Deborah Crombie - A Share In Death

She smelled the mingled scents of flowers and furniture polish and dusty book bindings, and thought of her own semidetached, where the smell of grease and cooked cabbage from next door seemed to seep through her walls, and no matter how much she threw open her windows and aired things it never quite went away. She thought of the matching beige suite in her sitting room, with its rough, cheap fabric, and her fingers stroked the smooth chintz. Well, she did the best she could, what with her salary, and Toby’s day care, and Rob’s not being too dependable with his child support.

Clinking sounds from the direction of the kitchen broke into her reverie. She sighed, then straightened her spine against the chair’s soft back. Mrs. Rennie pushed open the swinging door with her shoulder and maneuvered the tea tray through it. When Gemma rose to help, Mrs. Rennie stopped her with a quick shake of her head. “No, don’t get up. I can manage,”

Gemma took the cup offered her and balanced it carefully on her knees. “Mrs. Rennie,” she asked as she stirred her tea, “have your son and his wife been visiting Followdale House long?”

“About two or three years, I’d say. Marta was quite keen on it at first, and they really looked forward to their visits.”

“And they don’t, now?” Gemma sipped her tea. It was Earl Grey, which she didn’t like, but its flowery perfume seemed appropriate to the room.

“Well, I suppose it’s become a bit old hat, as most things do. And Patrick’s so busy these days, with all his political commitments. But come to think of it,” Mrs. Rennie drew her brows together in a small frown, “it’s Marta who’s suggested they trade their time or spend it somewhere else.”

“But they didn’t?”

“No. No, Patrick wasn’t enthusiastic.”

“You must be proud of your son, Mrs. Rennie. I understand he’s doing very well.”

“Yes. Better even than we might have expected. They speak of his rise in the party as ‘meteoric’.” She smiled fondly, but Gemma heard in her voice some reserve, some hint that Patrick Rennie’s life might not be all it was cracked up to be.

“Have your son or daughter-in-law ever mentioned noticing anything odd at Followdale House? Sometimes,” Gemma continued confidentially, “people comment on things and then forget all about it.”

Mrs. Rennie considered for a moment. “Not that I can remember. Patrick is not one to say unkind things about people, or to repeat gossip.” Although the tone had been mild enough, Gemma felt she’d been rather subtly put in her place.

Gemma finished her tea and carefully set her cup and saucer down on the polished wood tray. “Thank you, Mrs. Rennie. You’ve been very kind and I mustn’t take up any more of your time.” They rose, and Gemma hesitated as they started toward the door. “Um, I wondered if I might wash my hands and freshen up a bit before I go?”

“Of course.” Mrs. Rennie led her into the foyer. “Up the stairs to your left.”

“Thanks.” Gemma stopped before the first portrait. The boy gazed inquiringly back at her. His fair hair seemed just about to break free of its neat brushing, and the blue eyes in the slender face seemed friendly and interested. About twelve or thirteen, Gemma guessed, with the top of a school tie peeping from the neck of the blue pullover he wore. She wondered if her Toby would ever be that good-looking. “What a wonderful portrait. Your son, Mrs. Rennie?”

“Yes, that’s Patrick. We had it commissioned. It is very good of him.”

“The resemblance between you is quite striking.”

Mrs. Rennie laughed. “Oh, yes. That’s our best family joke.” Gemma’s face must have registered her incomprehension, for Mrs. Rennie said quickly, “I’m sorry, I see you don’t know.”

“Know what, Mrs. Rennie?”

“That Patrick is adopted.” Her expression softened. “He was three days old when he came to us. It was all very quietly and discreetly done, none of the fuss of going through a national agency. My husband’s solicitor arranged it all. Of course, we explained it all to Patrick as soon as he was old enough to understand.”

“No, I didn’t know.” Gemma studied the portrait. “The resemblance is quite remarkable.”

“A little divine intervention, perhaps,” Mrs. Rennie answered, and Gemma saw a quirk of humor in her smile.

Gemma looked down into the drive from the toilet window. She’d heard the sound of a car as she dried her hands, and as she watched, a tan estate car disappeared into a carport around the side of the house. She didn’t dare snoop-the old wooden floorboards creaked and she felt sure the progress of every footstep would be audible downstairs.

The voices came clearly to her as she descended the stairs. “Louise, they have no right. It’s completely-” Their heads turned as she reached the last landing. The man was tall and thin, with the small bristly mustache that was almost a badge of the retired military.

“My husband, Major Rennie.” His wife rested her fingers lightly on his arm, a restraining gesture.

“I don’t know how we can help you.” His face had flushed pink-no wonder, thought Gemma, that his wife tried to soothe him. “I’m sure this sordid business has nothing to do with us, or our son. If you have any further questions you can put them to our solicitor-”

“John, I’m sure that’s not necessary-”

“As I told your wife, Mr. Rennie, it’s nothing to be concerned about. These sort of questions are routine in a murder investigation.”

Even softly spoken, the power of the word ‘murder’ silenced them both, and in their faces Gemma read the beginnings of fear.

“I’ve commandeered Cassie Whitlake’s office.” Peter Raskin grinned. “I wouldn’t say it was graciously lent. Pick an inconspicuous spot and make yourself comfortable.” He surveyed the room from the door. “Only one chair this side of the desk.” He turned back into the bar and swept up a barstool with one hand. “This do?”

“Admirably,” answered Kincaid, and settled in a corner of the small office. “Suits my precarious position.” He watched as Raskin tested the swivel of Cassie’s chair and gave it an approving pat. Raskin’s deft fingers shoved and patted the tumbling pyramid of Cassie’s papers until he’d made a neat stack in one corner of her desk. “She won’t be too pleased.” Kincaid nodded toward the desk’s now clear and orderly surface.

“She won’t be the only one. All the guests are present and accounted for now, and I’ve had the P.C. round them up in the sitting room. They’re going to be tired and fretful and wanting their tea, so the sooner we get this over with, the better.

“Let’s have the Hunsingers first and get them out of the way. I understand from Emma Mackenzie that they were in the pool with the children all morning.” Raskin slid around Cassie’s desk and went into the bar, returning a moment later with a very subdued Maureen Hunsinger.

Maureen gave Kincaid a tremulous smile as Raskin offered her the chair. She perched stiff-backed on its edge, her white, crinkled-cotton dress ballooning about her. Kincaid thought she should have looked ridiculous-her hair even more frizzy than usual from her hours in the pool, her face red and puffy from weeping, but he found a certain dignity in her posture and in her obvious grief. A voluptuous and rather erratic madonna, he thought, and suppressed a smile.

“John’s with the children. Will you be wanting him, too?”

“Probably just to sign your statement,” Raskin answered diplomatically.

“It’s been terrible for the children. First Sebastian, now this. What are we to tell them that makes any sense? We thought this morning that if they had fun in the pool they would forget what had happened there, but now-” Maureen sounded near to tears again. “I wish we’d never come here.”