Page 10 of The Dead Come to Stay
“Divide and conquer,” MacAdams said, pointing her to the kitchen and heading down the short, narrow hall to the only bedroom.
Here, at least, the linens were personalized: pale green sateen and a comforter with blue stripes.
It had clearly been slept in recently; they waited on forensics, but chances were good it had been Foley.
MacAdams peered into the closet. Button-downs, pressed trousers, all reasonable quality.
Jo had described him as disheveled on the night of, but his sartorial choices were smart business casual.
Only one suit. It might have been a good match for his silk shirt, but hadn’t been worn. The tags were still on it.
“Kitchen’s barely worth notice. Not much a cook, apparently.” She paused, looking down at him from the doorway. “Why are you
on the floor?”
“Shoes,” MacAdams explained, his head partway into closet corner. “What did Struthers say? The shirt needed a different ensemble.
Found a suit. And—” He backed out of the closet, pulling a pair of white-and-buff brogues. “Hello there. Very expensive shoes.”
“These are fancy?”
“Oh yes. Foster he caught it with one hand. He didn’t find perfume. But that didn’t make it uninteresting.
“Green, have a look at this,” he said, holding the cabinet door open.
“Messy,” she said. Then she sniffed at the whipped white goop smearing the internal shelf. “Shaving cream?”
“Yes. I suspect it fell over in there.” MacAdams showed her the canister, where additional foam had crusted from the dispensing
head. “Tell me what’s missing.”
“Razor and toothbrush, which we found in the bag.” Green frowned. “But—then why leave the toothpaste and cream?”
“And cologne,” MacAdams added, picking up the bottle with gloved fingers. It had fallen on its side.
“Packed in a hurry?” Green tapped her chin with an index finger. “Or maybe in a panic? Starts tossing things into a bag?”
MacAdams nodded, tossing being the operative word. Almost as if he’d swept a hand along the shelf and kept whatever fell out.
“He packs one nice shirt but not the suit, brings less than half of his toiletries.” He replaced the shaving cream. “This
isn’t just hurry. These are the actions of someone on the run . Bag this up along with the shoes, and let’s see if we can get DNA from the scarf.”
“Right. Together with the earring, I’m guessing a lady friend.” Green collected evidence bags from the Newcastle officer and
wrapped the Foster please look to the children,” she said, then turned her gaze upon them. “Can you tell me what this is about?”
“It would be better if we could come in, Mrs. Burnhope,” MacAdams said, but she was already fading backward to allow it.
“Of course.”
The entryway glistened in polished marble, but despite the manorly look from outside, the inner sanctum had been re-created
in sleek modern elegance. Deep mahogany wood offset by a grand white marble fireplace that somehow spoke of old money without
any semblance of old style. And there was a lot of glass, some of it architectural, some of it clearly artwork... and some which might be both of either. But they hadn’t
seen anything yet. Mrs. Burnhope led them through to a bright room with a grand piano and stands of music, overseen by what
appeared to be a trio of molten-glass figures, at least four feet tall. Their sweeping arms caught the light, translucent,
pearlescent.
“Wow,” was Green’s very natural reaction.
“My muses,” she said. “I play here. It’s my room, you might say. Art and music.” She shut the door behind them.
“You’ll understand, I hope, that I don’t want to upset Mary. She’d been through quite enough.”
MacAdams and Green exchanged glances. Both of them more or less blank.
“Quite enough of what, Mrs.—”
“Call me Ava. And I’m quite sure we have done all the necessary work to provide her with stability at last. So if this is
a matter of paperwork, we can handle that through better channels than house calls.”
Her behavior wasn’t exactly unfriendly; it wasn’t stony, either—but definitely unyielding. Commanding, too, in the demure
but expectant way only those of the upper crust could be.
“We are not here regarding Mary at all,” MacAdams said. “We are investigating a murder.”
“A—murder?”
He now watched Ava perform a mental backstep, and then sink into a seated position on the sofa. He used the moment to his
advantage; bad news was better sitting down.
“Did you know your husband’s business partner?” MacAdams asked.
“Sophie Wagner? Something’s happened at the club?” Ava’s tone bore honest concern, but MacAdams had the peculiar sensation
that he’d just stumbled into someone else’s investigation.
“Sorry, his partner at Hammersmith.”
Ava simply stared, eyes like the glass chandeliers. “He doesn’t have a partner at Hammersmith. I thought this was about the
charity, Fresh Start? It’s for sponsoring refugees. Maryam, for example, she’s been here a year, from Syria. But then what’s
this about? Who’s been murdered?”
“Ronan Foley,” MacAdams said.
Ava shook her head. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
So far, the interview had been an exercise in non-sequitur. Green, above and to the left of Ava, had given up on stoicism;
he could almost read the words what the fuck? on her cheekbones.
“Ronan Foley worked with—or for—your husband at Hammersmith. He handled properties in York and abroad. We know he met with
Mr. Burnhope on Friday at four thirty; between roughly eleven thirty Friday night and 3:00 a.m. Saturday morning, he was murdered.
We would like to speak to Mr. Burnhope; can you tell us where he is?”
It was a lot of information at once, but he’d delivered it in emotionless bullet points. Ava—who had preserved a mostly emotionless
veneer so far—was animated at last, but the principal feeling seemed to be one of confusion.
“Murdered,” she repeated, the velvet voice wrapping the word up at both ends. “I’m sorry. But I still don’t know the man. Maybe if I saw a photograph? Stanley consults with a lot of people for his firm; I can’t remember them all. We keep our careers mostly separate, anyway.”
“And your career, Ms. Burnhope?” Green asked.
Ava half turned to look at her, the platinum wave falling forward over her shoulder.
“I am a vocalist and concert pianist,” she said, gesturing to the piano. “We work together for the charity. That’s where we
were on Friday. I performed for the ball at Sable Green. The golf club. And it’s where Stanley is at the moment.”
“Meeting with—Sophie Wagner?” MacAdams asked, consulting his notes.
“Golfing,” she corrected. Then she stood up. “I can show you out.” The interview was clearly over. MacAdams didn’t need to
extend it—yet.
“Thank you,” he said aloud as they re-passed the glass kitchen. “We’ll be in touch if we have further inquiries.”
Ava merely opened the front door and wished them a colorless “good afternoon.”
Back outside, Green sucked air through her teeth.
“That was weird.”
“It was,” MacAdams agreed. “Foley’s email specifically requested a meeting between himself and Stanley as partners.”
“Not that. Or, not only that.” Green was scrolling through her phone. “Ava Burnhope—is also Ava Thompson. Look.” She held up the phone to reveal Ava
attired in brilliant red at a piano under a spotlight. “I didn’t put it together at first, but she was well-known in the city.
Daughter of Newcastle’s chief executive officer, Andrew Thompson—he’s outlasted two Lord Mayors.”
MacAdams took the phone and scrolled; two images down Stanley appeared at her side, both of them posing with another woman
in front of a banner that read Fresh Start.
“I take it that’s Sophie.” He handed the phone back. “We’ll go there next.”