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SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Rosemary found herself sitting in what must have been Cecily’s office, being grilled by an uptight, quite British policeman by the name of Inspector Boothe.
“Where exactly were you yesterday evening between the hours of ten o’clock and midnight?” he asked Rosemary. She didn’t particularly care for the way he spoke to her, as if she were the prime suspect in Cecily’s death, but she knew he was only doing his job. She had, after all, found the body, but it was exasperating to know he should have been focusing his attention elsewhere.
Pushing grief aside, Rosemary replied, “I had dinner with my traveling companions and two other guests. Geneviève Chevalier and Benjamin Marlowe. None of us left the group alone, and the waiter can attest to our presence. We finished eating at around nine o’clock, and I went to my suite with my friend Vera Blackburn, who is staying with me. We had a few drinks but stayed in our room for the rest of the night.” She’d answered his next two questions before he could even ask them, which seemed to do less to clear her from suspicion than she’d hoped.
He peered at her from beneath raised eyebrows. Rosemary could tell the expression was habitual, because his forehead remained crinkled even after his features settled back to their normal configuration.
“We’ll certainly follow up on that,” was all he said before continuing to put her through the third degree. “When was the last time you saw Miss DeVant alive?”
Rosemary was quick to answer, and when she did, there was sorrow in her voice. “She was standing behind the reception desk when we left the restaurant. We had a brief conversation before going to our suite.”
“About what, exactly, did you converse?” the inspector asked next, firing more questions before she had a chance to respond. “Did you know the victim personally? I was under the impression you’re a tourist only here for a short holiday.”
With an effort, Rosemary answered calmly. “I didn’t know Cecily well, but she is—was—an old friend of my mother’s. She was from London, as I’m certain you’re aware, as am I. She was dealing with a difficult guest, Mr. Richard Wright, who insisted upon lodging several complaints. It seems he’s notorious for doing so, as we’ve heard him raise his voice more than once during our short stay.”
Boothe made a sound somewhere between a snort and a harrumph. “Quite so, quite so.”
“Another guest jumped in to defend Mr. Wright. Geneviève Chevalier made no bones about her poor opinion of Miss DeVant and treated her most disrespectfully.” The possibility of another suspect occurred to Rosemary. “You might want to talk with Gloria, who works at the front desk. Cecily called her competence into question in front of guests.”
“Not that I owe you any explanation, but I’ve already spoken to Miss Chevalier and her companion, who state they were together all night.”
“I’m certain they were.” The inspector ignored her comment and instead kept pressing. “What did you do after you found Miss DeVant’s body?”
At his words, the vision of Cecily on the floor sprang back up behind her eyes. She willed herself not to cry and made certain her voice was even when she replied, “I screamed. I screamed, and that’s when Gloria came running. One of the maids, Charlotte is her name, was busy filling her cart from one of the other cupboards.” She explained how Gloria had told Charlotte not to come close, and how she’d examined the scene and checked for the murder weapon.
“Just what exactly made you assume murder? After all, her death could have been accidental. Perhaps there wasn’t a weapon at all. Perhaps Miss DeVant fell and hit her head on something inside the cupboard.” Rosemary could tell he was trying to get her goat, and it irked.
“Are you saying you think she fell backwards, hit her head hard enough to cause a mortal injury, then closed the door behind herself? Furthermore, I surveyed the area and found nothing that could have caused that type of wound. She was lying on her side, giving me a clear view. I didn’t touch the body or anything else, for that matter.”
Inspector Boothe raised an eyebrow, “How very convenient.”
Rosemary raised her eyebrow in return. “I think helpful is the word you’re looking for, Inspector.” As soon as the words left her lips, Rosemary wished she hadn’t uttered them, but something about the man sitting before her made her feel like a child who’d been called to the headmaster’s office.
“You may want to censor yourself here in Cyprus, Mrs. Lillywhite. This isn’t London, and your insolence won’t be tolerated. No matter how many murders you’ve helped solve back in England. Yes, I’ve already made inquiries, and according to a Detective Inspector Maximilian Whittington, you’re quite the amateur sleuth.” There was no question this time, just a statement of the facts that Rosemary couldn’t—and wouldn’t—refute.
She kept her mouth set in a thin line and bit back an uncharitable word or two. All the while, her stomach fluttered at the mention of Max. Wishing vehemently that he were here instead of the man sitting before her, Rosemary fought the urge to defend herself and failed.
“I have been unfortunate enough to have become involved in two cases, and fortunate enough to have identified the murderer in both instances. I’d say I’m more of an asset than a liability, wouldn’t you, Inspector?”
“That remains to be seen,” he countered. “For now, you’re not to leave the hotel area and certainly not to return to London until all inquiries have been made. You’re dismissed,” he said as if she were one of his deputies.
With all the dignity she could muster, Rosemary exited the office. Outside the door, she ran into Charlotte, who was pacing restlessly while waiting for her turn to be questioned. She appeared positively petrified, so Rosemary stopped to see if there was anything she could do to help.
“Are you all right, Charlotte?” she asked, placing a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“Yes. I mean, no, of course not. How could I be?” Charlotte said, her eyes ringed with red. “Miss DeVant was...” Her voice became thick, and she trailed off. Rosemary wasn’t upset that she didn’t finish her sentence; the last thing she wanted to hear was another stab at the dead woman’s character. Charlotte continued once she’d collected herself. “She didn’t deserve to die like that. Nobody does. And to think, we were all tucked into our beds while it was happening.” She shivered at the thought, her gaze not quite meeting Rosemary’s eyes as she stared off into the distance.
Rosemary nodded in agreement, attempting to provide comfort, but all she could think was that clearly, not everyone was tucked into their bed during Cecily’s murder.
“Char.” A girl Rosemary had not yet been introduced to tapped Charlotte on the shoulder. She was dressed in a receptionist’s uniform and wore a fretful expression.
Charlotte jumped, startled again, and bit back a scream. Instead, she caught her breath and pursed her lips at the other girl. “Margaret, you scared the daylights out of me. I’m afraid my nerves are simply shot today.”
“I’m sorry. I thought you’d like to know that Gloria said you could be dismissed after you talk with the inspector,” Margaret explained. She looked to be about the same age as Charlotte—hardly more than a girl, but with a professional demeanor that suggested she had much more work experience.
Charlotte appeared skeptical. “Really?” she asked. “That’s quite nice of her, isn’t it? If somewhat out of character.” She opened her mouth once more, but shut it abruptly, perhaps to avoid saying something uncharitable about Gloria. It seemed Cecily wasn’t the only one who had earned a reputation for being a pill.
Margaret raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Take the reprieve and be grateful for it. You’ll likely never be offered another.”
With a nod, Charlotte agreed. “I believe you might be right about that.”
