‘So you think she wanted to leave a gluten-free vegetarian option off the menu just to be spiteful?’
‘I told you she was a bitch.’
‘But why? What did she have against you?’
‘You haven’t heard?’
‘No,’ Tish, once again, pretended to be less informed than she actually was.
‘Well, neither have I,’ Opal guffawed before elaborating. ‘What Binnie had against me, specifically, I couldn’t tell you. However, I could take an educated guess: sex.’
Tish was caught unawares. ‘Um, I beg your pardon?’
Opal’s laugh became even heartier. ‘The sex portrayed in my books. I’m a romance novelist. You may even have heard of me. I’m Marjorie Morningstar.’
‘Ah, yes, I have heard of you. I’m afraid I’m not much of a romance reader. I’m more a fan of non-fiction and a mysteries sort of gal. Oh, and cookbooks, of course.’
‘Well, my books can change that. They’re not the traditional bodice-rippers. They’re far more modern. My books feature strong women seizing what they want rather than waiting for Fabio – how did he ever get on the cover of so many books, anyway? – to rescue them. My women are vibrant women who enjoy life, and sex, to the fullest. They take every opportunity to enjoy themselves and their lovers.’
‘Hm, they sound interesting,’ Tish remarked. Inwardly, however, she still had absolutely no desire to read a romance novel. ‘Do you think your strong, sex-loving women might have been an issue between you and Mrs Broderick?’
‘You’re quite perceptive, Ms Tarragon,’ Opal chuckled. ‘No, my strongly worded books didn’t sit well with Binnie’s puritanical sensibilities. So offended was the lady in question that she purged my books from the library.’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t Binnie purge an exceptional number of books at once? Not just yours?’
‘She did. No doubt most of them were offensive to Binnie as well.’ Opal rubbed the stub of her cigarette into the ash tray and then smoked the remnants of the first cigarette before snubbing that one out too.
‘Did anyone ever suggest that Binnie replace the books?’
‘More than suggest. My agent and publisher both demanded that she make them available to my local readers. They even offered to donate my books to the Hobson Glen Library. Binnie flat out refused.’ Opal ignited a fourth cigarette, placed it to her hot-pink lips, and took a puff. ‘She was trying to silence my literary voice.’
‘That must have been frustrating for you, but at least you had other venues through which you could keep your voice alive.’ Tish offered a positive note. ‘You are a bestselling novelist, aren’t you?’
‘I am, and I’m grateful to my readers for their support through the years. However, it pains me that people right here in my own community, who may have wanted to read my books but couldn’t afford to purchase them, have been denied the ability to do so. It’s a form of censorship. As a writer, I will never abide by censorship.’
Censorship, Tish reflected silently. It was the third time in twenty-four hours that someone had used the term in reference to Lavinia Broderick. Daryl Dufour, Augusta May Wilson, and now Opal Schaefer had all described the book purge not as a mistake but a means of suppression. Was this why Broderick had been killed? An ardent lover of both books and liberty might have killed for far less than the destruction of five hundred books. But if perceived censorship was the motive, how did Dr Livermore fit into the picture?
‘The other books that were purged,’ Tish started, ‘were they romance novels as well?’
‘Many of them were, yes, but there were other genres on the list too. Some mysteries, lots of science fiction and fantasy, some science textbooks, if you can believe it, and the usual banned-book suspects like Catcher in the Rye, To Kill A Mockingbird, and Tropic of Cancer.’
‘Ah yes, good ol’ Henry Miller.’
Opal took a puff on her cigarette and screwed her mouth up to one side. ‘If it weren’t for the existence of Cordelia, I’d swear Binnie Broderick never had sex in her life. But, of course, she was a slightly better person back when her husband was alive.’
‘Slightly better?’
‘Yeah, she … Well, Binnie’s always been full of herself and always judgmental. But when her husband died several years ago, she really threw herself into religion.’
‘Lots of people turn to God for comfort during difficult times.’ Tish shrugged.
‘I know, and if it helps, I say more power to them. Lord knows, I was a mess when I lost my husband.’ Opal swallowed hard, as if doing so might purge the bitter taste of lost love from her mouth. ‘Binnie’s situation was different. Perhaps she did start going to church more often for comfort, but she wound up using it as vindication for her already bad behavior.’
‘What do mean, “vindication”?’
‘Well, it was one thing for Binnie to treat people poorly because she was the descendant of a notable family. It was another matter entirely when she felt that she was doing God’s will. No one in town was safe from her scathing remarks.’ Opal put out the cigarette she was smoking, but was too absorbed in Binnie’s evil doings to pick up another. ‘Binnie knew what type of books I wrote. She always had. Ever since I started writing twenty years ago. But she never made a fuss. That is, not until I made the bestseller list and brought some notoriety to Hobson Glen. That’s when Binnie decided that my work was too profane. Too profane! I wrote about love. Real love. Physical love. The love that Larry and I shared, which, yes, involved different positions, and gadgets, and the outdoors, and—’
Tish, feeling the color rise to her cheeks, cleared her throat noisily.
‘I’m sorry,’ Opal apologized with a self-conscious grin. ‘I suppose you don’t really want to hear about the sex life of a nearly-eighty-year-old grandmother.’
‘No.’ Tish felt like a complete and utter heel. ‘No, I’m not actually comfortable hearing about anyone’s sex life. Maybe because I don’t have one of my own at the moment, but it certainly has nothing to do with you personally.’
‘I’m relieved.’ Opal celebrated her elation by lighting another cigarette. ‘I also want you to know’ – she took a long drag – ‘that although I called Binnie a bitch, I didn’t kill her.’
‘You did visit her table, though, didn’t you? I mean on the night of the fundraiser.’
‘Yes, I did. How did you know? Were you there?’
The fact that Opal couldn’t recall whether Tish was at the table or not gave credence to the Wilsons’ story. ‘No, I was in the kitchen most of the evening. I only came out shortly before Binnie died.’
Opal nodded. ‘Sorry. I admit it’s a bit of a blur, but, yes, I did visit Binnie’s table. I’d had a bit too much wine and, while under the influence of the liquid bravado, thought I should give Binnie a piece of my mind. Well, whatever was left of my mind at that point, anyway. So, although the police have already arranged for me to meet them later today, they’d be hard-pressed to accuse a drunk woman of pulling off what appears to be a baffling poisoning. Although it’s somewhat flattering to think they consider me intelligent and sly enough to be a murder suspect.’
‘Make that a murder and attempted murder suspect,’ Tish amended.
Opal narrowed her eyes. ‘What? What’s happened now?’
‘Doctor Livermore has been shot. It happened this morning outside St John the Baptist Church.’
The writer’s face registered genuine shock. ‘Shot? Oh! Oh my … is he going to be OK?’
‘Too soon to tell. He was rushed to the hospital just a few hours ago.’
‘But who? Why?’
‘No idea, but it must be related to Mrs Broderick’s death, don’t you think?’ Tish ventured. ‘Sheriff Reade told me that this is a very quiet town.’
‘It is quiet,’ Opal agreed. ‘That’s why I just can’t wrap my head around Doctor Livermore. Binnie’s death is shocking enough, but it’s at least within the realm of possibility given all the souls she�
�s offended through the years. Doctor Livermore dedicated his life to helping people. He wasn’t my doctor, of course – my plan has a high deductible and Livermore charged over one hundred dollars for a visit – but he had a favorable reputation here in town. And he was, on a personal level, an extremely nice man. A true gent.’
‘So you can’t think of anyone who may have wanted Binnie Broderick and Doctor Livermore dead?’
‘What, both of them?’ Opal pulled a face. ‘No. Then again, my mind lives in the realm of romance and love, not the ugly universe of murders. Speaking of which …’
Tish’s blue eyes grew wide with worry as Opal snuffed out her cigarette and approached with hands in the air. ‘You have just the face for my new heroine.’
‘Huh?’
Opal placed a hand on Tish’s chin and another on her left cheek. ‘You. You should be on the cover of my work in progress. You’d make the perfect Deirdre, the lonely professional fundraiser who decides that the recycling collection man who lectures her against the use of plastic water bottles at her functions has more to teach her than environmentalism.’
‘Um, yeah, but I’m afraid not,’ Tish took Opal’s hands in hers, just as the writer was about to pivot her cover model’s head to the left in order to examine her profile.
‘Oh, but why? I’ll get some hunky guy in here to pose with you, my cover artist would snap some photos, and, as they say, voilà!’ Opal withdrew her hands and performed a jubilant pirouette in the middle of the kitchen.
‘As lovely and fun as that sounds,’ Tish fibbed, for the entire experience sounded absolutely dreadful, ‘I’m afraid that’s not quite the image I want to convey as a fledgling business owner.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Opal frowned. ‘But should you change your mind, and all that … You know, it might actually draw in customers.’
‘Maybe, but I think I’d rather attract customers with food than the promise I might act out one of your steamy scenes on the café counter.’ Tish moved toward the back door. ‘And on that note, I’d best be moving along. Busy day.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Opal lit another cigarette and gave it a puff before opening the back kitchen door for Tish and bidding her farewell. ‘Let me know when the café gets some gluten-free goodies.’
‘I will,’ Tish promised.
‘And don’t lose sight of that book cover. It could be good advertising.’
Tish nodded absently and set off through the expanse of cultivated vegetable beds that formed Opal’s back yard. As she neared the Matrix she had left parked in the rear section of the driveway, Tish took note of a rundown garden shed whose doors had rusted off their hinges. There, upon a shelf in the shabby lean-to, stood a variety of sprays and chemicals, one of which was marked boldly in red and bore an illustration of a rodent caught in the crosshairs of a rifle.
Rat poison.
FOURTEEN
Pulling the Matrix to a halt along the curb outside Wisteria Knolls, Tish snatched a large wax paper bag of madeleines from the passenger seat and hoped, silently, that this batch didn’t end up in the waste bin.
The morning, which had – quite appropriately given the events outside the church – started off overcast, had turned into a bright, sunny, and moderately dry afternoon. Tish adjusted the sunglasses perched on the end of her nose and strode up the fieldstone-paved walk that led to the Georgian-styled home’s front door.
Before Tish could press her finger to the doorbell, she heard a woman’s voice shout, ‘No!’
Tish reached into the back pocket of her Capri pants and extracted her phone in anticipation of dialing the police. Thankfully, the next shout eliminated such necessity.
‘No, I won’t move her into that horrible place, John. If Charlotte goes anywhere, it’s home. She needs to come back to Hobson Glen. Back to Wisteria Knolls.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Cordelia. Bringing Charlotte back here is apt to send her into a downward spiral. You know she had no friends here. She was miserable.’
‘Yes, but things are different now. With Mother’s passing, I have more time to dedicate to Charlotte’s care and well-being.’
‘What you mean is now that your mother’s gone, you’re lonely and bored, and now you’re willing to put your daughter’s health at risk for the sake of having someone here to hold your hand.’
‘Maybe if you held it more often, I wouldn’t need someone else,’ Cordelia fired back, her voice cracking.
‘Don’t pull that guilt-trip nonsense on me, Cordelia. There was a time when I was willing to do anything for you. Anything. And where did it get us? Stuck in this godforsaken hole for the past ten years.’
‘Yes, but that’s all over now. We don’t have to stay in this house any longer. We can move to wherever we want – just you and me – and we can take Charlotte with us.’
‘Until we sell this museum and get rid of your mother’s stuff, we can’t go anywhere. And, as I’ve already told you, I’m not bringing my daughter back in this house,’ John stipulated.
‘She’ll be safe here. This is my house now.’
‘No. I won’t allow it.’
‘She’s my daughter too.’
‘Clearly,’ came John’s withering reply. A lengthy silence elapsed before he spoke again. ‘Look, Charlotte has been doing wonderfully at the facility in Williamsburg. Better than either of us ever expected. But now it’s time to move her – gradually – back into society. The center outside Baltimore is perfect for getting her reintegrated.’
‘Why does she have to be all the way in Maryland? Why can’t we just keep her where she is? It’s not home, but at least it’s only an hour away.’
‘Cordelia, we’ve been through all this. The facility in Williamsburg is excellent, and, yes, it’s nearby. However, the treatment, care, and attention they provide far exceeds Charlotte’s needs at the moment. Then, of course, there’s the matter of expense. Why should we pay for care she no longer needs?’
‘If it’s the money that concerns you, I can easily care for Charlotte here, at a fraction of the expense,’ Cordelia replied, her voice a mixture of optimism and desperation.
John was having none of it. ‘Stop it, Cordelia. Just stop it. First thing tomorrow, I’m making the arrangements for Charlotte’s transfer to Baltimore. If you even think about interfering with the transfer, I’ll call my attorney and have him draw up divorce papers.’
Cordelia answered without pause. ‘Why wait? It’s only a matter of time until you have them drawn up anyway.’
Once again, several seconds elapsed before John answered, ‘I’m done with this. I’m going out.’
Recognizing her cue, Tish scrambled across the front lawn and to the edge of the driveway where she ducked behind a row of tall wheeled trash bins. From her hiding spot, she watched as John Ballantyne stormed out of the house, up the driveway, and into the driver’s side of a black Audi sedan.
Cordelia shouted after him, ‘Good. Go see your girlfriend, because the sight of you is making me sick!’
Ballantyne flung the Audi into reverse and zoomed out of the driveway and into the road, nearly backing into a passing Ford Mustang convertible. Amid a torrent of angry horn honks and threats on the part of the Mustang driver, Ballantyne then shifted the Audi into drive and, tires screeching, disappeared down the road toward the end of the bypass that connected with Main Street just outside Tish’s café.
Remaining safely concealed behind the trash bins until she could be certain Ballantyne wasn’t returning, Tish reached into her pocket and extracted her cell phone. Tapping at the keyboard, she issued a message to Jules: John Ballantyne driving black Audi heading your way on bypass. Can you see where he goes?
Within moments, Tish received a reply: Packing madeleines. Why?
Tish sighed. Why must Jules always need every single detail? He’s meeting girlfriend. Want to see who she is.
Jules’s next response was equally predictable: GF???? YES! Going now!!!!
Smirking, Tish deposited
the cell phone back into her pocket and then counted to one hundred so as to give Cordelia some additional time in which to pull herself together. At the count of one hundred and one, Tish emerged from her hiding spot, made her way to the front door of Wisteria Knolls, and pressed the doorbell.
The sound of shuffling feet and a sniffling nose preceded the appearance of someone at a nearby window. Tish smiled and raised a hand in greeting, and the person evaporated, only to re-emerge from behind the front door.
Cordelia Broderick Ballantyne, her face taut, drawn, and ruddy from crying, stared at Tish, her face a question.
‘I’m so sorry to bother you, Mrs Ballantyne. I’m Tish Tarragon, the caterer of the library benefit. I feel so badly about what you’ve been through and I wanted to express my condolences with a small care package.’ Tish presented the bag of madeleines.
Cordelia’s glum expression promptly lifted. ‘Oh, yes, I remember you now, Ms Tarragon. How very sweet of you to bring these by. Would you care to come in?’ Cordelia opened the door wide.
‘Oh, I don’t wish to impose.’ Tish’s reluctance to enter was sincere. Business on the line or not, she had absolutely no desire to inflict more pain upon someone mourning the loss of a mother while simultaneously navigating the minefield of emotions that accompany a broken marriage.
Cordelia was insistent. ‘You’re not imposing. It would do me some good. I haven’t had a thing to eat all morning and, well, the house is a bit too quiet for this time of day.’
With a nod of acquiescence, Tish followed Cordelia into the main foyer.
Stepping over the threshold of Wisteria Knolls was like stepping back into the eighteenth century. As was the style of the era, the entrance hall was sparsely furnished with a pair of simply carved wooden chairs and a drop-leaf maple table bearing two pewter candlesticks. The wide floorboards, covered in pale-gray paint to disguise the fact they were constructed of knotted wood from a variety of trees, boasted no rugs or other coverings. And the walls, painted in a familiar shade of Delft blue, bore just a round mirror in need of re-silvering and a set of brass wall sconces before connecting with the low exposed-beam ceiling above them.
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