Cloche and Dagger Read online

  When I had decided upon this course of action this morning, it occurred to me that popping in to talk to someone about the situation with Viv might be the best, as in the least hysterical, way to handle the situation.

  I glanced up at the large stone building that housed the Notting Hill police station. It was intimidating, and for the first time I wondered if I should go ahead with my plan. It wasn’t as if Aunt Grace or my mother or Harrison seemed overly concerned about Viv, but still I felt like I should tell someone just in case something was wrong.

  I leaned against the stone rail that jutted out from the building while I pondered my motives. Was I doing this just to get even with Harrison for accusing me of having a vested interest in Viv’s absence? If I was honest, that was a part of it. The innocent side of me shouted that if I was guilty I would never go to the police, so this would prove it.

  But the part of me that had a funny feeling about Viv being missing didn’t care. I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling since I arrived that there was something wrong with Viv’s not being here.

  That decided it. I pushed off the rail and strode toward the station. A constable passed me on his way out and tipped his rounded hat at me. I smiled in return and lifted my coffee cup to take a long, bracing swallow.

  When I glanced up and saw who was coming out of the station, I choked on my inhale. Harrison Wentworth, looking annoyingly impeccable in a charcoal-gray suit, was walking with another man dressed in brown slacks, a dress shirt with a tie and a buff-colored jacket. They were walking out of the station together and appeared to be having an intense conversation. It was almost as if he sensed me standing there, and before I could dash away or hide, Harrison glanced up and met my stare.

  Chapter 16

  He stopped in his tracks and the man beside him stopped, too, and followed the line of his gaze. He was older than Harrison, with a thatch of light brown hair that was going gray and a thick mustache that was doing the same.

  “You!” I cried. I pointed my finger in Harrison’s direction to remove any doubt as to who I was shouting at.

  “How did you know I was coming here today? And what are you trying to do—accuse me?”

  “Calm down, Ginger,” he said. His hands were raised in the international palms-out sign for “I have no weapon,” “stop right there” or “I surrender.” It was hard to say which one it was or if it was a combo of all three. Frankly, I didn’t care.

  “What did he tell you?” I asked the other man as they stopped in front of me.

  The man reached up and stroked his mustache as if it was something he did to give himself a minute to ponder the situation before him.

  “Detective Inspector Franks, this is Ms. Scarlett Parker,” Harrison said. “She is the cousin of the woman I was telling you about, Vivian Tremont.”

  “What did you say?” I snapped at Harrison.

  This was unbelievable. How could he? I glowered at him. I was absolutely convinced that he had something to do with Viv’s disappearance now. He was no doubt trying to take the suspicion off himself and dump it on me.

  “Inspector Franks,” I said, addressing him in what I hoped was my most earnest tone. “I don’t know what Harrison has told you, but my cousin was supposed to meet me two days ago, but when I arrived he was there, and I think he knows more than he’s saying.”

  Inspector Franks considered me from under some spectacularly bushy eyebrows. I wondered if he’d let them run wild to balance out his mustache. Despite the facial hair, his deep-set, brown eyes were sharp with intelligence. I got the feeling he didn’t miss much.

  “You’re American?” he asked.

  “Half,” I said. “My mother is British.”

  “Where’d you live in the States?”

  “Florida,” I said.

  “The South?” he asked. “The homeland of country music.”

  “Technically, I think that’s Nashville, Tennessee,” I said. “A bit further north.”

  He didn’t appear to hear me. “I’ve got the pipes of Alan Jackson.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  Harrison was watching our exchange with interest, which turned into amusement when Inspector Franks broke into a barrel-deep baritone and starting singing about the Chattahoochee. No, I’m not kidding.

  I had to give it to him. He certainly sounded as if he could be the six foot four Georgian. Still, I felt the need to get this situation back on track.

  “You really are wonderful, Inspector Franks,” I said. He looked pleased at the compliment and Harrison gave me a look with one eyebrow raised that said he knew what I was trying to do. “But back to my cousin Vivian . . .”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “I suppose I should save the singing for the pub.”

  He gave a good-natured chuckle, and I had to admit that I liked him. He seemed so reassuringly unflappable.

  “Upon Mr. Wentworth’s report, I did some checking,” he said.

  He preened his mustache again and glanced at Harrison as if still assessing him. I liked that. Inspector Franks was no pushover.

  “It seems your cousin is somewhere in Africa buying supplies for her hat shop,” Inspector Franks said. “I had a nice chat with your aunt this morning, who got an e-mail from Vivian last night, and I called one of our liaisons over there and he is going to check on her.”

  “Why isn’t she e-mailing me?” I asked.

  “Sounds like she doesn’t have great Web access,” Inspector Franks said. “Maybe one e-mail was all she could get out.”

  That seemed an awfully convenient answer. I frowned.

  “Look, as soon as I get a line on her from our people I’ll call you,” he said. “Her mother isn’t worried. There’s no reason you should be.”

  He sounded so pragmatic. What could I say? That I had a feeling? That the man next to him was not to be trusted?

  “Thank you,” I said. I sensed it would be bad form to push it.

  Inspector Franks wished us both a good day and went back into the imposing police station, singing as he went.

  “So, Harry, how did you manage that?” I asked.

  He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know what you mean and it’s Harrison.”

  “Yes, you do,” I growled. “Harry.”

  I turned on my heel and stomped back down Ladbroke Road, which would take me to Kensington Park Road, which ran parallel with Portobello Road. I was so mad I was surprised the sidewalk beneath my feet wasn’t crumbling under the force of each step I took.

  “Ging—uh—Scarlett,” he called after me.

  I ignored him, mostly because I was afraid that if he got within my reach, I would chuck my coffee at him and that would be a sad waste of a good cup of java.

  He was undeterred, however, as he caught up to me and matched his longer stride to my shorter one. I ducked around a mother pushing a stroller and he met me on the other side.

  “Scarlett, just listen to me,” he said. “It’s not what you think.”

  “Huh,” I scoffed. I picked up my pace.

  “You think I went to the police first to try and shift suspicion away from myself and onto you, don’t you?”

  I drew up short. Okay, I hadn’t expected him to admit it. I turned to face him and almost collided with a businesswoman in spiky heels and a pretty plum-colored suit.

  “Sorry,” I said as I scooted to the side.

  Harrison followed me and we found ourselves pressed up against a short wrought-iron fence.

  “That’s exactly what I think,” I said. “Now I know that I haven’t been the best cousin or business partner, but I’m going to find out where Viv is and what’s going on with her and you can’t stop me.”

  “Do you really think I would try?” he asked. “I came to the police station because I think you’re right.”

  It was the genuine tone of worry in his voice that caught my attention and held it. I studied his face. His green eyes looked concerned, but there was something else there. He knew something that he
wasn’t telling me.

  It was then that I noticed he looked pale, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well, and his thick, dark hair had tracks in it as if he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly.

  What did he know? And more importantly, how could I get him to tell me?

  Insulting him was obviously not the best plan. I wasn’t sure why Harrison caused my stellar people skills to evaporate, but if I wanted to know what exactly was going on then I had to make my next move carefully.

  Chapter 17

  I’m a toucher, so I went for the tactile maneuver. I’ve found that people respond well to a pat on the hand or a half hug. It breaks down barriers and builds a rapport, especially if people are not being straight with you.

  I put my hand on his forearm in a comforting gesture. I gave it a light squeeze and then met his gaze, making sure I looked sympathetic.

  “You really are anxious about Viv, aren’t you?” I asked.

  He blew out a breath as if relieved. “I’m trying not to be, but yeah, there’s something off here. She always contacts me when she travels.”

  He glanced at my hand resting on his arm, and I quickly removed it. That is the other secret to being a toucher: don’t linger into awkward. That had been borderline. We exchanged a quick glance, and I began walking back to the shop. Harrison fell in beside me.

  “She did e-mail Aunt Grace,” I said. The irony that I was now comforting him was not lost on me.

  “Yes, and that’s definitely a good sign,” he said. “Listen, I’m sorry that I was dismissive when you were trying to tell me that it was odd that Viv wasn’t here to greet you. She is a wild card, but that was out of character even for her. She adores you, and she was so excited that you were coming.”

  “Does that mean you don’t really think I had anything to do with her being missing?” I asked.

  He had the grace to look a bit embarrassed. “I never thought that. I just wanted you to see how easy it was to twist the facts and accuse someone.”

  “Oh.” I frowned.

  “This is where you say you never thought I had anything to do with it either,” he said. His tone was as dry as toast.

  I broke into a surprised laugh.

  “I missed my cue, didn’t I?” I asked.

  “By a kilometer or two,” he said.

  I thought about our first few meetings. Did I really think Harrison had anything to do with Viv being missing? I dug deep all the way to my core. No, but there was a lingering doubt. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew more than he was saying. Of course, up until a week ago, I would have said I was pretty good at reading people, but the rat bastard had taken care of that. Still, I didn’t trust Harrison completely.

  “I don’t think you’re the reason she’s missing,” I said.

  “Clever.” He gave me a small smile, letting me know he was very much aware that I hadn’t absolutely absolved him.

  “Do you think Inspector Franks will be able to find her?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess it depends on how far his reach extends. I have some business associates that I am going to meet with today. I think they might be able to help us, and you can contact your aunt and see if you can get more specifics.”

  I gave him a sideways glance.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Are we working together on this now?” I asked.

  He gave me a slow smile and again I was struck by how handsome he was.

  “Truce?” he asked, holding out one hand.

  “Truce,” I said. I took his hand in mine. It was large and warm and his fingers folded around mine gently but firmly. It was a good handshake. If you can measure a person by their handshake, then Harrison Wentworth was a good man. Still, I was going to keep an eye on him.

  We continued on to the hat shop. When we turned onto Kensington Park Road, he stopped me with a hand on my arm.

  “Do you remember this corner?” he asked. He had a twinkle in his eye as if the memory he had of it was a good one.

  “Given that I walked past it just a half hour ago, it would be hard for me to forget,” I said. I knew full well that wasn’t what he meant, and he gave me an exasperated look that told me he knew I was teasing.

  “We got busted here,” he said. “You, me, Viv, Dean, Clarissa, Chester and some others. I can’t remember their names.”

  The names he did mention brought back faces from the past like specters. We had been such an unruly gang of preteens.

  “Wow, I haven’t thought of that group in years,” I said. I glanced around the corner where we stood and then I remembered.

  “Chester! He was the one.”

  Harrison broke into a grin and I knew he was sharing the same memory.

  “We were spitting out watermelon seeds and he nailed that passing car,” I said. “And it turned out to be Prime Minister John Major’s car.”

  We exchanged a wide-eyed glance.

  “The Specialist Protection officers were not amused,” he said. Again, classic British understatement.

  “I can’t believe they let us go,” I said. “I remember thinking they were going to arrest us and that Mim would never forgive me and I’d never be allowed back into the country again.”

  “As I remember it, you worked your magic on the officers and the Prime Minister,” he said.

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Oh, sure, you started with big, limpid eyes,” he said. He batted his eyelashes at me and I felt my mouth tip up in one corner. “Then you were so polite as you asked questions about how dangerous their jobs were and then told them how grateful we were to have such brave men looking after our distinguished prime minister. I think Chester vomited on his shoes.”

  “That’s gratitude. I was saving his bacon,” I said.

  “Remember we all ran to Kensington Gardens and hid for the rest of the day?” he asked.

  “We were afraid to go home.” I laughed at the memory. I began to walk again, feeling as if ten-year-old me had joined us. I had to squelch the urge to skip just to see if it felt the same.

  “But we got hungry,” he said.

  “Well, watermelon will only take you so far,” I said.

  The foot traffic on the sidewalk was thicker than it had been earlier. Several times I had to swerve around mothers with toddlers and elderly people. After a block, Harrison took my elbow and turned me onto a narrower and less busy street.

  The strong breeze that had been at our backs vanished and I felt myself relax. London in April felt like winter in Florida with cool days and brisk breezes.

  I used to be pretty quick at converting Celsius to Fahrenheit in my head, but like any skill it goes dormant without use, and I had to really think about it now. The BBC weather report this morning had said it expected the day to be partly cloudy and fifteen degrees. I knew that was somewhere around sixty degrees but I had a feeling it was still in the fifties. I was glad I had worn my thick wool sweater and jeans.

  Of course, this made my thoughts veer to Vivian. I wondered where she was and if she had packed the right clothes. Was she scared, lonely, drunk? It was maddening not knowing.

  At the door to the hat shop, Harrison stopped.

  “I’ll call you if I hear anything,” he said.

  “Likewise.”

  “She’s fine,” he said. I wondered if it was to comfort me or him.

  “Sure,” I agreed. My voice lacked conviction and his gaze met mine.

  He looked as if he wanted to say something but then thought better of it. In a surprise move, he put a hand on the back of my neck and pulled me close as he planted a kiss on my forehead.

  It was an oddly comforting gesture and I found it made my throat get tight. I swallowed hard.

  “We’ll find her,” he said.

  I nodded, unable to speak. And I was surprised to find that I believed him.

  • • •

  Friday morning, I met Andre at his studio. It had been two days since I’d seen Harr
ison and I hadn’t heard from him or Inspector Franks in the interim. I tried to tell myself that no news was good news, but I wasn’t buying what I was selling.

  I had called Aunt Grace every day and she still seemed to think everything was fine, but I was beginning to think she had a deep case of denial going. It was now five days since I’d arrived without a word from Viv. There was no way this was normal.

  Andre said he knew where the Ellis Estate was and had agreed to drive since he had to haul equipment, and I had no car and no idea of where we were going.

  We met in front of his shop at ten o’clock. He had several bags of equipment that he was stuffing into the trunk of his tiny car. Compared to the ridiculously giant gas-guzzlers I was used to in the States this felt a bit like trying to wedge myself into a go-cart, the wrong side of a go-cart for that matter.

  He merged into the traffic on Portobello Road and took several turns through Ladbroke Grove, heading south toward Kensington.

  “Are you sure of the address?” I asked.

  “Harrington Gardens?” he asked. “Of course. Don’t forget I spend my days photographing London and all of its surrounding neighborhoods. Nick accuses the old girl of being my mistress.”

  “Does he really mind?” I asked.

  “Well, I offered to take pictures of him in the buff if it would make him feel better, but he said the mere offer made it unnecessary,” he said.

  I could see Nick saying that and I smiled. A car honked and I whipped my head around to see if they were honking at us.

  “You can’t take every bleat of the horn personally,” Andre said.

  “Sorry, I’m just not used to it.”

  “No worries, we’re almost there,” he said. “I swear surface traffic in London moves at about five kilometers per hour. Mercifully, we’re not at peak driving hour otherwise it would take us forever.”

  We turned left onto Kensington High and I could see Kensington Gardens on the left. I promised myself that I would take a long walk there at the first possible chance. The large park disappeared as Andre wound further south into Kensington.