Ask Me No Questions Page 13

  She looked like a nymph in repose, though her eyes were red rimmed, and Phil had heard more than one sob being suppressed by a handkerchief held in a tight fist.

  Phil tried to think back to Dunbridge’s passing. The only tears she’d shed were tears of relief. The earl had been less than virile, which had made him vicious. And he’d taken out much of his frustrations on his wife. Phil would never forgive her parents for being so enamored with his title that they had refused to listen to the warnings of their friends.

  Something she supposed she had in common with those poor American girls thrust at effete peers just because their fathers were willing to pay for it. It was a lowering thought. But no more. The tables were turned, and as soon as this terrible business was over, Philomena Amesbury, née Hathaway, Countess of Dunbridge, would take Manhattan by storm.

  For now she took the glass Tuttle was holding out to her.

  “How clever of Freddy and Marguerite to reserve Sherry’s for the funeral luncheon,” Bev said. “Good food and wine and a toast to send Reggie off, another for the grieving widow, and they’ll be on their way. They’ll wonder why I’m not there. Or maybe they’ve already forgotten me.”

  “Do you care?” Phil asked, surprised by this bit of reflection from Bev.

  “Well, I’ve been running with that crowd for so long.”

  “No reason not to run with them, as you say, though the expression tends to remind one of the hunt. Just get rid of the lowlifes. They can’t be that entertaining.”

  “They’re not. I just hope I haven’t become one of them.”

  They sat for a while, had another cocktail, and waited for the reading of the will.

  “Listen, Bev, when they call you in, lean on me and say you can’t do without me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Thank you, but I’m worried that in your bereaved state you might not understand all the bequests.”

  “You think Reggie is going to cheat me even in death?”

  “I’m sure your father will prevent that. But it helps to have a second pair of ears for things we might not expect.” Like not only all the entailed land but also the contents of one’s castle even when those contents were part of your dowry or were given to you as gifts. Phil had learned life’s lesson the hard way and would be living a dire existence in a crumbling dower house save for her grandmother’s foresight. Eccentric maybe, but no fool, Almay Grandison Hathaway. Phil missed her sorely and hoped to do good by her.

  She raised her glass to her memory.

  They were called into the dining room at three, Bev admirably clinging to Phil’s arm and begging her not to leave her. And Phil thought maybe it wasn’t all an act. There was a formidable panel already sitting at the table. On one side, the two lawyers and Bev’s father, and on the other, cousin Freddy and Bobby Mullins.

  Bev’s grip tightened on Phil’s arm. Phil gave a reassuring touch of her hand.

  Tuttle stood just inside the green baize door, in his capacity as butler and to accept the usual death gratuities for the household.

  The gentlemen rose when Bev and Phil entered. Both lawyers looked askance at Phil but didn’t demur when she helped Bev to be seated then sat down beside her.

  Phil waited with her heart in her throat, half expecting Mildred Potts to pop in at the last minute demanding her fair share.

  The men returned to their seats, except for Mr. Brangle, who cleared his throat. “Before we begin the reading of the will, let me express my condolences for your loss.” Mr. Brangle bowed in Bev’s direction.

  “With your permission I have asked Freddy Beecham and Robert Mullins to attend the reading. Though they are not direct beneficiaries as such, Mr. Reynolds has left instructions to be given them at this time.”

  Freddy started, swallowed convulsively. So no inheritance for Freddy. Mullins was expressionless. Not a twitch of his beefy countenance.

  Brangle looked the most distressed of the three, and Phil wondered, Ah, what evil lurks in that shiny bald pate? She gave Bev’s hand another squeeze. It was all she could do.

  “Very well,” Bev said.

  And so it began.

  A sum was left to Tuttle with an additional amount granted to the staff to be divided as per instruction by Tuttle.

  “Thank you, Tuttle, you may leave us now,” Brangle said.

  Tuttle bowed and left the room, but unless Phil missed her guess, not so far as to be unable to overhear what came next. Phil had every confidence that her own servants would have found a spy hole through which to listen to the proceedings.

  “‘As for my remaining assets, to include moneys, establishments, and stables…’” Brangle named several stables and their locations. “‘The stock, including…’” He named several racehorses. “‘Their progeny and all things owned by the entity known as Holly Farm, I leave entirely to Beverly Sloane Reynolds.’”

  “Oh,” Bev exclaimed, and burst into tears.

  Phil handed her a hankie, which she had at the ready. At a reading of a will, there were bound to be tears.

  “‘I strongly advise Beverly to retain the services of Freddy Beecham in the role of financial adviser, and Robert Mullins as stable manager for a period of six months, at which time she may decide to sell or continue the business under her own aegis.’”

  Bobby’s head snapped toward Bev, a combination of surprise, anger, and perhaps fear, an expression intense enough to make Phil flinch. Fortunately, Bev was looking at the table’s shining surface. Freddy sat stone still.

  “This ends the reading of the will. However”—Brangle cleared his throat—“before we adjourn, there is one more item. Gentlemen, this is a private matter and I would ask the two of you to leave us to that end.” It took a minute for Freddy and Bobby to take the hint, but finally they pushed back their chairs, bowed, and left the room. Mr. Sloane didn’t make a move to leave.

  Brangle shifted uncomfortably. “A duty I would rather not perform. And highly unusual. But I was instructed by Mr. Reynolds to deliver this to his wife on the fourteenth of this month, and since it is now the fourteenth, I feel duty bound to honor his request.”

  He pulled another envelope from the briefcase and handed it across the table to Bev.

  Bev took it with a trembling hand, tore open the flap, and looked at the document. For document it was.

  She read. “What is this?” She read again. “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me see that.” Daniel Sloane reached across the table and snagged the document from Bev’s hand. “This is a divorce decree. This is outrageous.”

  Brangle nodded. “A rather odd situation.”

  “Odd?” snapped Sloane. “I’ll say it’s damnable. Just what are you trying to pull?”

  “Nothing at all. I’m merely following my client’s requests.”

  Sloane rose from his seat. Carmichael laid a hand on his sleeve. “Perhaps if we let Mr. Brangle explain.”

  Sloane sat down.

  “Thank you. Mr. Reynolds came to me last week with two requests. One was to change his will and the other to start divorce proceedings against his wife. And that is what I have done. Though the second does seem somewhat redundant as things stand.”

  “But where is the new will?”

  “I’ve just read you the new will. He came to me, said he had to divorce his wife, and then changed his will to leave her everything.”

  “That makes absolutely no sense.” Sloane slumped back in his chair, seemed to collect himself, and sat up. “Well, there you have it. Reggie was in financial straits, and seeing no way out, he must have decided to—”

  “He could have come to me. Or you,” Bev said, glaring at her father. “No. It doesn’t make sense. Reggie would never kill himself, if that’s what you’re implying. He always had a plan B.”

  And, Phil thought, divorcing his wife was his plan B? It wasn’t like being divorced was any less scandalous than being the widow of a suicide or murder victim. Besides, Reggie didn’t seem like the kind of gu
y who would go out of his way to have his wife avoid scandal. On the contrary, he was more likely to create a scandal for the pure fun of it. Daniel Sloane was right, none of this was making sense.

  Sloane roused himself. “Do the divorce papers negate the will? I’ll have it struck down.”

  “Not at all,” Brangle said. “The will is actually dated later than the divorce papers. And I have a letter on file signed by Reggie to that effect. Now if there are no further questions, I will take care of disseminating the funds to your butler, and the rest is yours.”

  He bowed. Sloane jumped up to see him to the door.

  Freddy and Mullins were waiting for them in the parlor.

  “Oh, bother,” Bev said under her breath, and moved forward to Freddy, who clasped her hands in his.

  “I just want you to know you can count on me. I know the ins and outs of Reggie’s affairs. I can at least relieve you of that aspect of his loss.”

  “Thank you, Freddy. I know you loved him, too. This must be so hard for you.”

  Freddy nodded. Sniffed manfully.

  “And me, too,” Mullins said, working the rim of his hat. “We’re gonna have a crackerjack race. Devil’s Thunder is in top form. You just put your money on Thunder and don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take care of things for you.”

  “Reggie always depended on you, Bobby. I know I can, too.”

  “Well,” Freddy said, “we’d better get back over to Sherry’s. Marguerite’s playing host on her own.”

  “Be sure to thank her for me, both of you, all of you.”

  The two men bowed. Tuttle showed them out.

  “God, I thought they’d never leave,” Bev said. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?” Phil asked, hurrying after her.

  “Upstairs to take off this horrible itchy crepe.”

  “You really shouldn’t. You’re a widow. It would be unseemly.”

  “Phil? That doesn’t sound like you. When did you become such an old fogey.”

  “Since someone killed your husband.”

  “Oh, pooh. You heard Brangle. Reggie divorced me first. Whether he planned to run off with Mildred Potts or not, he was thinking about me. Making sure I wouldn’t be responsible for his debts.” She stopped, frowned. “He divorced me. He would never want to see me wasting away in black.

  “Good old Reg. As soon as I’ve changed, we’ll have a toast. To Reggie. Now I’m no longer a widow but a very relieved divorcée.”

  And murder suspect, thought Phil, but she declined to mention it.

  10

  Phil was surprised when John Atkins didn’t manifest himself at the reading of the will. And she had to admit she was a little disappointed that he hadn’t arrived by the time they took themselves to bed. Though considering the outcome of the reading, perhaps it was better that he stayed far away.

  She’d spent the day pondering the odd juxtaposition of the will and the divorce decree. But he had left Bev with all their assets. Generosity and a thought for someone else were not qualities she would have associated with the bombastic and freewheeling Reggie.

  She suspected Atkins had opted for the luncheon at Sherry’s, which Phil would have been glad to attend herself if only for a change of scenery and because Sherry’s was famous for its coq au vin, which she adored. And annoyance aside, she would really like to know what he found out, why he was at the funeral, and if the police had settled on Mildred Potts as the murderer, why he’d bothered to come at all. He seemed to be spending a lot of time on Reggie’s murder when supposedly there were several murders a day in this city.

  But when she awoke to a sunny day the next morning, she was glad he had stayed away. She’d had vivid dreams of murder and blood, of her mother and father dressed in rags beseeching her to return home. And of Dunbridge rising from the grave shaking his fist and crying, “If you’d only given me an heir…” She woke up before she’d heard the rest of his accusation.

  She blamed the dream on the rather lurid descriptions in one of the forensic science books she and Lily had read before going to bed. On the harrowing story Lily and Preswick told of listening to the reading of the will by sticking their heads into the dumbwaiter at the third floor. And perhaps, on a wee, very wee, soupçon of guilt for not giving the earl an heir.

  Though she was fairly certain it was not her fault. Oh, the times she’d thought of England and endured.

  As morning slid into early afternoon, Phil thought they might have one whole day free of investigation. She was correct—and relieved. But by the third morning without an appearance by the determined detective, she was ready to climb the walls from tedium.

  Phil had thrown off any semblance of mourning and was wearing one of her tea gowns by Poiret, a delicious combination of patterned silks that reminded her of something a geisha might wear—if France had geishas.

  She and Bev sat in the parlor, reading … more or less. Bev’s book lay open on her lap while she drummed her fingers on its surface. She was dressed in black, but sans crepe ruffles and trim. And she looked quite youthful and frail as well as beautiful.

  It had taken some persuasion and the heretofore unknown skills of Lily as a dressmaker—really, the girl never ceased to surprise—to create something that didn’t make Bev look, in her words, like an “absolute fright,” but that would be appropriate for entertaining condolence calls.

  It wouldn’t do to appear flippant until the dust cleared and Detective Sergeant Atkins was a dim, very dim, memory.

  Since they were quite alone, Phil had brought down Dr. Gross’s Criminal Investigation, which was considerably easier reading than Sir Edward’s Finger Prints. Still, she’d covered it in an embroidered handkerchief ostensibly to “protect the edges” but really to protect it from prying eyes.

  “It’s just too quiet,” Bev said for the third or fourth time that morning. She pushed her book off her lap and walked to the window, something else she’d been doing all morning.

  Phil looked up from her book. “You’d rather have your father, Freddy, and Bobby Mullins falling over each other trying to get into the library? What’s so important about the library anyway?”

  She certainly hadn’t found anything of note. Just lots of notes of the IOU variety.

  “Hey, now. Who is that?” Bev craned her neck to see out the window.

  A little thrill bubbled inside Phil and she got up to join Bev at the window. “Where?”

  “Oh, nobody. He’s gone. I guess he was just walking by and went through the park just there.”

  Phil peered into the well-manicured park. No one was there.

  “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Phil said, uncharacteristically disappointed. She hadn’t really expected to see the elusive Mr. X again.

  She did, however, see John Atkins striding up the sidewalk toward the brownstone.

  She crushed a twinge of consternation mixed with anticipation. “Oh, not him again.”

  Bev pressed her nose to the window. “That face, those shoulders—wasted on a policeman. I wonder if he can waltz?”

  “Oh, Bev, do pay attention. He’s not just physically fit, he’s intelligent.”

  “Not to worry, my dear. I like intelligence just fine as long as it doesn’t get in the way of passion. And once he’s gone, we’ll have a drink.”

  They quickly returned to their seats.

  When they heard the doorbell, Bev’s book was once again opened. Phil’s book had been stuffed beneath the cushion of her chair and the nearest magazine was open in front of her.

  Unfortunately, it happened to be a book of French pornography; it quickly went the way of her book on investigation, so that when the detective sergeant entered, Bev looked primly serious and Phil was twiddling her thumbs. They both stood, Phil with more alacrity than Bev.

  He made his condolences to a wanly smiling Bev, and nodded to Phil. They stood facing each other before Bev said, “Do sit down, Detective Atkins. Phil, come sit by me and let the detective have the c
omfortable chair.” She held out her hand to Phil, who had no choice but to take it and sit down next to her.

  To her chagrin, a corner of her magazine peeked out from beneath the cushion. She could only watch as Atkins pulled it out and glanced at the cover. Without comment he placed it on the side table and sat down—on her book of investigation techniques.

  “I came,” he said, looking somewhere between the two women, “not only to pay my condolences but also to return Mr. Reynolds’s possessions.

  “And to tell you that the intruder has been identified as a two-bit bagman for the west side. Sergeant Charles Becker of the Nineteenth Precinct closed this aspect of the case. Hopefully he won’t bother you again, but if he does, do not try his patience. I’m sure you will be perfectly safe without my police guard; however, I would caution your staff to be ever vigil about doors and windows being kept locked.”

  He couldn’t be more stiff if he’d been reciting from a book. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

  Phil wasn’t certain what a bagman was, but it sounded ominous. She was also dying to ask if they suspected someone of his murder, but she didn’t dare set him off in that direction.

  “But who killed him?” Bev asked.

  Phil had to stop herself from groaning.

  Atkins didn’t answer at first, though he did look like he might erupt. “They’ve decided much as you have, Lady Dunbridge,” he said, practically choking on the words. “A falling-out among thieves.”

  “Ah.” She decided not to ask him how the other thief escaped. Not with his frown daring her to mention it.

  “What about Mildred Potts?” Bev asked.

  “Miss Potts has been released.”

  In for a penny, in for a pound, thought Phil. “Does this mean you are now pronouncing Reggie’s death a murder by persons unknown?”

  The detective glanced at Bev, who was studying her hands. “The police have decided to follow another lead.”

  “The police? I thought you were the police.”