“The name Dashwood is not uncommon.”
“How common is it?”
“I can't quote numbers.”
“Do you know anyone named Dashwood?”
“No.”
“Uncommon enough.”
It was hard to maneuver around that.
“Francis Dashwood lived two hundred and fifty years ago.”
She was in midshrug when my cell phone rang. I clicked on quickly, apologizing with a grimace to the other patrons. While I find cell phones in restaurants the height of rudeness, I hadn't wanted to chance missing Lucy Crowe's call.
It was the sheriff. I talked as I hurried outside. She listened without interrupting.
“That's good enough for a warrant.”
“What if this asshole still won't issue?”
“I'm going to drop by Battle's house right now. If he stonewalls, I'll think of something.”
When I returned to the table, Anne had ordered another glass of Chardonnay and a stack of photos had appeared. I spent the next twenty minutes admiring shots of Westminster, Buckingham Palace, the Tower, the Bridge, and every museum in greater London.
It was almost eleven when I pulled in at Sharon Hall. As I swung around the Annex, the headlights picked up a large brown envelope on my front stoop. I parked in back, cut the engine, and cracked a window.
Only crickets and traffic noises on Queens Road.
I sprinted to the back door and slipped inside. Again, I listened, wishing Boyd were with me.
Nothing cut the silence but the whir of the refrigerator, the hammering of Gran's mantel clock.
I was about to call Birdie when he appeared in the doorway, stretching first one hind leg, then the other.
“Was someone here, Bird?”
He sat and gazed at me with round yellow eyes. Then he licked a forepaw, dragged it across his right ear, repeated the maneuver.
“Obviously you're not worried about intruders.”
I crossed to the living room, put my ear to the door, then stepped back and turned the knob. Birdie observed from the hall. No sign of any person. I took the package inside and locked the door behind me.
Birdie watched politely.
My name was written on the envelope in a swirly, feminine hand. There was no return address.
“It's for me, Bird.”
No reply.
“Did you see who left it?”
I shook the package.
“Probably not the way the bomb squad would do it.”
I tore a corner and peeked inside. A book.
Ripping open the envelope, I withdrew a large, leather-bound journal. A note was taped to the front cover, penned on delicate peach stationery by the same hand that had placed my name on the outer packaging.
My eyes raced to the signature.
Marion Louise Willoughby Veckhoff.
