Mourn not your Dead

Reid’s shop in Shere and have a word with him while Nick and I handle the search?”
    Her anger rose with frightening speed, closing her throat, making her heart pound, but she fought it back and managed to say evenly, “Um, could I have a word, guv?” Kincaid raised an eyebrow but followed her into the empty corridor, and when the door clicked shut she said through clenched teeth, “Shall I assume you have some reason for this?”
    “What?” he said blankly.
    “Sending me off on some fool’s errand while you and Nick Deveney take the important job. Do you think I’m not capable of being objective? Is that it?”
    “Christ, Gemma,” he said, backing up a step. “I’ve tried to sort things out, but you’re as prickly as a bloody hedgehog these days. What am I supposed to do with you? Ask your permission before I decide how to conduct an investigation?
    “I have two reasons, in fact, if you want to know.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “One, you haven’t met Malcolm Reid and I wanted your reaction to him, wanted to know if you thought there was anything in Percy Bain-bridge’s allegations that Claire’s having an affair with him. Two, you’ve established a positive contact with Geoff Geno-vase, and I’d like to keep it that way. You know as well as I do how useful that can be in an interrogation, and going in with a search warrant is certainly not going to reinforce his confidence in you.” He took a breath. “Is that good enough for you, or do I need more?”
    The anger drained away as quickly as it had come. She leaned against the cool wall and closed her eyes, feeling deflated and shaken.
    An echo of his words took her back, and for a moment she was a child again, in her tiny bedroom above the bakery. She’d had one of her frequent and furious rows with her sister, and her mother had come in to her, sitting down on the bed where she lay with her hot, tear-streaked face buried in the pillow. “What am I to do with you, Gemma?” her mum had said with weary exasperation, but the fingers stroking her hair had been gentle. “If you can’t learn to control that redheaded temper, love, you’d best learn to apologize gracefully. And if you have a particle of the sense God gave you, you’ll do both.” It had been good advice—given from experience, Gemma had realized as she grew older—and she’d tried to take it to heart.
    She opened her eyes as a breath of air touched her face. Kincaid had turned away, his hand on the doorknob, face set in a tight scowl. Gemma reached out and touched his arm, attempting a smile. “You’re right, of course. Guess I did overreact a bit. Look... I know I’ve been an awful bloody cow lately.” She glanced away, bit her lip. “Duncan... I’m sorry.”
     
    TALL AND TANNED, HIS CLOSE-CROPPED SILVER-BLOND HAIR molded to his finely shaped head, Malcolm Reid was a sight to make any woman’s heart flutter. He would make a perfect complement to Claire Gilbert’s fair, delicate prettiness, and Gemma could easily imagine why tongues would wag.
    He’d greeted them pleasantly, offering coffee from a sleek, German pot plugged into an outlet at the back of one of the display countertops.
    “I thought this was all just for show.” Gemma gestured at the kitchen area as she accepted a mug.
    “Might as well make use of the facilities.” Reid grinned as he pulled up wrought-iron stools for Will and Gemma. “Actually, this is very much a working kitchen. My wife uses it for demonstration cooking classes, but she has nothing on just now. ‘Healthy Cooking from the Mediterranean’ finished last week, and ‘Italian Classics’ starts this coming Tuesday.”
    The names of the courses conjured up exotic ingredients, warm climates awash with garlic-laden smells, and Gemma felt a little shiver of longing. Although her parents had turned out excellent baked goods, their business had left them little time or energy for anything but the most conventional of English cooking, and Gemma hadn’t had much opportunity to venture further afield. “Sounds lovely,” she said a bit wistfully.
    “It is.” Malcolm Reid regarded her with interest. He’d propped himself against the countertop with an air of much practice, cradling his coffee in both hands. “You should give it a try sometime. Now how can I help you?”
    Will shifted position on a stool seat not made for thighs the size of hams. “Mr. Reid, can you tell us what you were doing on Wednesday