by Vicki Delany
“They weren’t happy to see the Frenches checking in here on Sunday,” I said.
“Why do you suppose Heather invited them here?” Bernie asked. “Considering how much they don’t get on?”
“I suspect,” Rose said, “she simply didn’t know the old animosities still lingered. Remember, Heather hasn’t been home for several years.”
“Heather’s pretty self-absorbed,” I said. “I doubt she spends a lot of time worrying about other people’s feelings.”
Rose tapped her lips with a paper napkin. “Now I, for one, am ready for ice cream. I’ll see if Sandra would like to come with us.”
* * *
Bernie and I waited at the bottom of the stairs while Rose went up to get Sandra.
“Isn’t this investigating taking time you’d be better spending on your book?” I said.
“This is important. Rose needs my help. You know I’d do anything for Rose.” Bernie paused. “Well, almost anything.”
I decided it was a good thing that Rose didn’t seem to need my help. “Be careful, please. Things could have gone badly wrong last time, you know.”
“But they didn’t, did they?” Bernie punched me in the arm and gave me that giant Warrior Princess grin. “All we’ll do is hand whatever we learn over to the police. You have to admit it’s possible—likely even—the origins of this case are to be found in Grand Lake, Iowa. Rose knows people there and she can use her phone to tap into the town memory, as well as her own. The North Augusta police cannot.”
“Okay,” I admitted. “I suppose you have a point, but please don’t lead Rose down any dark alleys.”
“You can count on me,” she said.
I gave her a grin in return. I knew I could. Bernie was always there for me. I hoped I’d always be there for her.
Sandra and Rose carefully descended the stairs. Sandra came first, holding the banister for support with one hand and gripping her cane in the other. Rose followed closely behind her, her eyes fixed on her friend and her arms ready to move if Sandra faltered. I leapt forward and ran up the stairs. I held my arm out to Sandra, and Rose gave me a smile of thanks.
“I can manage perfectly well, dear,” Sandra said. “Not that old yet.” But she took my arm and we descended the rest of the stairs.
“I’m pleased you can join us,” I said.
“The family’s gone out to dinner, but I decided not to go with them. I’ve had more than enough high drama to last for the rest of my lifetime. Julie-Ann has always been a drama queen. As far as Julie-Ann’s concerned, everything in life is about Julie-Ann, and the foolish girl’s milking this unfortunate business for all it’s worth. As for Trisha thinking Julie-Ann would leave Lewis for Ed French, of all people, the very idea’s preposterous. Brian’s totally exasperated by Tyler at the best of times, and I fear Tyler’s playing that up to get a rise—as you young people say—out of his grandfather.”
“Families,” Rose said. “I could tell you some stories about drama queens.” I assumed that was a dig at my mother, so I didn’t respond.
“Don’t leave without me,” came a voice from the top of the stairs, and I looked up to see Heather hurrying toward us. She was casually dressed in beige capris and a loose blue linen shirt. Sneakers were on her feet and a woolen oatmeal sweater tossed over her shoulders.
“You didn’t go out to dinner with the family?” I asked her.
Heather shook her head. “I’ve had enough of them for today, but a walk on the pier sounds lovely.”
“Trisha will be joining us also,” Rose said. “She wasn’t invited to dinner with the others, and she didn’t want to come with us now, but Sandra knocked on her door and told her she wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“The poor thing needs to pull herself together and get her mind off what happened,” Sandra said.
“She just lost her husband,” Bernie pointed out. “Surely, she’s allowed to think about it.”
“I am aware of that dear, but watching TV and weeping does no one any good, now does it?”
“I guess not,” Bernie said.
“As it’s a lovely evening, why don’t we wait for Trisha outside?” Rose said.
“I told her not to dawdle.” Sandra headed for the door.
We took seats on the veranda while we waited. A car came down the Goodwill driveway, and a few minutes later, Matt loped across the lawn.
“Thought I saw your car,” he said to Bernie. “How’s everyone this fine evening?”
“We’re going into town for ice cream on the pier,” Rose said. “You can come with us.” She made it sound like a command, not an invitation.
He blinked. “Uh, okay. If that’s okay with you, Bernie? I mean Bernie and Lily.”
As though he cared about my opinion.
“The more the merrier,” my friend said as color rushed into her cheeks. With that red hair and pale skin and those freckles, Bernie never could hide her feelings. Much to her chagrin.
Matt grinned at her. Bernie studied the contents of the nearest tub of flowers. The red geraniums, I couldn’t help but notice, were about the same color as her cheeks.
Trisha stepped out of the house. Her eyes were bloodshot and her nose red and puffy, and she clutched a tissue in her hand. But she’d combed her hair and washed her face and she’d pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt under a light gray sweater. She smiled weakly at us. “I’m ready.”
Matt stepped forward and put out his hand. “Hi. I’m Matt Goodwill. I live next door.”
She accepted it and they shook. “Trisha French.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.
“Thank you,” she replied in a low voice.
As there were so many of us, we had to go in two cars. Bernie took Matt and Trisha in hers, and I got Rose’s aging Ford Focus station wagon out of the garage for her, Sandra, and Heather. Éclair would have enjoyed the outing, but I didn’t think the others would want her jumping around on their laps. Éclair loved to ride in the car and never sat still.
The town of North Augusta is a small but thriving tourist town facing west over Cape Cod Bay toward the mainland. On this pleasant, warm evening in late June, both tourists and locals were out in force. Crowds were strolling on the sandy stretch of beach or the long pier, watching boats returning to the small sheltered harbor, having dinner in the restaurants lining the seafront, popping in and out of the charming shops, or enjoying an ice cream.
I was lucky enough to snag a parking spot near the waterfront, but Bernie had to go around the block in ever-increasing circles. She eventually found us waiting on benches outside the candy store, watching people streaming in and then coming out again, happily licking towering cones or scooping up caramel sauce with tiny wooden spoons.
“What would you like?” I asked Rose and Sandra when the others had joined us.
Rose stood up. “I won’t know until I see what they have, now will I?”
Matt held out his arm, and she took it with a smile. Heather walked with Sandra. Bernie, Trisha, and I brought up the rear, and we joined the line waiting to be served.
“Reminds me of holidays at the seaside when I was a girl,” Rose said. “Not that we had many holidays. My father didn’t have money for what he called frivolities, and the postwar years were hard for everyone. I particularly recall one week in Scarborough the summer before I went into service at Thornecroft Castle. The rain never let up. Mother never stopped saying, ‘Isn’t this delightful?’ and Father never stopped complaining at the cost of a cup of tea and a biscuit. My sister Violet fell off a swing and broke her arm, which cut our holiday short.” She sighed happily. “Ah, memories.”
“Sounds like a laugh riot,” Bernie said to me.
“Are all the women in your family named after flowers?” Matt asked. “Rose. Violet. Lily.”
“We three sisters were Violet, the youngest, me in the middle, and Poppy, the eldest. My mother’s name was Petunia. I named my only daughter in honor of my mother.”
/> “She did?” Bernie whispered to me. “Your mom’s name’s Tina, isn’t it?”
“Nope. It’s actually Petunia, and don’t you dare call her that.” Mom hated the family flower names, Petunia above all, and hadn’t wanted to call me Lily. But Rose suggested it and my dad liked the name, and in those days, all Mom wanted was to make my dad happy. So Lily I am.
My half sister, daughter of Mom and her second husband, is named Christine.
While we moved steadily up the line, we dithered over the selection. That’s to say, the others dithered. I always know what I like. Plain old French vanilla. That might say something about my personality, but why would I try something new when I know what I like?
Matt ordered a triple chocolate peanut butter and told the clerk he’d pay for us all. Heather protested, but he insisted. Bernie asked for bubble gum flavor, which I thought must taste as lurid as it looked, while Rose had maple walnut, Sandra strawberry, Heather chocolate chunk, and Trisha ordered a butter pecan.
* * *
Once we were all served and licking contentedly, we went for a stroll along the pier. Night was closing behind us, the sun sinking into the bay. Lights lining the pier, bobbing on boats rising and falling with the gentle swell of the ocean, and shining in town gave everything a warm glow.
Matt fell back to walk next to Bernie, and her laughter drifted on the soft air. I liked Matt, and I was pleased that he and my best friend were finding each other after a very rocky start.
“Rose. How nice to run into you. How are you, dear?” A woman walking toward us stopped directly in front of my grandmother. Her long, thick brown-and-gray hair was gathered up behind her head and her smile was enormous.
Rose’s eyes darted about the pier, seeking escape. Trisha went to stand at the railing, where she stood still, looking out to sea. Heather walked with Sandra, but I stayed with my grandmother. Seeing that rescue was not forthcoming, Rose said, “Linda. I’m well, thank you, and you?”
“Perfectly fine. Isn’t it a lovely evening?”
“It is. I’m sorry, but I can’t stop to chat. My friends are ready to leave.”
Linda was maybe a few years younger than my grandmother, and she held the arm of a man, who I guessed was her son. He nodded politely at us.
“I must apologize for missing bridge so much this spring,” Linda said.
“No need.”
“I’ve been so busy. It’s the height of the gardening season, you know. My place has been chosen for this year’s garden tour and that means I have so much to do to get everything absolutely perfect.”
“I’m sure you have competent help.” Rose began to edge away. I kept my smile locked in place and edged with her.
“You can be sure of that,” Linda said. “At my age, I can’t do everything myself, but staff need constant supervision.” She turned to me. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“I’m sorry. Linda, this is my granddaughter, Lily Roberts.” Rose’s eyes flicked longingly down the pier to where the rest of our party was disappearing among the crowd.
“The tearoom lady,” Linda said. “I’m pleased to meet you. I have family arriving next week, and one of the things I want to do is treat them to afternoon tea.”
“You’d be very welcome,” I said.
“I’m one of your closest neighbors. My house is on Bayshore Road, which, despite its name, is not on the bay. It would be nice to be on the sea, as you are, but growing conditions are so much better farther away. Rose, Lily, this is my son, Howard.”
Howard muttered something that might have been “nice to meet you.” He studied the slats of the pier and ground his right toe into the wood.
“I heard about the murder at your place.” Linda’s bun wobbled as she shook her head. “I can’t imagine what North Augusta’s coming to.”
“The police haven’t confirmed it was a murder,” Rose said. That wasn’t entirely true: They’d told the family, but hadn’t released the information to the media. Yet. “The man was substantially overweight.” That was a safe comment to make to these two. Linda and her son looked as though they had trouble staying upright in a strong wind. “I’ve been told he had a bad heart.”
Linda was not to be dissuaded. “They keep telling us tourism’s good for the town, but I don’t know. I suppose it is for some”—she gestured to our almost-finished cones—“but all these city people coming here and making trouble. We’re better off without them, I always say.”
“So you do,” Rose replied.
All around us, people laughed and chatted, ate ice cream or sipped icy drinks, rushed to the railings to watch the seals playing in the cool waters below, or called to racing children to take care. City people enjoying a break at the seaside. Just like me.
“Did you hear about that ruckus in town last week?” Linda went on. “Garbage cans overturned on Main Street in the middle of the night. It made quite the mess.”
“Wasn’t that kids from North Augusta High?” I said.
“My point exactly,” Linda said triumphantly. “The bad influences of the city are affecting our young people.”
“Enjoy your evening.” Rose tugged at my arm.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“And then to have an intruder in my own garden! I tell you, Rose, I was frightened out of my life. I called 911, but by the time the police arrived, he was gone. They told me it was probably someone looking for a lost cat or who wanted to admire my garden. But really, who wanders onto private property at night to look at the flowers? No one who’s up to any good, let me tell you.”
“When did this happen?” I asked.
“Sunday. I know it was Sunday because I always phone my daughter who lives in Boston on Sunday evening before turning in. I’d only just hung up and was getting ready for bed when I heard a noise in the garden. I looked out and saw a . . . person . . . standing there. Right beside the perennial beds at the front of the house. Gave me the fright of my life, I tell you. Fortunately, my bedroom’s on the second floor, so I could open my window and yell that the police were on their way. They ran off fast enough.”
“Terribly frightening for you. I hope to see you at bridge soon.” Rose yanked at my arm.
I resisted the yank. “You have an extensive garden, do you?”
Linda lifted her chin. “Not large, nothing like you have at Victoria-on-Sea, but it’s one of the finest private gardens in North Augusta, if I do say so myself. And I do. I started it when we bought the property all those years ago. It’s been the labor of a lifetime. I can’t do the heavy work myself anymore, but I still supervise the placing of every plant and the trimming of every bush. I’ve had a wonderful idea! Tea and flowers. You should approach the garden club about making your tearoom a stop on the tour.”
Howard continued to study the patterns in the wood at his feet as his mother’s words washed over him.
“That’s a brilliant idea,” Rose said. “We’ll think about it. Come on, Lily. The others are ready to leave.” She pulled my arm so hard, I was almost jerked off my feet.
I stood my ground. “Do you have a lot of flowers in your garden, Linda?”
“Oh, yes. Perennials are my specialty. Annuals are nice for spots of color when placed strategically or in pots on a deck or patio, but there’s nothing like perennials. I regard them as I would old friends, returning to the Cape after wintering away. Are you interested in gardening yourself?”
“I would be if I had more time. My mother was a keen gardener—”
That took Rose by surprise. She opened her mouth to say, “Are you kidding?” but I silenced her with a look.
“—and she particularly loved foxglove. Do you have foxglove?”
Linda clapped her hands. “Masses of them. I adore foxglove. I particularly love plants that, as well as providing us with stunning beauty, do good. Foxglove is used in heart medication. Did you know that? I also grow—”
“I see our friends waving at us,” I said. “We’d better catch up to the
m. Nice to meet you Linda, Howard.”
“Feel free to come by anytime and have a look at the garden, dear. No need to wait for the tour. Bring your mother.”
“Thanks. We might just do that.” I allowed my grandmother to drag me away. Despite her age, Rose had a heck of a strong grip.
“That is the most boring woman in North Augusta,” Rose said when we were sure we were out of earshot, “if not the entire eastern seaboard. Her son’s perfectly capable of stringing a sentence together, but he learned long ago not to bother. That you pretended interest in her garden can only be because you believe there’s something significant about her intruder. Normally, I’d say Linda was making something out of nothing. She has a tendency to do that. Her so-called intruder may have been nothing more threatening than a deer or a fox. But I didn’t fail to miss the mention of foxglove. You think that’s related to what happened in the tearoom on Monday?”
“It’s worth considering,” I said. “We don’t grow foxglove in our garden, but a near neighbor does? Someone was creeping around her garden the night before foxglove was added to Ed French’s tea?”
The others were waiting for us at the end of the pier. Bernie and Matt stood close together at the railing, looking out over the darkening bay. The sky was streaked in a multitude of shades of purple and gray, but the sun had dipped below the horizon. We’d missed watching it set.
“Are you going to tell Sandra and her family what you learned?” Rose asked me in a low voice.
“I’m only guessing. No need for anyone else to know. You go and join the others. I’ll call Detective Redmond.”
Rose walked away, her long skirts, a match for the colors in the sky, swirling around her ankles. She carried her pink cane loosely in her right hand, but she didn’t need it on the smooth, flat surface of the pier. “Sorry,” I heard her say. “Ran into a dear friend.”
“You missed the sunset,” Sandra said.
“There will be other sunsets.”
I turned my back to the group to make the call. Amy Redmond answered her phone on the first ring. I heard the hum of voices and the sound of dishes clattering in the background. “Sorry to bother you, Detective,” I said. “But I’ve learned something I thought you might want to know. About the Ed French case, I mean.”
