Page 83 of The Dead Come to Stay

Burnhope’s eyes roved the image, and in the silence, MacAdams pushed their advantage.

“She may be carrying his child,” he added. “And she—and the child—might be in danger.”

Burnhope’s eyes flitted up and back down. “I don’t know her. She wasn’t sponsored through Fresh Start.”

“You’re sure? Would Ms. Wagner say differently?”

Burnhope pushed the drawing back at him. “I’m sure. And for the record, Sophie Wagner is above reproach. A model citizen.”

“Is that why you are such a big donor for her charity?” Green asked with affected disinterest. Over the past few years, his contributions had amounted to more than seventy thousand.

Burnhope’s face closed like a book, personal emotional register snuffed out. He gave them a benign smile.

“You just can’t bear the idea that we’re the good guys, can you?” he asked. Then he stood and pointed toward the door. “Leave. Now.”

“We will. Until we have more questions,” MacAdams said. He opened the door for Green and ushered them both down the grand stairs. They hadn’t quite got to the bottom when they spotted Maryam coming from the kitchen.

“So sorry. Excuse me,” she said, bowing her head over a tray of sandwiches. “For the children.”

“We’ll be out of your way,” MacAdams said. “But maybe you can help me with something?” He began to unfold the image once again, but Green poked him solidly in the ribs.

“Incoming,” she whispered.

Maryam curtsied, then hurried past and up the stairs behind them.

Ava suddenly reappeared, her eyes narrowed, and pointed a switchblade index finger. “You have bothered us enough! I told you before, Maryam has been through a great deal. She doesn’t like police or government officials. You wouldn’t, either, in her shoes. I want you to leave.”

Hospitality had its limits, MacAdams supposed.

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Burnhope,” he said, tipping a hat he wasn’t wearing but force of habit. “We’ll be in touch.”

She followed them to the door and was sure to close—and lock—it after them.

“What now?” Green asked once they were a good distance away.

“Now, we pressure Ms. Wagner.”

“About Burnhope? The charity?”

“All that,” he agreed. But he was thinking about the list of donors from the gala, including Gerald Standish; the big “giver” was also an art collector. He wasn’t willing to let that go just yet.

***

MacAdams parked the car under the lime trees. Green wagged a finger at him.

“You’ll have a sticky mess.” He’d forgotten about that; Common Lime—for some reason always planted on estates and along streets, despite the fact that they attracted aphids—dropped syrupy sap, and did not actually produce any citrus fruits. They were linden trees, really, “noble stands” of them in older novels he’d read as a kid. He reparked the car, thinking about what a terrible choice it was for an actual golf course; of course, the trees, like the original stone structure, predated its current incarnation. An awful lot—about an awful lot—was a nod to aristocratic tradition and bygone days and nothing more.

“Detective Chief Inspector James MacAdams, Detective Sergeant Green,” he introduced them to the greeter, presenting credentials. “We’re here to see Sophie Wagner.” They hadn’t yet been pointed to a seat when the charming barkeep spotted them.

“Back again!” Simon said. Today, however, he was wearing golf gear.

“Not pouring drinks, I take it?” Green asked.

“Golf lessons. I give them on Thursdays.” He winked above a broad smile. “Usually to elder ladies, I fear.”

Well-monied ones, MacAdams thought privately. Sophie employed refugees and made ample use of her jack-of-all-trades son. Shrewd business dealing? Or a sign of trouble in the pocketbook? Simon waved a gloved hand and trotted off before MacAdams could ask him to identify the missing woman.

“We’ll catch him later,” he said to Green. “I’d rather show it round the current Fresh Start staff.” In fact, he intended to while waiting on Sophie to find them.