There was a single knock and Clive opened the door. “They want everyone downstairs.” He gave a quick glance at Puck. “You too, I guess.” He shut the door.
Jack shook his head. “What could you possibly know, right?”
The way he said it made Puck give her funny little laugh. At the sound, they went down the stairs feeling somewhat better.
It was late and they were all tired, but they sat in the small drawing room and waited patiently to be called by the police for questioning. Bella went in first. She was frowning when she entered the room and when she left ten minutes later, she was glowering. She refused to look at anyone, including Sara.
Nadine and Teddy, their disagreement seemingly put aside, went next.
Sara, who was a morning person, leaned against Jack and fell asleep. He put his arm around her and she slept against his chest. He offered his other side to Kate but she declined.
When Nadine and Teddy came out, they were crying harder. The others expected to be called, but the young police officer said the inspector only wanted to see Sara and everyone else could go to bed.
“I’d rather go in with her,” Jack said.
“No, just her.” It was said in the tone of an order.
With sighs of relief, Byon, Clive and Willa left. Puck sat down beside Kate. She wasn’t leaving.
Jack woke Sara up and told her the officer wanted to speak to her.
“Me? Think he knows?” she whispered to Jack.
“Hope not. Bella already wants to kill us. I don’t want to add to it. Yet.”
Sara nodded in agreement and went into the room where the interrogations were being held. The officer was older, had a mustache, and was sitting behind a desk. He looked tired and bored, but his eyes perked up when he saw Sara.
“So you’re the famous writer. That’s interesting because I’ve always wanted to write.”
Sara stifled a scream. No! No! Not this. Not questions about writing. Or, more accurately, one question: How’d’ya-write-your-first-book-where-do-you-get-your-ideas?
As she took a seat, she managed to smile without showing too many teeth.
“I’m about to retire.” His tone was much too bright for the circumstances and the time. What was it? About 2:00 a.m.? It wouldn’t be long before she’d have been up for twenty-four hours.
“I think I’d like to write a few murder mysteries. Seems like a good occupation. And lucrative. My wife would like that.”
Sara thought about telling the truth, that most writers can’t support themselves. She’d been lucky to have started in the glorious 80s. “What about Mr. Howland?”
“Suicide,” he said. “Depressed. Couldn’t even drive his own cars and he loved those! He was a good man. Back when those two ran away, Mr. Howland was a haven of sanity. He—”
Sara leaned forward. “You were here? On the night they disappeared?”
“It was my first case,” he said proudly. “I was young then, and I remember it all.”
Sleepiness left her. “I want to hear every word about that night.”
He took his time before speaking. “I heard you were thinking of writing about our little mystery. Of course it wouldn’t be ethical of me to tell the things I saw that night, now would it?”
I have been drawn into the bowels of hell, Sara thought. He was a true devil: a would-be writer. They all believed there was a “Great Secret” to writing. Learn it and the world was theirs.
She was too worn out to be nice. “What can I do to help you?” she said, which was code for “What’s your price?” She crossed her fingers for luck. Please, please, please let him be a money wanna-be. Those were easy. Turn them over to an agent. The ones who made her crazy wanted to relentlessly question her until she finally divulged “The Secret.”
“I think I’ll need an agent,” he said.
Sara genuinely smiled. “You got it. I’ll connect you. Now tell me.”
He smiled back. A bargain had been reached. “My boss hated the earl, Bertram. Don’t know why.”