by Vicki Delany
She looked up, blinking rapidly from beneath thick glasses. “Yes?”
“I’m, uh . . . I’m . . .”
I was saved from trying to decide who I was by the arrival of Rose and Bernie. Rose immediately took the chair next to Dorothy Johnson.
“Hello,” Dorothy said. “Are you new here?”
“In a manner of speaking. My name’s Rose, and I believe you are Dorothy.”
“I am. I hope you’re not a vegetarian, Rose.”
“I’m not.”
“Good. They serve a vegetarian option here, and I’ve been told it’s perfectly dreadful. I hope we’re not having what they call steak tonight. Whenever they serve beef, I’m sure the poor cow died of old age.”
“Are these seats reserved?” I said. “I wouldn’t want to put anyone out.”
“No. We sit wherever we like. I rarely have companions at meals.” Dorothy glanced around the room. “Miserable bunch.”
“Uh . . . okay,” I said. I slipped into a chair, and Bernie took the other.
Dorothy gave me a vacant smile. “Is this your daughter, Rose? How nice of her to visit.”
I decided that considering the woman’s bad eyesight, I’d not take offense at being taken for my mother’s age.
Dorothy next smiled at Bernie. “And your daughter brought her daughter. How nice.”
Bernie snickered.
“Such a pretty girl, too. Such gorgeous red hair,” Dorothy said. Bernie pointedly avoided my eyes. “If you want your visitors to eat, Rose, you need to advise Maria ahead of time so she can ensure the exorbitant cost goes on your bill. Did you do that?”
“They don’t need to eat,” Rose said. I wasn’t disappointed to hear that. Young waitresses, high school students most likely, had appeared with trays of soup. I’ve seen dishwater that looked more appealing. The bread intended to accompany the soup was nothing but thin slices of white bread from a supermarket package.
A waitress dumped a bowl containing a drizzle of soup in front of Dorothy and another before Rose. She glanced at Bernie and me.
“Not for us, thanks,” Bernie said.
Dorothy picked up her spoon, and Rose pushed her soup to one side. “Jack Ford,” she said.
Dorothy froze, the spoon halfway to her open mouth.
“You knew him,” Rose said. “Did you hear he died?”
“I heard. I would have danced a jig around my apartment if my hip wasn’t so bad these days.”
“Is that so? He wasn’t a friend of yours, then?”
Dorothy’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
“He was no friend of mine, either. I heard he did you wrong.”
The watery old eyes blazed fire. “You heard right.” Dorothy put down her spoon with a sigh. Tears welled up, putting out the fire. “He wasn’t a nice man.”
Rose placed her hand on top of Dorothy’s. “Do you want to tell me about it, love?”
“I wasn’t sure I was ready to sell the house yet. We’d had so many happy years there. But it was getting too much for me. A big house, the garden, snow in winter. He came knocking on my door, saying he was looking for a home in the area and admired mine. It was a lovely neighborhood, and I have to admit my house was looking a bit . . . tired. I didn’t have the energy to keep it up, nor the money to pay anyone else to. He was so friendly. So charming. He’d heard, he said, the public school was an excellent one. I didn’t know about that—it had been a long time since I was concerned about the school—but I said that was true. He wanted a nice home in a nice neighborhood for his family. I was happy to do without realtors and their exorbitant fees, so I sold mine to him for what he told me was an excellent price.”
“What he told you?” Rose said.
Dorothy nodded. “First thing he did was tear it down. My lovely house, gone. My rosebushes tossed on the dump, the big old trees dug up. There’s an office building going up there now. He hadn’t told me that section of the block had been rezoned. A horrible thing with a parking lot and no trees. Mr. Ford never had any intention of living there. I since learned I could have sold my house for a lot more than I got. But I thought he was nice.”
Rose patted her hand.
“I always intended to move to Florida when I sold the house.” Dorothy dipped her spoon into her soup bowl and let the thin liquid dribble off it. “Instead, here I am. In this horrible place. It’s all I can afford. But now Jack Ford’s heading for his grave, so I can say he’s worse off than me.”
“What about your children?” Rose asked. “Do they help you?”
“They’ve worries of their own. My daughter has the children, you know. They keep her so busy.”
“I’m sure they do.” Rose stood up. Bernie and I hurried to do the same. “Thank you for talking to me.”
“My son lives in Boston, and he hasn’t spoken to me since he found out what the house next door sold for. Almost twice what I got.”
“You didn’t check with the neighbors?” Bernie asked. “To find out what was going on in the neighborhood?”
“I didn’t have anything to do with those people,” Dorothy sniffed. “Miserable bunch, the lot of them.”
Okay then.
“It was nice meeting you, Rose. I assume you aren’t moving into this place?”
“No.”
“You’re lucky.”
“At least you can stay in North Augusta,” I said, trying to be cheerful. “Close to your friends.”
“My friends! I never could stand any one of them. Why do you think I wanted to move to Florida?” She went back to her soup.
“That was interesting,” I said when we were standing outside.
“Interesting,” Rose said, “but not informative. We already knew Jack Ford was a sleazy businessman.”
“Mrs. Johnson didn’t exactly hide her feelings for him,” I said. “I hope you’re not going to tell the police she had a motive.”
“Hardly. She might have quite cheerfully killed him, but I can’t see her stalking the man across my lawn in the early hours and wrestling with him at the edge of the cliff, can you?”
“No,” Bernie and I agreed.
“Poor thing,” I said.
“I wouldn’t feel too sorry for her,” Rose said. “She foolishly wouldn’t take the advice of a realtor, because she begrudged them their fees. I sense a bitter old woman who would have been bitter no matter what happened. She wouldn’t have been any happier in Florida. We take our attitudes toward people with us wherever we go. It’s our choice whether we get on with others or not. This isn’t one of the better retirement homes, but I’ve seen a lot worse.”
“Where to now?” Bernie asked.
“Home,” I said. “I have baking to do for tomorrow.”
“Home,” Rose said. “Our inquiries have dried up for today. We will resume tomorrow.”
“We will, will we?” I said.
“We will.”
Chapter 14
I spent a restless night. Éclair shuffled and sniffed and groaned and thrashed. I tossed and turned, pounded my pillow, tossed and turned some more. The wind was high: outside my windows, waves threw themselves against the shore, branches scraped the glass, and the old cottage squeaked.
Events of yesterday and today had been churning around and around in my mind, refusing to let me settle. Every time I’d been about to drop off, an image of Detective Williams almost accusing Rose of being a killer popped into my mind.
Finally, I threw off the covers and got up. Éclair opened one eye, saw it was still dark, and went back to sleep. I made myself a cup of chamomile tea and sat at the kitchen table to drink it. My iPad lay in front of me. I eyed it. Using electronic devices is the worst way, so they say, of luring oneself to sleep. Nevertheless, I opened it.
I started at the NAPD web site to find out what information was available for Amy Redmond and Chuck Williams. Williams, I read, had been with the department for almost twenty years, his entire police career. Redmond, two weeks.
I
expanded my search. Williams was regularly featured in the local paper, making a statement about a break and enter or a traffic accident or handing out awards at service clubs. He always smiled broadly for the camera, even at times when I thought smiling to be a touch inappropriate. He loved being the center of attention, all right.
I left the North Augusta Times web site and accessed the community forums. The more I read, the less favorable the attention became. Citizens complained Williams wasn’t investigating their concerns properly. A couple of letters to chat boards said he hounded what he considered to be unsuitable elements out of town. He was accused of grandstanding—making a minor situation seem more important than it was in order to make himself look better. About a year ago, an anonymous letter writer accused Williams of causing a traffic accident when he was drunk on duty and behind the wheel of a cruiser. I tried to find more on that story, but it ended abruptly. Not another word was said.
I found several pictures of Williams with Lincoln Goodwill: Goodwill making a donation to the police charity drive, Goodwill at the opening of the new police station a couple of years ago. The police chief’s name was Martin Summerdale, and he didn’t appear to be one for the limelight. In many of the public photos, he stood slightly to one side, with a pasted-on smile, while Williams took center stage.
As for his career, Williams had no highs and no lows. A plodding small-town cop heading for retirement. As I read, I realized there had been no murders in North Augusta for many years. Meaning Detective Williams was way out of his depth investigating the death of Jack Ford.
Detective Amy Redmond was another story entirely. She came from Boston, where she’d been a cop for ten years. She’d been one of the lead detectives on a high-profile murder case: a sports star had killed his wife’s lover and claimed self-defense. Photos in the Boston papers showed Redmond coming out of court after the verdict of not guilty came down. She did not look happy. Her name popped up in other cases, many of them big ones and most of them resulting in a conviction.
I wondered what had brought her to sleepy little North Augusta.
I remembered how she’d edged away when the photographer had arrived at the scene of Jack Ford’s death. At the time, I’d assumed she figured she had more important things to do than pose for the camera. Now I wondered if she’d been consciously trying to avoid having her picture taken.
I picked up my cup and realized it was empty. I glanced at the clock. Two thirty. I had to be up in three hours, ready to start another fourteen-hour day. I headed back to bed. Éclair was spread across the bed, snoring happily. For a forty-pound animal, she could take up more than her share of space.
I shoved Éclair over and crawled between the covers, hoping sleep would soon come.
I awoke in a panic, convinced I’d forgotten to do something important. Then it came to me—ensure Rose and her friends had a table at one o’clock. I fumbled for my phone in the dark and called the tearoom, where I left a message on the answering machine. The clock on the phone told me it was three o’clock. When I lay back down, I discovered Éclair had moved and was smack-dab in the middle of my section of the bed. I shoved her over. She resisted, but I was stronger . . . barely. I finally drifted off to sleep, lulled by the steady breathing of my dog and the steady, comforting beat of the waves rushing to shore and breaking on the rocks at the bottom of the bluffs.
* * *
“Do you recognize this item?” Detective Williams held out a photograph.
“It looks like a hiking pole.”
“So it does. I asked if you recognize it.”
“I’ve seen quite a few of those around here. People who walk along the cliff path often use them. I don’t own one, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“How about your grandmother?”
I tried not to sigh. It was noon, and I was expecting a full house all day, but instead of coming to the tearoom to question me, as Redmond had done, Williams sent a uniformed officer to “escort” me to Rose’s house. My phone had gone off as we walked down the driveway, and the officer snarled at me not to answer it. I’d peeked at the screen under cover of turning the sound off: Rose.
I was now with Williams in the drawing room, where I feared he was beginning to make himself altogether too comfortable.
“Have you asked her?” I said.
“I’m asking you.”
“She doesn’t own anything like that. She uses a cane, not hiking poles.”
He tried not to look too disappointed. “That’s what she says. I’ve asked around, and no one remembers seeing her with something like this.”
“Saturday morning, as I was coming to the house to start breakfast, shortly before six, I saw two women going for a hike. They had poles. They said good morning and went down the stairs. I don’t remember if they were exactly like that one, though.”
“Were these women guests here?”
“I can’t say. I don’t usually mix with the guests.” I described them as best I could, and Williams jotted the information in his notebook.
I stood up. “If we’re finished . . .”
“We’re not. This one looks new. I’ve got officers going to the outdoor equipment stores, showing the picture and asking if anyone remembers anyone buying one like this. If you or your grandmother or your red-headed friend did, I’ll find out.”
“Well, we didn’t, so you won’t. Where did you find it?”
“We’ve been searching the shoreline, looking for whatever might have been used to knock Jack Ford off balance and send him over the cliff. This”—he nodded at the photograph—“was found on the beach, a hundred or so feet farther along, this morning. The sea was rough last night. It must have washed up on the rocks.”
“You don’t know if it was used on Ford. Someone might have lost it.”
“Police work, Ms. Roberts, is all about details. Details and little things. It’s often the little things that trip people up.” He eyed me, no doubt expecting me to trip up at any moment.
I said nothing.
“You can go,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said.
Two can play at that game. I headed for the door and then turned sharply around. “You have to come, too. This is private property, and you have no right to be in this room alone.”
He sputtered but stood up. “I’ve left notes for your guests to contact me when they return. We’ll be asking them about this hiking pole.”
“You do that.”
I waited on the verandah while Williams and the officer got into their car and drove away. Then I checked my phone.
A text from Rose: They have a blue hiking pole. Not mine. Never seen it before. Is it yours?
I replied: No.
* * *
“Rose has arrived,” Cheryl said at two minutes to one.
“Punctual, as always. Make sure she gets a nice table.”
“You mean not like the un-nice ones we have for ordinary people?”
“Very funny. Try not to spill tea into her lap.”
“Let me see if I can remember that. No spilled tea. Check.” She carried a three-tiered stand into the dining room, still chuckling.
I gave Rose’s friends time to arrive and be served, and then I washed my hands and took off my apron and went to greet them. They’d been seated at the big round table in the center of the main room. The ladies were all close to my grandmother’s age, nicely dressed in bright summer dresses or colorful blouses over pressed trousers. Their hair was neatly cut gray or carefully styled dyed blond; their jewelry subdued but tasteful. Various perfumes, some applied with an excessively heavy hand, battled with the scents rising from the teapots.
“There you are,” Rose said with delight. She’d dressed for the occasion in an ankle-length, full-skirted, sleeveless dress in every possible shade of purple pulled over a yellow T-shirt. “Girls, this is my granddaughter Lily, the founder of the feast, as Charles Dickens would say.”
The women all muttered some form of “Nice to mee
t you.”
“This is absolutely delightful,” a woman with a tidy bob of pure white hair said. “You must be so proud of this marvelous place.”
“Thank you. I am.”
She lifted her glass in a salute. They’d been served the royal tea, which included a glass of sparkling wine each. I’d asked Marybeth to set the table with a full set of matching white china with an edge of navy blue and gold trim, and to use blue linen napkins.
“Do you do any catering?” one of the perfectly styled blondes asked. “It’s my turn to host the euchre club next week, and I’d love to be able to serve something like this.”
“Sorry, no. I can barely keep up with business in the tearoom as it is.”
“This chocolate tart’s amazing,” another woman said. “I’ve never had anything quite like it. Do you share your recipes?”
I smiled at her. “I can tell you it’s made with Earl Grey tea, but no more.”
“If people can make it at home,” Rose said, “why would they come here?”
“Nice meeting you, ladies,” I said. “Enjoy your tea.” I took a step back and tripped over a cane propped against one of the chairs. I stumbled and fell backward, crashing into Marybeth, who dropped the tray she was carrying with a sharp cry.
I did a smart little dance, trying to keep to my feet, while the tray and its load crashed to the floor. Some of the teacups and plates smashed, spraying fine china in all directions. People jumped, and a couple of women cried out in surprise.
“Oh, my gosh,” I said to a red-faced Marybeth. “I am so sorry. It was entirely my fault. Get the broom.” Fortunately, the dishes had been used, so we hadn’t lost any food.
Two of Rose’s friends started to stand up. “Please,” I said, “continue with your tea. We’ll have this all cleared up in a jiffy.”
While Marybeth ran for a broom, I began gathering the intact china and the bigger of the broken pieces. In all my years working in fancy restaurants and Manhattan bakeries, I’d never broken so much as a plate. This pleasant little tearoom had put me off my guard. Good thing Marybeth’s tray hadn’t contained hot food or water just off the boil.
“Where were we?” Rose said to her friends. “Oh, yes. We were talking about our esteemed mayor. Please continue, Alice.”
