“Tom, you have no idea what tipped Braun off or even if Braun killed him. It could have been a common robbery/homicide, just like it appears.”
“You don’t really believe that?”
Anna sighed. “Actually I don’t, but what I do believe is that you can’t second-guess yourself in this business. Otherwise you’ll go loopy.”
“’Loopy’?”
Anna smiled. “I believe that’s ‘nuts’ in Yank speak.”
“I’m not too far from that now,” Dugan said, “and Alex is closer. Did you see him when he came into my office today?”
“He looked horrible,” Anna agreed. “What did you two talk about?”
“Ibrahim mostly,” Dugan said. “Alex is really taking it hard, but in a crazy sort of way, he’s more like the old Alex. He asked us to dinner on Wednesday. I put him off until we could discuss it. What do you think?”
“We should go. Reestablishing closer contact can only help.”
“Yeah, well, it’s likely to be strained,” Dugan said. “Apparently all the ladies of the house except Cassie are convinced I’m a lecherous toad.”
Anna smiled. “Just shows what remarkable instincts they have.”
“Oh. I’m ever so sorry, Mrs. Hogan,” Gillian Farnsworth said as she bumped into Mrs. Hogan bustling out of the pantry.
The cook smiled. “No harm done. Did you see Cassie safe to school?”
Mrs. Farnsworth shook her head. “Barely. That Farley is a menace.”
“Aye, he’s a bad ‘un. I’d like to poison his bloody tea and bury him in the back garden.”
Mrs. Farnsworth smiled at the image of portly Mrs. Hogan dragging Farley across the lawn; thoughts of Farley rarely brought a smile. His hulking presence upset their routine, and his driving was deliberately reckless, provoking tirades from Gillian to which he responded with insincere “Sorry, ma’ams” and smirks in the mirror.
The women fell quiet as Farley came in the back door.
“Hello, luv,” he said to the cook, ignoring Mrs. Farnsworth. “How ‘bout a cuppa?”
“You’ve a kitchen in your quarters, Farley. Take your tea there,” Mrs. Farnsworth said.
“Well, ain’t we all high and mighty? The old kike took his tea here.”
“You aren’t Daniel,” Mrs. Farnsworth said. “And do not call him that. It’s not teatime, in any event. Stop loafing. Wash the car.”
“I did it yesterday,” Farley said.
“Then do it again.”
He glared at her, barely under control, and a chill ran through her before he slammed out. She felt Mrs. Hogan’s arm on her shoulders.
“Don’t you worry, dearie,” the cook said. “He lays a hand to you or Cassie, I’ll gut ‘im like a pig, I will.” She held open a capacious apron pocket to display the handle of a kitchen knife. Suddenly, burying Farley in the lawn didn’t seem so far-fetched.
Mrs. Farnsworth smiled. “An appealing thought, Mrs. Hogan, but if you’re arrested, where ever would we find a cook as good?”
“Hah. Nowhere, that’s where, me girl.”
“Right you are.” Mrs. Farnsworth composed herself. “Now, where were we?”
“Oh, I almost forgot. Mr. Kairouz rang to—”
“He did? Is anything wrong? He’s been very upset about Mr. Ibrahim.”
“Aye, that he has,” Mrs. Hogan said, “but he seemed a bit better just now. In fact, he rang to tell me we’ll have guests tonight.”
“Who?”
Mrs. Hogan made a face. “Mr. Dugan and his tart.”
“Her name is Anna Walsh, Mrs. Hogan, and Alice Coutts tells me she’s a lovely girl.”
“Aye,” the cook said, “and what else do you call a ‘girl’ fancyin’ a rich gent old enough to be her father? She’s a tart, right enough.” She sighed. “But it’s him that’s the letdown. Men. Even the best of ‘em thinks with the wee head down below. Mr. Kairouz excepted, o’course.”
Mrs. Farnsworth stifled a smile. “Mr. Dugan isn’t quite old enough to have sired Ms. Walsh. Do try to keep an open mind.”
“Oh, aye. I’ll give the little tart every benefit of the doubt, I will.”
Hiding her amusement, Mrs. Farnsworth moved down the hall to sit in her tiny office under the stairs. She’d turned the former closet into a neat and efficient workspace, with a small desk and chair. A corkboard was covered with schedules and “to do” lists, and an under-desk computer fed a flat monitor and keyboard. A photo collage of Cassie filled the opposite wall.
As always, the photos brought a smile, one that faded a bit at her tired reflection in the monitor. She had fine features and soft brown eyes, but her hair was as much salt as pepper now, and there were lines that hadn’t existed even weeks ago. Not that she cared. Physical beauty had only brought her pain. Her plain, matronly image and the “proper” world she created was a safe haven, not only for her, but for Cassie as well.
She smiled at the photos again. Cassie — her great treasure — bequeathed by a dying woman who had seen through her lies and trusted her anyway. A woman who squeezed her hands and extracted a promise. A promise Gillian fully intended to keep. Progress was uneven and success unsure, but Cassie would have a good life. Gillian would see to it.
When the prison gates clanged shut behind Daisy Tatum, she was terrified. Not of freedom, but of failure and slipping back into her old life. She was twenty-two and had never had a job or a bank account or a credit card. She’d taken every course prison offered but knew it wasn’t the same. A charity had gotten her a job, but she’d never waited tables.
The first day was bad. She mixed up every order and dropped a tray. But the café owner, an ex-con himself, was patient. Two weeks later she walked home to her tiny apartment, her first ever paycheck in her pocket. She was unlocking the door when strong arms encircled her.
“Hullo, luv. Don’t we look smart? A regular stunner,” Tommy’s beery breath wafted over her as he pushed her inside into the tiny kitchenette.
“Right hurtful it was, you not comin’ round to see dear ole Dad. But I kept tabs on ya. She’s busy, I sez to me self, so I’ll just pop round and see her.” He glared. “So ‘ere I am.”
Daisy stared, mute, tears streaking her cheeks.
“There, there now,” Tommy said. “No need to carry on, though I’m a bit misty me self. Prison suited you, I see. You ain’t near the washed-out hag you was. Do a fair business among the lads what fancies older birds, I’ll wager. Matter of fact, we’ll have our own little family reunion in a bit, but first you can say hello to an old friend.”
He put the drug paraphernalia on the kitchen bar, and Daisy’s terror turned to rage as he ignored her to melt heroin in a spoon, humming a tune to himself, her own aspirations irrelevant. Memories came flooding back: the nightmare of being strapped spread-eagle on a filthy mattress when Tommy sold her virginity to a fat pedophile with halitosis; of turning tricks for “special clients” in the back of Tommy’s “gentleman’s club” until she looked old enough to be put on the streets. She remembered rebellion and attempted escapes and beatings. And more beatings when she failed to make enough or to induce miscarriages or just because Tommy bloody well felt like it. Beatings until all the fight was out of her and the pain dissolved into a dull blur of the drugs, Tommy’s “little pick-me-ups” to keep her ambulatory and producing. She remembered his sneer when he visited her in jail to tell her she was worth neither bail nor a lawyer and to warn her to keep her bloody mouth shut and do the time.
Tommy’s tune ended abruptly as the kitchen knife entered his chest to the hilt, propelled by 120 pounds of hatred fueled by thirteen years of rage. He died surprised, unable to believe his kindness was so unappreciated.