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  A rotund woman whom Regan guessed to be about sixty, with short-cropped hair, large round glasses and an anxious expression, was studying the serving table. A fiftyish wiry bean pole in a maid’s uniform was at her side.

  “Everything looks perfect,” the woman declared, the anxious expression clearing from her face. She turned, smiling. “Ah, Lady Exner, we’re just ready for your guests.”

  A moment later Regan’s hand was being crushed by the vigorous grasping squeeze of Penelope Atwater. “Your mother’s books have made our travels so pleasant. Lady Exner always buys two copies hardcover. We read them at the same time, and whoever figures out the murderer buys the other one the first sherry of the day. We’d both love to meet Nora Regan Reilly and discuss her plots with her, and where she gets her ideas, and—”

  “Ten years ago I told Regan her mother should write my life story. Now it’s that much more interesting. I’ve been gathering my notes and journals,” Veronica said gaily.

  Regan, knowing that Lady Exner had written to her mother a couple of times with ideas on how they could novelize her memoirs, decided to ignore the hint. “Tell me about your trips,” she said.

  The two women beamed at each other. “Well, we started by going to Spain,” Lady Exner told her. “That was four years ago. It was wonderful. I met so many nice people. They say the English are reserved, but not me.” Her hearty laugh revealed that she had also invested in new dentures.

  “The only trouble was that I get so much agida from all the spicy food,” Penelope told her with a mournful sigh.

  “And we went to Venice last September for the blessing of the fleet,” Veronica continued. “All my life I wanted to see Venice, and I wasn’t disappointed.”

  “The scungilli they served in Saint Mark’s Piazza really set it off,” Penelope informed them.

  “Set off what?” Kit asked as she joined the conversation.

  “My agida,” Penelope replied forcefully.

  Regan got the impression that Penelope Atwater’s agida was a constant topic of conversation during their travels.

  “Well, let’s hope your stomach holds out on the Queen Guinevere next week,” Lady Exner said. “Once that ship pulls out of Southampton, that’s it for you for the next five days.”

  “The Queen Guinevere?” Regan tried to keep the dismay out of her voice. “You’re sailing next week?”

  “On Monday. I’ve always wanted to go to New York, and my cousin’s daughter has been writing to me so much these last few years. I never met her but she seems like such a dear girl. Only forty years old, has had three marriages to men who took advantage of her sweet nature, and is now struggling to raise two daughters alone. She wants us to stay with her and get to know them. And then I hope I can persuade her to come here for dear Philip’s wedding in September and maybe even stay for the year. Her daughters could go to school at Saint Poly-carp’s and they all could live with me. Who knows? They might want to stay forever. We have so little family as it is.”

  Veronica’s plans for her newfound cousins did not interest Regan. What terrified her was that Luke and Nora would be on that crossing.

  It was obvious Kit had the same thought. “Regan, isn’t that the ship your moth—”

  Regan gave Kit a warning pinch as she broke in, “We’re all so anxious to see Philip again and meet his fiancée.”

  “Val makes me nervous,” Penelope said. “She gives me agida.”

  “Oh, she’s quite all right,” Veronica said. “A bit overbearing, of course, but Philip needs looking after, and I won’t be here forever. Now I really must see some of the other guests.”

  The maid, wearing an expression that seemed to signify permanent resignation, was passing a tray of sherry. Regan and Kit each plucked a glass and escaped to stand by the window.

  “I’m sorry I almost let the cat out of the bag,” Kit told her. “But I suppose it wouldn’t have made much difference. She’s sure to hear your mother’s on board, and once she knows it she’ll never give her a minute’s peace.”

  “Not necessarily. Unless she’s on a publicity tour, my mother travels as Mrs. Luke J. Reilly. She tries to avoid the celebrity bit when she and my father are on vacation.”

  “That’s good. Your mother’s so nice, she’d have a hard time telling Veronica to get lost,” Kit said. “Those gardens really are beautiful, aren’t they?”

  As far as the eye could see, the property had been cultivated into an exquisite English garden with formal beds of a variety of flowers including old pinks, marigolds, forget-me-nots, delphiniums, pansies and Bramp-ton stocks, all separated by pebble footpaths. Toward the side of the house, a large tract of land had been turned into a vegetable garden.

  “I wonder how Philip could possibly have done all that by himself. I’ve killed so many plants with too much water, not enough water, too little sun, too much sun, no plant food, the wrong plant food. I can’t keep a weed alive in my apartment.”

  “Oh, Regan, I’m just sure you don’t give yourself enough credit,” Claire trilled in Regan’s ear.

  Regan had the immediate thought that Claire had all the makings of a private investigator. An ability to turn up where she wasn’t wanted and hear what wasn’t intended for her ears.

  “I’ll bet you talk to your plants, Claire,” Regan said sweetly.

  “You bet. I just chatter away to them,” Claire agreed. “Wouldn’t you just think that with the way Philip has made these grounds so beautiful, the old lady would spring for a little interior decorating? I mean, there’s old, and then there’s old. Well, maybe when Philip gets married, his wife will take this place in hand.”

  “It really isn’t hers to take in hand,” Regan observed.

  “Oh, well, you know what I mean. Philip practically lives here now, and it will be his house someday. And it is a regular oasis with all the new construction in town. I wonder if he plans to turn the whole five hundred acres into gardens. Oh, look, here he is now, and that must be his intended.”

  There was a surge to greet the newcomers. Veronica cried triumphantly, “There you are, my dear boy. We’re all waiting for you to make your announcement.”

  Philip’s blush covered his face and ran up into his thinning sandy hair. “Oh dear, it s-s-sounds as if you already have.”

  Regan remembered that Philip had a slight stammer when he became flustered. There was no sign of nervousness in the woman at his side. Regan’s immediate impression of Val Twyler was that she had a beige look: sandy hair almost the same color as Philip’s, a sallow complexion and pale brown eyes. Her features were sharp, her body taut and angular. She was wearing a tan gabardine skirt, a white long-sleeved blouse and low-heeled brown shoes. Her smile as she returned Veronica’s greeting revealed large strong teeth that gave a horsey look to her narrow face, but when Regan was introduced to her, Val Twyler seemed genuinely warm.

  “Philip and Veronica have introduced me to all your mother’s books. I’ve enjoyed them.”

  Philip hugged Regan and Kit. “Saint Polycarp’s hasn’t been the same since you two passed through here.”

  They congratulated him on his engagement.

  “Don’t quite know what kind of husband material I am,” he said, laughing nervously, “but Val’s a dear.”

  The maid began moving through the room carrying a tray with the canapés. Her best customer was Penelope Atwater.

  “No wonder she gets heartburn,” Regan observed to Kit. “She’s gobbling up those repulsive hors d’oeuvres smeared with that vile-looking pâté. Well, maybe if she eats them all, they won’t notice that nobody else is going back for seconds.”

  The vans were picking them up at eight o’clock to take them back to St. Polycarp’s for dinner. At ten of eight they began to say good-bye to their hosts. The phone rang as Regan was bidding bon voyage to the seafaring travellers, praying that they would not somehow learn that her mother was on board.

  The maid summoned Philip. “I asked if you couldn’t ring back in a few minut
es, but they said it’s very important.”

  A moment later, when Philip returned to the drawing room, his face was drained of color. He said, “I’m afraid there’s been a pr-pr-problem. The police superintendent is on his way over. He must speak to all of you.”

  At the chorus of questions, Philip said quietly, “You were all in her class, you see.” Perspiration gathered on his forehead. Regan saw Val slip her hand into his and pat his arm.

  “They seem to have found what’s left of her body.” He gestured vaguely toward the rear of Veronica’s estate. “On that building site; it adjoins our northeast end. They were bl-bl-blasting a few hours ago. A watchman noticed something and summoned the po-po-police.”

  “Noticed what?” Regan demanded.

  “Remnants of a Saint Polycarp’s jacket ... the bo-bo-body . . . under some leaves ... a knap-knap-knapsack with her student card ...”

  “Athena?” Regan asked as a stab of pain wrenched her chest.

  “Yes, yes, that’s it.” His stammer had disappeared. “It does seem as though the body is that of Athena Popolous.”

  SUNDAY, JUNE 21

  OXFORD

  NIGEL LIVINGSTON HAD been the superintendent of police in Oxford for eight years. He had not been there when Athena Popolous disappeared. After her body was found Saturday afternoon and he had had his first meeting with her classmates at Llewellyn Hall, he studied the file carefully. A second meeting was scheduled at Lady Exner’s home for the next morning, and Livingston had made notes on what questions he wanted to ask and to whom he intended to direct them.

  The sun was shining brightly as he pulled into the driveway of the estate. It had been generous of Lady Exner to suggest that all the questioning be done in her home, he conceded as he got out from behind the wheel of his car, grunting slightly with the effort. He’d put on two stone in the last five years, and now that he’d turned fifty was becoming aware that he had to get into better shape. When he looked in the mirror he was seeing his father’s face. A ruddy complexion, lined forehead and heavyset jaw topped with a reasonably full head of salt-and-pepper hair.

  He closed the door of his car and for a moment stood silently, appreciating the restful quiet of the lovely property. Hard to believe that property this valuable hadn’t been swallowed up in the building boom. It wasn’t as though Llewellyn Hall was qualified as an official historic site.

  He walked toward the door and concentrated again on the business at hand. As he rang the bell he thought of the people he had met last night and most wanted to talk to today. Topping the list was Regan Reilly, who had been the roommate of Athena Popolous and was now a private investigator. And then there was Philip Whit-comb. That girl Claire had confided to him that she always thought Athena had a crush on Philip, and that ten years ago Philip had been good-looking in a dreamy, poetic way.

  The maid admitted him to the house. “They’re in the drawing room, sir.”

  It was evident to Livingston that the initial shock had worn off and the assembled young women had probably talked half the night about the death. A number of them were holding teacups and there was a platter of the hors d’oeuvres he had refused when he came to the house last evening. They looked as though they had been left out all night.

  Philip Whitcomb was standing at the window looking out at his formal country gardens, as though the sight of them was somehow giving him comfort. His fiancée, Val Twyler, was standing beside him, her arm slipped through his. Nigel realized that that was exactly the way they had been standing last night, and he had the incongruous thought that maybe they hadn’t budged since then.

  Lady Exner rushed into the room behind him. This morning she was wearing a bright pink jumpsuit that would, Livingston decided, have been more appropriate for his fifteen-year-old daughter.

  “Dear Inspector,” she cried, “how noble of you to not take these sweet young girls down to that dreary station. I do hope you won’t need to question Penelope much. She was really most distressed with agida last night. However, brave soul that she is, she will join us shortly.”

  Livingston reflected that since Penelope Atwater had not set foot in Oxford until Lady Exner hired her as a companion four years ago, he would not have been distressed to have her distress keep her out of the way. Last night she had exhibited a macabre interest in the crime and even gone so far as to ask if she could view the body. “Reading suspense has always been my passion,” she had told him with a nervous, braying laugh.

  Murmuring what he hoped were appropriate expressions of sympathy, Livingston walked over to the fireplace. All eyes focused on him expectantly.

  “The autopsy is complete,” he announced. “Athena Popolous did indeed die of strangulation. There is absolutely no question of accidental death. If you’ll remember, last night I asked you to try to think of anything Athena might have told you, in however casual a fashion, that might make you think she was planning to meet someone or if she perhaps was quietly dating someone who lived or worked in the vicinity.”

  As he had expected, the response was generally negative. He tried another tack. “Let’s talk about her family again. What did she say about them?”

  Again, what he heard was the same as last night. Athena and her wealthy, prominent parents did not get along. On a couple of occasions Athena had told Regan Reilly about her aunt’s murder the summer before she came to St. Polycarp’s, but then never wanted to talk about it again. Apparently her aunt had left the beach, gone back to her house for her prescription sunglasses and stumbled onto a burglary in progress, a crime that turned deadly.

  Athena had hated St. Polycarp’s, avoided friendships, and no one was that surprised when she disappeared, particularly since she had just come into a large trust fund from her grandmother.

  “Well, I think there was one person who was surprised.” Claire’s voice was honey sweet. “I know you all don’t agree with me, but Southern girls can tell this kind of thing. Athena had a mad crush on Philip. I used to watch her face when he read that sexy Greek poetry.”

  Philip’s face turned scarlet. “Sh-sh-surely you-you-you can’t be serious.”

  Val’s eyes and lips narrowed, her face flushed. “That’s nonsense,” she snapped.

  “Now, Val honey, you weren’t even here at the time. I didn’t say Philip had a crush on Athena. That really would be ridiculous. I said Athena had a crush on him. I just kept thinking about it all night long. After all, the Inspectah did ask us to think on poor Athena.”

  Kit and Regan were seated on the scratchy love seat.

  “I can’t believe what I just heard,” Kit whispered to Regan.

  Instinctively Livingston looked to Regan for her response. “Miss Reilly, you were Athena’s roommate. Do you think she had a crush on the Professor?”

  Regan thought that Claire had had a crush on Philip ten years ago. Was this her way of causing trouble? “I can honestly say that if she did, I didn’t notice it. But you must understand, it was impossible to get close to Athena. I gave up trying.”

  Livingston’s arm had been on the mantel. He straightened up. “Well, if anything comes to mind that any of you think might be helpful, please let me know.”

  “Terribly sorry. I’m so dreadfully late.” Penelope Atwater, her face pale and shiny with perspiration, made a somewhat bedraggled entrance into the room. The pockets of her oversized wool cardigan were jammed with crumpled tissues, the tops of which peeked out in unlovely disarray. Her gathered and rumpled skirt reached unevenly to the general area of her mid-calf. Her flesh-color lisle hose lay in exhausted folds around her ankles, kissing the top of her Reeboks.

  “I must find out where she shops,” Kit whispered to Regan.

  “Val, you’re a love. That pot of tea really settled my nasty little tummy.”

  “Little tummy?” Regan whispered back to Kit.

  Like a homing pigeon Penelope swooped on the tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Can you believe I’m actually hungry? A few hours ago I never wanted to see food again. A
s they say, you’ve got to get right back on the horse . . .”

  “Never mind getting back on the horse, we have to get on that ship tomorrow.”

  Regan thought that Veronica’s voice had a slight edge to it. She didn’t blame her. She knew Veronica had her heart set on this trip and needed the rather dubious companionship of Penelope. Awed, she watched Penelope shovel a stack of hors d’oeuvres on a cocktail napkin which she arranged as a carrying case.

  Livingston’s voice was filled with weary resignation as he said, “You really should not have troubled yourself, Miss Atwater. And now I do want to apologize to all of you for having to take up so much of your time during your brief stay in Oxford.” He turned to Philip. “You have no plans to travel, I assume, Professor?”

  Philip’s face turned scarlet again. “Absolutely not.”

  Again Val’s face registered indignation. “Philip and I are in charge of the summer program at Saint Polycarp’s. We’ll be staying here to look after the place while Lady Exner is away. You can reach him at any time.”

  “Quite so,” Livingston replied, his voice offhand as he turned his gaze on Regan. “Miss Reilly, you of all people had the most opportunity to hear something that may have seemed insignificant. I realize it’s been a long time, but your mind is trained for investigative detail ...”

  Regan joined him at the fireplace as others refilled their teacups. “I’ve been trying to remember anything that might help. I kept a journal while I was here that’s packed away at my parents’ house in New Jersey, along with pictures I took. My parents are away now, but when they get back next week, I’ll ask my mother to send it to me in Los Angeles. I have a feeling it might trigger something.” She smiled at Livingston. “At the time I thought it would be crazy not to try and capture on paper my impressions of Oxford.” Her smile disappeared and she looked thoughtful. “Of course I never thought I’d end up searching it for clues in a murder investigation. But I did live with Athena for eight months, and her name appears in it many times. There might be something ...” Regan turned as Val offered her another cup of tea. “No, thanks, Val.”