Page 129 of Road Trip
The words came pouring out—how she’d made a last-minute decision to stop at the gardener’s cottage to look for her missing passport, and apparently surprised Esme’s handyman in the act of looting the house.
“He had a knife,” she said, reliving the terror. “He had me backed up against the sofa where he’d piled all this stuff, silver and art and some jewelry, and he slashed at me with it, but I jumped away and the knife got stuck in the sofa. While he was trying to pull it free I just…grabbed what was on top of the pile, this big heavy candlestick, and I hit him with it. As hard as I could.”
“Jesus. Where is he now?”
“I left him in the parlor. I looked all over the house for Esme, and Sinead, well, the first floor anyway. I was too chicken to go upstairs. I think something bad has happened to her, Liam.”
“Maeve, you’re hurt,” Liam said.
She looked down and saw a streak of blood on the sleeve of her sweater. She probed her left forearm with her fingertips and winced a little. “Just a flesh wound,” she assured him. “My adrenaline must have been pumping. I didn’t even notice it until now.”
They heard a siren then, and looked up to see a police cruiser speeding down the driveway toward the cottage. The cruiser stopped and two uniformed officers jumped out. One went toward the house, the other approached the Kia. He leaned down and addressed Liam. “You’re the one who called about an incident?”
“I did,” Liam said. He pointed at Maeve. “But she’s the one you need to talk to.”
“I’m Officer Muldoon,”he said, after Maeve got out of the car to speak to him.
You again, Maeve thought.
“I’m Maeve Dunagin. There’s a man in the house. He tried to kill me with a knife, so I bashed him in the head with a candlestick.”
“You again,” Muldoon murmured. “The man you hit. Do you know his name? Is he alive?”
“He’s Esme Rossington’s former handyman. Reggie something. And I don’t know if he’s alive. I just know there was a lot of blood. He’s in the parlor. But you need to look for Esme. I’m really worried because neither she nor her dog are in the house. And that’s her truck parked over there.” Maeve pointed in the direction of the porte cochere.
“Ahh, Lady Esme,” Muldoon said. “I wouldn’t be jumping to conclusions just yet. She’s known to drink a bit. It’s a fine morning.Maybe she got it in her head to walk to the Willow Tree. Her second home, as it were. She and the dog are probably having a pint.”
“Would you please listen to me!” Maeve yelled. “I’m telling you something bad happened here. The house has been ransacked and there was some kind of a struggle in that parlor. Stuff was smashed.”
Muldoon looked over at Liam and rolled his eyes. He mouthed a single word, “Americans,” before stalking away in the direction of the house.
“Asshole,” Maeve muttered. She turned to Liam. “What should we do?”
“I suppose we wait.”
Ten minutes later,Muldoon was back, his expression very different.
“Ma’am,” he said, removing his cap, “we did find Lady Esme. And I’m sorry to say that you were correct. It’s a terrible, terrible thing.”
“Is she…?”
“She is deceased,” he said, his tone somber. “Her and the dog was locked up in a shed round back. That dog wouldn’t let us near the old lady. Guarding her, like. Nearly bit my hand off, she did.”
Maeve sank to the ground and rested her head on her knees, covering her head with her arms. She felt as though she’d been kicked in the stomach. Esme Rossington was a textbook curmudgeon, entitled, rude, and ill-tempered. This much was true. But it was also true that despite her family’s wealth, her life had been one seemingly unending disappointment, starting with her own father and extending to her husband and even her lover. Every man in Esme’s life, including her onetime handyman, had betrayed her.
“What about Sinead?” Maeve asked, raising her head. “He didn’t hurt her, did he?”
“Not bloody likely,” Muldoon scoffed. “That mutt is a terror.”
Just then an ambulance came rolling slowly down the driveway. The other officer emerged from the house and signaled the driver to park near the door.
“Reggie is alive, not that you’ve asked,” Muldoon said. “Head’s banged up, he’s lost a lot of blood, and he reeks of gin, but he’s like one of your American cockroaches. Hard to kill. And I’ve rung the local pet shelter to come fetch up the dog.”
Maeve jumped to her feet and began speed-walking toward the back of the house.
“Where are you going?” Muldoon called.
“To get Sinead. You’re not sending her to a shelter.”
