Killers of a Certain Age(77)

I couldn’t help it; I laughed. “You’re a grandfather?”

“Yes. They call me PeePaw. I hate it.”

“You should. It’s awful. Do you see your grandchildren much if they’re in America?”

He shrugged. “Not as often as I’d like. But they’re busy.”

“What about you?”

“I live in a cottage in Yorkshire, where I bake bread and refinish antiques and shock the neighbors with naked tai chi in the garden.”

“Retirement sounds like it agrees with you.”

He was quiet a long minute. “It’s an adjustment. I have considered freelancing. You know, picking up the odd murder here and there just to keep busy.”

“Oh, so we’re the first. Hey, if you do a good job, you can use us for a reference.”

“I’ll be sure to put that on my CV,” he said. He paused. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about Vance. I never much liked him, but I didn’t think he was bent.”

“Me either. He was never my biggest fan, but I understood why. I just feel so . . . stupid. My entire career, all those years, and for what? No pension. Reputation shredded.”

“Hey, you killed some really deserving people. That’s got to be worth something.”

I laughed until I felt the tears gathering in the corner of my eyes.

“God, I needed that. Thank you.”

“It’s what I’m here for,” he said, almost touching my shoulder with his.

“I’m sorry about Beth,” I told him finally.

He nodded. “I got your card. I should have answered it, but with the funeral and all, I never got around to it.”

We were quiet for several minutes and it felt good, being with him. Too good. It was time to get back to business. “We’ve dotted all the i’s, crossed the t’s, Taverner. The plan is solid. We did the work.”

“Yes, you did.”

“So, you’re in.” I didn’t want it to be a question, but I had to know. I kept my voice just neutral enough.

“I’m in,” he said. Something knotted up in my chest started to unravel.

“I know you told Helen you wouldn’t take any money,” I began.

“I’ve never yet killed a woman who didn’t have it coming,” he said lightly. “Don’t make me rethink that.”

“We’re in charge,” I told him. “No going rogue.”

“I get it,” he said, pushing himself to his feet and going to retrieve his knives from the stump. “I’m just the pretty face.”

“And don’t you forget it.” I rose and brushed off the seat of my pants. “So what kind of firepower did you bring?”

He stared me down. “Are you asking if I brought guns?”

“Well, yes. It wouldn’t have been smart for us to travel with them internationally. Too many questions. I assumed you had a nice little arsenal you were going to share.”

“Of course I don’t have an arsenal. I’m a responsible grandfather and this is England. There are no guns in my house.”

“Jesus, Taverner. Then why are you here?”

He rolled his eyes. “In case you’ve forgot, I’m skilled at more than pulling a trigger.” He wasn’t talking about sex—at least I don’t think he was. He went on. “But I may have something that will work in the boot of my car.”

He took me to where he’d parked his car—a vintage Jaguar that looked like it had almost as many miles as we did. He popped the trunk. I looked in and laughed. “Seriously?” I picked up the packet of firecrackers. Small poppers that would deliver a bit of a bang and not much else.

“I told you. I’m a grandfather. Actually, I’m the cool grandfather,” he informed me.

“You let three-year-olds play with firecrackers?”

“Of course not. I let them watch from a safe distance.” He propped one hip against the car. “No special resources for this job. You’ll have to work with what you’ve got.”

I hefted the pack of firecrackers in my hand, thinking of the last time I’d seen a fireworks stand on the side of the road. A tired-looking woman at the wheel of a station wagon full of snot-nosed little boys had looked the other way as they loaded up on the crackers, stuffing them into apples and tossing them out the back window at passing cars.

I looked at Taverner and shrugged. “Story of my life. Why should it be any different now?”





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN



Helen and Taverner made a run to the grocery store for supplies—potatoes, a huge beef roast, individual Yorkshire puddings, apple tart, nondairy creamer—because for the last night at Benscombe we decided on a special dinner. Taverner did the cooking, a bath towel wrapped around his waist in place of an apron. Nobody had much of an appetite, but we always remembered Constance Halliday’s golden rule: eat, sleep, and use the facilities at every opportunity. The Duke of Wellington, she’d explained, had told his troops to make water whenever they could, and it was pretty good advice. You couldn’t always count on a toilet or a cruller when you needed one.

So we forced ourselves to eat, and when the dishes were done, the others wandered off, leaving Nat, Helen, Mary Alice, and me. Natalie emerged from the cellar with a cobwebby bottle. “Guess what I found?” She wiped the bottle clean and Helen rousted out the good glasses, giving them a quick wash. I proposed the toast.