Page 7 of The Dead Come to Stay

Jo liked the northeast corner of the cottage best. Morning light came in through the panes, painting fat yellow squares on

the wood floor, and if you sat at an angle (which she was presently doing), you could see out the window to your left and

still have a view of the fireplace to the right. It offered good thinking room, and so she’d conscripted Gwilym into finding

a tiny antique writing desk that would fit.

That summer, if she wasn’t in Roberta’s archive, she was in her own—surrounding by stacks of books now high enough to serve

as end tables in a pinch. One of them supported a slate coaster and her by-now-cold coffee. She was elbows deep into the last

of her uncle’s archive boxes, and had forgotten it.

Uncle Aiden: he had always been a shadow figure in Jo’s life.

Her late mother rarely ever spoke of him, and never positively.

Some sort of major fallout had occurred, though Jo never could work out what about.

Despite all that, she had begun to think of him as a kind of ally.

After all, he was the one who restored Evelyn’s painting.

And he was the one who preserved her photograph.

Roberta had collected the things Aiden donated to the museum for Jo: a mishmash of books about Abington, maps of the Pennines, a history of Newcastle and a copy of Burke’s Peerage , possibly for tracking the Ardemore baronetcy.

Despite her love of books, however, none of those had absorbed her attention

half so much as the loose sheets of paper that lined the bottom. “Rubbish,” said Roberta.

And she wasn’t all wrong. Old flyers, a crumpled cash receipt from Abington’s Sainsbury’s, several used envelopes. But each

had been pressed into service as notepaper, Aiden’s handwriting scribbled in pencil.

They didn’t offer stunning revelations. Two of them appeared to be grocery lists; others offered up random notes in a stream

of consciousness that endeared him to Jo: “if you are going to call it a cab service, you should at least know the way to the station, or don’t try your luck on the

roundabout.” Pleasant. Distracted. Conscious of details, though not always to the right ones. Jo stretched her back and looked

at Evelyn’s painting.

“Where are you in all of this?” she asked, standing. It was getting to be nine-ish, and coffee was no kind of breakfast. She tidied the stack

of motley notepaper and hunted for a book to put it in—no sense in tossing them back in the bottom.

But there was already a note in the bottom. Jo rubbed her nose; had she missed one? A bit of paper poked up through the cardboard

folds. The flap had been glued down; whatever it was had to be thin and stiff enough to slide inside. She carried her mug

to the kitchen and returned with a knife. Roberta would have to forgive her. Sharp end to the back and a good prying popped

the seam—and out dropped two halves of a photograph: the wedding portrait of William and Gwen, with a missing square where

Aiden had snipped out Evelyn.

Uncle Aiden had used the cutout and given it to the artist in charge of repairing Evelyn’s painting. He hadn’t discarded the

cut up remains, and they had ended up with his other “rubbish,” care of the Abington Museum. Well. They weren’t going back

there. Jo would have to keep them. For posterity.

She turned them over to look for the photographer’s insignia. There wasn’t one. Instead, fine pencil lines scrawled across the flat finish: “save the painting for repair,” it read, running into the empty center. On the other side, it picked up once more: “for when Evelyn comes home.”

A partial message, cryptic, it sent a thrill of electricity right to Jo’s toes. It meant something. She just didn’t know what.

***

Day two of the investigation began bright and early at the Abington Arms hotel. Sunday breakfast was underway, the downstairs

dining room awash in linen tablecloths and smartly clad servers in blue uniforms.

“I’ve never actually been in here,” Green admitted, admiring the high ceilings and their scalloped plaster. “Fancy.” MacAdams

couldn’t disagree; mahogany balustrades, wide front stair, ornamental rugs—the Abington Arms was a far cry from the comfortable

environs of the Red Lion. As was the price to stay.

“It caters to a certain sort.”

“Gotta be out-of-towners. Have a cucumber water, will you?” she asked, bucking her chin at the glass bell jar.

“Country men, and the various types they court from high society.” Particularly those with under-the-table dealings, though

he didn’t say this out loud. Mainly because he’d been cautioned to quit bringing up the past (and their last case). “Ah—there’s

our man.”

A green-suited gentleman with a close-cropped mustache had just appeared at the reception desk. He was slightly balding these

days and wearing spectacles that didn’t fit his face, but largely looked the same as ever: fastidious, ingratiating—and ruffled.

Evans.

“Oh! Detective MacAdams,” he said with a rising tenor. “You—Did you come for breakfast?”

“Afraid not,” MacAdams said, reaching for his police ID. Evans stopped him with a flutter of fingers.

“Not necessary—I of course know you,” he said (but, MacAdams knew, really meant: please do not flash that around in front of the guests ). “How can I help?”

“We have some questions,” Green said. Evans had noticeably ignored her but was quickly rectifying it. “About a guest.”

MacAdams enjoyed the way Green’s voice carried even above the dinging noises—more so Evans’s horror at the same. His eyes

ferreted between them and the guests beyond.

“Could, eh, could we do this in the lounge?” he asked. MacAdams remained stubbornly where he was.

“Here is just fine. Talk to me about the booking process. Website? Telephone? Email?” he asked. Evans gave up trying to shoo

them out of sight.

“We do have a website, as all businesses must these days. But we still do our booking by phone—and occasionally, email.” He gave

a presuming little smile. “Our guests prefer the personal touch.”

Didn’t they just , MacAdams thought. The good and the great, meaning the rich and the richer, of course expected such treatment. A place like

Abington Arms handpicked its guests almost more than the guests picked the rooms. Of course, he reminded himself, he shouldn’t

make assumptions.

“And who takes these calls?”

“The phone is answered by the host on duty.” Evans said, smoothing his sideburns. “Someone is always on duty; names and notes

are recorded here.” He jogged the computer mouse to wake up the screen and brought up a spreadsheet. “Emails go to a general

inbox that all hosts can access.”

“Good.” MacAdams flipped open his notebook. “I need to see if you received an email or call from one Ronan Foley on Friday.

Part of a murder investigation.”

Evans suddenly looked like he might fall through the floor.

“You can’t mean the gentleman found dead at the festival?”

“He wasn’t found at the festival,” MacAdams corrected. “And he wasn’t a guest here, as far as we know.”

“Oh thank God —”

“ But, ” Green interrupted, wisely keeping up the tension, “he could have been. He apparently tried to get rooms around town; the

Red Lion was full. We want to know if he called here, when and why.” Her delivery was perfect, given that this was MacAdams’s

hunch they were following up. Evans pursed his lips and called up the records on his computer. He wasn’t enjoying any part

of this, but neither did he want them to say the word murder again.

“Three email requests on Friday, all accounted for, but none from that name,” Evans said, inviting them to view the subjects

over his shoulder.

“And phone records?” MacAdams asked. Evans toggled back to the spreadsheet and scrolled to Friday.

“Eleven outside calls,” Evans said. “I really don’t like sharing details, Detective, our guests have a right to privacy—”

MacAdams ignored this milk-and-water protest and took over the mouse. The first ten calls had been received before five in

the afternoon. The eleventh at five thirty. Name: Ronan Foley.

“Got him,” MacAdams said. “I don’t see his number registered, though. Green—call up Andrews and have him request records for

Abington Arms.”

“Detective!” Evans protested. MacAdams turned around swiftly, taking him enough by surprise that the man took a step back.

“Who took the calls after five on Friday?” he asked. “You or someone else?”

“Ms. Templeton,” Evans stuttered. “She took the late shift due to a call-off.”

“Templeton,” Green repeated with a head tilt.

“Yes. She’s overseeing the Sunday brunch, just now—”

MacAdams didn’t wait for more. He walked directly through to the dining room, where several dining couples in luxurious Sunday

best raised curious heads. Evans had chased after, but MacAdams had already spotted a likely candidate. Tall, ropy-limbed

and wearing another management-level green suit. She turned as they approached, and he watched her expression take three leaps:

confusion, professionalism—recognition.

“If it isn’t Sheila Green,” she said, shaking her sleek ponytail over one shoulder.

Green returned a laconic smile. “Hello, Arianna. We have a few questions about a call you received here Friday night.”

The woman cast a glance at Evans, but she remained unperturbed, and invited them to sit with her at an empty table.

“Tea? Or perhaps coffee?” she asked, as if they had been ushered into her own very grand living room.

“Two coffees. With cream,” MacAdams said, and enjoyed watching a rankled Evans dart off to fetch it. With him gone, Arianna’s

smile iced over slightly.

“What can I do for you, Sheila?”

“DS Green,” Green corrected, coolly composed. This was apparently her act and scene, so MacAdams gave her the lead. While

he and Green knew most details of each others’ pasts and histories, Arianna was a new name, and was curious to read their

dynamic. “Friday night, you took a shift as host, is that right?”