by Patti Larsen
I knew that look on Mom’s face. She smiled bravely at me, setting down her fork with a tiny tinkle of silver on china. “I should know better than to think you two could have a civil dinner with everything that’s going on.” She patted my hand, her green eyes my green eyes. “And I shouldn’t have tried.”
“Mom.” I tugged at her fingers when she attempted to rise and leave. “Wait, please.” The flowers were already in a vase in the kitchen, suitably adored and lovingly displayed. I could see them through the doorway. But the box from Daisy was still in my purse and I fished it out with the slightly crumpled bow leaning to one side.
Mom’s eyes lit up even as she spoke. “Fiona Fleming, no presents. You know the rules.”
“It’s not from me,” I said. Hating at that moment her particular ideas about birthdays and fully committing, after seeing just how delighted and excited she was, that next year she’d be getting a present whether she said she liked it or not. “This is from Daisy.”
“Oh, how kind.” Mom took the box from me, clutched it in her fingers like it was a precious flower. Yup, present rule officially decimated. How had I allowed her to convince me not to give her gifts when she clearly loved them? The paper fell after a long, careful moment she spent pulling the tape free as if the contents were infinitely breakable, the small black and red box stamped with a diamond on the top. She lifted the lid, peeking inside, pulling away the thin layer of cotton while my heart hurt so much I wanted to hug my mother. And smiled with her at the sight of the slim, silver bracelet with the tiny “Lucy” charm dangling from it.
“Please tell Daisy I’ll be along to thank her personally,” Mom said. Were those tears in her eyes? “And then to spank her for being naughty. She knows the rules.”
I stood, circled the table and hugged my mother, Petunia in the way. She murmured in surprise while I grabbed Dad’s chair and pulled it closer, holding Mom’s hand. “Thanks for your birthday dinner,” I said.
Mom blinked, smiled, beamed. “You’re welcome. Will you?” She held out her wrist and the box and a moment later my fingers closed the clasp and the delicate thing dangled from her skin.
“Mom.” I sat back, biting my lower lip while she admired her gift.
“Fee.” She looked up, face quiet. “Just ask me.”
“Where was Dad Thursday night? Was he home?” Of course he was. Stupid question.
Mom didn’t answer right away and my heart stopped a beat or two while she sighed and looked down at her hands clasped in the lap of her neat pencil skirt. Her fingers toyed with her name in silver as she spoke.
“I don’t know where he was,” she said. “But I know what you’re implying, Fiona Marie Fleming, and I’m shocked by it.” Thing was, she didn’t sound shocked.
“What was between Pete and Dad, Mom?” Why did I think, after all this time, either one of my parents had changed? Just because I grew up and moved home, did I really think that was going to mean anything? Secrets. Dad loved protecting his and Mom loved protecting him.
Mom stood, kissed the top of my head. “I know being a detective is in your blood,” she whispered into my hair with enough sadness I sagged and didn’t fight her. “And though I love your father, Fee, I’m willing to tell you now I think it was a big mistake for John to keep you from pursuing a life in law enforcement.” She did? Nice to know Mom might be on my side for once. Not that it really mattered. “You’d be great at it. A chip off the block, as they say.” I looked up into her eyes. Pride there, for me. Amazing. “But please, just drop this. I’m asking you to let Crew handle it.”
I didn’t answer right away, couldn’t bring myself to nod or even murmur agreement. Because she was right, I guess. I was too much like Dad.
Mom patted my cheek, the iron finally showing again past her little smile. “Be a good girl and mind your own business,” she said from the Fleming family playbook and left the room, sad pug gazing longingly after her.
***
Chapter Sixteen
Forget trying to talk to Dad, or even find him. I helped Mom with the dishes before bundling up the pug and heading for home, actually grateful to have Petunia beside me even for that short drive. How strange, it had only taken two weeks for her to feel like a necessary part of my life. And for me to forget about Ryan. Well, mostly. I scowled through the windshield as I sped the short distance to the B&B. Thinking about my ex always riled me up, though it was gratifying to realize he wasn’t in my thoughts all that often despite the fact we were together for so long. He didn’t deserve me, I knew that. After cheating, well, he deserved a solid kick in the privates. But surely that meant I was better off, the fact I didn’t linger over him like a tongue pressing into a sore tooth?
Actually put a perk in my emotional state. Independent woman, that was me. Now, if only I could figure out what to do with the mess I was in, I’d be all set. That meant finally taking a solid look at the papers Pete Wilkins dropped in my lap, aversion to them or not.
Not to mention filling in Crew about Simon and Terri and the flower shop. And digging up that mysterious box in my garden. So much fun to be had. All while hopefully avoiding a murder rap. Good times in Reading, Vermont for Fiona Fleming.
The ladies of grim gloom were already gone when I arrived, Daisy rushing forward with her purse over her arm to kiss my cheek.
“Did she love it?” She beamed at me before hurrying past. “Got to run! Big date.”
I let her go without an argument, turning to find Petunia sitting in the middle of the foyer still in her harness, staring at me like I’d broken her big, canine heart not giving in and letting her have cheesecake. I sighed and rolled my eyes at her.
“You have tons of food that doesn’t give you gas,” I said, removing her harness before going to the guest listing on the computer to check up on business. The house felt empty though registration was as full as ever, tourists out and about, I could only imagine. It was a gorgeous night and it made sense they’d be exploring our cute little town.
I scooted downstairs to retrieve the papers before returning to the main floor, Petunia’s claws clicking their way behind me while she followed my every move. When I settled on the sofa in the front parlor, she heaved herself up beside me, head in my lap instantly, big brown eyes locked on my face.
She really shouldn’t have been on the furniture but I didn’t have the heart to tell her that. Instead, I slipped the three wrinkled sheets from the envelope and took a peek. So weird how my heart pounded and then settled while I read over the cover letter—basically telling me what Pete told me, that Grandmother Iris signed Petunia’s to him and I had about forty-eight hours to vacate—and then the two page contract in legalese that I struggled to decipher before eyeballing my grandmother’s signature on the bottom of the last page. Also signed by Pete and witnessed by someone whose name I couldn’t make out.
It was clear though, this paperwork was a photocopy of the original. Of course he’d never give me the document that proved his claim. But I wanted a look at the actual signatures, just to reassure myself this wasn’t some hoax. Though, stomach sinking and reality settling in, I sadly accepted the truth was likely something I didn’t want to face.
For whatever reason, while in the nursing home for her last days of hospice, Grandmother Iris signed away Petunia’s to a total stranger.
Now that Pete was dead, I had to talk to his heir. Getting this sorted out had to be my first priority. And maybe I could make an arrangement with whoever controlled Pete’s estate now that he was gone? I was on my feet and moving toward the front door before the groan and thud behind me stopped me in my tracks and I turned to face the unhappy pug.
“You can’t come,” I said. Winced. “And I can’t go, either.” No one to watch the place, was there? But the house stood empty and I really needed to take care of this. Did I dare just abandon my post and run off? My stern sense of responsibility kicked in before I could do something so foolish.
And instead did the only thing I could th
ink of. I called my mother. At 7:30 at night. On her birthday. And she came without a second thought, showing up at the front door of the B&B with a beaming smile for me and a kiss for Petunia.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, hurrying past her with Petunia on a lead. Because I was a sucker for a sad dog face. “I’ll just be a half hour.”
“Don’t worry, sweetie,” she said, waving from the door as I set a wicked pace Petunia would soon come to regret. “Go run your errands. I’m going to snoop in the kitchen.” That would drive Betty nuts if she knew. Mom’s laugh made me grin before I hustled off. Because, no, I didn’t tell my mother where I was really going. I wasn’t an idiot. I lied point blank to the woman who raised me so I could do exactly what she asked me not to.
Mind my own business. As if.
In the time it took for Mom to arrive I’d looked up Pete’s address. Just a few blocks away in the wealthiest part of town, so easily walkable. That was, for me. Petunia did her best to keep up, huffing and puffing her little pug heart out, but it was clear by the time we were halfway there this was going to be one of those times I wished I wasn’t such a softy.
“Come on, Petunia,” I said, tugging on her harness through the retractable lead. “You really need to get more exercise.”
She looked up at me, tongue hanging out, and I’m sure she was telling me off in her head. Well, this had been her idea, hadn’t it?
I rounded the corner of Wicker Street and looked up the block. Pete Wilkins had purchased the giant house at the end, the grand front entry flanked by trees and hidden partially behind a large gate and fence. But the gate stood open tonight, just my luck, as I half-dragged, half-cajoled the pudgy pug down the sidewalk toward the front door.
I just reached the crosswalk when I spotted a blonde emerging from the side gate and into the street beside the house. Thanks to the mountains, it was already feeling dark though the sky remained blue overhead, but still plenty of light to see by. Younger than me and dressed in a suit that really should have been a size bigger with a bit more cleavage coverage, she looked around as if she wasn’t supposed to be there before slipping into the front seat of a beat up little compact car and driving away. Nothing to do with me, but odd just the same as Petunia and I made our way to the front walk and up the cobbled path to the towering main door. Polished wood, dark and carved with detailed leaves and three lead lined panes of glass guarded the interior. The doorbell echoed a booming song within and I flinched at the commanding summons of it. Petunia didn’t seem to notice, just grateful, I think, to have a chance to sit and catch her breath.
The door swept open the exact moment the pug farted enthusiastically, the sound and stench about two seconds apart. The woman on the other side of the door stared at me in startled shock and neither of us spoke a long moment while Petunia’s flatulence went on for another heartbeat before she groaned her delight and licked her chops, clearly pleased with herself.
Cheese farts. The worst.
“Sorry,” I said. “The guests feed her things she shouldn’t have.” I stuck my hand out and felt the limp response from the black dressed brunette. The same one from the sheriff’s office, I realized then, someone I knew I should recognize and now understood why. No wonder Dad didn’t want to talk about her. This was Pete Wilkins’s wife, Aundrea Patterson. Well, Wilkins. But everyone knew no one really escaped the Patterson name. Reading’s most powerful founding family was rather possessive of its members from what I could recall and I doubted she was an exception. “Fiona Fleming.”
Her face tightened at my name and she dropped my hand like I’d burned her. “What do you want?”
Not that I was expecting a warm welcome or anything. Her husband died in my koi pond. But I wasn’t prepared for the vitriolic antagonism she aimed in my direction. And only then realized, like an utter idiot, it had only been a day since Pete passed and here I was looking for answers to my own problems.
I almost backpedaled out of there, cursing at myself in my head. But the young man appeared, looking enough like Pete around the edges if more his mother in height and build he had to be his son as I fish lipped and stuttered and tried to find an excuse to be there on their front step like the insensitive and heartless woman I obviously was.
“Can we help you?” At least he didn’t look like he wanted to wipe me off the bottom of his shoe. I focused on him and plunged.
“Fiona Fleming,” I said in a gush. “Your father claimed to have ownership of my bed and breakfast. I wanted to see the original paperwork so I can talk to my lawyer.” Oh, Fee. Fee, Fee, Fee.
The young man’s face tightened, arm going around the woman’s shoulders. His mother’s shoulders. Yes, he looked way more like her than the big man who I’d met once and would despise the rest of my life. Hopefully he took after her in temperament as well and not his father. Unless she was worse than Pete. I couldn’t imagine that.
“We haven’t even buried my dad yet,” he said. “I’m sorry for your business troubles, but I won’t be looking at my father’s affairs until after the funeral.” He stressed those last words until I felt about three inches high and with good reason.
“Great then,” I said, smiling like a total goof ball and skin crawling with my own inappropriateness. “Thanks for that. I’ll be in touch.”
He slammed the door in my face while I sagged and sighed, wishing I was anywhere but there.
***
Chapter Seventeen
Not only did I humiliate myself in front of the Wilkins’s, we barely made it to the end of the walk when Petunia lay down and refused to walk any further.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I said. “Up, young lady. We need to get out of here.”
But she clearly had her dose of exercise for the day and wasn’t going anywhere, her round belly heaving, pathetic pug face turned up to me like I should go on without her because she couldn’t make it another step in the falling darkness.
I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to carry a portly pug or not, but let me tell you, it’s not a pleasant process. First, she was dead weight, and she wanted to lick me in thanks or to prove her ownership of my clearly pathetic self-esteem. And the farting. I can’t even talk about the farting. No more cheese for her ever. I think I was stoned on the stench by the time I set her down in the foyer of the B&B, Mom’s smile of greeting turning to a faintly disgusted look of shock at my red face and the miasma of smell still lingering.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, sinking to the bottom step of the main staircase to catch my breath.
“Any time, sweetie,” she said, easing toward the door while Petunia happily let another one rip. “You really should take her to the vet. I think there’s something wrong with her insides.”
I glared at Mom as she waved and left, before turning my attention to the stinky pug. “Outside,” I snapped, pointing at the kitchen. And followed her out to the back garden. Petunia found a lovely spot in the middle of the path to do her business, looking up at me with her bulging eyes as if holding eye contact was her only lifeline while she extruded a giant pile of brown and orange goo on the walkway.
Done, she grunted and sat next to it, tongue lolling out, like she was proud of her accomplishment. While I fetched the small garden shovel and buried the evidence while doing my best not to throw up.
The only benefit? She chose to have her giant, stinky dump near the crime scene. And that gave me the prompting to use said shovel on the box. First. Because no way was I getting dog poo on it.
Petunia observed with quiet concentration while I uncovered the treasure. The box, rusted and pitted but still solid, bore a newish looking padlock, the twelve inch by six inch by six inch rectangle a little heavy in my hand when I lifted it from the ground and dusted it off. A quick glance around to make sure I was alone and I was hustling down the path to the house and down the steps to my apartment, Petunia clicking her way behind me.
I set it on my kitchen counter, examining the lock. I had no idea what combination to use, the thing re
minding me of high school and forgetting the slip of paper with the urgently important numbers on it usually within minutes of closing the hasp. I could just cut it off, but without the proper tool I’d be wasting my time.
The sound of footsteps upstairs and the door opening to laughing guests returning lured me away and it wasn’t until I fell into bed later that night I thought again about the odd box on my kitchen island. I stared at it the next morning over a cup of coffee but didn’t have time to do a thing about it. Sunday morning loomed and I had a huge day ahead of me.
Did I. Sundays were like Armageddon for businesses in Reading, and Petunia’s was no exception. The mass exodus of clientele met the influx of newbies to the point I was grateful to have Daisy there so I wasn’t on my own. The foyer, as big as it was, packed with people and luggage going out and coming in, overflowing often into the front sitting room while Petunia wandered between legs and rollies for her goodbye and welcome pets. Both Mary and Betty stayed out of view, bless their old, cold, withered hearts. Not like I could have used the extra hands or anything.
By the time the rooms turned over, me scrambling to change linens and clean bathrooms while Daisy reminded new guests check-in wasn’t until 1PM, a rule they ignored anyway, it was after 2:30 and I hadn’t had a chance to eat breakfast let alone pee or think or do anything but scrub, fluff and tuck.
Daisy, looking as polished and unruffled as always despite her slightly frantic approach to the morning, sat next to me with a happy sigh and sipped her coffee, helping herself to the tray of sandwiches I placed between us while Betty huffed her silent disdain for our intrusion on her domain. Let her be pissed. We’d just cleared and reloaded the entire B&B without one person losing their temper, including us. The finger sandwiches Betty made for tea were a small price for her to pay.
