Show of Evil: A Smith Investigates Mystery

  SHOW OF EVIL

  A SMITH INVESTIGATES MYSTERY

  BETH BYERS

  CONTENTS

  Summary

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Sneak Peek of Death By the Book

  Also By Beth Byers

  SUMMARY

  It turns out that Smith’s one-time lover has returned. She’s beautiful and talented. She has big eyes and a trembling lip, and she’s turned those on Smith.

  Who is, in fact, unmoved. It is Beatrice who’s drawn in, and she’s the one who agrees to the case. Bea’s support doesn’t change when his lover is accused of a grisly murder.

  Instead, Beatrice dives in and pulls Smith—and Vi—after. Now they’ll have to work together to help the only other woman Smith might have loved.

  CHAPTER 1

  It was entirely unfair that Smith looked as he did. I had become, well not accustomed, but at general peace with his brilliant beauty. When we were tromping through the woods, and I looked like a bog monster and he looked like an elf who strayed out of a fairy tale, dabbed with strategically placed dirt, I felt differently.

  “You are unnatural,” I told him.

  He grinned at me, shooting me a look of pure devilry, and then the dog howled. His gaze jerked towards the sounds, and he winked before he burst into speed, moving through the wood with the same grace, speed, and silence of a deer.

  I ran after, sounding like Frankenstein’s monster running from the fellows with pitchforks. I ignored the differences and just tried to keep up with Smith. Every so often, he would glance over his shoulder, shoot me a look of challenge, and then put on a burst of speed.

  We were far beyond where we’d started. It had been nothing more than a quiet lane in a quiet part of the country where an older man had gone for a ramble in the woods and never returned. Unfortunately, the fellow hadn’t told his friends where he’d be going or when he’d come back, so a cry of alarm hadn’t risen until the chances of survival were low indeed.

  Was it morbid that we were helping with the search to witness Brent Maywell’s dog in action? Yes, I thought, but we were still helping, and it wasn’t everyone who could drop their day-to-day work to look for a fellow where he might be. We could, we did, and we were there partially to see the dog in action.

  I had entirely lost sight of Smith, but I could still hear him, so I tried to put on another burst of speed. My side was cramping, and it was hard to catch enough air, but I could at least try to stay close enough to have an idea where the others were. After a few minutes of running alone, I found myself in a small clearing.

  I wasn’t even sure it could be called a clearing, given it was more just a break in the woods, still covered by canopy overhead. The sun barely filtered through the trees, but it filtered enough for me to see Smith, Brent Maywell, two dogs on leads, and the outline of a body.

  I let my gaze land on the man for a moment before jerking it away. There were bugs, and he didn’t look human anymore. Something from a horror story that made my skin crawl, and I took in a deep breath, immediately regretting it. The scent was overwhelming and I gagged, backing up.

  Smith noticed both my entrance and my exit, but he said nothing as I moved away. I went with gasping breaths, seeking clean air almost desperately. I hoped that nothing would go through to the baby and then reminded myself that babies have been carried by mothers through far more than a quick moment in a clearing with a dead body.

  I got far enough away to smell nothing but trees and the wind and then slid to the ground. We’d found our man, and he was gone. I winced. I hadn’t had much hope, but there had been a little left that we might find him alive. Now it was all gone.

  Was that a man who had a family? There was, I thought, a mother somewhere. Children shouldn’t die before parents. They did. All the time they died first, but I still thought it wasn’t how the world should be. I couldn’t help but place my hand over my womb where our baby was growing and beg the universe that this child would live far longer than I.

  I tucked my knees closer to me. I didn’t want to be there when someone contacted that mother to tell her that her son was gone. I didn’t want to go to the funeral, and I didn’t want to be any further part of this. My eyes were closed when I heard a slight rustle in the underbrush near me.

  “Are you all right?” Smith asked, cutting through the silence.

  “I am fine,” I lied. “Everything is fine.”

  Smith knew the shape and smell of my lies, so I wasn’t surprised to have him squat next to me and turn my face towards his. I opened my eyes and took in the sight of him. “Do you want the details?”

  I blessed him in my heart for asking. “Was it terrible?”

  He lifted a gentle brow at me, and I realized that terrible was the only way to die when you went in the woods alone.

  I licked my lips and thought that, unlike our friend Vi, I didn’t have the same vivid imagination. I could push this from my mind and never think about what else might have happened for this fellow. I could let it all go in a day or two. I could dive into a novel and endless cups of tea, but—I wasn’t going to.

  “What happened?”

  Smith lifted my filthy hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss on the back of it. I wasn’t sure it was approval or just love that moved him to that action, but I was comforted by it all the same. “It looks like he broke his leg.”

  “We’re pretty far in,” I said.

  “We are,” Smith agreed. “We are very remote, and he might not have known about the access lane we used to get our autos closer.”

  I imagined that even if the man had known about that lane we used, he might have known how rarely it was used. How he could struggle that far and then die there instead of where he had been. So, he’d been stuck, and he had been foolish enough to come alone, and he’d died knowing that he’d been unwise. Exposure or hunger or thirst had taken him, and it had been awful.

  “All right,” I said, since I didn’t know what else to say.

  “I can walk you back to the auto, and you could bring back the necessary men.”

  I nodded again. We were in northern England, hours and hours from home. We had a room at the vicarage for coming to help look for this man, but I didn’t want to put on a stiff upper lip and pretend everything was all right. I could, or I could be fairly rude and take an inn room where I could have a long hot bath, curl up with my book, and have a tray brought to my room without ever talking to anyone.

  The walk back felt so, so much longer than the one on the way. Even with a direct path, my feet hurt this time, my back ached; it was hard going. The burden of no-hope was so much heavier to carry, especially after the rush of adrenaline faded.

  When we reached the auto, I said, “I’m getting a room at the inn.”

  “Don’t,” he said, pushing his hair back from his clean brow, still looking as though he’d stepped out of the Savoy. “I have a few questions for the vicar, and—”

  I lifted a brow. “Do you suspect foul play?”

  “No.”

  “So your questions aren’t about this man’s death.”

  “They are not,” he said flatly.

  My gaze narrowed on him. He was all sharp jaw angles, big glorious brown eyes, and golden angel. His lips were pressed closed, and his eyes were full of crime. I debated whether I wanted to help him
with whatever he’d seen and knew I didn’t.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t want to. Not this time.”

  His gaze narrowed on me. It wasn’t often that I entirely denied him. Usually what he saw did, in fact, lead towards a better world. He found and stopped activities that shouldn’t be happening. He was a wicked force for good, but today was not the day for me.

  “Beatrice—” he started.

  Rather than listening, I put the auto in gear, starting it, and rolled away. In the rearview mirror, his perfect face actually gaped. I had to laugh. He was used to me doing what he wanted, but today, I wanted a hot bath and to pretend I hadn’t seen bugs on the dead man’s body. I gagged at the memory and then gagged again when I recalled the scent of that little break in the trees.

  It seemed that Brent Maywell’s claim that his dogs could find a dead body were true. I wondered if it was true of buried or hidden bodies, and then I tried to shake that thought. It was too easy to imagine some person in a shallow grave or a ditch. It was too easy to think of a body hidden in a cellar—a recent experience—or a body left under the snow not far from another vicarage.

  I would have said that I wasn’t made for bodies and murder, but fate had changed those facts for me. I had been born to a family that spent their days in service to the ultra wealthy, very well connected, or the titled. I had started down that very path along with my siblings, parents, aunts, and uncles. The woman I worked for was endlessly encompassed in crime and murder.

  I’d also married Smith, who all but guaranteed a life coming across crime and death. I might love Smith. And I do. But I also knew what he was. He didn’t have a moral compass so much as a dash of honor among thieves.

  I took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. Vi, who struggled with depression, counted the good things in her life when she was drowning. I admitted that I felt like I was drowning at that moment. What should I count? I considered my friends. I counted them. They’d looked past my being Vi’s maid to making me a friend and an equal. I counted my mother who didn’t understand me but had still sent me a box full of baby things. I counted my uncle, Vi’s butler, who was my closest relative in both proximity and friendship.

  And, I counted my Smith. My wicked love who saw things that no one else did and who always was up to the worst. I loved the man, but he was a devil in an angel’s skin, and I wasn’t ready for another delve into whatever hell he’d sensed.

  I reached the village, ignoring the surprised looks of the locals as I found the vicar who was organizing the search and informed him of the body. While he was making the appropriate sad comments, I looked for a villain in his face. I didn’t find one, and I knew I didn’t want to. So, I apologized and left, taking our things. There was a bath in my future, a hot meal, and a long, long nap. If Smith had to investigate, he was on his own.

  CHAPTER 2

  London was where I wanted to be. Every time I found myself in the woods, looking for a body—or worse yet, in a small village where everyone knew your name and your history, I felt as though I might be suffocated by vicar’s wives and meddling locals.

  To be in London, with the sound of the traffic and the scent of pollution, and the crowds of people who didn’t care at all about who I was, what I was doing, or whatever secrets I might be holding was freeing. I have to admit, however, I felt a little bad about sabotaging Smith’s intrigue with the vicar. What if the man were up to something terrible and my desire for a nap had left that vicar running wild with his crime?

  In apology, I started towards Smith’s favorite fish and chips place, ordering two baskets, a dark bottled ale for him and a ginger beer for me, and then stopped at the bakery to grab several biscuits for dessert before finally crossing the road and heading up to Smith’s office.

  The stairs were dark and the hall was worse. I really thought that he did it to turn customers away. The truth of the matter was that most private investigators struggled for work. Smith’s reputation, however, kept him busy. If a person wanted results without compunction, Smith was your man.

  When I reached the door, I paused, mouth twisting. We’d been back one day and already there was a person there begging for Smith to take their case. It was a woman, though I could only see her from behind. I considered waiting, but Smith had caught my movement through the door window, and he waved me in.

  “Ah, Miss Chesterton.”

  I blinked. Miss Chesterton? I put on an avid expression and waited to see what game he was playing.

  He turned back to the woman across from him. “As I said before, Lola, my schedule is full.”

  His tone was cold and uncompromising. I’d have shivered if he were anyone else.

  I moved to the small desk on the side of Smith’s office. It was occasionally used by our neighbor boy who worked with Smith whenever Smith wasn’t doing something too illegal. I took the small desk, handing Smith his lunch and beer and setting my own food down.

  Lola watched with a flirty expression, but her hands had rubbed up and down her arms. She sniffed as Smith pulled his food in front of him, opening it without bothering to wait. Her gaze narrowed slightly, but the expression was there and gone so quickly I almost missed it.

  “How can you just turn me away?” Lola asked, eyes filled with tears. She had thick glorious lashes that had been blackened and she carefully dabbed away those tears to keep the mascara from smudging too much. Through those glistening lashes, she begged silently.

  She was gorgeous. Her golden hair sparkled in the sun that was coming through the window. She had oversized blue eyes that screamed out of her face against the contrast of her dark lashes and pale, creamy skin. Her lips were full and soft pink. She didn’t seem to be wearing lipstick, and as I watched her nibble her lip, lightly bruising it as she did, I realized why. Her lips were permanently swollen from her habit, and I bet that many a man had looked at this lush creature and wanted to be the one bruising those lips.

  “John darling,” she said, and my eyes moved from her lips and the analytical analysis of her beauty to her face. Darling? “Please don’t turn me away.”

  My eyes razored over to Smith and I saw the slightest of flushes on his cheekbones. Was this a joke? He hadn’t seemed that angry to find me at the inn when I hadn’t stayed at the vicarage. In fact, he’d curled up next to me, placing his hand over my own, and we’d snuggled into the dark. Even still, Smith was a man who set irritations aside only to circle back round to them.

  “I said no, Lola.”

  Ooh, I thought, first names but unvarnished fury in his tone. I couldn’t help but catalog her beauty, especially when she reached over Smith’s desk to take his hand. That was not a move that an acquaintance would make. My interest peaked and then peaked again.

  “But Johnny,” she whined.

  Johnny? My lips twitched.

  “I need you,” she begged. Her lashes fluttered against her perfectly flushing cheeks. The blush went from her cheeks, down her neck, and below her low-cut dress. It was utterly and completely flattering. I hated her a little bit. I was one of those snotty criers whose nose turned red and cheeks blotchy. “I need help, and you won’t even let me tell you what is happening to me.”

  “My schedule is full, Lola,” he said flatly.

  “What about old times?” Lola begged.

  “No,” Smith repeated flatly. “My schedule is full, and my lunch is getting cold.”

  “Is it?” I asked. I didn’t have to clarify which comment I was responding to.

  His gaze jerked to me, and I shot him my own wicked smirk before turning to Lola. I held out my hand. “Beatrice.”

  “Beatrice,” Smith warned, a slight threat in his tone, which only egged me on. After a moment, he added, “Chesterton. My assistant.”

  I couldn’t help but turn to him and lift the brow that Lola couldn’t see. He’d have shot me a look in response, but Lola’s gaze was fixed on him, and she seemed to catch every expression.

  I shook Lola’s hand, which was as soft and a
s lovely as her face.

  Lola sensed the weakness, and she said, “It’s like this, Beatrice; I’m an actress.”

  I nodded. Of course she was. A face and body like that deserved to be in the lights. I wasn’t even jealous of her looks; I was in awe of them. Being an actress, however, didn’t explain her presence here.

  “There’s been someone watching me. I can feel their eyes on me.”

  “You’re an actress, Lola. You revel in being watched.” The underlying anger in Smith’s tone surprised me. “In attention.”

  “There’s more!” Lola protested. “Let me explain.”

  “I said my schedule is full.”

  “Your assistant says otherwise. I can pay.”

  He laughed darkly. “Can you?”

  My eyes jerked to Smith and saw nothing in his expression. Whatever flush he’d allowed had faded. I wasn’t quite sure what game he was playing, but his anger with Lola interested me more than it should.

  “You aren’t being fair, Johnny.” Lola sniffled, pressing the handkerchief to her nose. “It’s not wrong to be an actress.”

  “I didn’t say it was,” Smith replied, a knife’s edge in his tone. It was the voice he used when he was angry. I glanced at him, but his gaze was fixated on the actress’s face. It was always difficult to tell what Smith was truly thinking, but there was something that bothered me. Was I jealous?

  “Johnny, I need you. There’s been accidents. There’s been…well, someone is trying to kill me.”

  I stared at her. Her blue eyes were fixed on him. Her lips trembled. The flush on her face, the glisten in her eyes, it made her even more beautiful. All right, I admitted to myself, I was flooded with jealousy.