A Share in Death

“I’d settle for just plain Anne.” He sat and sipped his drink while she moved from cabinet to cooktop and back, feeling the warmth of the room and the whiskey move through him like a tide. He felt as though he had been sitting on this stool, in this kitchen, for years, and could go on sitting there for as many more. Concentration became Anne Percy, he thought, watching her tuck her hair behind one ear as she stirred. She had the same heart-shaped face as her daughters, but the soft, fine hair was lighter, the color of demerara sugar.

She checked a casserole in the oven, then dusted her hands off and turned to face him, leaning against the counter. “Now. Everything should take care of itself for a few minutes.”

Kincaid found himself at a loss, distracted by a floury smudge on her eyebrow. What he wanted from her was so formless, so nebulous, that he couldn’t think where to begin. “I’m finding myself in a very awkward position. I’ve no official sanction to investigate either Sebastian’s or Penny’s death—not yet, anyway. And yet I’m involved, even more so than I would be under ordinary circumstances, because I was acquainted with them both.”

Anne Percy studied him with the same serious regard she had given her casserole, and Kincaid felt suddenly uncomfortable, as if his face might reveal secrets he hadn’t intended. “I’ve been known to lose my professional detachment upon occasion, too.” Her apparent non sequitur, thought Kincaid, went right to the heart of the matter. “I checked on Emma this morning, to see if she wanted a sedative or—”

“She didn’t,” Kincaid interrupted, smiling at the thought.

“Damn right, she didn’t. She gave me hell. But she talked to me. People do, sometimes, when they’re in shock.

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They tell you things that ordinarily they wouldn’t dream of revealing. Emma had been worried about Penny’s behavior for months, and it seemed to be getting progressively worse. Episodes of forgetfulness, confusion. It sounds as if it might have been the onset of Alzheimer’s, or some form of premature senility. I don’t know if it’s any comfort to you, but the quality of her life probably would have deteriorated rapidly.”

“No,” Kincaid said angrily, “no, it bloody well isn’t. Whatever the quality of her life, no one had the right to take it from her. And I’m an utter fool. It might have been prevented. She tried to talk to me and I wouldn’t take time to listen, because it wasn’t my case, because I didn’t want to take responsibility, because I judged her as foolish and ineffectual. I should have known better—it’s my job, for god’s sake. Now we’ll never be sure just what she saw. The night Sebastian died, Penny waited until Emma fell asleep and then went downstairs. She’d forgotten her handbag and didn’t want Emma to know. A silly little thing, but if she knew Emma was worried about her forgetfulness—”

“You think that Penny was killed because she saw something that would lead to Sebastian’s murderer? That just one person is responsible for both deaths?”

“I think, from something Emma overheard Penny say, that Penny saw two people that night—two people not where they were supposed to be. Did she remember where she had left her bag, and slip into the sitting room in the dark? Did she see someone coming out of Cassie’s office?”

“Did they see her?” Anne asked, caught up in his reconstruction.

“Well, we don’t know, do we?” Kincaid asked softly. “But I think not. Either the plan would have changed, or Penny would have died then and there. This… person… is a remarkable opportunist. It seems to me that neither killing was premeditated, not in the usual sense, but they were both done with great ruthlessness and a willingness to take almost insane risks. It was sheer, tremendous luck to have managed both these killings without being observed—”

A share in death 121

“Except, perhaps, by Penny,” Anne interrupted.

“Yes. But it’s rather an odd profile. People who kill on the spur of the moment usually do it in anger and regret it afterwards. Those who premeditate like to plan it carefully and execute it from a distance, with as little risk of discovery as possible. Poisoners are the perfect example.”

“Maybe this person has an inflated idea of his own invincibility.”

“Could be, but I don’t think these are random killings by a psycho, violence for violence’s sake. There’s an objective in this, a sort of single-minded cunning.” Kincaid laughed abruptly, then shrugged. “Sounds fanciful, doesn’t it?”

“Possibly. But back up a minute, Duncan.” Anne frowned, the smooth skin between her brows crinkling with her intensity. “If the murderer didn’t see Penny, how did he know she’d seen him?”