the ins and outs of collecting antiques?”
“My, aren’t we the clever one,” Courtney purred, and crossed her shapely legs. “George’s flunkies were getting sloppy. Some old lady was in one of the houses they thought was empty, and she died. Terribly inconvenient.”
Faith shoved her hands down hard on either side of the couch cushion to keep herself from leaping up and tearing Courtney’s face off. Sarah Winslow’s death—an inconvenience. She willed herself to stay calm and keep asking questions.
The hubris of the woman was beyond belief.
“Clever, yet not clever enough.” Courtney continued her litany of self-aggrandizement. “You thought it was Julian. I really didn’t have to put your worthless sideboard drawer in the barn. He was your villain, clearly. But I knew you would need something substantial to show to the police—voila, the drawer.” She took a deep drink and chortled. “That story about cleaning the oven. No decent caterer would ever consider using that antique! I’d planned for you to find the drawer tonight, telling you where to put the trash, but you made it all much more convenient.
I knew you wouldn’t miss an opportunity to poke around in the barn, Miss Snoopy Nose.” Faith filed away this wildly unflattering remark for future consideration. At the moment, there was a more important task to complete. They had to get as much incriminating evidence on the tape as possible. She gritted her teeth and asked another question. Miss Snoopy Nose, so be it.
“So, George definitely knew too much about your activities. You decided to get rid of him and cast the blame on Julian.”
“It worked perfectly. You were becoming a problem, too. George was all for doing you, but I explained we couldn’t until after the wedding. It would have been extremely difficult to find a good caterer at this late date.”
Faith felt faint and thanked heaven for her cooking skills.
“We thought we would just scare you instead.
George was really looking forward to getting rid of you, though. I’m afraid I had to deny him that pleasure. We arranged to meet at the Fieldings’
place in New Hampshire and fake a break-in.
That way, there would be no question of giving any of your things back. I can tell you George took particular offense at your activities in that direction. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, he kept raving.”
Faith stopped herself from spitting out, Not if you’ve stolen the goods!
Courtney was completely at ease. Clearly neither her ex-husband nor her caterer struck her as posing much threat. Her total aplomb was making Faith nervous. Surely, they had enough evidence on the tape for the police now—the crucial pieces of the puzzle they lacked when they’d concocted this plan yesterday were all in place. Julian had been adamant about deflecting all suspicion from himself. He wasn’t that much of a Boy Scout, he’d told Faith bluntly. This was the only way to catch a thief—and murderess.
“George was becoming such a liability—and a bore. In his cups most of the time. Such dreadful scenes at auctions and shows. Nobody wanted anything to do with him. His days as a picker have been over for a long time. Most of his inventory was coming from the burglaries, and frankly, when he told me he was hitting Aleford, I was surprised. Lincoln and Concord, all right. But what does anyone in Aleford have except their great-grandmother’s chipped Limoges?” Ludicrously, Faith felt called upon to defend the desirability of her adopted home as a target for larceny.
“And Nan Howell, how does she fit in?” Faith hurriedly asked instead—the last question they’d scripted.
“Nan? That frumpy dealer out in Byford? I have no idea, unless George was selling her my rejects, but then, he was selling them to everyone, and a lot of the dealers knew George’s, shall we say, suspect reputation.”
Courtney stood up and stretched. “Now, this has been an amusing little interval, but we all have a great deal to do tomorrow, and I’m going home. I suggest you do the same, Mrs. Fairchild. We wouldn’t want any blunders.”
Julian took a cell phone from the pocket of his dinner jacket. “The blunders have all been yours.
You’re not going home—now, or in the future.” He started to flip the phone open, then stopped, slowly putting it down on the desktop. Courtney had slipped a volume from the shelf directly behind her as she stretched, removing the gun con-cealed within—the gun now aimed at her ex-husband’s heart.
“Over there next to Julian, Mrs. Fairchild—and throw the phone on the couch. Now!” Courtney commanded.
“Terribly sorry. I’d forgotten about that one. I removed all the others,” Julian said, stricken.
With a passing thought to the usefulness of trompe l’oeil and that it was the first time she’d been in a house armed to the patina, Faith did as Courtney asked, watching the woman pick up the phone and slip it in her purse.
Their plan had failed. Dismally and disastrously.
“Out into the barn. Quickly.”
Faith stumbled on one of the flagstones in the path and Courtney gave her a sharp poke in the back with the barrel of the gun. The intensity of the thrust dispelled any lingering hopes Faith had that Courtney was going to leave them alive.
Julian was in front. Maybe he could tackle Courtney as they entered the barn, but with the gun now firmly pressed against her spine, Faith despaired of any action at all that could cause Courtney to pull the trigger. Julian might make it, but Faith wouldn’t. She wondered if this was crossing his mind, too.
And Faith was no match for Courtney on her own. The woman was in great shape, equal to Faith, the gun tipping the balance far, far in her favor.
They entered the barn, animals to the slaughter. Faith saw images of headless chickens running around, squealing pigs. She gagged—the brandy she’d imbibed leaving a taste of bile in her mouth now.
Courtney motioned to a pile of rope. “Tie her up—and I’ll be watching, so no granny knots. Be snappy about it.”
While Julian efficiently bound Faith, Courtney unleashed the full force of her anger at the caterer, appropriately garbed in her work clothes of black-and-white-checked chef’s trousers, white jacket, and black rosette at the neck, her own touch.
“What the Wentworths will think, I have no idea, but I’m sure they’ll see it through. Poor Stephanie. All her dreams, spoiled by you—and you!” Courtney directed her wrath now at Julian.
“Why am I surprised? Of course you would sabotage her wedding, just as you did every single thing I ever asked you to do for your only child.
School in Switzerland was out, too expensive, so she had to settle for Miss Porter’s. And all those horses. She didn’t want to ride one, but she did want to own one—what was so terrible about that? You could have arranged it!” Years of grievances and slights spewed forth.
When Julian was done, she told him imperiously, “Now sit in that chair, well away from Mrs.
Fairchild.” The woman must be ambidextrous, Faith realized. She was securing Julian to the chair with the practiced hand of one who tied drapery swags and chair coverings for a living, while keeping him under cover.
“You’ll never get away with this,” Julian commented dryly.
“Oh, but I will. You still have your—what used to be
They’re still on my ring. I will definitely get away with this. Very far away. Tonight.” She frowned peevishly. “So much traveling recently. Well, I’ll catch up on my sleep—somewhere, and wouldn’t you like to know?” It was like one of the mean girls on the playground, and Faith half-expected Courtney to finish the sentence with
“Nah-nah-nah-nah-na!”
“I don’t even have to make this look like an accident or a suicide pact, simply a plain, straight-forward process of elimination.” She laughed.
The woman was completely and totally mad.
“There’s no need to kill us. We won’t be able to get to the police until you’re gone. There’s a full tank of gas in the plane. I’ll even call ahead and tell them to get it ready for you.”
“But I
“What!” came a howl from the doorway.
