I studied him with a newfound detachment. I had impulsively decided to like him before he’d even said two words to me. I could see now that he had never had any partiality for me. Daniel merely attached himself to anyone who gave him the slightest encouragement. He’d jumped from me, to Susie in the acting troupe, to Polly all in a matter of days. What I didn’t know was whether his affair with Polly was just another step in his fluctuating affections or had a more sinister explanation. Cool analyses aside, I was still pissed at him. He was, in my opinion, simply one of the most worthless men in all of Great Britain.
“Rough night?” I asked.
He grimaced. “You could say that. I spent most of it with Detective Stewart.”
“I see. And how’s Polly?”
“About the same, I’d say. He grilled her pretty hard, too.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said, adding further emphasis to my next words. “How’s Polly?”
He gazed at me uncomprehendingly before the gist of my meaning penetrated his brain. At least he had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Elizabeth,” he began, “it’s not what you think …”
That was the second time in forty-eight hours that someone had told me that. “Really?” I snapped. “And what do I think, Daniel? That you’re a rat bastard? That you used me to keep your relationship with Polly off the radar screen? Or do I think that you and your little girlfriend killed Gerald so you could both get what you want? Now which one is it? A, B, C, or all of the above?”
He stood very still. The only indication that he was upset was the appearance of two spots of red that blazed on his cheeks. He glanced uneasily at Ichabod. Ichabod gazed back with open interest. “I didn’t have anything to do with Gerald’s death,” Daniel said. “And I didn’t use you. Polly and I, well, we fell into that after Gerald died. It wasn’t planned—”
I cut him off with a harsh laugh. “Oh, it was planned all right. Don’t kid yourself on that account. If you do, then you’re sorely underestimating Polly. The question I’d be asking myself now if I were you is exactly how much of this was planned.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” His eyes again strayed to Ichabod.
I shrugged. “You’re a bright boy. Figure it out yourself.” Taking a sip of coffee, I said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Turning on my heel, I walked into the reading room and bumped into Aunt Winnie and Bridget. They made no apology for eavesdropping. Bridget said, “I’m not saying that I blame you, but are you sure that was wise?” On the couch, Colin sat reading the newspaper. Without raising his eyes from the print, he said to no one in particular, “No, of course it wasn’t wise. In fact, it was a headstrong, stupid thing to do.” I ignored him.
“I don’t care anymore,” I said. “Besides, Ichabod was out there and heard the whole thing. I doubt I’m in any more danger than anyone else. And speaking of danger, has anyone heard how Linnet is doing?”
Aunt Winnie nodded. “Peter just went to find out. I want her to come here when she’s released. There’s safety in numbers.”
I took a seat by the fireplace, ignoring Peter as he strode into the room. “I just got off the phone with the hospital,” he said, after an uneasy glance in my direction. “They’re ready to release her. She’s perfectly fine, just a little weak. Her car is still at Lauren’s house; she asked if someone could drive it back to her place. She said there’s a spare key in the glove box.”
“I’ll do it,” I said, putting my cup down. “Bridget, can you come with me to Lauren’s house? I’ll get Linnet’s car and drive it to her place. You can follow me and we can drive back here.”
“Sure.”
“Are you sure?” asked Aunt Winnie. “Randy and I could do it.”
Peter said nothing. He just watched me.
“No,” I said. “I want to go. Getting out might do me some good.”
I could tell that Aunt Winnie wanted to say more, but she only nodded. “Okay, then.”
Inside my car, I started up the engine with a sigh. “Are you okay?” Bridget asked.
“No, but I’m glad you’re here. It’s all been so awful and I had no Bridget to comfort me.”
“Back to the P&P references, I see.”
“Well, let’s be honest, I’m never actually that far away from them.”
“Elizabeth, you know I love you and I’d do just about anything for you, but I have to say, I think you’re too susceptible to fictional images. You forget they’re just that—fiction.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, first you were set on finding Jake Ryan. Then it was Lloyd Dobler. Now you’re looking for Mr. Darcy. Nothing good can come of it.”
“I’m not sure you can compare movie heroes with literary ones. They’re different somehow. Actors are …” I paused, searching for the right phrase. Finding it, I continued, “Actors are all spirits, and are melted into air, into thin air.”
“That’s not my point and you know it. And stop quoting Shakespeare at me. Who does that, anyway? You know, that actually may be part of your problem. You attract a certain type when you do that.”
I laughed. “A certain type? What type would that be? Well-read?”
“No, pretentious assholes. Which, now that I think about it, is a perfect description of your last three boyfriends. In any case, my point is that Mr. Darcy is an unattainable ideal, and in the meantime you’re missing out on decent guys. Let me explain it in terms you’ll understand. Remember Marianne in Sense and Sensibility? She almost missed Colonel Brandon because of Willoughby.”
“If I’m not mistaken, Colonel Brandon is also fictional.”
“You know what I mean!”
“This is about Peter, isn’t it?”
“I just don’t see why you’re so set against him.”
“You would if you knew him. Peter is not Colonel Brandon. Peter is more like Tom from Mansfield Park—self-indulgent and thoughtless.”
“True, but Tom becomes ill in the end and redeems himself.”
“Okay, how about this? The minute Peter falls gravely ill, I’ll forgive him.”
“You can’t mean that!” Bridget turned to me, scandalized.
“No, of course not. I’d just rather not talk about this right now. And anyway, we’re here.”
We pulled up in front of Lauren’s house. Linnet’s Jaguar was the only car in the driveway so I assumed no one was at home. I got out and made my way to the car. As Linnet had said, there was a spare key in the car’s glove box. I climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. “Follow me,” I called out to Bridget. “It’s just down the road.”
As I drove, I heard a faint beeping noise. It seemed to be coming from under the driver’s seat. Once in Linnet’s driveway, I parked the car and leaned down to peer underneath the seat. A cell phone—no doubt the one Linnet had lost—lay there. I pulled it out and flipped it open. The readout indicated a new message. My heart skipped a beat when I saw that it was from Jackie. With shaking hands, I opened the text message, not caring that I was reading someone else’s mail. The message ran: “Linney, I’m going to see Dt. Stewart. I figured it out. It was Lauren!”
The words swam before my eyes and I was only dimly aware of Bridget calling my name. I looked up, dazed, my head spinning.
“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“No, just a message from one.”
“Huh?”
I handed her the phone. Her eyes grew wide as she read. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah, that about sums it up. I guess I should call Detective Stewart. Somehow I doubt he’s going to be happy to hear from me.”