“Very sensible.” Vivian led me to the table. He’ll be awake by then and wondering what all the fuss is about.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I lied. The nurse had sounded grave. Ivor might have sustained a serious injury, screwed up both hip replacements. He could be facing more surgery. This was a major setback.
“Why did he fall? Weren’t they watching him carefully enough?”
“I don’t know, Vivian.” It came out more sharply than I’d intended. “I’m sorry.” I reached out to touch her arm. “He was doing so well. They were thinking of releasing him next week.”
“I’m sure everything will be fine.”
“Will it?” I’d reached the end of my emotional tether. “Ivor may have brain damage. A client was murdered. The húnpíng’s been stolen, and Ivor’s being sued for the loss. His insurance company is threatening to refuse payment because he didn’t update his security system. Clients are reclaiming their consignments. I can’t make the inventory at Hapthorn add up, and Tom’s mother has—” My throat closed. It was as far as I could go.
I put my head in my hands. “Sorry about the rant.”
“Tom’s mother has what, dear?” Vivian had the noncomplementary thing down pat.
I looked up. “Tom’s mother has produced a gorgeous, young damsel in distress, the spitting image of Tom’s dead wife.”
After that, I had to explain.
Later, after Vivian and Fergus had ascended the stairs, I made myself a mug of Ovaltine and took it to bed. Tom phoned, as I knew he would.
“Wanted to make sure you’d gotten home all right.”
“I’m fine. In bed.”
“I’ll meet you at the hospital tomorrow if I can get away. In any case, let me know how Ivor is.”
“I will.”
“He’s a tough guy—he’ll pull through this.”
“Give your mother my apologies again.”
“No need. At the moment, she’s helping Sophie get settled. We’ll talk in the morning. Get some sleep.” He clicked off before I could respond.
I held the phone to my chest. He’d completely missed the malicious gleam in his mother’s eyes. A detective with a blind spot.
And your blind spot? whispered my inner critic.
“Being blind, I wouldn’t know,” I muttered between my teeth.
I tapped out a text to my mother, telling her about Ivor, but not the lovely Sophie. Then I pulled up the rose satin comforter and leaned back against the soft pillow.
Rain streamed down the windowpanes. A roll of distant thunder rattled the windows. As I sipped the malty liquid, I was transported back in time to my Norwegian grandmother’s house. Ovaltine had been her universal cure. It had always worked too—that and the crisp sheets on the bed, the smell of her violet perfume, and the calm orderliness of her house. For a child grieving the loss of a beloved brother, my grandmother’s house had been a place of refuge, the cleft in the rock.
I set the mug on the bedside table, turned off the light, and closed my eyes.
I was almost asleep when I heard a noise from downstairs. I sat up in bed. Fergus heard it too. He woofed once, but settled down, satisfied that his attention was not required.
Sliding out of bed, I threw on my old Case Western sweatshirt and tiptoed down the stairs. Someone was rapping on the door.
I flipped on the porch light. “Who is it?”
“Please, let me in.” Something in the voice told me this was no burglar.
Turning the deadbolt, I opened the door a few inches.
A woman stood on the stoop, shaking with the cold. Long, dark hair fell in wet strands around her thin face. Her clothing was soaked.
“I’m Lucy Villiers,” she said, her teeth chattering. “I need your help.”
Lucy and I sat at the kitchen table. She was in her early thirties but looked younger, especially with no makeup and her hair wrapped in a towel. I’d loaned her my quilted robe and a pair of thick socks while her clothes tumbled in Vivian’s combination washer dryer.
I would have made a fire to warm her up, but I didn’t want to wake Vivian, who’d have peppered the girl with questions. Instead, I made tea and toasted the blueberry scones Vivian had made that morning. I had questions of my own.
“How did you hear about your mother’s death?”
“The newspapers. I’ve been living in Belfast, but I subscribe to several Suffolk publications. Nostalgia.” Her smile was ironic. “That’s where I read about you. They mentioned you in the article, how you’d met my mother that very day, and about last Christmas, when you found that killer. I didn’t know what to do, so I threw some things in my car and caught the ferry to Liverpool.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police? Why come to me?”
She bit her lip. “I … I guess I felt more comfortable talking to a woman. Someone who knew my mother. It’s complicated.”
I studied her face, seeing layers of emotion—grief and shock, but the predominant emotion was fear. Fear of what? Had she killed her mother and was using me as some kind of advocate with the authorities? I decided to press the question.
“Do you know the police have been trying to locate you?”
Lucy regarded me from beneath her lashes. “They wouldn’t have found me. I’m using another name—Lacey Wardle.” She must have registered my surprise because she said, “I’m not married to him. I haven’t actually seen him for eighteen years.”
“Switching identities in the age of computers isn’t easy.”
“The night my father died, Colin and I planned to run away together. I was underage, so Colin got me a fake driver’s license and birth certificate. We were going to Scotland, and from there to Ireland, where he had connections.”
“I still don’t understand why you didn’t contact the police when you learned about your mother’s death.”
“I told you, Kate. I’ve been living under a false identity. Using false documents. That’s probably against the law.”
“You were seventeen—eighteen when you left. No one is going to
