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“THAT HORRID MAN ACTUALLY suspects I’m the one who killed Cecily,” Rosemary ranted once she’d been reunited with her brother and her friends. They’d taken seats out on the terrace, far away from prying ears, to discuss how to proceed.
“Is that what he said to you?” Desmond boomed, far louder than he’d intended.
“Not in so many words,” Rosemary said, placing a quelling hand on his arm. “But he did command me to not leave the hotel property. I suppose that means we won’t be taking your hike in the hills anytime soon.”
“To hell with the hike, Rosemary. This is ludicrous, and I’ve half a mind to—” Desmond’s voice took on a menacing tone.
“You and me both,” Frederick enthusiastically agreed.
“You’ll not do anything, my dears. It will all be sorted out in due time. I didn’t kill her, and there are far more interesting suspects than me.” For some reason, their exuberance took some of the steam out of her own irritation.
Vera sipped her orange juice—sans alcohol, for once—and directed a glare towards the general area of the hotel. “He looked like a bloody bulldog—the inspector, I mean, and I always put stock in first impressions. That means it’s up to us to figure out who really did it. For goodness’ sake, Rosemary. When did you become a magnet for murder?”
“I’ve been asking myself that very same question since the moment I turned on the cupboard light and saw poor Cecily lying there. It hasn’t really sunk in yet that she’s dead. She had so much life left in her, so much spunk. I admired her, just as Mother said I would. It’s a tragedy is what it is, and I’ve had just about enough tragedy to last three lifetimes. That inspector can suspect me all he wants. I’ll make him look a right fool by the time I’m finished.” Rosemary sat back, took a swig of the brandy Frederick had placed in front of her, and finally noticed the gaping expressions on her friends’ faces.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing, Rosie,” Vera said with a grin. “It’s simply been ages since you’ve worked up a good angry fit. I think you’re finally coming out of your funk.”
Rosemary didn’t think ‘funk’ was the word she’d use to describe mourning her dead husband, but then Vera had never been one to mince words.
“It’s a good thing, Rose. We’re all fired up over this one. Cecily wasn’t some gambling kingpin or war profiteer like our last two victims. She was a spitfire of a woman, and we all adored her at first sight. I can’t believe whoever did this had a valid reason. It feels petty and tragic. Although I will admit, we didn’t know her that well.”
Frederick grimaced. “No, perhaps not, but I believe you’re on the right track. What do you think, Rose?”
“I think our friend had quite a few enemies, and we’re going to have to weed through them all if we want to figure out who had it in for her badly enough to kill her. The staff is our first priority. Something about that maid, Charlotte, strikes me as off. Anna thinks so, too. She was on the spot when I found Cecily, but the murder occurred last night, giving her plenty of time to clean up and compose herself. We need to find out more about her, and also Gloria the receptionist. Cecily did, after all, threaten her position. Furthermore, we can’t ignore the fact that it could have been any one of the guests. I’m inclined to point the finger at Geneviève Chevalier or that terrible fiancé of hers, Benjamin Marlowe. The way she looked at Cecily last night, it couldn’t have only had to do with Richard Wright’s complaints.”
Vera’s eyes lit up. “And what about him? He’s been hounding poor Cecily night and day. I heard he’s been here for near on a month, and all he does is complain. She was in his room yesterday evening, and she was none too thrilled when she left.” She explained about how Cecily had come into their suite for a drink. “If you ask me, Wright’s the one we should focus on.”
“I think Rose is right about this maid,” Frederick said, ignoring Vera’s comment and causing her to glare at him through slitted lids. He didn’t attempt to defend Geneviève or Benjamin, and the oversight probably had more to do with self-preservation than a belief that either of them was involved. For some reason, Frederick always had a soft spot for disreputable characters like the betrothed couple. “Honestly,” he continued, still talking about Charlotte. “I’ve never had such terrible service, even at less reputable establishments. Perhaps she was holding something over Cecily’s head, and that’s how she’s kept her job.”
“Cecily ran the tightest ship I’ve ever seen, so what sort of blackmail could some poor little maid possibly have had on her?” Vera retorted. “And haven’t you noticed they’re quite understaffed? That’s probably why she keeps her job.” Rosemary and Desmond exchanged a look across the table. Now was not the time for another bout of bickering.
Frederick ignored Vera’s defense of Charlotte and snorted. “How should I know what her motive might be? Isn’t that what investigations are for? We poke around, figure it out.”
“I’m still not convinced,” Rosemary interjected. “It would have taken a man—or perhaps a woman in a serious rage—to have committed the crime. I don’t think that little maid would have been capable of delivering such a blow.”
“People have a way of surprising you, Rose,” Frederick replied. “Especially if they’ve been pushed close enough to their limit to take another person’s life. Add in the effects of a heightened state, and Charlotte could have performed the act. It may be unlikely, but isn’t that always the way in the murder mysteries? It’s the one you least expect.”
When Frederick got his hackles up about something, there was little to be done to deter him. “Why don’t the two of you”—she glanced at Desmond— “follow your own lead then, and we’ll follow ours.” Her bald statement made Vera’s lips lift into a smile.
“That sounds like a lovely idea to me,” Vera agreed. “I’d bet a thousand pounds we’ll figure out who the murderer is before the two of you do.”
“Oh, I’d take that bet,” Frederick said, squaring off with her.
Desmond appeared less than impressed with the plan. Considering he had barely said a word, and certainly hadn’t agreed with Frederick, the apathy didn’t come as much of a surprise to Rosemary. She cast him a pleading look, to which he acquiesced, nodding to indicate he’d act as babysitter for Frederick.
“Then it’s settled, but we’re not placing bets on who will avenge the death of a woman we admired. It’s distasteful,” Rosemary reprimanded. “Honestly, the two of you!”
Frederick and Vera had the decency to look chagrined, and they both mumbled an apology, unwilling to risk having Rosemary’s wrath turned upon them.
