A Share in Death

“No, actually, I don’t. Tell me.” His pulse quickened but his voice reflected only mild, friendly interest—the wrong word or gesture could send Angela scuttling back to safe ground.

She hesitated now, pulling the zipper on her jacket back and forth. “That night Sebastian was … he said he didn’t go out, but he did. I heard him.”

“Your father?”

She nodded. “And the morning Miss MacKenzie died, I got up and he wasn’t there. He said he was there all the time.”

Kincaid pushed a little. “Angie, what do you think your father’s done?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice rose in a wail. “But if he’s done anything, she put him up to it.”

“Cassie?” Kincaid asked, sure of the answer. Angela nodded.

“Why do you think so?”

“They’re always meeting and whispering. They think I don’t know.” Kincaid heard the satisfaction beneath the censure. “They stop and move apart whenever I come in. With that look. You know.”

“But you haven’t heard anything specific?” Angela shook her head and moved back a few steps, the instinct to defend her father perhaps getting the better of her desire to accuse him. “It could be perfectly innocent, don’t you think? Maybe you’re blowing things out of proportion.” Kincaid spoke lightly, a little derisively, goading her.

“I heard him tell her he was going to fix my mum,” Angela snapped back at him, stung. “That she’d be sorry, and so would anybody else who tried to bugger things

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A share in death 177

for him. What if…” Angela stopped, her eyes frightened. She had gone farther than she intended, “I have to go.”

“Angie—”

“See you.” She slipped out the far door and a second later he heard her soft tread on the main stairs.

Kincaid stared after her as the door sighed shut. Graham might have indulged in a little veiled bullying. On the other hand, what if… If only they could get a definite grip on the man, instead of a collection of rumors and secondhand accusations. Graham Frazer was as slippery as an ice cube and just as cold.

Kincaid met Maureen Hunsinger at the top of the stairs, her round face shining like a scrubbed apple, her hair frizzing damply as if she’d come straight from the bath. “I’d just come to find you,” she said, beaming at him, then sobered. “I wanted to tell you goodbye.”

“You’re leaving, then?” Kincaid asked.

Maureen nodded. “Chief Inspector Nash gave us leave to go.” She sounded almost apologetic. “It’s been too difficult for the children. No point in prolonging it. Besides,” she looked away, and Kincaid thought he detected embarrassment, “after what happened to Hannah yesterday, it could be … well, it could happen to anyone, couldn’t it? We dare not let the children out of our sight. It’s just too worrying.” Maureen sighed and brushed a stray hair away from her face. Kincaid found he hated to see even a dent in her robust cheerfulness.

“I’m sure you’re quite right,” he consoled her. “I’d do the same.”

“Would you? Maybe we’ll sell our week here, or trade it for somewhere else. I don’t think I could ever feel the same about this place. Have you …”

“No. Nothing definite.” Kincaid answered the question she hadn’t formed and asked the one worrying him. “Have you seen Hannah this morning, Maureen?”

“Not to speak to.”

“Wh—”

178 deborah crombie

“We were taking the first loads to the car. Oh, it must have been at least an hour ago. You know how it is when you travel with a family—you can’t imagine how you ever got all those things in the car to begin—”

“Maureen.” Kincaid tried to nudge her back on track.

“Anyway, I was just coming out of the house as she pulled away. She waved at me and I tried to wave back, only I had my arms full of Legos.” She smiled. “Emma helped me pick them up.”

“Emma—”

“Was coming in as I was going out. Maybe she spoke to Hannah.”

“Thanks, love. I’ll see if I can find her.” Kincaid grinned at her fondly. “Good luck to you, Maureen.”

He had taken a step toward the stairs when Maureen stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Take care,” she said quietly, then stretched up on her toes and kissed him, her lips exerting a warm pressure against his jaw, her heavy breasts grazing his chest.

He felt oddly comforted.

Emma found him before he found her. Everyone, thought Kincaid, seemed to be looking for him this morning except the one he most wanted to find.

They met in the entry hall, Emma nodding at him briskly, as if he had appeared on command. The nod, however, seemed a last remnant of her gruff strength. She looked exhausted, and somehow—Kincaid searched for the right adjective—unstarched. Her spine slumped in a way he didn’t remember, and even her iron-gray hair clung limply to her head.

“Let’s go out, shall we?” Her voice, he noted gratefully, had not lost its resonance. Emma led him out onto the porch and lifted her face for a moment to the sun. “Yorkshire’s decided to give us one more day of glorious autumnal weather before we go. They’re forecasting rain for tomorrow.

“Did you know,” she turned to him, “that Sebastian’s funeral is tomorrow? And I’m having Penny’s body sent