Page 35 of The Dead Come to Stay
“Enough to suggest they might have been more than colleagues?” he asked.
“You’re thinking of the earring.”
“Or the silk scarf.”
“I got there, too; especially ifsheis the assistant who may or may not have made the Abington Arms reservation. We could get a DNA swab, but if so, she wasn’t wearing the perfume today.” Green got into the driver’s side. “Simmons is something of a personal assistant to all of the upper-level folks, not just Burnhope. She’d also a single mum raising a daughter and having a struggle of it—especially since the pandemic. Foley apparently brought her flowers on Mother’s Day, even picked up her kid from school on occasion. That sort of thing.”
“Strange. According to Burnhope, Foley didn’t think of anyone but himself.”
“So not friends?”
“Honestly? He described Ronan Foley as a bully—a bulldog. And he didn’t want the man around his wife and kids.” MacAdams buckled himself in and Green started the engine.
“Descriptions don’t exactly square, do they?” she asked.
MacAdams made a noncommittal noise in his throat.
“Could be work versus personal life,” he said. “Then again, if he and Trisha weren’t more intimately involved, then she ought to fall on the work side. We need more input, someone else who knew Foley well.”
“Afraid most of what I picked up at the office was more or less neutral and distant. If he was a bully, it must have been leveled at outside contracts.”
“About that,” MacAdams said. “Burnhope said he received big complaints from a property in York.”
“So what’s our next move?” Green asked, picking up her mobile.
“Yournext move is to get that burner trace. I... need to make a phone call.”
MacAdams didnotadd that his call would be to Annie. Her new husband, Ashok, worked as a commercial architect; he might have a handle on professional gossip about the York build. It meant doing pleasantries with his ex-wife’s partner in ways that MacAdams would much rather avoid; then again, it also meant making inquiries in the quietest way possible. “I also want a list of attendees to the charity ball.”
“You think Burnhope has a motive?” she asked.
MacAdams didn’t. Or, rather, he could see Foley having a motive to wish harm onto Burnhope more than the reverse. At the same time, despite the coincidental timing, Foley’s demand for a promotion didn’t explain why he might sell his possessions so quickly before his death. Was he in fiscal trouble? Nothing in his accounts suggested it, but if he was in trouble—if he owed money to dangerous people—if he were involved in some sort of—
“Hey boss? It’s Jo Jones.”
“What? Where?”
He looked up to find, indeed, a Jo Jones. Here in Newcastle. With coffee. And two small dogs.
Chapter 13
Hans did not understandheel. Orstayorstoporwhoa. Pepper, on the other hand, refused the indignity of walking after a block and a half. Happily, their destination was in sight: the Right Café, with its welcoming outdoor seating among potted ferns. It’s where she intended to meet Chen Benton-Li, and she’d been reading about her the whole way.
The artist had been born in Newcastle to Chinese immigrants of modest means. Her father passed while she was still a child, and she and her mum lived in the low-rent district. Chen had only intermittent education until her mother remarried; she first entered public school at the age of thirteen, and announced publicly thatshewas ashe. Assigned male at birth, Chen lived the rest of her life as a woman. Jo did the mental math; now seventy-one, Chen transitioned in the ’60s following pioneers like April Ashley (who modeled forVoguebefore being outed). Coming out of the closet was hard enough in the present; she imagined Chen must be made of stern stuff.
And, according to Jo’s research, her artwork was impeccable. Jo couldn’t wait to meet her—even if the prospect also gave her new-people anxiety. The joys and woes of excito-terror.
“Can I come in with the dogs?” Jo asked at the front door. “I’m supposed to meet someone—we can sit outside.”
“No problem. Those are Arthur’s pups, aren’t they?” the server asked. “He’s here all the time.”
“Yes. I’m just walking them. To brunch.” That sounded especially odd, but then again, they weren’t even the only dogs inside the place. Jo’s eyes adjusted to pick out a herding dog of some variety near the back—and the flutter of a hand in her peripheral vision. The café was white: white walls, white tables, bamboo-colored chairs. But just beneath the stylized café name, a bright mandala bloomed in teal and aquamarine. A jacket, Jo realized, with structured shoulders and a vanishingly thin waist. Tucked into it and wearing a contrast of summer yellow was an elegant woman, gracefully poised. She held one hand aloft, supporting a nickel-sized sapphire stone, and rolled her wrist to beckon.
“Wow,” Jo said before she could school herself not to.
“Pleased to meet you, too, child,” said Chen. Jo already knew Chen was native to Newcastle, but that she talked like Ann Cleeves’s Vera Stanhope was both incongruous and delightful. “Shall we dine alfresco? It’s a rare thing.”
Jo nodded affirmative, and Hans registered his approval by circling Chen excitedly.
