Page 41 of The Dead Come to Stay
“Not under his name. But I want you to look at the numbers.” He’d circled Foley’s. And then he’d circled a dozen more. Arianna stared in blank confusion.
“How—What? But that’s Mr. and Mrs. Connolly! A married couple from Manchester; they come every few weekends.”
MacAdams had managed to get that far after seizing the register. Now he needed the rest of the story.
“Was Mr. Connolly an Irish gentleman?”
“Well, yes. But—”
MacAdams slid across the photograph of Ronan Foley printed from the Hammersmith website, with his name visible underneath. Arianna caught her breath and covered her mouth with one hand.
“Oh my God. That’s—that’s the man you found dead?”
“Is it a match?” MacAdams asked. She nodded slowly, her face blanching behind her makeup.
“What’s happened to his wife?” she whispered.
Wife?MacAdams felt his pulse spike. Ronan Foley didn’t have a wife, not a legally listed one anyway. Was “Mrs. Connolly” the owner of the earring or scarf? He kept his tone neutral.
“It would help the investigation to know more about her,” he said.
Arianna drank the rest of her tea in a single go. Her demeanor had changed, or changed again. From hostess to disgruntled potential witness to something more human. And fragile.
“Slight,” she said. “A tiny thing. Really young, but I never really spoke to her.”
“How so?”
“Nathan—Ronan. Whatever his name is. Was.” She took a breath. “He always arranged everything, and he wassoattentive. Like she was a china doll. He bought flowers and champagne, chocolate, roses. Always some little present or surprise ahead of their coming.” It had, MacAdams realized, really made an impression on her.
“I take it such behavior is rare at Abington Arms?” he asked.
“We cater to high society, remember? MPs and judges and their wives. They—Of course, they’re always very well turned out. But presents and flowers? That’s not for married people.” Arianna had looked away when she said this, so the last was delivered to the left-hand wall.
MacAdams extrapolated. “Mr. Connolly treated his wife the way most of your guests treat a mistress?” he asked.
Arianna’s eyes flitted back. “I didn’t say that. Look, the first timethey came was their honeymoon. Newlyweds. He called her his ‘little Alina.’” She pursed her lips. “Dammit. If Connolly wasn’t his real name, though, was he lying about the rest, too? I mean, were they married at all? Or just cheating under false names?”
MacAdams had written all of this down, but he had a very different idea taking shape. As there was no Ronan Foley in the records... perhapsthatwas the false name, and this the real one? He’d have Gridley run a search on Alina and Nathan Connolly.
“If there’s anything else—anything—let us know,” MacAdams said. “I’ll see you out.”
Arianna stood up but didn’t move toward the door.
“Don’t go telling Green I was dizzy on romance. I just thought they were a nice couple, is all.”
“Understood,” MacAdams said, still trying to usher her out of the room.
Arianna pointed at him with a well-manicured finger. “She’s not my ex, by the way, in case you’re thinking it. Sheila Green isnotmy type.”
***
MacAdams poured himself an honest cup of coffee, in a mug and everything, and retreated to his office. He had time to process Arianna’s last remark as he waited on Green’s report. Arianna was probably not Sheila’s type, either; that would be Rachel, fierce feminist fireplug nutritionist who favored scrubs and fleece and for whomfuckwas a universal adjective, noun and conjunction. He wondered why Arianna thought it important to tell him; he decided it wasn’t worth sharing with Green.
He also had time to process the fact that Jo Jones had somehow been less than a block away from Hammersmith, the erstwhile employer of their murder victim... who had also been her temporary lodger... and whom she had seen alive during his final hours. Instincts and long practice told him that this, ofcourse, madeJoa person of interest in the case. But he would no more suspect her than he would Annie. And also he should stop putting the two of them in the same category.
“Boss?” Green asked; she was leaning in through the open door. “Ready for an interesting story?”
“Do tell,” MacAdams said, beckoning her into the admittedly ramshackle state of his office. She scanned the chairs, all of which now served as shelves, and chose the one with the fewest things to clear away.
