Thanks. I thought I might climb Sutton Bank.” He hesitated, then said as neutrally as he could, “Miss MacKenzie, did you talk much with Sebastian?”

Emma had been making gathering motions, as if to rise. She paused, then settled herself more comfortably on the bench. “He seemed an intelligent boy, but difficult. Quick to take things as slights, I’d say, under all that quick, sly patter.” She was silent for a moment, considering. “He could be kind, though. He was kind to Angela Frazer. I think he saw her as some sort of fellow outcast, always on the fringe of her father’s doings. And he seemed to despise Graham Frazer. I don’t know why. He was kind to the younger children as well, thought up activities for them, things that would amuse them. He seemed comfortable with them.”

“Kind to children and animals,” Kincaid muttered, more to himself than Emma. Her spine tensed and she inhaled sharply. He could see all her barriers going up and he cursed himself for his tactlessness. “No, no, I’m not ridiculing you,” he said quickly. “I found I liked him, too, even on such short acquaintance, and rather in spite of myself. And,” he added, with an easy smile, “you’re very perceptive.”

Emma had relaxed again, but he sensed that the flow had stopped. To press her would only activate her conscience, and she would censor any inclination to indulge in ‘idle gossip’.

“What should I look for?” he asked, gesturing with the binoculars.

“You wouldn’t know a robin from a magpie, I imagine. You’d better borrow this”-she handed him a small, well-worn guidebook-“so that you will have a reference. Just be observant. I shouldn’t think that watching birds would be all that different from watching people. Oh, yes,” she said, noting his surprised glance. “You’re very practiced. A talent partly learned and partly natural, I should think. You inspire confidence in others with that air of sincere attention to every word, a little well-judged flattery. And I had better go before I say something I shouldn’t.” With that, she pushed herself off the bench and strode toward the house without a backward glance.