Page 109 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
And finally, in thrilled tones, “Those policemen are coming up the walk. Do you think they’ll want to interview us?”
Benedict walked faster.
“Mr. Howard, have you heard the news?” Phoebe came hustling out of the kitchen holding a tray of macaroons and tiny cut-crystal glasses of port. “The police got an anonymous call about a body and—” She stopped. Looked him over from top to toe and tittered. “Oh. My. The police have arrived, but you haveyouralibi. I suppose she has hers, too.” She gazed pointedly at Merida’s door.
Benedict always took pride in his ability to conceal his emotions.
Perhaps, at least at this time, it was an undeserved pride, for as he walked toward Phoebe, she stopped smiling and moved briskly out of the way.
He walked through the kitchen. Phoebe’s handyman sat at the table, hunched over a plate of macaroons, shoving them into his mouth one after another. He was one of those men Benedict automatically despised: sulky, unambitious, blaming his miserable fate on everyone but himself. He looked up at Benedict, scowled and went back to binge-eating.
Benedict walked out the back door and stepped into a different scene, one with law enforcement thick at the curb and in the yard, radios crackling, and the bright glimmer of floodlights through the hedge. He saw Merida’s friend Sheriff Kateri Kwinault talking to one of the guests, taking notes. She saw him, too, and waved.
Benedict wondered how long it would take before they traced his call. Wondered, too, how he’d been so lost to all sense that he used his own phone to make that call.
He knew the answer.
Merida made him lose his sense.
Merry. Of all the women he thought she might be, Merry Byrd had never occurred to him. By the time he woke up in the hospital, two weeks after that explosion, she was dead and buried.
They had lied to him.
Apparently, they had lied to her.
The question remained—who exactly were “they”?
A car drove slowly up the drive. The Cipres. They pulled the car in front of him, blocking his path to his cottage.
If he could, he would have walked around them. But he was barefoot. He had to step carefully and even then, gravel bit him on his heel, on the soft flesh by his toes… Next time he made a grand exit, he’d grab his shoes.
Dawkins rolled down the window and leaned out into the light of the porch. “Did you hear?” he asked. “Somebody’s dead next door. For a town this size, bodies certainly pile up. I told Elsa we should keep going down the coast, but when she met Merida she insisted we stay to help her get her feet under her. And what thanks do we get? She avoids us.”
“Yes, dear. I know.” Elsa sat in shadow. “You’re right. We can move on tomorrow. Mr. Howard, I’ve never seen you so informally dressed. Not everyone can get away with it. It takes a man of supreme confidence like you or Dawkins.”
“Thank you.” The gravel in the driveway dug into the bottoms of Benedict’s feet.
“Did you and Merida have a date tonight?”
“No.”
“But you’ve seen her?”
“I believe she is in her rooms.”
“Good. With the murders tonight, she shouldn’t be out on her own.” For the first time, Elsa leaned into the light.
Benedict saw the bruise on her jaw.
Dawkins shot her a glare.
She pulled back into the shadow.
Dawkins drove on.
Key in hand, Benedict limped his way to his cottage, entered and locked the door behind him. Then unlocked it. He’d seen the look on Merida’s face; he believed she would be along soon.
He flipped on his computer and while it came up, he made the call to the cruise ship. The connection took a few minutes; he had to explain to the bridge crew member that yes, this was an emergency and he didn’t care what time it was there, he had to speak to his aunt and uncle.
