Uh-oh. Granddad wasn’t going to give up his gig without a fight. Val sipped her tea, wondering how to sway him. “If Simone shows up there, she’ll have a large audience when she outs you as a fraud.”
“I’ll have my contract with me and prove I have a legal right to be Usher’s proxy.”
“Your legal right won’t spare you or your client from the wrath of Usher fans.” Val had put up long enough with the secrecy about his client. “I figured out who hired you, based on what Clancy and Judith told me tonight. You have to warn Usher’s wife that she can’t get away with using stand-ins for her famous husband. She’s the person paying you, and you owe her the truth.”
Granddad put his mug down and crossed his arms. “She owes me the truth too. She didn’t tell me she got another man to stand in for Usher before she hired me. That actor who just died must have been the impersonator Simone saw. What did you say his name was?”
“Emmett Flint. What makes you think he was your predecessor?”
“I spent a couple of days boning up on Usher and his books. Clancy said it would take me another week to get up to speed. All of a sudden this afternoon, I heard about the book club visit and got a contract. After that actor died, they needed a substitute fast. You know what that means?” He paused, but not long enough for her to answer. “Simone might be right about Rick Usher being dead. The man I met at the Usher house could have been a phony.”
Val sighed. “Three people live in that house besides Rick Usher. It’s crazy to think they’ve conspired to cover up his death.”
“They all profit from his books. Once he’s gone, they don’t make as much money.”
“They’d profit even if he were dead. Pretending he’s alive is a lot of trouble and doesn’t necessarily get them more money.”
Granddad frowned. “How do you figure that?”
“I was the publicist for Chef Torquil’s cookbooks. He was working on his third one when he dropped dead. The publisher got someone unknown to finish it and promoted it as Chef Torquil’s final cookbook. It sold way more copies than his others.” Val moved the egg-shaped infuser to a plate, where it fell sideways next to a lemon slice. “Usher’s final book would do the same.”
“Yeah, but then it’s over. By saying he’s alive, the Usher gang can keep books in the pipeline and the money flowing.”
“It’s not over, Granddad. When the final book drops off the best-seller list, lo and behold, Usher’s wife finds the first draft of a manuscript among his papers. His coauthor, Clancy, cleans up the manuscript. Then that book also hits number one. When sales go down again, an early unpublished manuscript turns up in a bank vault.”
Granddad shook his head. “They can’t keep going to that well forever.”
“And they can’t keep up the ruse that he’s alive forever. What then? They need a body to get a death certificate. Usher’s body won’t do if he’s been dead awhile.”
He dismissed this problem with a wave of his hand. “All they have to do is go boating on the Chesapeake and say he fell overboard. Bodies don’t always wash up.”
Val sighed. In arguing against his farfetched theory, she’d lost sight of her goal—convincing him not to pose as someone else. She glanced at his nearly empty mug. “You’ll need something stronger than tea when you hear what Gunnar told me tonight. Emmett Flint might not have died from natural causes. An autopsy is pending.”
Granddad’s head snapped back. “Holy smoke. You said that actor was a nasty character. Maybe he was nasty to the wrong person.”
“Or he made the mistake of pretending to be Rick Usher. Please don’t make the same mistake.”
“Hmm.” Granddad stroked his newly trimmed beard and looked down in apparent surprise when it stopped short of where it had been for the last six weeks. “Let’s not jump to that conclusion.”
Val’s head throbbed. Nothing she’d said had convinced him to stop posing as Usher. She’d tried appealing to his self-interest, a strategy that usually worked, but not this time. He’d dismissed the danger of being caught and, even more troubling, the chance of ending up like Emmett Flint. She had one more argument—an appeal to his conscience.
She took a deep breath. “Granddad, would you ever want anyone to pretend to be you, a total stranger claiming he was Don Myer, the Codger Cook?”
“Of course not.” He looked askance at her. “I see where you’re going with this. Rick Usher wouldn’t want that either. So he must be dead.”
“Not necessarily. He wouldn’t be the first author induced to sign a paper he didn’t understand by people supposedly looking after his interests.”
Granddad’s eyes blazed. He sat up straighter, as if anger had stiffened his spine. “You mean he’s not as sharp as he used to be and they’re exploiting him?”
“That’s far more likely than that he’s dead. But even if he was of sound mind and agreed to the impersonation scheme, they’re exploiting you. They paid you to hoodwink people. You made fools of the women who fawned over you at the book club. Do you think that’s right? Do you really want to do that again?” Val had picked up Simone’s double-whammy method of questioning.
Granddad studied the inside of his mug as if looking for guidance there. All the tea leaves were inside the infuser, though, not where he could read them. He switched his gaze from the mug to the wall and a photo of himself and Grandma, taken shortly before she died. They’d been married long enough that he could guess what kind of advice she’d give if she were here.
“I thought it would be fun to act like a famous writer, but I felt bad about it tonight.” He pinched the skin at his throat, a habit when something troubled him. “Okay, I won’t pretend to be Usher again, but I’m not letting those folks at the Usher house know that yet. I want to string them along, go to the house a few more times, and see what they’re up to.”
“Tonight you tricked the book club ladies. You know it was wrong and won’t do it again. Next you’re going to trick your client?” Val pointed to the framed photo on the wall. “I remember Grandma saying two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“This time a second wrong could be the lesser of two evils and make something right. By standing in for Usher, I upset one woman a lot. You didn’t see Simone’s face when she said Usher must be dead. She was distraught. I’d like to be able to tell her that Rick Usher is alive.”
“How will you prove that?”
“Rosana expects me at the house on Tuesday to prepare for next weekend. I’ll ask to talk to her husband. If he’s the same man I met last week at the house, then I didn’t meet that actor we think impersonated Usher.”
Val doubted Simone would accept that as proof that Usher was alive. “What if you don’t get to talk to him?”
“I’ll ask to see him the next day, and the day after. If I never get to talk to him again, Simone could be right that I met an impersonator at the Usher house last Friday.”
Val shook her head. “Rick Usher may be busy writing with no time to talk to you or go to book signings. Why can’t you just accept that and forget going back there?”
“If I prove Usher’s dead or mentally incapacitated and being exploited, that’s big news. The publicity will show I have detective chops. Then I’ll get meaty cases to investigate. But I need your help digging up information.”
No stopping him now. Without her help, he’d go sleuthing on his own, as he’d done in the past. She might be able to rein him in by acting as his ally. Besides, she was curious herself about the Rick Usher scheme. The urge to snoop ran in the family.
Chapter 6
Granddad put the mugs in the dishwasher. “Find out what you can about Simone from the woman who gave the dinner tonight.”
Val rinsed the teapot. “I’ll have to come up with a reason for asking about her. If I get her last name, I can do an online search for her connection to Rick Usher.”
“I’d sure like to know how that actor died and if he was the other man who stood in for Usher.”
“Gu
nnar wants me to ask Chief Yardley about Emmett Flint’s death.” But she might not be the best person to do that. The chief had a soft spot for Granddad, who’d acted as a substitute father after the chief’s dad died young. “Maybe you should talk to the chief instead of me.”
“He’ll want to know why I’m asking, and I’d rather not tell him about me dressing up as Rick Usher. I don’t want you to tell him either.” Granddad reached for a dishtowel and dried the teapot. “Anyway, I’m too busy to talk to the chief. Tomorrow I have to work on my recipe column.”
“You’re busy? What about me?” She ticked off all the things she was supposed to do on her fingers. “I’m supposed to research Simone, go full speed ahead on The Codger’s Cookbook, and wangle details about Emmett Flint’s death from the police chief. That’s in addition to spending most of the day doing my job in the café.”
“That reminds me.” He set the dry teapot on the counter. “This morning I went to church after I left you in the café. When the service was over, I got to talking with folks about how you needed help in the café. I think you’ll hear from someone who’s interested in part-time work there.”
“Thanks, but that’s no help in the short term. I’d have to put in extra time to train a newbie.” With the café contract in jeopardy, Val couldn’t justify hiring an assistant, who’d have to look for another job before long. But Granddad had plenty to worry about tonight without her burdening him with the bad news about the café contract.
She kissed him good night, went up to her room, and took out Clancy’s business card. She hadn’t expected to use it when he gave it to her this evening, but now, after hearing Granddad planned to snoop at the Usher house, she was uneasy. Maybe she was overreacting. Only one way to know—check out the place herself.
She called Clancy. “Hey, there. It’s Val. I was thinking about your idea of my catering dinners at the Usher house.”
“Great! I talked to Rosana, and she’s okay with it. But she wants to meet you first.”
“Of course. And I can’t commit until I see the kitchen.” She always inspected the cooking facilities before agreeing to cater, a precaution especially important for this gig. “You called the place the house of Usher, so I’m expecting thick dust, cobwebs, and dangling spiders.”
He laughed. “I’m grabbing the broom right now to sweep them all away. When do you want to come?”
“A friend is running the café for me tomorrow morning. How about nine thirty?”
He agreed and gave her directions.
* * *
The Ushers lived on an arm of land between two expansive creeks. Val drove for a few miles along the arm and then turned onto a narrower road. On both sides of it, private unpaved lanes led to waterfront homes. The Ushers’ tree-lined gravel lane ended in a paved circular driveway edged by grass.
Val parked on the driveway and studied the house with its steep roof and weathered siding. It looked like a Cape Cod that had sprouted wings. One wing with a three-car garage flared out from the right side and, like the main part of the house, had gabled dormer windows. A smaller one-story wing on the left, possibly a recent addition, had less weathered siding. With gray shingles on the roof, the house seemed to merge into the leaden sky.
Val checked her step as she approached the structure, feeling as if the clouds above it might descend and envelop her. She steeled herself to walk up the steps to the covered porch. She lifted the heavy knocker on the front door, but before she had a chance to release it, Clancy flung the door open and greeted her with a toothy smile.
The heavy sweet scent from an elaborate arrangement of lilies made the foyer smell like a funeral parlor.
Clancy took her coat, hung it in the closet near the door, and led her through the foyer. He pointed out the entrance to the kitchen and the spiral staircase leading to his room above the kitchen and dining room. The foyer ended in a passageway that opened to a step-down living room with a high ceiling.
He oriented her to the house’s layout. “To the left along this passageway is the Ushers’ private space, including Rick’s study.”
Val pointed to a massive raised hearth on the right side of the living room. “The dining room’s on the other side of the fireplace wall?”
“Yes. Rosana’s office and a guest room are beyond the dining room. This passageway takes you to those rooms and to her assistant’s room over the garage.” Clancy gestured with an open palm toward a Victorian claw-foot sofa in the living room. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll let Rosana know you’re here.”
Val stepped down into the living room. With its lofty ceiling and large windows, the room should have felt open and airy, but an excess of heavy antique furniture weighed it down and dark walls hemmed it in. The windows at the back of the house faced a broad river, but Val could barely see it through a jungle of greenery. Weeping figs and arching palms grew from huge planters on the floor in front of the windows. The plants created a living wall against the outside world.
A woman in her sixties swept into the room with Clancy tagging after her. She wore a pink pantsuit accented with a flowered scarf, a colorful though off-key note in the drab house. Her chin-length hair, mostly silver with a few blond strands, hung like drapes on either side of her elongated face.
She held out her hand to Val. “Welcome to our home, Val. I’m Rosana. Clancy has told me so much about you,” she said in a soft Southern drawl.
Val glanced at him as she shook hands. How could he have said much about her when he knew virtually nothing? She suspected her hostess preferred social correctness over literal truth.
“I never expected to find a caterer willing to make dinners for us on such short notice. Clancy has done us a real service in setting this up.” Rosana flashed him a fond look. “I’m sure you’re anxious to see the kitchen, Val. Come right this way.”
She continued to gush as she conducted them up the steps and through the foyer to the kitchen. She was the archetype of a gracious belle, sugary as a treacle tart. Val recalled the recipe for that tart. Its sweetness masked an ingredient that some people didn’t taste on their first bite—lemon juice, the sour beneath the syrup.
Rosana showed her around the well-equipped kitchen as Clancy stood by. The room’s four walls had two openings. One door led to the foyer and the other to the dining room. Though not small, the kitchen made Val feel slightly claustrophobic. Its one window had a driveway view partially hidden by plants on the sill.
Ivy, ferns, and spider plants cascaded downward from hanging pots over the work island. No dust or cobwebs in the room, but Val would have to watch for dead leaves falling into the food. “Does anyone in the house have food allergies or dietary restrictions?”
“I’m not aware of any allergies. Are you, Clancy?” When he shook his head, Rosana continued, “Please go light on the salt. It’s on the table for those who want to add it.”
In cooking for Granddad, Val usually halved the amount of salt in every recipe. Rosana’s request suggested that, like him, someone in the house had high blood pressure. “What time do you usually eat dinner?”
Rosana tapped her gold watch. “At exactly seven thirty. The tossed salad should be on the dining room table when we sit down. I’d like the entrée dished up in the kitchen. Be sure to warm the plates so the food stays hot.”
Fine with Val. She could dish up straight from the pots and pans. “So you want me to serve the meal restaurant style, not family style.”
“Certainly.” Rosana reached up to remove a rusty frond from a fern. “We view our evening meal as a business dinner, not a family gathering.”
An odd comment. Maybe calling it a business dinner made Val’s services deductible. “Will I have a chance to meet Mr. Usher this morning?”
“I hate to interrupt him when he’s writing.” Rosana looked pointedly at her husband’s coauthor. “It’s so nice of you, Clancy, to take time off your work to welcome Val to the house.”
The treacle tart version of get back on the j
ob, you loafer. Val watched Clancy to see if he’d tasted the lemon with the sugar.
He smiled without showing any teeth. “I have a lot to do this morning, if you two will excuse me. I hope to see you back here soon, Val.” He left the kitchen by the door to the foyer.
Yes, he’d tasted the lemon, but it didn’t surprise him. He must be used to it.
Rosana took a step toward the other door in the kitchen. “Now I’ll show you where we eat.”
Val followed her. Like the other rooms Val had seen, the dining room was a box from which no other room was visible except through a narrow doorway. The only striking feature of the nondescript room was a collection of antique dinner bells, the kind used to summon servants to the table. Made of silver, brass, and ceramic, they rested on the mahogany sideboard that matched the eight-person table.
Rosana rang a little silver bell. “I’d like you to meet my assistant. She eats dinner with us during the week. Madison helps me with the publicity side of my husband’s career.” She crossed her arms and watched the entrance to the dining room expectantly. When no one appeared after ten seconds, she picked up a big brass bell and clanged it.
Val’s ears were still ringing when a woman with sleek brown hair pulled back from her face appeared in the doorway. Younger than Val by a few years and several inches taller, she resembled a model on a runway in a well-tailored black jacket and matching wool slacks. Her face was as blank as a model’s until she found out that Val might make dinners at the house.
Her eyes brightened. “Terrific. We need you here. We’re running out of the food the chef froze for us before she went away.”
“She made a list of the meals she left for us,” Rosana said. “I’d like you to show it to Val so she doesn’t make any of the same dishes. I couldn’t find it in the kitchen.”
“I’ve never seen it, but I can tell Val what to avoid—casseroles.”
Val reached into her tote bag for her catering menus. “Here are some dinners I propose. Do you want to talk about the options now?”
The Tell-Tale Tarte Page 5
