The Art of Betrayal

We talked in that little alcove off the display area.”
“The petal was fresh. It must have fallen—or been placed there—recently.”
“You mean by Mrs. Villiers?”
“Or the person with her. She obviously didn’t stab herself.”
“And she didn’t steal the húnpíng jar, either.”
“The CSIs will analyze the footprints. That should tell us something.” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “You asked earlier why she didn’t call you. Would she have known how to reach you after hours?”
“I wrote my cell number on her copy of the consignment form.” My throat contracted. “Tom, she was running for her life, trying to find help.”
“I’m amazed she made it all the way to the village green.”
“And why, after making it all that way, would she say ‘Meissen’—not ‘Help, I’ve been stabbed’ or ‘Call an ambulance’?”
“It has to mean something,” Tom said.
“I hate it when things don’t make sense. And another thing—how did Mrs. Villiers and her killer get into the shop without setting off the burglar alarm?”
“Had a key?”
“And Ivor’s security code as well? Come on, Tom.”
“Could you have forgotten to arm the system?”
“No. I specifically remember punching in the code as I left.”
I must have sounded defensive because he raised a hand in surrender. “A question, Kate, not a criticism.”
“Sorry.” I pulled my sweater tighter around my body. “My second week on the job, and Ivor’s shop is burglarized.” I felt sick, imagining the look on Ivor’s face when I told him. “Trust is everything in the antiques business. With the kind of objects Ivor deals in, clients need to know the dealer will take appropriate care. Ivor did that. He was extremely careful.”
“Think, Kate. Is there any way Mrs. Villiers might have gotten the security code?”
“You mean did I tell her?” I mimicked the imaginary conversation. “‘In case you should want to have a good wander around the shop after hours, just push one-two-three on the keypad.’”
“Ivor’s code is one-two-three?”
“Of course not. It’s an example.” I closed my eyes and made an effort to calm down. “Look, Ivor never mentioned giving a key to anyone but me. And I can’t believe he would give out his security code.”
“We’ll ask him.”
A thought struck me. “Tom, how do we know she actually was Mrs. Villiers? She gave me her name, but she didn’t provide identification—not that I asked. Could she have been someone else pretending to be Mrs. Villiers?”
“You mean she stole the jar and then tried to consign it under Evelyn Villiers’s name? Possibly, but why take the risk you’d contact the real Mrs. Villiers?”
“Yeah.” I had to agree. “No thief worth his salt would offload a stolen object locally. Besides, the real Mrs. Villiers would still be alive.” I took in a breath. “Have you checked?”
“My sergeant is at the Villiers’ house now. No one’s home. He found the name of a housekeeper. He’s asked her to identify the body tomorrow.”
“How about the daughter—Lucy?”
“First we have to find her.” He bent to kiss me. “Sorry. I must go. Long night ahead. Can you drive into Bury tomorrow to give your formal statement? I have a meeting in the morning, but I should be free after one o’clock. Until then, keep this to yourself, all right?”
“Of course. When will I be able to get back in the shop?”
“I’ll let you know. In the meantime, we’ll contact Ivor.”
“Oh, not tonight, Tom. He’ll be sleeping. Let me talk to him in the morning.”
“All right. Tell him we’ll need to speak with him. Give him my best.”
The porch light blinked on, illuminating the flagged path.
“Go on.” Tom ran his hands down my arms. “I want to see you safely inside.”
A face appeared at the window—Vivian, waiting to pepper me with questions.
I braced myself for the interrogation.

Chapter Seven
“You poor child.” Vivian wore a gray wool robe piped in navy and a pair of well-worn scuffs. She poured me a cup of tea, adding a splash of milk and three unasked-for lumps of sugar. “Another murder—can you believe it? After what happened last Christmas, anyone would think Long Barston was the crime capital of East Anglia.” She tsked. “We’re Suffolk, not Midsomer County.”
We sat in the kitchen with its massive limestone hearth, oak timber framing, and whitewashed plaster. An old Aga cooker radiated warmth. Beyond that, a set of wooden steps curved toward the upper floor.
“And you were just asking about Evelyn Villiers as well.” Vivian pushed a slice of apple cake toward me. “Eat something. You look pale.”
I took a bite of the cake. It was warm and tasted of cinnamon and allspice. “Thanks, Vivian. All I’ve had to eat since breakfast is a bite of a flatbread and a glass of Riesling.”
She gaped at me as if I’d confessed to anorexia. “You need a proper meal. Give me a minute or two.” She stood and began rifling through the pans hanging over the Aga. I pictured her whipping up a “full English”—eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, grilled tomato, and (eek!) black pudding.
Vivian loved to cook—or rather, she loved to feed people.
“Please don’t bother,” I said. “The cake is all I can manage tonight—truly.”
Vivian made a moue of regret and settled back in her chair. “They say Evelyn Villiers was stabbed in the course of a robbery at Ivor’s antiquities shop.” Vivian had a habit of speaking in italics. “I’ll bet it was that Chinese thingy she wanted Ivor to sell.”
“The police aren’t releasing any information.”
“I thought so.” She gave me a smug look.
“All right—just keep it to yourself for now. You may be able to help me.”
Her eyes lit up. “What do you want to know?”
“You told me Evelyn Villiers was a recluse, but she must have had a friend, a solicitor, a doctor who would know where I can find her daughter, Lucy.”
“Why? Surely the police will locate her.”
“I’m sure they will, but I’d like a chance to talk with her about the húnpíng jar. If Ivor’s insurance doesn’t cover the full value, he’ll owe the estate for the remainder. She