Page 16 of The Dead Come to Stay
“What about it?”
“Love, the man hasn’t worn a new tie in five years. I suspect he wore it on purpose for opening day of the gardens.” And because she knew Jo a little too well to leave it to chance— “Foryou.”
Jo pinked right to her ears.
“Oh.” She’d lost the opportunity of complimenting him, which made her feel both embarrassed and like she’d dodged a bullet at the same time. Even so, the whole weird day seemed strangely salvaged knowing he’d meant to come after all.
And itwasa nice tie.
Chapter 7
Jo liked the northeast corner of the cottage best. Morning light came in through the panes, painting fat yellow squares on the wood floor, and if you sat at an angle (which she was presently doing), you could see out the window to your left and still have a view of the fireplace to the right. It offered good thinking room, and so she’d conscripted Gwilym into finding a tiny antique writing desk that would fit.
That summer, if she wasn’t in Roberta’s archive, she was in her own—surrounding by stacks of books now high enough to serve as end tables in a pinch. One of them supported a slate coaster and her by-now-cold coffee. She was elbows deep into the last of her uncle’s archive boxes, and had forgotten it.
Uncle Aiden: he had always been a shadow figure in Jo’s life. Her late mother rarely ever spoke of him, and never positively. Some sort of major fallout had occurred, though Jo never could work out what about. Despite all that, she had begun to think of him as a kind of ally. After all, he was the one who restored Evelyn’s painting. And he was the one who preserved her photograph. Roberta had collected the things Aiden donated to the museum for Jo: a mishmash of books about Abington, maps ofthe Pennines, a history of Newcastle and a copy ofBurke’s Peerage, possibly for tracking the Ardemore baronetcy. Despite her love of books, however, none of those had absorbed her attention half so much as the loose sheets of paper that lined the bottom.“Rubbish,”said Roberta.
And she wasn’t all wrong. Old flyers, a crumpled cash receipt from Abington’s Sainsbury’s, several used envelopes. But each had been pressed into service as notepaper, Aiden’s handwriting scribbled in pencil.
They didn’t offer stunning revelations. Two of them appeared to be grocery lists; others offered up random notes in a stream of consciousness that endeared him to Jo:“if you are going to call it a cab service, you should at least know the way to the station, or don’t try your luck on the roundabout.” Pleasant. Distracted. Conscious of details, though not always to the right ones. Jo stretched her back and looked at Evelyn’s painting.
“Where areyouin all of this?” she asked, standing. It was getting to be nine-ish, and coffee was no kind of breakfast. She tidied the stack of motley notepaper and hunted for a book to put it in—no sense in tossing them back in the bottom.
But there was already a note in the bottom. Jo rubbed her nose; had she missed one? A bit of paper poked up through the cardboard folds. The flap had been glued down; whatever it was had to be thin and stiff enough to slide inside. She carried her mug to the kitchen and returned with a knife. Roberta would have to forgive her. Sharp end to the back and a good prying popped the seam—and out dropped two halves of a photograph: the wedding portrait of William and Gwen, with a missing square where Aiden had snipped out Evelyn.
Uncle Aiden had used the cutout and given it to the artist in charge of repairing Evelyn’s painting. He hadn’t discarded the cut up remains, and they had ended up with his other “rubbish,” care of the Abington Museum. Well. They weren’t going back there. Jo would have to keep them. For posterity.
She turned them over to look for the photographer’s insignia. There wasn’t one. Instead, fine pencil lines scrawled across the flat finish: “save the painting for repair,” it read, running into the empty center. On the other side, it picked up once more: “for when Evelyn comes home.”
A partial message, cryptic, it sent a thrill of electricity right to Jo’s toes. Itmeantsomething. She just didn’t know what.
***
Day two of the investigation began bright and early at the Abington Arms hotel. Sunday breakfast was underway, the downstairs dining room awash in linen tablecloths and smartly clad servers in blue uniforms.
“I’ve never actually been in here,” Green admitted, admiring the high ceilings and their scalloped plaster. “Fancy.” MacAdams couldn’t disagree; mahogany balustrades, wide front stair, ornamental rugs—the Abington Arms was a far cry from the comfortable environs of the Red Lion. As was the price to stay.
“It caters to a certain sort.”
“Gotta be out-of-towners. Have a cucumber water, will you?” she asked, bucking her chin at the glass bell jar.
“Country men, and the various types they court from high society.” Particularly those with under-the-table dealings, though he didn’t say this out loud. Mainly because he’d been cautioned to quit bringing up the past (and their last case). “Ah—there’s our man.”
A green-suited gentleman with a close-cropped mustache had just appeared at the reception desk. He was slightly balding these days and wearing spectacles that didn’t fit his face, but largely looked the same as ever: fastidious, ingratiating—and ruffled. Evans.
“Oh! Detective MacAdams,” he said with a rising tenor. “You—Did you come for breakfast?”
“Afraid not,” MacAdams said, reaching for his police ID. Evans stopped him with a flutter of fingers.
“Not necessary—I of course know you,” he said (but, MacAdams knew, really meant:please do not flash that around in front of the guests). “How can I help?”
“We have some questions,” Green said. Evans had noticeably ignored her but was quickly rectifying it. “About a guest.”
MacAdams enjoyed the way Green’s voice carried even above the dinging noises—more so Evans’s horror at the same. His eyes ferreted between them and the guests beyond.
“Could, eh, could we do this in the lounge?” he asked. MacAdams remained stubbornly where he was.
“Here is just fine. Talk to me about the booking process. Website? Telephone? Email?” he asked. Evans gave up trying to shoo them out of sight.
