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Occasionally he got fixated on specific people. Some were locals, people he knew from the neighborhood whom he believed to be in danger. Others were public figures. Baseball players. Politicians. Actors.
Most recently, and most bizarrely, Billy Hamlin had become obsessed with the new British home secretary, Alexia De Vere. Time magazine had run a picture of Mrs. De Vere as part of its profile on women in power, and Billy had fixated on it, spending hours and hours on his computer “researching” the British politician’s background.
“I have to warn her,” Billy told his daughter, Jenny.
Not again, thought Jenny. He seemed so much better lately.
“Warn her about what, Dad?” She sighed. “You don’t know this woman.”
“That’s not the point.”
“But, Dad . . .”
“She’s in grave danger. The voice said so. I have to warn her. I have to go to England.”
No one, not even Jenny Hamlin, thought that her father was actually going to go.
Teddy De Vere came into the kitchen at Kingsmere looking upset.
“What’s the matter, Daddy?” Roxie asked. “As Granny used to say, you look like you’ve lost a shilling and found sixpence.”
Teddy didn’t laugh. “Have you seen Danny?”
Danny was the ancient family dog, a wire-haired dachshund with the IQ of a cabbage to whom all the De Veres were devoted. Especially Teddy.
“I called him this morning for his walk and he never came. Can’t find him anywhere.”
“He’s probably asleep somewhere,” said Roxie. “Or waddled off to the gamekeeper’s cottage for some free sausages. Do you want me to look for him with you?”
“Would you mind? Silly, I know, but I’m worried about him.”
Half an hour later, so was Roxie. They’d searched the entire house, twice, and all the likely places in the grounds. No doubt about it, the dog was gone.
“Might Mummy have let him out by mistake when she left for London this morning?” Roxie asked. “Should we call and check?”
“Done it already. She said she didn’t check his basket but she doesn’t remember seeing him, and he definitely didn’t get out.”
“Your lordship.”
Alfred Jennings hovered in the kitchen doorway. Teddy De Vere had given up his title decades ago, when Alexia first stood for Parliament, but Alfred was congenitally incapable of addressing a De Vere in any other way.
“Have you found him?” Teddy’s round face lit up with hope.
The old gatekeeper stared at his shoes. “Yes, your lordship. I’m afraid we have.”
Alexia De Vere peeled back the Frette sheets on her London bed and slipped inside. It had been a long day—since her appointment as home secretary, all the days were long—and the soft touch of Egyptian cotton against her bare legs felt wonderful. Alexia usually wore silk Turnbull & Asser pajamas to bed, but London was enjoying a three-day heat wave, and the one luxury that the De Veres’ Cheyne Walk house lacked was air-conditioning.
“I’m buggered if I’m paying for that nonsense when we’re away all summer,” Teddy insisted. “If it’s hot, we can open the bloody window.”
He can be so English sometimes, Alexia thought affectionately.
Teddy had called her earlier from Kingsmere. Sir Edward Manning had passed on three messages, but Alexia literally hadn’t had a single free moment to return his calls. The phone rang just as she was reaching for it.
“Darling. I’m so sorry. You wouldn’t believe how hectic things have been here, I’ve had two select committees, my first full cabinet meeting, I’ve—”
“Alexia. Something’s happened.”
Teddy’s tone stopped her instantly. Horrors flashed through her mind. An accident. Michael. Roxie.
