Chapter Twenty-Five
Twenty-Five
Thierry was more than a little affronted by Baxter’s insistence that he didn’t want breakfast.
“I’m trying intermittent fasting,” Baxter explained, remembering Lady Ashcombe’s penchant for peculiar mealtimes. “I’m really not hungry at all.” His stomach gave a treacherous growl.
While Miriam and Thierry tucked into a sausage and egg breakfast, Baxter signaled to Red to follow him to the laundry room.
“Look for screws,” he whispered, shutting the door.
“She might have dropped them into the pocket of her apron.” He began looking through the cleaning products in Miriam’s housekeeping box, removing the lids and spraying a fine mist in the air, sniffing as though he were testing aftershaves.
He had noticed a distinctive smell on the stairs—something astringent and sharp, perhaps citrusy?
He wafted furniture polish toward his nose. No, that wasn’t it …
“Nothing in the apron,” Red said. “I’ll try the—” The laundry room door flew open, and she stopped abruptly.
Miriam took in the scene—Baxter with the lemon polish, Red with Miriam’s dark green apron. “Are you looking for something?” she said sharply.
“I was just briefing Red.” Baxter thought fast. “She’ll be helping you with the rooms today.” He put the lid back on the tin of polish and replaced it in the housekeeping box.
“What?” The two women spoke at the same time, and with the same note of incredulity.
Red recovered first. “Yeah.” She turned a challenging gaze on Baxter. “Fifty euros, didn’t you say?”
Baxter spluttered. “I believe it was twen—”
“Cash.” Red extended her palm. “Up front.”
Reluctantly, Baxter took out his wallet. Fifty euros? She had a nerve.
“But I do not need her help,” Miriam said indignantly. She narrowed her eyes at Red. “I do not want her help.”
Reluctant though Baxter was to hand over his hard-earned cash to Red, he couldn’t help but wonder where Miriam’s insistence came from.
She had made it clear she didn’t like Red, but was there more to it?
Was Miriam trying to stop Red poking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted?
Trying to stop them looking into Alec’s murder?
Sabotaging the handrail could certainly have put a stop to Baxter’s own investigations.
“Fifty euros.” He took out the notes and gave them to Red. “You can start with the downstairs toilet.”
She scowled at him but pocketed the cash.
Miriam snatched her apron from Red and picked up her housekeeping box. She gave an audible sniff and stormed out of the laundry room, banging the door behind her.
Red grinned. “Somehow, I don’t think we’ll be going for drinks after work.”
“Speaking of drinks,” Baxter said, “remove all the water carafes in the rooms and replace them with sealed Evian bottles. I’ll give Miriam a job just before lunch that will keep her out of the way; you can help me with service. That way we’ll know none of the guests’ food has been tampered with.”
“Do you really think she would?”
“If our hunch is correct, she killed Alec, then tried to take me out too,” Baxter said grimly. “Who knows what else she’s capable of?”
Breakfast for the guests was a subdued affair.
Someone had connected their phone to the music system, and a melancholy acoustic track drifted through the drawing room.
Sylvie was slicing a nectarine into thin slivers, popping them in her mouth between sips of strong black coffee.
A slice of fruit slipped from her fingers onto her shorts before falling on the floor.
She kicked it carelessly under the table.
Beside her, Carter was picking at a croissant, his gaze fixed on the middle distance.
Jade rubbed his arm. “It feels very real today, doesn’t it?”
Baxter and Red exchanged glances. They had agreed to keep an open mind about Alec’s killer, and Baxter was watching Jade carefully. It was clear she cared very deeply for Carter; would she have intentionally plunged him into the grief he was now experiencing?
“Kaitlyn’s staying in her room,” Red said quietly to Baxter. “Bad morning sickness, apparently.” She raised an eyebrow.
Damian was tucking into pancakes with bacon and maple syrup. “Anyone fancy popping down to the marina this morning? Change of scenery?”
Sylvie stared at him.
“Darling, I hardly think anyone’s in the mood for sightseeing.” Francesca dropped a slice of lemon into her breakfast tea. “Baxter, could you call the gendarmes and ask how long they expect us to stay?”
“Of course, madam.”
“Can someone turn off that infernal music?” Sylvie put a hand to her temple. “It’s giving me a headache.”
“My phone’s over there.” Carter gestured dully toward the sound system. It was clear he expected Baxter to deal with it.
The phone was slotted onto a platform that served as both a charger and a dock for the sound system.
Baxter stopped the music and removed Carter’s phone, and the screen on the sound system confirmed the device had been unpaired.
Beneath the notification was a list of tracks played, and Baxter’s attention was caught by a file that had no album cover or explanatory name, just a series of numbers.
But it wasn’t the file name that interested him, it was the date and time the track had been played.
01:23:06 Friday.
The night Alec had been murdered.
Baxter always kept a pair of wireless headphones in his pocket in case he needed to take a discreet call from a client.
He took them out now, slipped in a single earbud, and paired them to the sound system.
Glancing at the guests to ensure they were absorbed in their own conversation, he pressed play.
Baxter’s jaw dropped.
So that was how it had been done.