Page 7 of The Dead Come to Stay
“And sausage rolls,” Andrews suggested.
“And cakes,” Gridley agreed, waving from behind her computer.
“Right. And I want curried chips. Extra curry.” Green gave him a toothy smile of appreciation. “You would be doing usalla favor.”
MacAdams did not, as a rule, outwardly express much emotion. Genetic predisposition, probably, as his father’s face showed about as much feeling as a cricket bat. He did, however, have the uncomfortable sense that his team mistook the local fete for a date he was not having. And the room seemed a trifle warm, if he were honest.
“We have a lot of legwork to do,” he said firmly. “The first few hours after a crime can make or break an investigation, so no—I’m not running up a take-away order to Jekyll Gardens.”
“Actually,” Gridley interrupted, holding up one finger. “I think you hadbettergo, boss. I just found the last transaction on his credit card, and you aren’t going to like this one bit.”
MacAdams leaned over her shoulder to view the wide-screen monitor. The charge, made late on Friday, hadn’t even cleared yet. It remained gray, pending, from a Ronan Foley to the account of one Josephine Jones,Netherleigh Cottage.
Chapter 4
This was not how MacAdams had imagined his day. He’d put the mackintosh back on, despite the warmth, and stood in back of a surprisingly attentive crowd. Up on stage, Jo Jones held forth about botany, architecture and Gertrude Jekyll as though it was her principal stock in trade. The utter ease with which she interwove the histories she’d only just learned herself was admittedly impressive, all while bouncing enthusiastically on short legs, ponytail bobbing wildly. He could see the ever-eager Gwilym, too. He seemed to be holding up placards with images too distant to make out, and mainly staying out of her way.
On second thought, thiswashow he intended to spend the fete—just not with the intent of questioning her aboutanotherdead body, or demanding yetanothersearch of her premises. Why could she not just steer clear of murder?
“To quote Jekyll herself,” Jo said, her voice rising in crescendo. “‘The love of gardening is a seed that once sown never dies. There is no spot of ground, however arid, bare or ugly, that cannot be tamed into such a state as may give an impression of beauty and delight.’ Thank you.”
***
When the applause subsided, Roberta Wilkinson—who had made it, after all—handed Jo a pair of oversize scissors. The yellow ribbon fell away and Jekyll Gardens opened at last to the public. There were party crackers and cheers, and MacAdams began the inglorious work of threading through the crowd.
“Well, well! You came after all,” said a spring-fresh Emery Lane. He towed along a more conservatively attired Rupert Selkirk, his partner both in life and at the law firm.
“Official business, unfortunately,” MacAdams said.
Rupert’s bushy brows gave the slightest rise.
“Nothing serious, I hope.” He said it genially enough, though a certain coolness had developed between them since the murder of Sid Randles last year. It was an investigation that required a bit of “special research” into Rupert’s personal affairs to guarantee his cooperation.
“I’m just trying to reach Ms. Jones.” The couple gave way and let MacAdams get on with it. He was certainly trying. An excited throng mobbed the little stage and Jo was in the thick of it—wide-eyed, semifrozen.
“So your ancestor was a thief and a forger? Is that how he got rich?”
“Areyourich?”
“This is where that house burned down, isn’t it?”
“Were you reallyinsidewhen he—”
“Ladies and Gentlemen!”MacAdams barked in his best clear-the-way baritone. He spotted Gwilym, took him by the shoulders and placed him bodily in front of Jo Jones. “This gentleman here will answer all of your questions.”
“I will?” Gwilym asked—but MacAdams already had a hand on Jo’s shoulder and was steering her into the clear.
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” he asked, scanning the increasingly noisy party grounds. Jo still had a fish-eyed look,but she followed him in acquiescence. Once inside a tea tent nearby, she perched herself on a corner folding chair, and MacAdams flagged the hostess: Teresa, if he remembered right. Kate Gridley’s niece.
“Milky tea with a lot of sugar,” he said, pointing to Jo. “Then I need you to close shop for a bit, Teresa.”
“James! It’s my first event—you know we just opened. I need this!” she protested.
This was a fact. MacAdams sighed and fished out his credit card. Probably a good thing he never had kids with his ex-wife; there were plenty of others happy to spend his money.
“Run this for thirty quid and then go for a walk.”
Teresa crossed her arms and did the new-adult version of pouting.
