A Sunday in August
Longside Cemetery had never seen a party like it. Probably it had never seen a party, period, though Jo didn’t know why. It offered lovely rolling grounds, mature trees and the bonus of carved headstones going back several hundred years. Her party was taking place under the long-stretched arms of an English oak, and almost everyone she knew had turned up.
“Ready when you are,” Tula said. She’d come with Ben—and with Lina. Foley’s estate, or what remained that hadn’t been confiscated by police, had come to Tula as his (until death) lawful wife. It had been enough to sponsor Lina, who now lived with them at the Red Lion, where Tula had transformed the attic into future nursery space. The baby, expected to be a girl, was—so she said—the “only good thing to come of Rhyan Flannery.” But she said it with the pride of an expectant grandmother.
Jo walked to the tree’s broad trunk. She could see Arthur in the front, wearing the ring and sitting next to Emery, who was pointing it out to Rupert with great enthusiasm. Roberta had chosen her seat next to Gwilym, but had to share him with Chen: tweeds next to waistcoat next to sherbert chiffon. Green was there with her wife, and Kate Gridley and Teresa, Tommy Andrews and a box of doughnuts. There was also a smiling, apple-cheeked woman in the center aisle trying to keep track of two small children with the aid of her equally smiling partner. That, she knew, was Annie and Ashok, because they had introduced themselves like a thunderclap and shaken her hand so much she felt slightly seasick.
“I’m ready,” she said to MacAdams. He was standing by, ready to remove a red cloth from a brand-new headstone. Jo took a breath, then let it out through puckered lips. Then she stepped forward.
“We’re here today to celebrate Evelyn Davies—and Aiden Jones,” she said, and MacAdams drew away the cloth. Underneath, pink granite had been carved into a bouquet of flowers. “Abington is Evelyn’s home now. We’re her family.”
Arthur and Gwilym stood from their chairs and stepped forward to pick up a mahogany box just large enough to hold Evelyn’s skeletal remains. They carried it forward in silence, then lowered it into the space beneath the stone.
“She was survived by her daughter,” Jo went on. “Violet. And Violet was survived by daughter Olivia, and son Emile.”
Arthur lay roses into the grave. Gwilym left violets specially procured by Annie for the day.
“Aiden Jones was my uncle. He’s the reason we know what became of Evelyn. He rescued her painting and left her at Ardemore for me to find. So, I think he belongs to Abington, too.” Jo wasn’t going to do it, but could scarcely help herself. She hazarded a glance in MacAdams’s direction. “Just like me.”
* * *
It wasn’t anything like as draining as the Jekyll Gardens speech, but she might have received wilder applause for it. And, because of Teresa’s tea tent, there was almost the same amount of cake.
“Brilliant,” Gwilym said around several mouthfuls of it. “Bloody brilliant as ever.”
“You’ll keep looking for Violet’s children, won’t you?” Teresa asked as she handed over milky tea.
“I think so. I’m not sure,” Jo admitted.
“Everyone needs a hobby,” barked Roberta. “You’re backing up the line.” She thumped her stick against the ground, but no one moved much faster. Jo found her way to MacAdams’s table, under a string of party lights.
“You don’t need any more hobbies,” he said.
“No, Gwilym doesn’t need any more hobbies. I just need fewer murderers to get mixed up in mine.”
“Fair.” He reached out and gave her hand the briefest squeeze. “What’s next, then? Now that this is complete?”
“Well. I could take up antiquing.”
“Please don’t.”
“Or I could rent the cottage attic again.”
“Antiques seem like an excellent choice,” MacAdams agreed. Green had just found them, and gave Jo a wave.
“Hate to be the one,” Green said. “But you got a call from the superintendent.”
MacAdams rolled his neck. “What now?”
“Honestly, he didn’t say. Only that you were wanted.” She lifted a punch cup. “Benefits of being chief, eh?”
* * *
MacAdams wasn’t chief. Or not exactly. Then again.
The trouble with looking at old cases was that the light glanced off things differently at distance. Most especially the cases dealing with Admiral Clapham, father of his and Green’s old boss. It started with a revisit of Abington Arms guest list and their promise of being “discreet.” There had been a few odd cases involving clients there; loose ends, bits that didn’t marry up. Two gun safes with historical pieces had been emptied over a weekend. A robbery, but no real investigation. Labeled an isolated incident. Except it wasn’t. In another housebreaking, it was jewelry that went missing and a farm hand had been detained; then all charges were dropped, not another word spoken. Insurance fraud? Or ways of dodging taxes? It was hard to say, yet the threads kept running back to the hotel and, MacAdams suspected, to the admiral. He went hunting a little deeper—but bottomed out against closed files and permissions requests from other stations. A detective chief inspector could only do so much. But a chief, now. That might open doors. Especially doors some might like to leave closed.
So, in between sewing up the Burnhope case and a few local bust-ups, he’d been working on his résumé and application for the superintendent. MacAdams stepped away from the merry-making to make the call back. He’d positioned himself between two headstones, facing south for signal. It rang. And rang. And gave him the perfunctory “party is not available, leave a message.”
“It’s James MacAdams, returning your call—” he started.
“Hello, Detective.”
It hadn’t come from the other line, but behind him. He turned to see a woman. Not any woman. Cora Clapham, as though thinking of the admiral had somehow conjured his old boss into being. She wore a sleeveless blouse in pale green, but stood with the same straight-backed ferocity as she might in full military dress.
“Surprised?” she asked.
“I . . . am. When did you get in?”
“Last week. Been living in the estate house.” She sighed and uncrossed her arms. “It needs work before I put it on the market. I heard from the gardener about the homecoming. I take it proper channels were followed for that burial?”
They were. MacAdams didn’t feel like he owed that detail, however.
“How long will you be in town?” he asked instead. But Cora knew how to be evasive, too.
“You were ringing Superintendent Bradford,” she said. “I’m the reason he phoned for you, I’m guessing. I left Southampton.” She smiled at him, broadly. “As I understand you are yet without a chief.”
If Jo was there, she’d have read a great deal on MacAdams’s face. He wished she was, suddenly, and that she could translate.
“You. Are the new chief?” MacAdams asked. She half turned to face the party just beyond.
“New old chief, yes. I have come home. We can’t run from our problems, can we? Even when those problems are our fathers.” She smiled. “You have gone from strength to strength, what with this Burnhope case.”
MacAdams was still processing the news and not taking it very kindly.
“Thank you. It’s still processing. There will be charges brought against a local art collector when we’re through, as well.” He paused. “It’s not often the great and the good are forced to pay for their sins.”
Cora turned back to face him. “Not often. But not never. You’ve ended up on higher radars than the super, too. Antique trades and human trafficking. I’m not surprised you didn’t take the chief job yourself.”
“But you’re not.”
“No. You know where you shine, James. Where you’re best. So do I.” She walked away, but not toward the tents. She was going, he knew, to her father’s burial plot.
“Welcome back,” he said, without much feeling, and long after she was out of earshot. Then he returned to the homecoming that mattered.
Jo was waiting.
*****