Purrfectly Deadly

Excerpt from Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place

Chapter One

“I didn’t think you’d show up,” the gruff voice announced.

Harry looked up from her perusal of the latest James Patterson. She quickly closed the book and shoved it into her backpack, then rose from her perch on the low wall of the underpass. She shrugged as she approached the hulking figure. “I’m always true to my word,” she told the man, doing her best not to look or sound intimidated.

He really was a giant of a man, though she’d been told he wasn’t as dangerous as he looked. He could have fooled her, though. He had no neck to speak of, his arms alone were probably as thick as her waist, and she could have fitted several times in the long black overcoat he was wearing, she herself being rather on the petite side.

She pushed her blond tresses from her brow and fixed her golden eyes on the stranger, rubbing her hands to keep warm. She’d removed her gloves and knitted cap and now thought perhaps she shouldn’t have. The cold drizzle that had started overnight had turned into a real downpour, and even though they were protected from the brunt of the autumn weather by the underpass, the wet cold still crept in Harry’s clothes and chilled her to the bone.

“Let’s do this,” the man grumbled. “I haven’t got all day.”

The watery sun that had tried to pierce the dark deck of clouds that afternoon had finally given up its struggle, giving free rein to the driving rain. But then this was London, a city that for some reason had collectively decided the sun had no business here, except on those very rare occasions.

She quickly unzipped the main compartment of her backpack and took out the package, then handed it to the client. Through the clear plastic protective cover it was easy to make out its contents, but the burly man insisted on taking the book out nonetheless.

“You’re going to get it all smudged,” Harry murmured, though she knew this was none of her business. Once the transaction was made, the book belonged to the client, to do with as they pleased, whether she liked it or not.

“Looking good,” the man muttered, flipping through the pages of the voluminous tome. “How do I know it’s the real deal?”

“You have Sir Buckley’s word,” she said with a light shrug.

The client scrutinized her carefully, shoving the book back into its plastic covering. Then he nodded once. “Good enough for me,” he announced. He handed her a small black briefcase. “One million. As agreed,” he told her.

She balanced the briefcase on her knee and clicked it open. Two thousand 500 pound notes should be there and as far as she could determine they were all present and accounted for. But then again, she didn’t think the client was going to cheat her. And even if he did, Buckley would handle it.

So she clasped the briefcase under her arm and looked up at the man, a little trepidatious. Buckley had always told her to conclude the meeting the moment the transfer was done, and only rarely did a client linger. This one still stood staring at her, however, as if their business wasn’t concluded yet. They were the only two people there, as the underpass was quite deserted.

This was Buckley’s favorite place to make a transfer, as this particular spot wasn’t covered by any of London’s half a million cameras. Which also meant that if a client decided to get any funny ideas, Harry had no recourse. It wasn’t as if she had a black belt in jujitsu or some other martial arts discipline. She’d recently watched a video on the Daily Mail website on how to protect yourself against an attack, but hadn’t the foggiest notion how to execute those nifty self-defense moves in real life.

The man gave her an unexpected grin, displaying two gold teeth. It was something you didn’t see that often these days, and she found herself staring at the shiny snappers before she could stop herself. Along with his bald dome, it gave him the aspect of an old-fashioned James Bond bad guy. But then his smile suddenly disappeared, and he gave her a curt nod. “I guess that concludes our business,” he grunted.

“Yeah, I guess it does,” she returned.

He abruptly flipped his hoodie over his head, then turned and walked away. Soon he was swallowed up by the shadows stretching long tendrils of darkness beneath the overpass. Moments later she heard a motorcycle kicking into gear, and then its roar as it raced away into the falling dusk.

She heaved a sigh of relief. These exchanges were going to be the death of her one day, she thought as she hurried out of the underpass, to where she’d fastened her bicycle to a streetlight. Fortunately, it was still where she’d left it. She tried to fit the entire suitcase into her backpack but failed, so she tipped its precious contents into her trusty Jack Wolfskin rucksack and dumped the suitcase in a nearby trashcan. And as she adjusted the straps, she noted a little giddily she’d never worn a million pounds on her back before. Then she pressed her pink knitted cap to her head, used her gloves to wipe that fabled London precipitation from her saddle, mounted the bike and was off.

Five minutes later she was pedaling down Newport Street, anxious to get back to the store. She’d only feel at ease once the money was safely transferred to Sir Geoffrey Buckley’s cash register. And as she waited for the traffic light to turn green, she idly wondered what she would do with so much money. She could quit her job, buy herself a great house and take that trip around the world she’d been dreaming of for ages. The lights changed, and traffic was off and so was she, stomping down on her silly daydreams. The money wasn’t hers and never would be. She was, after all, only a lowly wage slave in Sir Buckley’s employ. Why there was a Sir in front of his name, she didn’t know, even after working for the man for close to a year now.

Buckley Antiques, the store where she spent her days when her employer wasn’t sending her to dark and creepy places to exchange packages with obscure and dangerous-looking clients, was a smallish shop tucked away in the more dingy part of Notting Hill. It carried rare antiques and other items for the connoisseur, its owner and proprietor, the eponymous Sir Geoffrey, priding himself in his capacity to obtain items for his clients that no other antiquarian could find. There was a whiff of the illegal and the criminal attached to both the man and the shop, and oftentimes Harry wondered where he obtained these rare and exclusive items if not by illicit means.

She’d never asked, and Buckley had never told her, of course. She merely did as she was told, and delivered million pound books to men with no necks without asking pesky questions. Such as: why would anyone buy a book for such an incredible price? And why not transfer the items at the store? She didn’t ask because she was afraid she wouldn’t particularly like the answer.

She couldn’t help wonder, though, where the priceless tome would end up, for No-Neck, like Harry herself, was probably only the messenger.

But even though Harry knew that her employer was something of a high-end fence, her conscience was no match for her need of a regular paycheck.

With her history degree she didn’t stand much of a chance to find a decent-paying job in London, or anywhere else in the United Kingdom for that matter, and she knew she should be grateful to have found a job at all that was a cut above being a waitress, cleaning lady or nanny. The job might not be completely on the up and up, but it was better than being on welfare.

Besides, for her discretion Buckley paid her a nice little stipend around the holidays, so there was that as well.

She attached her bike to the lantern in front of the store, and entered the shop, her trusty backpack burning with the money. As she stepped inside, the doorbell jangled merrily. As usual, the store was dimly lit, Buckley’s way of adding atmosphere. She picked her way past the antique cupboards and Louis XIV armoires and tried to ignore the quite horrendous oil paintings adorning the walls. When she reached the counter, fully expecting to find Buckley pottering about, she was surprised to see him absent from the scene.

No sound could be heard, either, except for the ticking of a dozen antique Swiss cuckoo clocks Buckley had obtained from a Swiss traveling cuckoo clock salesman. A real bargain, he’d called them, though Harry failed to understand who’d ever want to pay good money for such monstrosities.

“Buckley?” she called out. “Buckley, I’m back!”

Usually the prospect of money brought out her employer like the genie from the bottle, but no frizzy-haired elderly gentleman popped up now.

Harry shrugged, and started transferring the money from her backpack to the cash register, which had a deep and convenient space beneath the money drawer. Here it would be quite safe until Buckley put it in the ancient but very sturdy vault he kept in his office.

She wondered briefly if she shouldn’t close up the shop, as she wasn’t even supposed to be working today. Buckley had called her in to deal with this urgent delivery, and she’d grudgingly complied. He didn’t like to deal with his ‘special clients’ himself, reserving that particular privilege for her.

And it was as she stood wondering what to do when she became aware of a soft groaning sound coming from deeper into the shop. It seemed to come from the back. With a slight swing in her step, relieved to be rid of the huge pile of money, she decided to take a look. She didn’t like to lock the door without Buckley’s say-so. He had this thing about wanting the store to be open at all hours, even if that meant she had to take her lunch break in between serving customers. But she didn’t like to leave it unattended either.

She would just have a look around and as soon as she’d found her employer—probably messing about somewhere in his office—she’d go home. After riding around in the rain for the past half hour she was wet, tired and numb, and a hot shower and some dry clothes looked pretty good right now.

Besides, she needed to put in some shopping and wanted to get it done before rush hour, hoping to salvage what little she could from her day off.

“Buckley?” she called out as she moved deeper into the store. Behind the showroom were two smaller rooms. One was Buckley’s office, where he liked to meet with clients and suppliers, and the other was the small kitchen reserved for personnel—which meant her. It wasn’t much. Just a table, some chairs, a sink, gas stove and fridge. Next to the kitchen a staircase led upstairs, to the apartment Buckley rented out for a stipend. In exchange, the man, who was rarely in during the day, kept an eye on the store after six.

“Buckley?” she tried again. She noticed that the door to his office was ajar, so she pushed it open. And that’s when she saw her employer. He was stretched out on the floor, his limbs arranged in an awkward pose, blood pooling around his head. She clasped a hand to her face, her throat closed on a silent scream, and looked down at the lifeless body. It was obvious she was too late. His eyes were open and staring into space, his face pale as a sheet.

“Oh, Buckley, Buckley,” she finally whispered hoarsely, automatically taking her phone from her pocket with quaking hand and dialing 999.

Minutes later, the store was abuzz with police and medics, as she sat nursing a cup of tea in the kitchen, stunned and fighting waves of nausea.

She looked up when she became aware of being watched, and she saw a man looking down at her from the entrance to the kitchen. He was tall and broad and easily filled the doorframe, both in width and height. She noted to her surprise that he was gazing at her with a scowl on his handsome face. Perfectly coiffed dark hair, steely gray eyes, chiseled features and an anvil jaw lent him classic good looks, and for a moment she thought none other than David Gandy himself had wandered into the store, mistaking it for the scene of his latest swimwear shoot. But then the man cleared his throat.

“Inspector Watley. Can I ask you a few questions, Miss McCabre?”

She nodded, wiping a tear from her eye. “Yes, of course, Inspector.”

The inspector took a seat at the table and placed a small notebook in front of him, checking it briefly. “Your name is Henrietta McCabre?”

“Yes, but most people just call me Harry,” she said softly.

“You were the one who found the body, Miss McCabre?”

“Yes, I did,” she said, tears once again brimming in her eyes.

“And what time was this?”

“Must have been… around four. I’d just come back from an errand.”

He gave her a dark look. “An errand connected to the store?”

She nodded again. She was loathe to reveal the nature of her errand. Even dead, she didn’t want to betray Buckley’s confidence.

“Tell me exactly what you saw,” Inspector Watley said gruffly.

She quickly told him what had happened, and didn’t forget to mention the groan she’d heard—the sound which had alerted her of Buckley’s presence.

Watley’s frown deepened. “You heard a groan, you say?”

“Yes, I did. It’s the reason I came back here. I thought Mr. Buckley had stepped out of the store, as he didn’t respond when I called out. So when I heard the groan, I went looking for him… And that’s when I found him.”

“That’s odd,” the inspector said, fixing her with an intent stare.

“What is?”

“The groan.”

“Why odd? It is perfectly natural for someone who’s just tumbled and knocked his head to groan. I’m just surprised I didn’t hear it sooner.”

“According to the preliminary findings of our coroner, Mr. Buckley must have been dead for at least half an hour before you arrived, Miss McCabre.”

This news startled her. “He was dead… before I arrived?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Oh, poor Mr. Buckley,” she said. “To think he’d been lying there all this time before I found him! If only I’d arrived sooner, he could’ve been saved.” She looked at the policeman. “I knew this would happen. I just knew it.”

He stared at her blankly. “You knew he was going to die?”

She nodded. “He was very unsteady on his feet lately. Only last month he took quite a tumble when he stepped from the store. I told him he should get a cane, but he was far too proud.” She shook her head, extremely distraught. “It was only a matter of time before he took a bad fall and hit his head.”

The policeman eyed her curiously for a moment, then lowered his head and said slowly, “Your employer didn’t hit his head, Miss McCabre.”

“What do you mean? If he didn’t hit his head, then how did he die?”

“Mr. Buckley was murdered, Miss McCabre. Murdered in cold blood with a blunt object by the looks of things.” Then, without waiting a beat, he went on, “Can you account for your whereabouts between the hours of three and four, Miss McCabre?”

Her jaw dropped. Was he accusing her of murdering her own boss? “Well, I wasn’t here if that’s what you mean,” she was quick to point out.

“Where were you then?”

And she was about to respond when she remembered she couldn’t. Even though providing herself with an alibi was more important than respecting Mr. Buckley’s wishes, she still couldn’t tell the inspector where she’d been. Not if she didn’t want to get in big trouble with No-Neck and his employer.

Chapter Two

It didn’t take a genius to figure out she was in a pickle. Not only didn’t she have an alibi, but apparently the safe was empty, all of Mr. Buckley’s possessions stolen. It was obvious how things looked from Scotland Yard’s point of view. They probably figured she’d burgled the safe, seeing as she knew the combination, was caught in the act by her employer, at which point a violent struggle had ensued and she’d violently slain the older man. The only reason she wasn’t being placed under arrest was that she’d be an idiot to stick around after the murder, or to call the police herself.

These and other thoughts were now swirling in Harry’s head as Inspector Watley told her tersely to please remain available for questioning—probably the Scotland Yard equivalent for ‘Don’t leave town!’

She nodded quickly, her face now completely devoid of color and her extremities of blood, and wobbly got to her feet the minute Watley left.

And as she made her way out of the store, which was still swarming with police, she feebly wondered what she was going to do now. For one thing, she was most definitely out of a job. Which was something she should have told Watley, she now saw. Clearly she had no motive for murder; it simply meant unemployment. Then again, she’d just tucked a million pounds of motive into the shop till, and who knew how much more money Buckley kept in his safe, along with countless other valuables? Plenty of motive there.

As she rode her bicycle home, the rain was coming down again in sheets, and even before she’d reached the street where she lived, she was soaked to the skin. A fitting ending to a lousy day, she thought miserably.

Arriving home at Valentine Street No. 9, she quickly fastened her bike to the cellar window grille, wiped the rain from her eyes, and jogged up the steps to the front door. Letting herself in, she stood leaking rainwater on the black and white checkered floor for a moment, then slammed the heavy door shut, and quickly checked the mailbox. A magazine had arrived—the historical magazine she subscribed to—and a bill from the electric company, probably announcing another rate hike.

She hurried up the stairs, already shucking off her jacket, and when she arrived on the landing wasn’t surprised to find her neighbor patiently awaiting her arrival, Harry’s snowy white Persian in her arms.

“Oh, shoot,” she said, taking the cat from the elderly lady. “Did Snuggles sneak into your flat again, Mrs. Peak? I thought I locked her up this time.”

Mrs. Peak, the wizened old prune-faced lady who lived next door, gave her a wistful smile. “I don’t mind, Harry. I only wish she visited me more often. I wouldn’t mind having a darling like Snuggles myself, you know.”

“Perhaps one day you will,” said Harry as she pulled Snuggles’s ear. “If she keeps this up, I just might have to give her away.”

Mrs. Peak didn’t seem to mind one bit. “Snuggles can drop by any time,” she assured her.

“Thank you, Mrs. Peak,” she said, letting herself into her flat. And as she closed the door, she whispered, “What’s the matter with you, little one? Why do you keep sneaking off to the neighbors, huh? Don’t you like it here?”

She put the cat down on the floor and looked around her modest flat. It wasn’t even a flat, really, more of a studio apartment. One living room with kitchenette, a small bedroom, and an even smaller bathroom. Just enough for the student she’d been when she took it, and currently all she could afford on her meager earnings. She’d told herself back then that once she got her first paycheck she was going to find something bigger. But then she’d seen the paltry sum on her paycheck and had realized that it would be a long time before she’d be able to afford anything more than what she had. In fact she was lucky to have a place as nice as this one, London quickly becoming too costly for anyone without a millionaire mum or dad to foot the bill.

She watched as Snuggles haughtily stalked to the window, which was open to a crack, hopped out onto the small balcony, and started to make her way over to Mrs. Peak again. Harry quickly hurried after her and managed to snatch her just before she hopped from her balcony to the next.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked as she took the cat indoors again and closed the window. “Do you get special treats next door? Is that it?”

She checked Snuggles’s bowl, but it was still filled to capacity. Possibly she was simply bored with the same dry food and needed something fresh?

And she was just scooping some canned food into a second bowl, much to Snuggles’s delight, when she remembered she’d scheduled a call with her cousin.

She hurried over to her laptop, flipped it open and switched it on. And as she made herself a jam sandwich and carried it on a plate to the laptop, she kicked off her soggy sneakers, then hopped into the bedroom to change into something dry. She was just wrapping a towel around her head when the telltale sound of Skype warned her that Alice was online and calling her.

Video image of her cousin flickered to life, and she gave her a jolly wave.

“Hey, honey,” Alice said. “Did you just step out of the shower?”

“No, I just stepped out of London, which is basically the same thing.”

Alice laughed. She was a perky blonde with remarkable green eyes, and perennially in a good mood. “You should come and visit, Harry. It’s about eighty degrees out here and not a single cloud in sight.”

Harry sighed. “That sounds like heaven. I wish I could, but…”

“The antique shop, huh? Too much work? I can relate, honey. I’m actually holding down three jobs right now if you can believe it. The mortuary, the gun store, and the bakery. Never worked so hard in my life!” Harry nodded absently, and Alice’s face fell. “Are you all right? You look very pale.”

She shook her head. “Something horrible happened to me today, Alice.”

She proceeded to tell her cousin about the murder of her boss, and Alice cried, “Oh, no! You must have been terrified! How are you holding up?”

“I’m… fine, actually. Though at the moment I seem to be the only suspect the police have.” She tucked a leg beneath her and told Alice the whole story.

She and her cousin had no secrets from each other. They’d always been close, ever since Alice’s father, Curtis Whitehouse, had been stationed in London, working at Scotland Yard in an advisory capacity for five years. Since Uncle Curtis and Aunt Demitria had lived right next door to Harry’s parents, she and Alice had been like sisters. The bond had never been broken, even now, when they were thousands of miles apart.

“So they think you have something to do with the murder?”

“Judging from the look on Inspector Watley’s face, yes. And I can’t even give him an alibi, as my client would never forgive me.”

“Who is he?”

She shrugged. “Probably some rich businessman who doesn’t want to pay full price for his works of art. Most of them are, Buckley once told me.”

“Can’t you ask? This No-Neck person must be traceable, right?”

“Actually I have no idea how to get in touch with him. Buckley always made all the arrangements. I just had to show up to make the exchange.”

“If I were you I’d try to find the guy,” Alice suggested. “Otherwise you’re in big trouble, honey. The police will be very suspicious if you won’t tell them where you were.” She shook her head. “Oh, how I wish I could help you.”

She didn’t see how she could, though. Even though Alice’s father was now chief of police in the small town where he and his family lived, he had no clout with Scotland Yard. Unless…

“Does your father still keep in touch with his old colleagues?”

“He might,” Alice admitted. “Do you want me to ask him?”

“Could you? Perhaps if I can just talk to someone, I can explain what happened without betraying the client’s confidence.”

“All right. Sit tight, hon. I’ll give him a call now.” Then she paused, looking thoughtful. “You know? There’s actually someone else who might be able to help you.”

Harry took a bite from her sandwich. She suddenly found she was starving. “There is? Who?”

“He’s, um…” Alice bit her lip. “He’s a guy who knows people, you know.”

“Yes?”

Alice stared at her for a beat. “I’ll have to discuss it with him first, though.”

“Okay,” she said, a little puzzled. It wasn’t like Alice to suddenly go all mysterious on her. “Is he from England?”

“No, he’s American, but he might know someone over there who can help you.” She eyed her anxiously. “I worry about you. You’re all alone out there.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said, though she realized that she didn’t sound very convincing. It was true that she was quite alone out here. Her parents had died in a car crash the day of her graduation, and since she didn’t have any sisters or brothers she basically had to rely on herself. She had an aunt and uncle up in Scotland but hadn’t heard from them in ages. The only family she kept in touch with was Alice, which was at least something to be thankful for.

Alice seemed to make up her mind. “I’m going to talk to Brian. I’m going to ask him to pull a few strings.”

“Oh, okay,” she said. “Who’s Brian?”

Alice closed her lips, her face turning red. “I, um, didn’t I mention him?”

“No, you didn’t.” She laughed. “What? Is he, like, your new boyfriend or something?”

“No, of course not! Reece and I are still very much together. You know that.”

Alice was engaged to Reece Hudson, a famous movie star. Even Harry had seen a couple of his movies. He was a great guy and loved to goof around with Harry when he and Alice came to London. The couple usually stayed at the Ritz-Carlton, just about the swankiest place Harry had ever seen. Reece wasn’t impressed, though. Said he’d stayed in far more luxurious hotels in other parts of the world. Which just went to show how the other half lived.

“Look, I’ve gotta go,” Alice suddenly said.

All this talk about this mysterious Brian had apparently made her nervous, for she flinched when Harry protested, “You still haven’t told me who this Brian guy is.”

“I’ll tell you all about him, honey. But first I need to get him to agree to something.” She gave her a long look before asking her the most outrageous question of all. “Do you still… see things, Harry?”

She frowned. “See things? What do you mean? What things?”

“You know. When we were kids, sometimes you used to tell me you saw people who weren’t really there, remember? Like… dead people?”

She laughed. “Come on, Alice. You know that was just my overactive imagination.”

“No, but you said you saw Gran, remember? You even talked to her.”

She did remember, though only vaguely. It was true that when her and Alice’s grandmother had passed away, she’d imagined seeing her, after she had supposedly passed on. The old lady had visited ten-year-old Harry’s bedroom the night she died. She’d told her that everything would be fine, and that she was moving on to a different plane but that she’d always watch over her and Alice. Later she’d begun to think she’d imagined the whole thing.

“You know that was just a dream,” she told her cousin, but Alice didn’t seem convinced. “I mean, what else could it have been, right?”

A slight smile played about her cousin’s lips, but then she nodded. “Yeah, probably a dream. Anyway, I’ve got to go.”

“Let me know what your father has to say, all right? I really hope he knows someone on this side I can talk to.”

“Will do, honey. Love you! Bye-bye!”

She rang off and stared out the window for a while. The rain was lashing the single pane, and the sky was pitch black, even though it wasn’t even fully evening yet. Snuggles jumped on her lap and installed herself there, purring contentedly. She stroked her behind the ears. “So it was the food, huh?” she murmured as she settled back.

She thought about what Alice had said about Brian, and wondered what that was all about. But then she figured it had nothing to do with her, and decided not to expect too much. Alice had a habit of making a lot of promises before promptly forgetting all about them. And seeing as she was so busy, it would be a small miracle if she even remembered to ask her father about his Scotland Yard contacts. If he still had any left. It’d been almost ten years since he’d returned to the States and became Happy Bays’s chief of police.

She thought back to Inspector Watley, and the dark looks he’d given her. It was obvious that if it were up to him, he’d have arrested her on the spot.

She heaved a deep sigh. “We’re in deep trouble, Snuggles,” she murmured. “If things don’t look up it’s not such a bad idea to head on over to Mrs. Peak for your kibble. She might just be your new owner from now on.”

She shivered and moved over to the window to close the curtains. For the first time in a long time she didn’t have anywhere to be the next day.

Chapter Three

Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton III was perfecting his ice skating technique when his personal valet beckoned him from the side of the rink. As per his instructions, the rink had been closed off to the public to allow Jarrett to practice in private. It was his dream to become the next big thing in figure skating, and since he’d never been on the skates before, but he’d seen all the movies, he knew that practice made perfect, so practice it was.

He was a spindly young man with wavy butter-colored hair and pale blue eyes that regarded the world with child-like wonder. As the son of the richest man in England he was in the unique position to do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted to do it, and what he wanted more than anything right now was to be the next British figure skating Olympic champion.

He groaned in annoyance when he caught sight of his valet Deshawn’s urgent wave. “I told you to hold all my calls!” he cried, but the music pounding from the speakers drowned out his voice. It was the soundtrack of Ice Princess, of course, playing on a loop. Motivation was key, he knew, and he watched the movie at least once a day to keep him in the right frame of mind.

Reluctantly he finished his pirouette and swished over to the side.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he grumbled when Deshawn handed him the phone. “This is Jarrett!” he called out pleasantly when it was finally pressed to his ear. “Oh, it’s you, Father,” he said with an exaggerated eye roll. “What am I doing?” He frowned at Deshawn, who shrugged. Father never asked him what he was doing. Just as Jarrett made it his aim in life to do as little as possible, his pater made it his habit to interfere as infrequently as possible, lest he develop a heart condition. “I’m ice skating, if you must know,” he said a little huffily, fully expecting a barrage of criticism to be poured into his ear at this confession. “For what? The Olympic Games, of course. What else?”

“Look, son, something’s come up,” the author of his being now grated in his ear. “I need you to listen to me and listen to me very carefully, you hear?”

He did listen very carefully, even though he was quite sure that whatever the old man had to impart was probably a load of poppycock as usual. “Yes, Father. I am listening,” he announced with another eye roll. There was a crackling noise on the other end, and then his father said, “I need you or that valet of yours to go over to…” There was that crackle again.

“There seems to be some sort of noise. What did you just say?”

“I need you to pick up the parcel and bring it to…”

“I’m losing you,” he said, quickly losing patience.

“The parcel is at… right now, and if you don’t pick it up… it’s going to… along with your mother’s… and that’ll be the end of…”

“You’re not making any sense,” he said, staring down at his nice new blue spandex outfit. He’d bought seven, a different color for each day of the week. He particularly liked the one he was wearing now. It looked exactly like the one Michelle Trachtenberg, the star of Ice Princess, wore in the movie. “What package? And what does Mother have to do with anything?”

“Will you just listen!” the old man yelled, now audibly irritated. “If you don’t pick up that package right now… then… and… unmitigated disaster!”

He sighed. Whatever his old man was involved in, it could probably wait, so he said, “First get decent reception, Father, and call me back, all right?”

And he deftly clicked off the phone and handed it back to Deshawn. He then gave his valet a look of warning. “No more phone calls, Deshawn.”

Deshawn, a rather thickset smallish man with perfectly coiffed thinning brown hair and an obsequious manner, had been in Jarrett’s employ for many years, and the two formed rather an odd couple. One thin and tall, the other short and stout, they resembled Laurel & Hardy in their heyday.

The valet now muttered, “I know, sir. My apologies. But your father said it was extremely urgent.”

“It’s always urgent,” said Jarrett with an airy wave of the hand. “But he’ll just have to wait, for I…” He glided away. “… am on my way to greatness!”

And with these words, he allowed the wonderful music of Ice Princess to guide him back onto the rink and launch him into his most complicated movement yet: the twizzle, a one-foot turn. He usually worked with Vance Crowdell, trainer to the stars, but the man had some other arrangement tonight, so he’d been forced to train alone. Not that he minded. The crusty old trainer had already taught him so many new movements he needed to practice until he’d perfected those before learning any new ones.

And as he closed his eyes and allowed the music to take him into a new and wonderful world of glitter and glamor and thunderous applause, he saw himself as the first male Olympic figure skating gold medalist to come out of Britain in quite a long time.

Philo eyed the woman darkly. “I’m not asking, Madame Wu. I’m telling you. Take the package and hand it over as soon as you’re told.”

“But I can’t,” the proprietress of Xing Ming lamented in nasal tones. Her jet-black hair clearly came from a bottle and her horn-rimmed glasses were too large for her narrow face. She’d been running the small family restaurant for thirty years, one of the mainstays of London’s Chinatown in the City of Westminster. “I have other matters tonight. I can’t do package right now.”

He thrust the package back into her hands. “Just take it already. Lives depend on this,” he added with a meaningful look. A look that said it was her own life that depended on it.

She rattled the package, her eyes unnaturally large behind the glasses. “What is it? Is it bomb?”

“No, is not bomb,” he said, mimicking her accent. “It’s just something very important.” He leaned in. “Very important to Master Edwards.”

A look of fear stole over her face, and she nodded quickly. “Yes, yes. Master Edwards. I will hand over package no problem. Hand over who?”

“You’ll know her when you see her.”

“Is woman?”

“Apparently.”

Actually he didn’t know himself. All he knew was that his contact had told him he would send his assistant, and she would be dressed in black. But since no one else knew about the package he wasn’t too worried. He pointed a stubby finger at Madame Wu. “Just make sure she gets it, all right?”

She nodded, tucking the package beneath the counter. “Of course, Philo.”

And as he stepped from the restaurant, the smell of Chinese food in his nostrils, he shook his head. Used to be that people like Madame Wu wouldn’t dare contradict him, but that was before Master Edwards had fallen ill. The rumor that the old man was on the verge of death was spreading fast, and already his criminal empire was crumbling and his influence waning.

He crossed the busy street, bright neon lights announcing all manner of Asian food from every corner, and mounted the motorcycle he used to get around London in a hurry. And then he was off, narrowly missing the entry into the Chinese restaurant of a slender woman, all dressed in black.

It didn’t take him long to race across town to his employer’s house, in the heart of the East End. Master Edwards’s house was located in a gated community, his own people providing protection, and Philo nodded to the guard as he passed. He’d hired him personally. A short drive up the hill led him to the house at the end of the street, which towered over all others. It used to belong to a famous actor in the sixties and was a sprawling mansion with fifty rooms, an underground pool, and cinema where Edwards and his cronies enjoyed watching gangster movies. Or rather, that’s how it used to be.

He parked his bike in the garage and mounted the stairs, deftly making his way upstairs until he reached the landing and heard the telltale sounds of Master Edwards’s snoring. Entering the bedroom, where the bedridden gang leader was laid up, he wasn’t surprised to find him sound asleep. The moment he flicked on the light, the old man awoke with a start.

“Philo!” he muttered, blinking against the light. “Is that you?”

“It is, Master.”

A look of annoyance crept into the man’s eyes. “Why did you wake me?”

“Just to tell you that the package is being delivered as we speak.”

The man’s irritability dwindled. “Good,” he said, settling back against the pillow. “Very good. Let’s just hope the book works as advertised.”

“I’m sure it will.”

The old man licked his dry lips. “A lot depends on this, Philo. But then I probably don’t need to remind you.”

No, he didn’t. He’d reminded him plenty of times since the chain of events had been set in motion a fortnight ago.

“There’s only one small matter left to attend to,” he said.

Master Edwards, whose eyes had drooped shut, opened them again. “Mh? What’s that?”

“There’s a witness,” he said. “A young woman by the name of Henrietta McCabre. She’s seen my face and might possibly become a nuisance.”

“So?” snapped Master Edwards. “Just get it done, Philo. You don’t need my permission to handle such a minor detail.”

“No, Master,” he said deferentially, though of course he did need the other’s permission. In Master Edwards’s world nothing ever happened without his approval, and most definitely not something of this importance.

“See to it that she’s silenced, Philo. And make sure nobody sees you this time,” the old man snapped, before closing his eyes once again. Soft snores soon sounded from the bed, and Philo bowed his head and retreated from the bedroom of his employer of twenty-five years. In this, the man’s final days, he wasn’t about to disappoint him. Not if he valued his own life. Henrietta McCabre, whoever she was, would not see her next birthday, he would make sure of that. And as he stalked over to his own room in the mansion, he sat down at the computer to begin an intense study of the life of Henrietta ‘Harry’ McCabre. This time, there would be no mistakes. And no witnesses.

Chapter Four

Bright and early the next morning, Inspector Darian Watley frowned as he went over the evidence he’d gathered so far in the murder of Sir Geoffrey Buckley. He didn’t have all that much to go on, he admitted ruefully. The crime scene had been squeaky clean, the safe revealing only Sir Buckley’s prints and not even this McCabre woman’s. The blow to the head he’d received had been the cause of death, all right, but of course there was no sign of the murder weapon. According to the coroner what they were looking for was a club of some kind. A heavy blunt object. Either that or someone possessing extraordinary strength.

Which was one of the reasons it was doubtful Henrietta McCabre was the culprit. She was of slight build and didn’t possess the physical strength to kill a man with a single blow. No, whoever was responsible was probably a powerfully built male. That didn’t mean she couldn’t be an accomplice. His initial theory was that she’d somehow smuggled an associate into the shop, who’d done the dirty work and who’d absconded with the money and whatever other valuables Buckley kept locked up in his safe. At which point she’d called the police herself, so as not to draw suspicion to herself.

But then why had she left a million pounds in the store till?

He leaned forward in his chair and went over the CCTV footage his constable had collected. Going backward, it started with McCabre arriving at the store, then traced her movements back along the path she’d traveled until she disappeared from sight for half an hour. Coincidentally or not, she’d traveled to a part of London where no cameras could follow her. The theory was that she’d met someone there, for the cameras had picked her up again half an hour prior to her arrival at the underpass, coming from the store.

He quickly tracked other footage of cameras around the auspicious area, and to his surprise saw that a motorcycle arrived around the same time McCabre did and left again when she did. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

She’d gone there to meet this mysterious motorcycle man.

He peered at the screen and started. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

He quickly tapped a key and printed the image of Motorcycle Man. It wouldn’t surprise him if he were implicated in the Buckley murder as well.

Of course, this presented him with a dilemma. Both McCabre and Motorcycle Man had an obvious alibi for the murder. And the most baffling thing of all: even though Buckley Antiques was covered by a camera from across the street, no one had entered or left the building around the time of the murder. He’d scrolled through the footage up until the time the police arrived, and the murderer was never seen leaving the premises.

Furthermore, there was no back entrance, nor a window through which the killer could have escaped. They’d checked with the inhabitants of the house sharing the back wall: there was no way to go from one to the other. They’d also checked the apartment above the store, but even there they hadn’t found any manner of egress, not even along the roof of the building. It was, in other words, a real mystery how the killer had left.

He went over the footage captured around the time of the murder again. The only customer who’d been in the store was a young doctor, but she’d left at three forty-five. They’d interviewed her, and she hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. And as Watley scrolled through the footage, he saw Buckley appearing at the door, bidding his final customer goodbye and even helping her carry her packages to her car, which was parked out in front. Then Buckley had retreated into the store, closed the door, and that had been the last time anyone had seen him alive. So whoever the murderer was, he or she had to have been inside, perhaps hiding? But they’d gone over the footage of the past twenty-four hours and everyone who’d entered the store had been seen leaving it at some point. No exception.

The only lead he had was the suspicious behavior of Henrietta McCabre and her meeting with Motorcycle Man. Those two could perhaps shed some light on the murder, as he was willing to bet they were both involved, as well as a third person, the one who’d actually perpetrated the murder.

All he had to do was find out why McCabre had gone to that meet.

And since he didn’t like wasting time, he decided to pay her a visit right now. Rattle the cage a bit. And just when he was shrugging into his overcoat, his phone went, and he picked it up, barking, “Watley.”

“Inspector Darian Watley?” a gruff voice sounded at the other end.

“Yes.”

“I understand you’re in charge of the Buckley murder investigation?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Chief Whitehouse. Happy Bays Police Department.”

Watley frowned. “Who? What?”

“Whitehouse. I’m chief of police in Happy Bays.” There was a slight pause, then the man went on, “A small town on Long Island. The States.”

Reluctantly he sat down again. “What can I do for you, Chief Whitehouse?” he asked, wondering what this was all about.

“I used to work for you guys at Scotland Yard about, oh, ten years ago? I worked under Thaddeus Yaffle at the time. Specialist Operations.”

“Yaffle retired three years ago.”

“I know. Good man, Thaddeus. You could always count on him to help you out in a pickle. My wife and I used to join him and his wife at your mother’s dinner parties back in the day. And great parties they were.”

Watley was starting to wonder if this Whitehouse would ever get to the point. “I wouldn’t know. I never went to my mother’s dinner parties.”

“Met your dad once or twice. Great man, your dad. Great commissioner.”

“Dad retired five years ago.”

“Pity. He was always ready to help out a man in a pickle.”

This obsession with pickles was starting to irk Darian. “And do you? Find yourself in a pickle, Chief Whitehouse?”

“Not me personally, but my niece does.”

“And who is your niece?”

“Henrietta McCabre. My daughter tells me she’s a suspect.”

Watley raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Henrietta McCabre is your niece?”

“That’s right. A very sweet-natured young woman. Absolutely incapable of murder. Or any other mischief for that matter. Which is why I’m calling.”

If there was one thing Watley hated, it was outsiders butting into his investigation, and that included chiefs of police of small American towns. “Look here, Chief…” he began therefore, his tone not too friendly.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Whitehouse grumbled. “Butt out. I’d say exactly the same thing if I were in your position, Watley. But the fact of the matter is that I promised Harry I’d look after her. My sister and her husband died a couple of years ago, and her only other relatives are in Scotland and the States. And I hate to see Harry in a pickle like this.”

“Well, that’s entirely up to her now, isn’t it? Nothing I can do about it,” Watley returned. He was getting more and more annoyed. This Little Orphan Annie story might work on other people, but to him it reeked of manipulation.

“I’m going to ask you straight out, Watley. Is my niece a suspect?”

“I’m sorry, but as the investigation is still ongoing, I really don’t see how I can disclose anything at this point, not even to a friend of my father.”

“I see,” said the man thoughtfully. “Then let me put it this way, Inspector. If anything were to happen to my niece, anything at all, I will personally come over there to make sure that the ones responsible will see justice served.”

Watley gawked at the phone for a moment. Was this guy for real? “Are you threatening me?” he asked, his voice taking on a steely tone.

“Well, if the shoe fits…” riposted Whitehouse gruffly.

“If your niece finds herself in a pickle, I’d say she’s the one responsible. Not me—not anyone else in the Yard—she and she alone!”

“So she is a suspect?”

“Of course she’s a suspect!” he yelled. “She was meeting some guy at the time of the murder and refuses to tell me who he is and why they were meeting. Innocent people don’t refuse to share this kind of information!”

Even before he’d finished talking, he knew he’d said too much. He was giving this man critical information from his investigation. This odd American who proclaimed to come after anyone who harmed his niece.

“I see,” grunted Chief Whitehouse. “In that case, I’ll have a word with my niece. I’m going to extract this piece of information from her, Watley, and then I’m going to share it with you. Together we’re going to crack this case!”

Watley massaged his temple. “Please don’t interfere with my investigation.”

“Don’t worry, buddy, I won’t. I’m just going to talk to Harry, that’s all. Get her to spill the beans.” He barked a curt laugh. “I like this, Watley. I like this intercontinental cooperation we’ve got going here. Just like old times.”

“Please. Sir. I really don’t need your help,” he said curtly.

“You don’t have to thank me, Watley. Just doing what needs to be done!”

“I’m not thanking you, and nothing needs to be done!” he cried.

“How would you feel,” the other man rumbled, “if you had an orphaned niece, living all alone in a big city, her boss murdered, and no one around to help her? No family, no job, no future prospects, hounded by the cops…”

“Hey! I’m not hounding your niece!”

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this and then I’ll get back to you, Watley. Can I call you Darian?”

“No, you may not!”

“Great. Just call me Curtis. Much appreciated, Darian. And say hi to your mom and dad, will you? My wife still raves about those dinner parties.”

“Wait—you can’t do this!”

“Good day to you, too,” the chief growled, and promptly disconnected.

Watley stared at his phone. What the hell had just happened? But then he knew exactly what had happened. For some nebulous reason, he’d just been coerced into an intercontinental investigation into the Buckley murder.

“God,” he groaned as he raked a hand through his dark mane. Just what he needed right now. Some gung-ho small-town cop to add to his problems.

He quickly rose again and swept from his office. Before her uncle started throwing his weight about, he was going to make Henrietta McCabre talk, and he was going to do it now. He didn’t care that she was an orphan, she was going to tell him exactly what had happened under that underpass.

Chapter Five

Ten minutes later, he was chauffeuring his car through London morning traffic, en route to Valentine Street, where Henrietta McCabre was apparently housed. When he arrived, and finally managed to find a parking space, he strode up to the house and pressed his finger on the bell. He hadn’t told her he was coming, lest she made up some excuse. When he heard her melodious voice inquire about his identity, he barked, “Inspector Watley, Miss McCabre. I have a few more questions for you if you don’t mind.”

Whitehouse might call this hounding. He called it proper police work.

After a brief pause, she buzzed him in, and he found himself in the narrow hallway of a clean-looking house. She called from upstairs, “Second floor, Inspector!” and he grunted and started to make his way up the stairs.

When he arrived on the landing, he saw that she’d changed into something less sodding wet than the day before. A pair of pink linen pants and bright yellow linen shirt. It became her. She was an attractive young woman, he had to admit, but then he’d noticed that already when he’d interviewed her before.

With her short bob of blond hair, fair complexion and lithe frame she looked anywhere between eighteen and twenty-five, though he knew from her file she was, in fact, twenty-three. Her nose tilted up at the tip, and her eyes were large and of a remarkable golden hue. All in all, she looked entirely too pretty to be a suspect, and he really couldn’t imagine she was involved in anything as nasty as murder. But then if his years in the Yard had taught him anything it was that looks could be deceiving. For all he knew here stood a cold-blooded accomplice to murder.

“Pancake, Mr. Watley?”

“Inspector Watley. No, thank you, Miss McCabre. I never eat when I’m on duty.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, inviting him in. “I just baked up an entire batch. Didn’t know what else to do, to be honest. Being out of a job and all.”

The smell of freshly baked pancakes did indeed waft invitingly from the small space. Small but cozy, he thought as he briefly inspected the living room with TV nook and kitchen nook. It was airy and light, and the color scheme was the same as her clothes: lots of bright pinks and yellows.

“I just got a call from your uncle,” he said, opening the proceedings.

She halted in her tracks. “My uncle?”

“Chief Whitehouse of the Happy Bays Police Department. He seems to be under the impression you need protecting from the big bad policeman.” He grimaced and pointed at himself. “From me, in fact.”

Her face reddened slightly. It became her well, he thought, before instantly stomping on this thought. She was a suspect. Nothing more.

“Oh, I’m so sorry about that,” she murmured, looking mortified.

“I can’t imagine that you are. I mean, you must have told him, right? You must have called him last night and asked him to put in a word on your behalf.”

She frowned. “No, I didn’t. Well, not directly. I mean, I called my cousin. But all I asked her was if her dad knew someone at Scotland Yard.”

“And now he does know someone at Scotland Yard. And you do, too.”

“I meant someone I could talk to about…” she gestured ineffectually. “…stuff.”

He pulled out a chair in the kitchen nook and took a seat. “Let’s cut to the chase, Miss McCabre.”

“Harry, please.”

“Where are you on your alibi, Miss McCabre?”

She gulped slightly. “My… alibi?”

“Yes. Remember I asked you where you were yesterday between three and four and you failed to inform me? Now perhaps, after mulling it over, you might be able to elucidate me? Or did your uncle advise you not to disclose this information?”

A blush mantled her cheeks. “My uncle said no such thing. I haven’t spoken to him in ages.”

“Oh, that’s right. You spoke to your cousin,” he said skeptically.

“Look, I could tell you where I was,” she said with a shake of the head as she flipped another pancake onto a plate, “but I’d rather not, you see?”

“No, I don’t see. This is very serious matter, Miss McCabre.”

She smiled. “Why don’t you just call me Harry? All my friends do.”

“I’m not your friend, Miss McCabre. I’m a Scotland Yard inspector investigating a murder,” he insisted. “And what I’m most interested in right now is ascertaining where you were yesterday between three and four. In other words, around the time your employer was brutally murdered.”

She sighed. “Look, you’ll probably think this is all very silly, but if I tell you where I was… There’re other people involved, see? I mean, if it were just me, I’d tell you where I was in a heartbeat, but it’s not just me, is it?”

“Who else is involved?” he asked, following her movements with an interested eye. Those pancakes really did smell quite delicious.

“I can’t tell you! That’s just the point! Look,” she said, taking a seat at the table across from him, “Mr. Buckley did some of his deals, erm, well, under the table. I mean, they weren’t exactly shady deals or anything like that, it’s just that his clients preferred… discretion, I guess you could say.”

“I’m well aware that Buckley was one of the more prominent fences in the world of antiques, Miss McCabre,” he said, eliciting a gasp of surprise from her. “Which is probably the reason he was murdered. In those circles, a life is often worth a great deal less than some nice painting or fancy old cupboard.”

She deftly picked up a pancake and started slathering it with butter and jam. “Well, if you know about Buckley’s business, then you must know that he used me to, well, deliver some of his packages to some of his clients.”

“So what package were you delivering to which client yesterday?”

She threw up her hands, then licked some jam from her wrist. “I can’t tell you, can I? Otherwise I’d be implicating my client, see?”

He gave her a slight smile, like a cat about to devour a mouse. “If you don’t tell me it implicates you. It turns you into one of our prime suspects in this murder, and I may very well have to take you in for further questioning.”

Her eyes went wide, and he was surprised to find how expressive they were. Her every emotion was very clearly reflected in those golden orbs.

“You mean arrest me? What would you go and do a silly thing like that for?!”

“Because you’re refusing to tell me what I need to know!” he shot back, his smile gone. “Look, I don’t know what your uncle advised you, but—”

“My uncle didn’t advise me anything! Like I said, I talked to my cousin.”

“Is she also a cop? Is she the one who told you to keep secrets from the police? Is that how they do things in the States?”

She eyed him huffily. “My cousin, if you must know, works as a mortician’s assistant, gun store clerk and tea room waitress. Though at one time she did want to become a cop and even went to police academy. But that’s neither here nor there. What matters is—”

“What matters is that you tell me what I want to know,” he cut in, “or I’m going to have to arrest you on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder.”

There was a momentary silence as they gazed at each other, the tension palpable. Then she simply said, “Very well. I’ll tell you what I know, which isn’t much, mind you.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Miss McCabre.”

“Harry,” she corrected him.

“Just tell me already, will you?!” he yelled.

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right! But if he’s cross with me I’ll tell him you made me tell on him! And if he tells me I’m a tattletale I’ll tell him it’s all your fault!”

“Miss McCabre!”

“Harry!”

“Talk!”

She stared at him, biting her lip. “Actually… I don’t know his name.”

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