by Vicki Delany
“They can be fussy,” Simon said. “They don’t like the soil too dry or too wet—but, otherwise, anyone can grow them successfully. I asked about it in the gardening chat room. Quite a few of the local gardeners said they had it. One person warned me that foxglove shouldn’t be used in homes with children or pets who eat plants.”
“I wonder what sort of children wander out into the garden to munch on the foliage,” Bernie said. “Don’t they get fed inside?”
Simon smiled. “More a matter, I think, of not planting it near a vegetable bed or letting babies crawl around in it. Other than that, I didn’t learn anything new. No one confessed to picking it and feeding it to their enemies.”
“What about longevity?” I said. “Do you have any idea how long the active ingredient remains active—therefore dangerous—after the leaves have been picked?”
“No, I don’t. I’ll try and find out.”
“Is that relevant?” Bernie asked.
“It might be,” I said, “if we accept that our killer snuck into Linda’s garden in the dead of night on Sunday and picked foxglove.”
“Who? What?” Simon said.
I quickly filled him in.
“Seems a stretch,” he said. “This woman didn’t actually say her foxglove had been vandalized?”
“Not at the time, but the police were going to go back and talk to her again.”
“Phone Detective Redmond,” Rose ordered me, “and ask her.”
“Why me?”
“Because you seem to have developed a rapport with her.”
“I have not.”
“Yes, you have.”
“I have—”
“Never mind that now,” Bernie said. “What are you thinking, Lily?”
I took a deep breath and gathered my thoughts. “Rose, you know where Linda’s house is. Would you say her foxglove plants are visible from the road?”
Rose scrunched up her face in thought. “I can’t say for sure. A hedge runs around the property, and I’ve never paid enough attention to try and see through it. I’ll check into that.”
“Let’s say the killer did go scrounging for foxglove on Sunday,” I said, “and did somehow find out where to get some. Which means that as of Sunday night, they planned to kill Ed. But does it mean they made the decision to do so on Sunday?”
“Not before,” Bernie clarified.
“Right. Why didn’t they bring the foxglove with them? Because they hadn’t yet decided to kill him?”
“Maybe they didn’t want to take it on the plane,” Bernie said. “That’s assuming they flew here, which most of the group did. If they got searched at security, the guard might remember it.”
“Remember a few apparently harmless dried leaves among the possessions of the thousands of people they search in a day?” Rose said. “Unlikely.”
“It could also mean,” Bernie said, “that the killer didn’t know Ed was coming.”
“Which brings us full circle,” Rose said. “Other than Heather, who invited him, and Trisha, who came with him, none of them knew he was going to be here.”
Chapter 14
Tea by the Sea had been full all day with happy, satisfied customers. Once I managed to get rid of Bernie, Rose, and Simon, I’d been able to get the day’s needed baking done. I made one more batch of scones after closing, while Cheryl and Marybeth cleaned up the restaurant and laid the tables for tomorrow. Then at six o’clock, I locked up and walked down the long driveway to the house.
After a busy day, when we’ve been pretty much cleaned out, I usually stay after closing to start on the next day’s food, but I decided I had enough from my baking binge of yesterday that I could leave early. I wanted to find out what, if anything, Bernie and Rose had learned since our meeting under the oak tree.
The McHenrys and Trisha were supposed to be leaving in the morning, but they were still under police advisement (orders?) not to leave town. I wondered what Rose was going to do about accommodating them, as well as receiving a fresh batch of weekend B & B guests.
I found Rose and Sandra rocking themselves on the front veranda, their nightly refreshment—G&T for Rose and a glass of wine for Sandra—at hand. Heather’s car was in the parking lot, but the one remaining rental was not. The vehicle Ed and Trisha had rented on Monday had been picked up by the rental company after his death.
“Good evening,” I said.
“You’re finished early, love,” Rose said. “How was your day?”
“Good. We were full to bursting all day. Our brush with notoriety didn’t do our reputation any long-lasting harm. I stopped by to check in with you. Any developments?”
“Bernie and I scouted out Linda’s place.”
I glanced at Sandra, who put her glass on the table next to her. “I’ll check on Trisha. See if she needs a hand. I know you and Lily are trying to help, Rose, but I can assure you no one in my family killed Ed or anyone else. The police are making something out of nothing, and you’re allowing your imagination to run away with you. And taking Lily along with it, I see. Excuse me.” She gripped her cane and tapped her way into the house.
“Problem?” I asked.
“Sandra has always been a stubborn woman. Not everyone considers that to be a refreshing trait. She refuses to accept that Ed was murdered. She insists he had a bad heart, and if something in his health store tea killed him, then that tea needs to be taken off the shelves or warning labels slapped onto it.”
“Understandable.” I dropped into the now-vacated chair. “Murder’s a hard thing to accept. Even more, I suppose, when the suspects are your own family. What’s happening with Trisha? Is she leaving? Are they all leaving tomorrow? Do I have to move into Bernie’s?”
“Trisha’s leaving Victoria-on-Sea, but not North Augusta. Tensions here are reaching the breaking point. She and Julie-Ann almost came to blows when they met on the stairs earlier. I used the local hoteliers’ online grapevine and found her a room.”
“Lucky for Trisha. I thought most everything would be fully booked for the weekend.”
“It is. Can’t find a room for love nor money. Except at the Blue Water Bay Resort.”
“That’s got to cost a pretty penny.”
“A room for the last weekend in June at last-minute notice? Five hundred a night. Two night minimum.”
“Wow.”
“Wow, indeed. Heather agreed to pay for it.”
“That was nice of her, I guess. What about the rest of them? What are they going to do?”
“Heather’s paying for that, too. The Blue Water Bay Resort had a large group cancelation at the last minute—a wedding party in which the groom decided two days before the wedding weekend began that he doesn’t want to get married, after all, and has instead fled to Hawaii to take up the life of a surf bum. The Blue Water Bay Resort is now in the fortunate position of holding on to the prepaid room charges from the first group and renting out the suddenly available rooms at their regular exorbitant rates.”
“If the purpose of Trisha moving is to get away from the McHenrys, it’s not going to help if they all arrive at the same hotel right after her.”
“Oh, no, they’re not moving. Heather’s paying the difference for the guests who were supposed to be staying here to go to the Blue Water Bay Resort. I’ve been on the phone all afternoon explaining. Not many guests complained, not when I pointed out where they were moving to.”
“Heather’s paying for all this?”
“I explained the situation to Heather and Sandra. I had to, love. I told Sandra you’d give her your bed, and Heather could have the couch, but I couldn’t help the others. I mentioned that Trisha was moving, where and why they have rooms free, and Heather came up with this idea. She told us the best thing about having money is how easy it makes solving problems.”
“Must be nice,” I said, thinking of how much Cheryl, Marybeth, and I missed the two days’ income lost when the tearoom was closed.
“Regarding the other matter,” Rose
said. “Linda’s perennial patch where foxglove holds pride of place along the border is visible from the road, but only if one is taking notice of one’s surroundings. The view passes in a flash when the hedge opens at the driveway. One wouldn’t normally pass Linda’s house driving between here and town, but people get lost or want to explore their surroundings.”
Heather came out onto the veranda, carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Hi. I thought Gran was here.”
For the place, and the time of day, Heather was overdressed in a deep-cut silk blouse that was all ruffles and layers and a double row of gold buttons, and extra-full black pants, with a black belt and large gold buckle. Her earrings were huge gold hoops, and a necklace of thick gold chains nestled in her cleavage.
“She went inside for a moment,” Rose said. “That’s her glass there. Please join us.”
I jumped up to pull a third chair into the circle. Heather put the glasses on the table and twisted the cap on the bottle. “Lily?” she said to me.
“Sure. Thanks.”
Heather poured and handed me a glass. Then she helped herself and settled back in her chair. “This is such a beautiful place. You can be sure I’ll be back, Rose. I’m thinking I might like to buy a vacation home near here. I’ve been browsing the listings on the Internet and have seen some promising properties.”
“How did you do that?” I asked. “Did you get your phone back?”
The diamonds flashed as she dismissed that trifle with a wave of her left hand. “I bought another. The police can keep the old one, for all I care. I was planning on upgrading when I got home, anyway. As for buying a house, with all that’s going on right now, it might not be the best time to start looking seriously, but I’ll be back. Where do you live, Lily?”
“About fifty feet that way.” I pointed. “I have the cottage next to the bluffs.”
She clapped her hands. “How absolutely delightful.”
I looked up at the sound of a car bouncing down the driveway to see Bernie’s Honda Civic. She parked, got out of the car, and trotted toward us. “Hi, all.”
“What brings you here?” Rose asked.
“Once I finished the . . . business I was doing for you, I tried to get back into my book, but I still haven’t gotten over that tricky plot point and I want to talk it over with Lily. I figured she’d be making scones or tarts for hours yet and could provide a sounding board.”
“You don’t need a sounding board, Bernie,” I said. “You need to sit down and write the darn thing. Start typing and it’ll work itself out.”
“But it’s not working itself out. That’s the problem.” She dragged a chair over and dropped into it. “Okay, here’s what’s happening. Rose—my Rose—and Tessa are looking into the death of a girl who worked in a sweatshop, and—”
“Would you like a glass of wine?” Heather said.
“Thanks, that would be great.”
“Lily?” Heather said. “Do you have any more glasses?”
I pushed myself to my feet. “I’ll get one.”
When I returned from my errand, glass in hand, Bernie was explaining that she wasn’t entirely sure whether or not to go for a hard, gritty, realistic tone in her description of the life of the poor women who worked in sweatshops or keep it vague so as not to darken the mood of the book.
“Shouldn’t you have decided this long ago?” Rose said. “As in before you wrote the first word? The mood of the entire book has to be consistent.”
“I’m struggling with that,” Bernie said.
I handed my friend the glass, and Heather poured wine into it. “Bernie’s a great writer,” I said to Heather. “Absolutely top notch. When she knows what she wants to write and actually writes it, that is. She’s had some short stories published and they’re really good.” I wasn’t just saying that because I was her friend. They were good—more than good—and the reviews had been enthusiastic. But Bernie had been working on this novel for two years now and was nowhere near getting it finished. She was scarcely past getting it started.
“I have a close friend who’s an editor at one of the big publishing houses in New York City,” Heather said. “When you’re ready, I’ll show him your work, if you like.”
Bernie let out a completely un-Bernie-like squeal. “You would? That would be great.”
I grinned at Heather. That promise might be the kick in the pants Bernie needed to get herself on track. She’d changed her book more times than I change the scone menu at the tearoom and she was constantly getting distracted. I feared she was so frightened of finishing it, and finding out no one wanted it, that she was subconsciously seeking ways to avoid that ever happening.
A suitcase thumped onto the veranda, accompanied by Sandra and Trisha. Trisha had made some attempt to tame her wiry mop of hair, and was dressed in jeans and thick sandals. Today’s flower-patterned T-shirt declared it had been bought at BUTCHART GARDENS, VICTORIA, BRITISH COLUMBIA. “I’m ready to go. I took what I want to keep of Ed’s and left his suitcase in the hall. You said you’d take care of it, Rose?”
“I’ll see it gets to the charity shop.” Rose gave the woman a smile. “Your husband’s things will be much appreciated.”
“Thank you. Does anyone have a phone they can call me a cab with?”
“I’ll do it.” I jumped up to let Sandra have her chair back.
“Have a glass of wine while you wait,” Heather said. “This bottle’s almost empty, but I have another in my room. Run up and get it, would you, Lily?” She tossed me her key and I grabbed it out of the air. I wasn’t a maid here, but I decided not to point that out.
“Where are the others?” Trisha asked. “Not coming to see me off?”
“Julie-Ann took the kids to the beach,” Sandra said. “Brian and Lewis went fishing again.”
I placed the call to the taxi company as I ran up the stairs and let myself into Heather’s room. Twenty to thirty minutes, they told me.
Heather had been given the second-best room in Victoria-on-Sea; Sandra had the best. Heather’s was in a corner with a sea view in two directions and a small balcony. All the guest rooms are decorated as though they’re in a stately home nestled in the English countryside and Queen Victoria might be expected to pop in at any moment. Heather’s room is papered and painted in shades of soft green and light gray. The four-poster double bed is covered in a thick garden-patterned duvet, with a ruffled green bed skirt, and mounds of matching pillows. An oval mirror with beveled edges hangs over the white vintage dressing table and stool, and a matching nightstand stands beside the bed. Next to the windows, two sage-green damask-covered wingback chairs are gathered around a small table. A six-light chandelier hangs from the center of the ceiling, and the gilt-framed paintings on the walls are of pale-faced, dark-haired women in formal gowns and long white gloves.
Ornate is the word that best describes this room.
The housekeeper had been in, and the room was tidy and the bed made. I don’t do any work in the B & B other than make the breakfasts; I rarely, if ever, have reason to come into the guest rooms so I didn’t know where things were kept.
A pile of loose papers with the letterhead of a law firm had been tossed on the dressing table, and my eyes passed over them as I looked around to see where the fridge might be hidden. A handwritten note was scribbled in the margins: Ensure it’s final?
A credenza, with a set of double doors, sat against the wall next to the bathroom. I opened it and found a tiny fridge containing a couple of bottles of white wine nestled inside. I grabbed a bottle, left Heather’s room, and locked the door behind me. I stopped in the kitchen for another glass, and when I went outside, I found the others engulfed in gales of laughter. Even Trisha had a smile on her face.
“A car’s turning in,” I said. “Might be your cab, Trisha.”
“That was quick. I won’t have time for that glass of wine, after all. Thank you for your hospitality, Rose. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer, but this is for the best. And tha
nk you for arranging my new accommodation, Heather. You have no reason to be kind to me, but you were.”
Heather stood up and wrapped the other woman in her arms for a long hug. When they separated, she said, “Ed was my husband’s beloved brother. I’m sorry they were so bitterly estranged in their last years.”
“That’s not a taxi,” I said as the car came to a screeching halt in front of the veranda steps. “It’s the police. And there’s another one following it.”
Officer LeBlanc leapt out of the cruiser and Detective Williams emerged from the passenger seat.
“I don’t like the look on his face,” Rose muttered under her breath.
“Something’s up,” Bernie said. “And it’s not good news.”
LeBlanc hung back while Williams climbed the steps. The second cruiser parked beside the first. Two more cops got out. Neither of them was Amy Redmond.
“Good evening, Detective,” Rose said in her best hostess voice. “May I offer you a glass of wine?”
He ignored her. He ignored all of us, except for Trisha. He stood on the veranda, almost bristling with aggression. Trisha slowly got to her feet. All the blood had drained from her face. “Detective?”
“Patricia French,” he said, “I am arresting you for the murder of Edward French.”
Chapter 15
I stood in the doorway and watched while the police searched what had been Trisha and Ed’s room. Whereas Heather’s room had been ornate and lush and feminine, this one was smaller, with a more masculine feel in shades of brown and deep red.
While we’d all shouted questions, to which we received no answers, Williams had told Trisha to turn around, slapped her in handcuffs, and bundled her into the back of the patrol car. He and the driver got in and they drove away in a spray of gravel and sand. Trisha hadn’t said a single word; she’d blinked at Williams as though not understanding what was happening.
They were gone so quickly, no one had a chance to tell the detective that the suitcase on the veranda belonged to her.
