by Patti Larsen
Matt and Evelyn both looked up, visibly startled. Knowing my cheeks had to be on fire from getting caught listening to their argument, I pushed the door open and let the pug trot in, following more slowly.
“Mind telling me what all of that was about?” I didn’t have the right to ask, of course. I wasn’t Crew or a deputy. And from the scrunching of Evelyn’s lined face, she knew better than to try to explain herself.
“Excuse me,” she said, storming from the room, her high heels clicking on the tile floor. The kitchen door swung silently closed behind her while Matt hesitated, his dark eyes on mine, before he shook his head at me.
“I didn’t kill Skip,” he said. Then seemed to think better of speaking, shoulders jerking back as if someone pulled his strings tight. He reddened, gaze falling away and he, too, left the room, though with less energy and more emotion trailing after him. Though was it guilt or grief that followed his hasty steps?
I fixed a quick snack for Petunia while I brewed some tea, Mom appearing just as the pug licked the last of the kibble from her bowl. The teapot whistled as she joined me, her hands taking the heavy ceramic from me when my own shook too much to pour.
“I’ll take this to Willow for you,” Mom said, hot water steaming and releasing the aroma of chamomile from the bag that bobbed to the surface of the porcelain cup. I loved this tea set. It always reminded me of Grandmother Iris with its clear white and faint lines of blue. Took me back to a happier past, sitting in the front room with fresh cookies and milk, listening to the chatter of the ladies on Sunday afternoons. Before I turned into someone I didn’t like very much in retrospect and left town in a huff.
Yeah, I was big enough to admit I was a jerk as a teenager.
“I’ve got it,” I said, hugging Mom briefly in thanks as she set the tea and a small plate of cookies on a tray and held it out to me. “I want to talk to her anyway.”
Mom sighed. “Of course you do, sweetie.” Long suffering, Lucy Fleming, but understanding to the end. Because I was as much my father’s daughter as I was hers, and that, I think, was the source of all my problems. I loved my parents. There was a time I just didn’t want to turn into them.
Like I had a choice.
The foyer was empty when I passed through it to the stairs. Wherever Crew and Dad had gone off to, same for Daisy and the rest of the guests, I had the entry to myself for a moment. I paused at the bottom of the stairs to steady myself, my trembling slowing and stilling as I breathed in the familiar scent of old wood and polish from the banister, the hint of flowers from the bouquet on the sidebar, the traces of spring that had washed in the door from the beautiful day. Petunia’s seemed to breathe with me, an oasis of calm and contentment in the midst of a horror movie. I let the warmth of the last rays of sunlight that made it around the mountains wash me in gold as I gathered my peace and the familiar feel of home.
I blinked, cleared my throat. Shocked to find how much love I had for this place. It was just a building, a collection of furniture and ornaments and memories. But it was my place.
This moment of reflection appeared to be exactly what I needed. By the time the grandfather clock boomed its deep tolling of five chimes I was on my way up the stairs to Willow’s room with the still hot tea steady on the tray.
***
Chapter Fifteen
I knocked softly at the white door at the end of the hall on the second floor. While I might not have known which room Willow took, it was easy enough to guess where Daisy would put her. And, it appeared, I was right when movement inside answered, a soft voice responding.
“Who is it?” Definitely Willow.
“Fee,” I said. “With some tea, if you’d like.”
The door whipped open and she smiled, faint and sad, but welcoming. She immediately stepped aside, her thin hands holding her multicolored wool wrap tightly around her. “Please, come in.”
If there was any room in Petunia’s that I wished I could claim for my own, it was this one. I loved everything about this suite she’d chosen—that Daisy chose for her. My favorite of all the options in the house, the Green Suite had a spring-like feel to it, with the faintest flowers in the old wallpaper that felt far more chic than worn out, hardwood floors that rich amber tone that could only come with age and love. The four poster queen’s velvet upholstered backrest and gossamer curtains that matched those on each of the three large windows begged me to lie down and curl up with the multitude of pillows and handmade quilt of overflowing flowers.
I set the tray down on the small table in the corner, two main windows bracketing the seating area and served Willow as she sank into the arms of the plush chair, its wooden arms curving around her, the padded rests and towering back seeming to swallow the woman in a hug. She appeared so tiny and fragile despite her height, like someone drained her of all her energy and light and left her bereft. I sat across from her, offering her a cookie which she accepted but didn’t eat, setting it on the edge of her saucer before straining her teabag and sipping her tea.
“Thank you, Fee,” she whispered over it, breathing in the scent. “I needed this.” She tried another smile, still tremulous but more substantial at least. “And this visit. There are times I’m surrounded by people but…”
“It has to be easy to feel like you’re alone in the job you do,” I said.
She nodded then, settling back with the cup in her hands, her dark hair shadowing her as the sun finally set the rest of the way behind the mountains, blue of the sky deepening to the surreal. “Not many people understand real loneliness. And it’s hard to talk about it when you’re someone like me. It’s easy to judge, considering the lifestyle I’m allowed thanks to what I do.”
“Because you have it all, right?” I’d always been empathetic, but there was an ease to our connection that felt far more intimate than with anyone I’d ever met. “Perfect husband, perfect job, perfect life?”
She laughed, an unpleasant sound, though a match to her expression and the growing shadows across her face. “Exactly,” she said. “All hollow, every bit of it.”
The door opened abruptly, Julian entering without knocking. Case in point? He glared at me instantly, though from Willow’s sigh his presence and protectiveness wasn’t as welcome as he might think.
“That will be all,” he snapped at me. “Willow, we need to talk.”
Wow. He did not just order me around in my place like I was the help.
I had seen Willow’s sadness, her kindness with real joy tied in, and even her disillusionment. But I hadn’t yet seen her angry. Until now, though just a flicker of it. And again I was reminded that she was far stronger than she appeared.
“Fee and I are having tea,” she said without raising her voice. But there was a shift in her tone, a subtle feeling to her that made me feel like I was in the presence of power. I’d thought her charismatic control was in evidence when we’d first met. I had no idea. “We can talk later, Julian.”
Either he was accustomed to her and it didn’t affect him in the same way or he just didn’t care. Because he ignored her subtle warning and went on as if I wasn’t there.
“This whole disaster needs to be cleared up immediately,” he said. “I don’t think you realize the kind of trouble you’re in. As your manager and your lawyer, I strongly advise you to keep your mouth shut.”
“I didn’t kill Skip,” she said.
“The spouse is always the prime suspect, you must know that.” He glanced at me, as if only then remembering I was there. His eyes dulled, the kind of pit viper expression reminding me he was a lawyer at heart, and I really, really hated lawyers. “You do realize this one is a mouthpiece for the sheriff?”
I looked away rather than answer, my gaze drawn to the bathroom door, gaping open while Willow spoke.
“Stop being ridiculous,” she said as my eyes caught the bottle of prescription pills on her countertop and my heart stopped beating for a second.
“Willow,” I said, voice more level than I expecte
d. “Were you sharing a room with Skip?” There was no way they were. Her things were distinctive, without a trace of anything masculine to sully her space. And hadn’t she said “rooms” when she’d first arrived? That they needed to get settled in their rooms?
“We always take separate spaces,” she said as I turned back to meet her eyes. Was that anxiety? So, was it worry she might get caught or that I was judging her?
“That means that’s your Vicodin in the bathroom?” I was guessing, of course, the label too small for me to read at this distance. From the twitch of her lips, though, I nailed it. I hated that it sounded as if I was accusing her of something. Lots of people used that painkiller. And there was no proof Vicodin killed Skip. Crew seemed to be on the trail of that new injectable drug, Quexol. So why did the sight of her bottle give me chills? And make me suspect there was more to her story with Skip than I knew, too?
“See?” Julian’s snapping tone was paired with a firm hand on my arm trying to pull me out of my seat. I jerked out of his grip and surged to my feet, ready to call him out for daring to lay a finger on me. “I told you. She’s not your friend.”
Willow sighed, soft and low. I turned to her as she stared into her cup and shrugged.
“Neither are you, Julian,” she said. “I’m just your meal ticket and we both know it.” He spluttered but she cut him off with a gesture, looking up with fury crackling in her eyes, that iron core showing all over again. “Get out.”
“Willow!” He looked back and forth between her and me. “Darling.” How revolting. I didn’t know how she could bear to keep him around. I’d have kicked his ass out of my life long ago. But I suppose having someone who was the industry in her life was a necessary evil.
“Now, Julian.” She set the tea mug aside. “I’m not asking.”
He left in a huff after a brief hesitation. I let him go without comment before turning back to Willow, startled to find her standing next to me, eyes staring into mine. Emotionless and without the welcome I’d first seen there. But her expression softened while she sagged before me as if no longer able to hold up a strong front.
“I hurt my back last year,” she said. “Doing a stunt for a film. It was stupid.” She laughed, a flash of real joy on her face. “It was fun, though. I’d do it again if they’d ever let me. Which they probably never will because I’m a klutz and deserved what I got.” She shook her head, softness returning. “I’ve been in physical therapy for it, but too much activity can make it flare up. I keep the Vicodin for it but I hate taking it.”
I nodded, swallowed. “Willow, I’m sorry. Sometimes my curiosity is a curse.”
She laughed then and hugged me. “At least you’re honest,” she said. “That I can respect, Fee. But I am tired, if you don’t mind.”
I hated that we’d lost our rapport, especially since I really didn’t want to believe she killed her husband. Though, from what I knew of him—and how much more was likely hidden from the public—did she have cause? I wouldn’t doubt it. And felt ill thinking about it further.
I left her to rest, staring out the window into the dying light, and headed downstairs to the sound of Olivia calling for me. Sighing and eye rolling, I made it to the foyer before she pounced on me, eyes bulging, clearly in a panic.
“Someone posted Skip’s death live on social media,” she choked. “Every press agency in the world is coming to Reading and we’re not ready for that kind of attention!”
Because worrying about what the town looked like was the most important thing when a man was murdered.
***
Chapter Sixteen
Thankfully Mom appeared before Olivia could shake me or fall into a seizure fit or whatever it was she seemed about to do in the face of such pressure. I wondered again, as I had in February when I noted the weariness in her, just how long our tourism-hungry mayor could keep up the kind of pace that seemed to be leading her down the path to a heart attack or an aneurysm or a public breakdown of massive proportions.
I didn’t have to handle it alone at least, my mother’s firm hands and capable manner diffusing Olivia as she grasped the mayor’s shoulder and squeezed kindly, beaming a smile.
“What an excellent opportunity for Reading!” Dear god, did Mom just spew one of Olivia’s taglines? The mayor stilled, smiled a little, as my mother guided her into the sitting room and plunked her firmly on the love seat, Petunia hopping up next to her and leaning into her, panting her happiness while Olivia’s hands auto-stroked the pug’s soft fur. “Olivia, what do we need to do?”
The mayor gaped at Mom a second before swallowing, the glazed look in her eyes snapping to focused determination. “The council,” she gasped, trying to lurch to her feet. But Mom stood right in front of her, pinning her in place.
“Great idea,” Mom said. “I’ll call city hall and have them assembled. An hour, then?”
Olivia sagged back into the seat and, for a heartbeat, her human side showed. All the stress and anxiety and guilt and longing appeared in little flashes of emotion that seemed to ripple beneath her skin in a crashing tide of impending doom. I gaped at the obvious pressure cracks that showed under the surface of who she showed the world and threw a worried glance at my mother who just beamed down at Olivia with steady confidence.
Amazing to observe the slow recovery, the shift from all that oppressive emotion into calm and collection. How just the supportive and judgement free energy that radiated from my mother seemed to draw out Olivia’s panic and ease her into calm.
“Thank you, Lucy,” Olivia said, sounding like a human being and not a politician. “That will be fine. I’ll make a few calls to some of the local businesses to prepare them.”
“And I’ll check with the lodge,” Mom said, offering Olivia her hand and guiding her to her feet, “to see if they’ve fixed the gas leak issue.”
“Excellent.” The mayor nodded to my mother with a pleasant smile then to me as if nothing had happened and walked out of the room, fishing in her pocket for her phone. Only to turn back to the two of us and nod, not noticing Matt descending the stairs behind her. “Well done, you two,” she said, whatever that meant. The fact we didn’t freak out on her? Or try to shut her down? Maybe. “I know I can count on both of you. We’re in this to win it, right?”
I wasn’t expecting the snort of derision from Matt as he paused and met my gaze with his own full of wry amusement.
“You sound like a football coach,” he said.
She turned to him, nodded. “I could use some pointers then,” she said. Her phone rang before he could respond and she lunged from the room, hissing orders to whoever was on the other end.
“Can I trouble you for coffee, Lu?” Matt’s humbleness was such a switch from Julian’s arrogance I instantly reacted, Mom beside me, the three of us heading for the kitchen. He seemed quite at ease, though grief lingered, and I let my mother—his former principal—handle the coffee prep as I guided the coach back out and into the dining room instead, seating him next to the big hutch full of Grandmother Iris’s old china and pulling up a chair next to him.
His big fingers toyed with a folded white napkin, the tables laid out for tea service they wouldn’t have to serve for a while if my B&B continued to host a murder investigation. “He was a good guy, once,” Matt said. Cleared his throat and looked startled as if surprised he’d spoken out loud.
“I’m sure he was.” My experience with sports jocks in high school begged to differ. But Willow obviously saw something in him that was worth hanging onto, so I gave Skip Anderson the benefit of the doubt.
“Not entirely good, though.” Matt choked on a laugh as Mom arrived and handed him coffee, sitting on the other side of the sorrowful man, patting his hand gently. He nodded his thanks for the coffee or the kindness, I didn’t know which one.
“Matt,” Mom said. “I know you have loyalty to Skip. I remember what he was like when I was still teaching, though. Don’t you?”
“I do, Lu,” he said. “He could be a
bully and he hated school. But he was loyal to his team and from what I saw he was good to Willow.” Matt hung his head. “And I loved that kid, Lucy, despite his failings. Because we all have them, one way or another.”
“True enough,” Mom said. “I’m so sorry to see you wrapped up in this, Matt. I’ve missed talking to you since you left with Skip.”
He nodded, wiped at his cheeks in haste as tears escaped his dark eyes. He stared down into the coffee Mom gave him, hands clasped before him on the table, the napkin in a sorry state in his big grip. “It’s been a hell of a ride, one I wouldn’t trade for anything despite missing being home, teaching the local team. But the chance to go with Skip was just too tempting. And it went well for a long time, a lot of years. It’s just that all those concussions, he kept getting worse. I wanted him to take a season off but the doctors cleared him. But this last one.” He shook his head, face grim. “It was bad, really bad.”
I didn’t follow football, but I did vaguely recall hearing Skip had been hurt last season. “But he played this year?”
“He did. Shouldn’t have.” Matt met my eyes at last, his full of anger. “He was struggling. The team was going to cut him because he was in trouble. We all saw the writing on the wall. So he drugged up as much as he could to kill the pain and got out there every game.” He sounded like he thought that kind of dedication had to count for something. I just thought it sounded idiotically stubborn and dangerous.
“Was he going to lose his position on the team, Matt?” And with Skip’s career over, wouldn’t his coach’s go with it?
“It didn’t matter anymore,” Matt said, so much grief in his voice I could barely make him out. “If the game didn’t kill him, the painkillers would have. Did, I guess.”
Mom made a soft sound of sorrow, covering one of his hands with her little ones.
