Page 23 of The Dead Come to Stay
“Wow,” was Green’s very natural reaction.
“My muses,” she said. “I play here. It’s my room, you might say. Art and music.” She shut the door behind them.
“You’ll understand, I hope, that I don’t want to upset Mary. She’d been through quite enough.”
MacAdams and Green exchanged glances. Both of them more or less blank.
“Quite enough of what, Mrs.—”
“Call me Ava. And I’m quite sure we have done all the necessary work to provide her with stability at last. So if this is a matter of paperwork, we can handle that through better channels than house calls.”
Her behavior wasn’t exactly unfriendly; it wasn’t stony, either—but definitely unyielding. Commanding, too, in the demure but expectant way only those of the upper crust could be.
“We are not here regarding Mary at all,” MacAdams said. “We are investigating a murder.”
“A—murder?”
He now watched Ava perform a mental backstep, and then sink into a seated position on the sofa. He used the moment to his advantage; bad news was better sitting down.
“Did you know your husband’s business partner?” MacAdams asked.
“Sophie Wagner? Something’s happened at the club?” Ava’s tone bore honest concern, but MacAdams had the peculiar sensation that he’d just stumbled into someone else’s investigation.
“Sorry, his partner at Hammersmith.”
Ava simply stared, eyes like the glass chandeliers. “He doesn’t have a partner at Hammersmith. I thought this was about the charity, Fresh Start? It’s for sponsoring refugees. Maryam, for example, she’s been here a year, from Syria. But then what’s this about? Who’s been murdered?”
“Ronan Foley,” MacAdams said.
Ava shook her head. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
So far, the interview had been an exercise in non-sequitur. Green, above and to the left of Ava, had given up on stoicism; he could almost read the wordswhat the fuck?on her cheekbones.
“Ronan Foley worked with—or for—your husband at Hammersmith. He handled properties in York and abroad. We know he met with Mr. Burnhope on Friday at four thirty; between roughly eleven thirty Friday night and 3:00 a.m. Saturday morning, he was murdered. We would like to speak to Mr. Burnhope; can you tell us where he is?”
It was a lot of information at once, but he’d delivered it in emotionless bullet points. Ava—who had preserved a mostly emotionless veneer so far—was animated at last, but the principal feeling seemed to be one of confusion.
“Murdered,” she repeated, the velvet voice wrapping the word up at both ends. “I’m sorry. But I still don’t know the man. Maybe if I saw a photograph? Stanley consults with a lot of people forhis firm; I can’t remember them all. We keep our careers mostly separate, anyway.”
“And your career, Ms. Burnhope?” Green asked.
Ava half turned to look at her, the platinum wave falling forward over her shoulder.
“I am a vocalist and concert pianist,” she said, gesturing to the piano. “We work together for the charity. That’s where we were on Friday. I performed for the ball at Sable Green. The golf club. And it’s where Stanley is at the moment.”
“Meeting with—Sophie Wagner?” MacAdams asked, consulting his notes.
“Golfing,” she corrected. Then she stood up. “I can show you out.” The interview was clearly over. MacAdams didn’t need to extend it—yet.
“Thank you,” he said aloud as they re-passed the glass kitchen. “We’ll be in touch if we have further inquiries.”
Ava merely opened the front door and wished them a colorless “good afternoon.”
Back outside, Green sucked air through her teeth.
“That was weird.”
“It was,” MacAdams agreed. “Foley’s email specifically requested a meeting between himself and Stanley as partners.”
