Harriet had been at Irvine’s bedside late last night when the doctors turned off his life support, right after the results of the election came in. Aidan O’Shaughnessy took the senate seat, although the news barely merited a mention on TV. It was playing second—or rather fourth—fiddle to Irvine’s tragic demise, David Biggs’s impending divorce, and Eric Ridley’s denial of any involvement in Kyla’s death. Apparently, he’d just walked in and found her like that.
Alaric shuffled the dishes around to make space for the new offering, and I grabbed the ringing phone.
“Harriet?” a lady asked.
“No, this is her friend Bethany.”
“It’s Wilma Turner—one of Harriet’s neighbours. I’m so sorry to hear about Irvine. If Harriet needs anything… A casserole?”
“We’ve got plenty of food at the moment, but thank you for the offer. If you have any spare time, though, Harriet would love some help with the animals.”
“The horses? I don’t know a thing about those beasts. I could pick up groceries or do laundry?”
That was everyone’s story. We had enough food to sink an aircraft carrier, a rota set up for washing and ironing clothes, and even a lady coming over to vacuum. But nobody had the time or the inclination to muck out.
“Fetching groceries might be useful. Could I take your number and phone you back?”
She read it out, and I added it to the list. I’d turned into Harriet’s assistant rather than Sirius’s, but Alaric didn’t seem to mind. He’d even answered a few calls himself. Harriet was sleeping now, and I was beginning to think Alaric was right about Stéphane—he hadn’t left her side since the ambulance ride to the hospital.
And Alaric had barely left mine, apart from when he slept on the sofa at night. Harriet, Stéphane, and I had taken the three upstairs bedrooms, and nobody was going to suggest Alaric sleep in Irvine’s wing. It was too soon. Harriet was raw. Raw with pain at losing her father and also with guilt that she’d spent more time with the horses than with him during his final weeks.
The funeral would be next Monday. Open casket, which freaked me out a bit because we just didn’t do that in England. In the absence of other offers, Alaric had agreed that I should stay until after Irvine’s cremation to support Harriet while he saw to the return of Red After Dark. Although the senator had a small life insurance policy, it would take a while for the money to come through, and Harriet needed cash now more than ever. Hopefully by the time I had to leave, the reward would have been paid and she’d be able to hire an extra pair of hands to help on the farm.
I worried in case the owners or the FBI thought Alaric had stolen the painting himself, but he assured me it wouldn’t be a problem. No matter, if it came to it, I’d come clean about my part in the whole affair no matter what it cost me. I owed him that much.
“Everything’s arranged,” he announced, leaning back from his laptop. “I’ll leave for Boston tomorrow morning.”
“Are you flying?”
“No, driving. Stéphane says you can borrow the truck if you need to go anywhere here.”
“Isn’t it a long way by road?”
“I’ll break it into two—here to Richmond tomorrow, Richmond to Boston on Friday. Emmy said I can use the guest house, and I need to drop their luggage off anyway. And the dog.”
Apparently, Black had grudgingly agreed to them keeping Barkley. Not that he had an awful lot of choice in the matter—the pooch had made her feelings quite clear by falling asleep on his feet every evening in the rental property. Speaking of which, with everyone else having unexpectedly returned to Virginia, we couldn’t justify shelling out for a four-bedroom house for two people. Hence we’d packed everything up and decamped to Lone Oak Farm. Not only was it cheaper, I liked seeing the horses from my bedroom window when I woke up. When this episode was over, we’d look at finding a new place for the rest of the summer so Rune could come and stay. Alaric and I had to go to England for my sister’s wedding on the sixteenth and of course pay a visit to Chaucer, then we’d pick up Rune and fly back to the US after that.
Dammit, I’d look for a new house, not we. That was my job, not Alaric’s, even if he did seem to be acting more like a friend than a boss at the moment.
The phone rang again.
“Lone Oak Farm.”
“Is this Bethany Stafferton?”
Stafford-Lyons, but it was close enough.
“Yes, speaking.” The man sounded young, friendly, with none of the dripping sympathy I’d been accepting since the news got out. Nearly every caller had been a woman. “Who am I speaking to?”
“Joel Schumacher.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“HiCam Videography?”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
Was he one of the people who’d been on holiday? I scrabbled for a pen and paper. And my list with all the scribbles. Where had I left it?
“Looking for this?” Alaric whispered.
I nodded gratefully. Schumacher… HiCam… There he was. I’d called him near the beginning and left a voicemail.
“Mr. Schumacher—”
“Joel.”
“Joel, thank you so much for getting back to me. We’re trying to track down the person who recorded an announcement by Irvine Carnes several weeks ago.”
“Why?”
The lies were coming much more easily now, and I wasn’t sure whether to be proud or disappointed in myself.
“Harriet Carnes—Irvine’s daughter—she knew somebody had visited to film her father, but he wasn’t able to tell her who, and she’s concerned in case there’s money owing. So she asked me to make some calls to check.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that. He paid up front.”
“Mr. Carnes?”
“No, his assistant.”
Huh? “Stéphane?”
“Nah, the other one. Edwin. Strange guy—he wouldn’t do a wire transfer, insisted on mailing an envelope full of cash.”
Edwin? Weird. The artist who painted Red After Dark was called Edwin. A coincidence?
“Mr. Carnes doesn’t have another
