by Delia James
“How are Jake and Miranda doing?” Sean asked as he carefully poured out the cocktail into a wide-mouthed glass.
“They’re trying to be okay, but it’s hard.”
He nodded as he set the drink in front of me. “Pear martini,” he said. “You will notice is it shaken, not stirred, which means it’s milder. There’s a reason James Bond drank these on the job.”
I smiled and I sipped. The martini was just sweet enough and lovely and cool, and as he’d promised, fairly mild. “Thanks, Sean.”
“Maybe I should ask if you’re doing okay?”
“Bartender sense tingling again?”
He shrugged. “It’s a gift.”
“I don’t suppose anybody’s been talking about . . . things here?”
“Was that supposed to be a subtle reference to Jimmy Upton’s murder?”
“It’s a work in progress.”
Sean chuckled. “As a matter of fact, Dad told me that yesterday the food and beverages manager—”
“Kelly Pierce?” I put in.
“You’re fast. Yeah. Kelly got all the staff together and gave them the warning from on high that they were absolutely not to be talking to any press or police about Jimmy Upton without approval from Mrs. Hilde herself. So, somebody’s worried about what Jimmy’s death means for the hotel. And we’ve already had to chase Frank Hawthorne out.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” I took another sip of martini.
“Because we both know Frank,” said Sean. He glanced toward the door behind the bar. “Now, here comes the man you should really talk to.”
The swinging door was pushed open from the other side and a gray-haired man in a battered shovel cap with his sleeves rolled up above his elbows backed in, carrying a wooden crate. It rattled.
“There’s himself,” said Sean, suddenly sounding very Irish.
“Himself, indeed.” “Old” Sean McNally hefted the crate up onto the bar with a grunt. It rattled again.
The senior Sean McNally is a wiry, weather-beaten man with iron gray hair and calloused hands. He always shakes mine delicately, like he’s afraid he’s going to break something. Just then, his eyes twinkled at me and his son, in a way that threatened to make me blush. Sean, I noticed, was not looking at me.
“Well, hello, Anna. What brings you in here this fine day?” Old Sean peered skeptically at my glass. “And what’s this concoction my son’s talked you into?”
“It’s a pear martini.”
“Pear martini,” Mr. McNally sneered in mock horror. “Corrupting good liquor, that’s what the boy does with his syrups and his fruit and heaven knows what else.”
Sean rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, looking for patience. “So. How’d it go, Dad?”
Mr. McNally laid his broad hand reverently on the crate. “What we’ve got here, my boy, is a dozen bottles of the finest moonshine from the White Mountains. Still can’t get used to being able to bring it in the front door.”
The distilling laws had recently been changed to make small-batch moonshine legal in both New Hampshire and Vermont. Now, apparently, the craft liquor industry was booming in both states. The Sean McNallys, Young and Old, had certainly been over the moon (so to speak) about the change.
A server came up with another order. Sean got to work, pulling a couple of bottles of beer from the fridge under the bar and then some more bottles of liquor off of the shelf. “Anna was there when they found Upton, Dad,” Sean said as he started mixing spirits and bitters with practiced efficiency.
“Were you, now?” Mr. McNally raised his shaggy gray eyebrows at me. “God almighty, what a thing. Not that I’m entirely surprised, mind you.”
“I’ve heard he wasn’t very well liked,” I remarked.
“Well now, that would depend on who you asked, wouldn’t it?” said Old Sean. I took another sip of martini. I knew Old Sean well enough to know he wouldn’t appreciate it if I tried to rush a good story. Yes, I’d just heard that the hotel bar staff had been told not to talk to anybody. But when has a warning like that ever actually stopped an Irishman?
“I suppose you could say he was a problem child,” said Sean. “Not that you could have told Mrs. Hilde herself that, but—”
But that was as far as he got.
“Good afternoon, Mr. McNally.” A woman’s voice cut across whatever he’d been about to add.
We all turned. A petite, strongly curved woman who wore the hotel’s red blazer over a black turtleneck and black pencil skirt walked up. Her attitude and her blazer had “management” written all over them. I picked up my drink and tried to make myself look casual and not at all like I might be wasting staff time with unauthorized gossip.
“Is that our moonshine?” the woman asked as she reached the bar.
“It is indeed.” Old Sean extracted a clear bottle from the case. GRANITE SHINE was written in flowing script above the outline of a twisted apple tree clinging to the edge of a rugged cliff.
“And may I take it you’ve sampled the batch?” The woman asked as she turned the bottle in her hands.
“Ah, well now, I couldn’t risk bringing an inferior product here, could I?” said Mr. McNally with a wink and a distinct thickening of his Irish brogue. “I can promise you it is as smooth as silk and twice as strong.”
“Excellent. I’ve got a conference representative coming in this afternoon to look us over. I’ll just keep this as a sweetener. Enjoy your stay,” she added to me before she walked out with the bottle.
“Your boss?” I asked.
Sean shook his head. “That was none other than Kelly Pierce, the food and beverages manager for this grand hotel.”
That meant she oversaw not only the bar, but the kitchen and the coffee shop and things like the complimentary fruit baskets and the pillow mints. “She’s the one who told the staff not to talk to anybody?”
“Just delivering orders from the family,” said Mr. McNally. “She’s not a bad sort. Too much on her shoulders, to be sure. Jimmy going missing didn’t make things any easier.”
“Did you know him at all?”
Mr. McNally took his time answering that. “I talked with him a few times. He was a smart fellow. Interested in the local brewers and distillers. Thought we should be suggesting pairings on the menu, like they all do nowadays.”
“I’d’ve thought that the chef or the manager would handle that sort of detail.”
“Yes, you would, now, wouldn’t you?” said Mr. McNally. “Jimmy, though, he knew best, and he wasn’t shy about letting other people know it, either.”
“That must have caused some trouble.”
“Some, yes, but not as much as you’d think. Like I said, he was one smart fellow, and he knew which side his bread was buttered on.” Sean Senior got that conspiratorial look in his twinkling eyes that belongs to the best storytellers. I leaned closer. Old Sean leaned closer. He touched the side of his nose, signaling that what he had to say was dark, difficult, dangerous and very, very interesting.
“Ix-nay, ad-day,” said Young Sean quietly.
We all turned and I about choked on my swallow of pear martini.
Grandma B.B. was walking into the bar, and she wasn’t alone.
16
“Grandma B.B.!”
“Anna!” Grandma B.B. bustled up to the three of us. The woman with her most definitely did not bustle. She walked with a smooth, confident air, like she owned the place. Which she just might have. She wasn’t wearing the red blazer, but the McNallys, Junior and Senior, straightened up in that abrupt way people do when the person who cuts the checks walks into the room.
“I didn’t expect to see you here, dear.” Grandma hugged me. “And, oh, my goodness, Sean? Is that you?”
“Annie-Bell Blessingsound!” Old Sean laughed and they hugged. “My boy told me you were back! It’s wonderful t
o see you again!”
“Gretchen.” Grandma turned to the other woman when she and Old Sean pulled apart. “Have you met my granddaughter Anna Britton?”
“No, we haven’t had the opportunity. Gretchen Hilde.” She held out her hand and we shook. Mrs. Hilde was a slender woman about my grandmother’s age. But where Grandma was wearing a royal purple tunic over her gray jeans, Mrs. Hilde dressed in an immaculate brown pants suit with a rust orange blouse. Her hair had been dyed a muted copper color and pulled back into a tidy knot at the nape of her neck. She wore a heavy gold necklace and a small pin on her lapel that looked like it was a miniature version of the hotel crest.
“Well, Mr. McNally.” She smiled. “Was your quest successful?”
“It was indeed.” Old Sean pulled a bottle of the moonshine out of the case and handed it to her. Mrs. Hilde examined it briefly. Old Sean grinned over her head at Grandma, who beamed right back.
“Excellent job.” Mrs. Hilde passed the bottle to Sean Junior. “If this sells, I’m sure Ms. Pierce will want us to place a standing order. Sean, I know we can count on you for some of your original creations featuring our new acquisition?”
Sean tipped his fedora. “Already in the works, Mrs. Hilde.”
“Good.” She turned to Grandma. “Now, Annabelle, what would you like to drink? Or do you two have some more catching up to do?” Under this casual question, there was a very strong reminder that somebody in this group was on the clock.
Old Sean was not slow on the uptake. “I’ll just get these put away. Annie-Bell and I will have plenty of time for talk later.” He hefted the moonshine crate off the bar and started stashing the bottles underneath.
“Can I get you that drink, Mrs. Britton?” asked Young Sean, all brisk business.
Grandma B.B. looked wistful, and I knew she was considering ordering her own favorite beverage, which happened to be rum and ginger. “Just some iced tea, thank you.”
“Two, please, Sean,” said Mrs. Hilde. “You should join us, Anna.” This was supposed to be a kind invitation, but, honestly, it sounded like an order.
“I don’t want to intrude,” I said, but only because it was polite.
“You wouldn’t be, dear. Gretchen and I were just having a little catch-up.” Grandma was giving me a look like Alistair when he got into the half-and-half. I was starting to think that Grandma might be a little better at the Nancy Drew thing than I was. It was not a comfortable idea.
I picked up my pear martini. Grandma smiled and Mrs. Hilde smiled and I smiled, and we all threaded between the small tables and clusters of comfortable chairs.
“When Grandma said she was meeting old friends, I didn’t realize who she meant,” I said as we settled in the alcove made by one of the hotel’s bay windows. We had a perfect view of the sloping lawn and the marina in the deepening twilight. “I think she said you two were in high school together?”
Mrs. Hilde nodded. “I always knew Annabelle would be back sooner or later. I’m a little surprised it took so long.”
“Well, there were some extenuating circumstances.”
“There usually were around you, Annabelle.”
“Oh, really?” I drawled. Was Grandma B.B. actually blushing? Yes, she was. How very interesting.
“What?” said Gretchen in mock surprise. “You never told your grandchildren about the great feud of ’sixty-six?”
I about choked on my sip of martini. Was Mrs. Hilde another witch? But from the way Grandma was suddenly looking around the room for a way to change the subject, I knew this was something else altogether.
“Grandma?” I said significantly. “What feud is this?”
“It was all such a long time ago,” said Grandma quickly. “Really. It was nothing.”
But Mrs. Hilde was not ready to let the subject go so easily. She leaned over to me and said in a stage whisper, “Your grandmother stole my boyfriend.”
Now, of course, I knew Grandma B.B. had a life before she became, well, my grandmother. And technically, I knew that meant she’d been a teenager and a young bride and all kinds of other things. But this was still something of a shock. “What? Mrs. Hilde, you dated Grandpa C.?”
Gretchen nodded solemnly. “But not for long once Annabelle finally made up her mind. She was quite the heartbreaker back in the day. In high school we used to call her Anna Fatale.”
I felt a smile spreading. “You know, somehow, she never mentioned that at Christmas dinner.”
Grandma was definitely blushing now, and I admit I was enjoying this a little more than I should have. Sean came over with the two iced teas and a quizzical look. I just shook my head. Later. He nodded and made a professionally quiet departure.
Grandma laughed, but the sound was forced. “Oh, it was nothing so dramatic as all that, Gretchen.”
“No. I suppose not. We were still just girls, really.”
They were nice words, but at the same time, I thought I heard an edge under them. I wondered if Gretchen was really over this little personal altercation. Especially since she also seemed to be enjoying Grandma’s discomfort a little too much.
Mrs. Hilde took a long drink of her iced tea.
“I’m glad you’re here, Anna,” she said to me. “I wanted to come talk to you, but I admit, I didn’t quite know how to introduce myself under the circumstances. I wanted . . .” For the first time Mrs. Hilde’s polished confidence wavered. “Annabelle told me you were there when they found Jimmy.”
“I was. I’m sorry for your loss.” I hoped that was the right thing to say.
“Thank you,” Gretchen whispered. “It’s such a shock. I keep expecting him to walk through the door.”
“I understand he was a very talented young man,” said Grandma. “Did you know him well before he came to work for you?”
“No, actually, it was only an accident we hired him at all.”
“Really?” Grandma arched her brows at me.
Gretchen nodded. Her long face had gone wistful and more than a little bit sad. “Would you believe I met him in a dark alley?” she told us.
“Gretchen! No!” exclaimed Grandma B.B.
“Oh, yes.” She took another long drink of her tea. “You’re not the only one who gets to have her adventures, Annabelle.”
I suddenly sat up straighter.
“Anna?” said Grandma.
“Oh, ah, nothing.” Except that I could feel a cat rubbing around my ankles. Alistair, I thought. If you picked now to show up . . .
“Oh, Bootsie!” cried Mrs. Hilde. “You know you’re not supposed to be in here!”
All at once, Gretchen Hilde vanished. It took me a second to realize she’d just ducked underneath the table. When she reappeared, she had a delicate orange-and-white cat in her arms.
“This is our cat, Miss Boots.” Gretchen lifted the cat’s paw and wiggled it, as if Miss Boots was waving at me. Miss Boots tolerated this with an expression of long and patient suffering on her whiskered face. “She’s the seventh generation of her family to live here at Harbor’s Rest.” I remembered the painting of the cats in the lobby and I smiled. It’s hard not to feel warm and fuzzy about a place with generational cats. “And she knows better than to be in the bar or the restaurant.” Gretchen held the cat up so they were eye to eye and gave her a gentle shake. “Don’t you, Bootsie-Wootsie?”
Miss Boots looked at me as if to disclaim all knowledge of this woman, her family and anybody who might possibly be named Bootsie-Wootsie.
“Don’t worry.” Grandma rubbed the cat’s ears. “We won’t tell the health department on you, will we, Anna?”
“Of course not.” I reached across the table as Gretchen settled the cat onto her lap, and scratched Miss Boots behind the ears. In response she lapped my knuckles once.
“There, now you’re a friend of the family,” said Gretchen. “Miss Boots can alwa
ys tell who the real cat lovers are. Not that I’m surprised, since your grandmother says Alistair’s adopted you.” My cat has a bit of a reputation around town.
“Did Miss Boots like Jimmy?” asked Grandma.
“Oh. Yes.” Gretchen petted Miss Boots, a long, slow, thoughtful motion. “She loved him from the first. We all did.”
That, of course, was not what I’d heard, but I decided not to bring it up. “Did you really meet him in a dark alley?”
Gretchen smiled, an expression that was part amusement, part embarrassment. “Well, not an alley, exactly, but it was the service bay behind the kitchens. I’ve given most of the management of the hotel over to my children, but I do still live here, and I still do a walk-through most nights. Not as often as I used to, I admit, but I like to keep my hand in.
“Well, I was down in the kitchen, and I heard this banging noise from outside. I went to look—”
“Gretchen!” cried Grandma, loud enough that Miss Boots lifted her head and looked distinctly miffed.
“Yes, yes, I know.” Gretchen rubbed the cat’s head until she settled down again. “But I assumed it was a raccoon or a stray . . . something like that. What I found instead was a young man going through the Dumpsters. He saw the light come on, and he saw me, but instead of running away, he stood right up and asked if I was aware how much food the hotel kitchen was wasting.”
Martine was right. The kid had some kind of chutzpah.
“Well, I could tell he was hungry, so I invited him in for a decent meal.”
“Oh, Gretchen! That was kind of you,” said Grandma. “But weren’t you a little . . . concerned?”
“If it had been anybody else, I probably would have been. But Jimmy had what I can only call an air about him. I know that’s an old-fashioned phrase, but it’s the only description I’ve got. Even though he had clearly been on the streets for a while, he was still so confident, so sure of himself.”
I remembered what Old Sean had said about Jimmy Upton’s charm. Come to that, Frank and Martine had both said something similar.
