Gladys wanted to be outside, too, but she’d made her stand and had to stick with it. Instead, she opened a window “to let the air in.”
The lawyer cleared his throat. The villagers shuffled a little closer to hear over the machinery haying in the field behind. It was a busy time for Annabelle’s husband Ben. To sea at dawn. In the fields by noon.
“I, Viola Featherstonehaugh…”
It sounded as if he’d swallowed half the word. The hay-baling in the field below the hall had drowned him out. Never mind. Everyone knew it was that old bat Viola.
“…being of sound mind and body…”
She wasn’t, was she?
“…declare this to be my last…blah…blah…blah…”
They were anxious for him to get past the boring bits and on to the juicy stuff.
Jamieson surveyed the crowd. Most of the villagers were there. More women than men. Not Gus. She was watching from her kitchen window, and reading lips, at which she’d become very good. It helped mask her growing deafness.
There were a few words of gratitude to “my longtime companion Anton…”
As if he had known her for more than a year. As if he had been her lover. He would live with that designation. He didn’t mind if there were money, but –
The lawyer droned on. The women, if any were paying attention, were admiring the young lawyer’s good looks. Black hair, not too long, not too short. Pale blue eyes that beckoned.
“Irish,” Estelle whispered to Moira. “Black Irish.”
The one person who was really paying attention to Ryan was Anton.
It was between him, and the fish. When it came, it was sudden, dizzying, slicing through his composure.
“…to my fish.”
Of sound mind and body? It was a communal thought.
The fish had won.
“She’ll have cut him out,” said Gus to Abel, who was rooting about somewhere in the back room. She’d had her eye pasted to the picture window, reading Anton’s features.
Anton was no poker face.
He was out and the fish were in.
He was very nearly spitting in shock and anger.
“If he hadn’t already killed her, he’d kill her now,” Hy whispered to Ian.
Ryan read the details of the foundation of the aquarium, the names of the administrators. Nowhere, nowhere did Anton get a piece of the pie. A slice of the filet.
“These measures have already been taken, the money dedicated and spent. In life, I supported the helpless, the innocents, and, in death, this work will go on. Fish everywhere will find a sanctuary in my aquaria.”
The crowd broke up as the lawyer read some formula incidentals, and Jamieson once again surveyed the group.
No Gus, no Abel, of course. Gladys and Olive stubbornly inside. Who else was missing? No one important. Who was here that she should make note of?
Newton Fanshaw.
What would he be doing here?
Newton Fanshaw, who’d tipped the saffron and tossed it in the rice.
What was his relationship with Viola?
Jamieson had come to learn that the odd things, such as spilled saffron, that occurred around a murder should not be ignored. Anything out of the ordinary might be significant.
There was no saying it had been a murder. Officially it wasn’t. The coroner had ruled natural causes, but he wasn’t here to see unnatural things going on.
Like the stiff smile on Newton’s face. Almost a grimace. Was he fighting to keep his expression neutral? If so, he wasn’t succeeding.
The lawyer had brought with him a vase – and a box. The vase contained Viola’s ashes. It had been Viola’s choice, kept in Ryan’s office in Boston “against the day.” It was a priceless Qing dynasty porcelain ginger jar, highly detailed, with goldfish leaping on the front. It was too small to contain all of Viola, tiny though she was. Most of her had been stuffed in the vase; the rest had been relegated to the box. The vase would go back to the undertaker’s, where it would be in good company; dozens of Red Island deceased had been left there for years until taken to a final resting place. She had designated it be on display in a glass case in the lobby of her future aquarium. She’d have to wait on the island until then. She’d forgotten to make an express wish about that.
That did not solve the problem of the ashes in the box.
There had been no instructions. She’d expected that she would fit in the vase, the way a woman expects she’ll fit into a dress that’s too small.
No one offered to take the box off Ryan’s hands.
She would have to be scattered.
Ryan enlisted the help of Hy, who looked sympathetic, and Ian.
Anton followed them down to the cape. Following the money, thought Hy, making a show of his attachment to Viola in case there was any chance…perhaps already plotting to challenge her sanity. Newton trailed behind them. It wasn’t clear why. He followed all the way to the edge of the cape.
Ryan opened the box. Pulled out the plastic bag, opened it, and tossed the contents off the cape. Only they didn’t fly and scatter to the four winds, they fell in a big lump of ash, at his feet, all over his Boston lawyer shoes. The ash that had escaped into the air was blown by the wind straight into Newton’s face, grits of it into his eyes. The last “cremains,” as they were called in the industry, settled on his lips, bitter with the taste of her.
Hy was trying to make things better, scooping up the hill of ashes on the cape, and vainly tossing them into the wind. They kept coming back. Ryan rubbed Viola off his shoes, and kicked at the lump of ashes at his feet.
In the end, Hy tore the lid off the box, shoveled up the remaining ashes into the box, and walked with Ian down to the shore, to a sheltered place behind some rocks, where Viola could be flung in peace – by two people she’d never known, and wouldn’t have liked if she had.
The dazzling white teeth hid behind a frown for the next several days. The flashing eyes were dulled with disappointment. Anton’s only consolation was that once word of the deaths got around, he was soon booked for the entire summer and into the fall. He took only one booking a week, and now he had a waiting list. The famous names on that list were gratifying. Perhaps, amongst them, he would be able to find a new patroness. Or patron. Anton could swing that way, too.
If only that pesky police officer weren’t constantly nosing around. Jamieson appeared immune to floral bribery and to his masculine charms.
Still he greeted her with his Hollywood smile when she came knocking on his door – again – to “chat.”
This time she was armed with her new knowledge of saffron, thanks to Hy.
“So, tell me, is saffron one of your dangerous foods?”
“No, not at all. It’s on the menu because it’s so expensive. The clients appreciate what their wealth can buy them.”
“Like death?”
“What do you mean?”
“Death from saffron.”
“No – ”
“Yes. Too much saffron can kill.”
He laughed. “Too much saffron? Not even my clients could afford that.”
“But there was too much saffron, wasn’t there?”
“Too much – ” he hesitated, looking quizzical.
“Saffron. Too much saffron.”
“You would have to ask my chef.” His eyes were no longer flashing. They were half-closed, examining the floor.
He was being evasive. Definitely evasive.
“You know I can’t do that. He has not only left the country, we cannot seem to find out where he is.”
Anton shrugged.
“Besides, he was the chef for the pufferfish. You are the chef for everything else, I believe.”
Anton inclined his head, agreeing.
“So, spill.”
“Yes. It spilled
. When I found out, I was very angry. I saw it had been mixed into the rice, rice that was now worth a fortune. I have told you that.”
“Yes, but you gave me no sense that it might be dangerous.”
“It is not.”
“It can be.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “You hear things, but I do not believe them.”
“You may have to believe them. Saffron may have killed…your patroness.”
“How am I supposed to know all these things? These obscure things?”
“If you’re running a business based on food that can kill, I would fully expect you to know these…obscure…things.”
Did he know what she knew? Had he used that knowledge to kill?
“You should think about my motive,” he insinuated. “The will speaks. It says I’m suspect if she had favoured me and suspect if, as she did, she cut me out. In the first case, I wanted to cash in. In the second, wreak revenge. And, oh yes, there’s the third possibility.” His lips curled in a sarcastic smile. “She was old. She had a heart attack. She died.”
“That’s why I’m here. Trying to figure that out. Maybe you just took a chance. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Your business? It’s about risk-taking, right?”
What evidence did she have? A dead…rich…elderly woman and an overturned bowl of saffron.
Oh yes. And a suspicion. That annoying tingle in her stomach she tried so hard to suppress. The image that disturbed her rational brain of Viola Featherstonehaugh laughing herself to death while Anton of the flashing eyes watched and chuckled. She shook her head. These thoughts had no place in a police investigation.
She would talk to the fudge woman. Now the saffron had moved to centre stage, she wanted to know exactly what had happened before and after the saffron had spilled.
Frank got down on his knees and made the proposal in the kitchen, as Moira was clearing the supper dishes. The dining room she saved “for good,” and though Frank had tried to convince her to eat there tonight, he couldn’t without giving the secret away.
They’d had hot dogs and beans for supper – the same beans that had given Frank such distress weeks before. Moira had grudgingly boiled them the requisite ten minutes, frozen them, and produced them with a bottle of Beano beside his plate.
Frank sliced up the hot dogs and ate them, saying, with a full mouth, “Mmmm. No one can cook dogs like you can, Moira.” She smiled. He hadn’t said anything about her new hairstyle. Soft and fluffy with loose curls. It was better than her old stiff hairdo, but looked worse on her. It didn’t go. Moira wasn’t soft and fluffy.
Frank pushed the beans around his plate. He didn’t dare eat them on such an important night. What if when he bent down –
“You’re not hungry?”
“No, Moy Moy.” His pet name for her. She hadn’t decided whether she liked it or not.
“Wait a minute.” He got up from the table and went into the hall, where she could hear him rustling around in his overnight bag. She had agreed to his request to stay the night, as his early deliveries were this end of the island. He was secretly hoping that his proposal would launch him into Moira’s bed. Moira had no idea of Frank’s plan, and also no intention of letting him into her bed, with or without a proposal, but she did want Ian to see Frank’s truck parked outside her house all night.
Frank returned with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. He set them on the table.
Moira stood up and began clearing the dishes, clattering them in the sink in disapproval.
She felt his hand on her shoulder. Surely he didn’t want to kiss and tickle now, with supper not yet finished. There was the rice pudding still.
He went down on his knee. The wet crocheted dishcloth went up to her face.
It dripped dishwater onto his head.
“No, no.” Moira couldn’t believe what appeared to be happening.
“Yes. Yes. I’m hoping you’ll say ‘yes,’ Moy Moy. Will you marry me?” He thrust the ring up at her. She gave a sharp intake of breath and reached down to grab it, dropping the dishcloth on Frank’s head.
A baptism for married life with Moira.
“It’s beautiful.” Moira’s tone contrasted with her words. Both could see it was small, mean, and ugly. Frank knew the history that made it even smaller and meaner. Moira must never know.
“It was my mother’s,” he lied, praying that she would forgive him. Moira’s expression transformed to reverence. She stroked it, changed her opinion, finding it now tiny and tasteful. Quite tiny. She tried to slip it on her finger. She had thin hands and slim fingers, but her knuckles were large and reddened. She was pushing the ring like the ugly sisters trying to force their feet into Cinderella’s slipper.
Frank yanked the dishcloth off his head and hauled himself up from the floor, rubbing the knee that was stiff and sore.
“Let me,” he said, as Moira stared at him with devotion. Ian was still the man she wanted, but she loved Frank for asking her to marry him, the only man who ever had or would.
“Let me.” He pressed up against her when the ring was on.
But she wouldn’t let him do a thing. Not tonight. Not any night. Not until they were married. Even then…
Chapter Sixteen
Jamieson found Fiona mixing up a batch of fudge. There were several slabs of butter laid out on the counter, huge bowls of sugar, white and brown, and a litre jug of generic vanilla. On the stove, a lobster pot was bubbling with butterscotch. The smell alone was enough to give a person a sugar high.
Jamieson was not big on sweets, and the close atmosphere, sugar clinging to her and everything in the trailer, made her feel sick.
Fiona shoved a plastic spoon, dripping with melted sugar and butter, at Jamieson.
“Like a taste?”
Jamieson screwed up her face and backed away.
“Don’t be shy. It won’t eat you.” Fiona’s body jiggled with laughter, before a sound came out of her mouth. She shoved the spoon at Jamieson again. Jamieson backed up and almost fell out the open door of the trailer. She turned and yanked it shut.
A large dollop of fudge-in-the-making fell on the floor. Fiona stuck the spoon in her mouth and siphoned off the sugary substance. Then she popped the spoon back in the pot.
“Not ready yet,” she said, looking at the lump on the floor. It remained liquid, not forming into a hard ball.
“Nothing worse than runny fudge.” Fiona swiped a hand across her mouth and smiled. “Except when you suck it off the spoon.”
Waves of nausea churned in Jamieson’s stomach, from the oppressive heat, the clinging smell, the oversweet vapours sticking to her skin and clothes.
“I would like you to tell me everything that happened at Anton’s Paradise the night of the dinner.”
“Everything?”
It wasn’t often Fiona got a chance to speak to anyone. About anything. Jamieson was soon to regret her choice of words.
Fiona began – and went on and on and on.
“…and so I hadn’t seen Newton all day. We’re…” she paused and looked coy.
“Well, we’re…involved.”
Jamieson had to hold back her reaction – somewhere between disbelief and laughter. He must be feeding off her, she thought, as she noted the detail of their relationship in her book.
“I see,” she said. Fiona grinned inwardly that Jamieson was making note of it. It made their relationship…well, official somehow.
“He was upset about that Viola woman. Attacking his turbine. Anyways, that’s what he told me later. He burst into the kitchen. I was trying to figure out which pot…”
“We don’t need to know that.” Impatient.
“You said everything.” Fiona pouted.
“Not in quite such detail.” Jamieson hesitated. Maybe she did need all the detail. Size of dish. Amount of saffr
on.
“Okay. Yes. Everything. Go on.” She was slipping. Becoming too lax.
“As I was saying…he burst into the kitchen as I was trying to figure out which pot would be best to cook the beans in.”
“Beans?” Why did beans keep coming up?
“Yes. Red kidney beans to go with the rice in the side salad.”
“And the saffron also went in the side salad?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Well, see, Newton had showed up and grabbed me. He was shaking. He burrowed into me like a right baby, and that’s when I lost my balance and we tipped the jar of saffron.”
“And then?”
“We scooped it up and threw it in the rice bowl. Can’t have too much of a good thing, can you?”
Jamieson didn’t answer.
“Did anyone see you?”
“Anyone?”
“The chef, Newton, Paradis?”
“I think the chef was too busy taking poison outta the fish. Anton wasn’t even in the room. ’Course, I had to tell him later. Newton, I guess Newton woulda had to see, cause he was helping me.”
“How much went in?”
“I’d say a lot, and not much.”
“How could it be both?”
“It wouldn’t be much of anything else, but I guess it was a lot of saffron.”
“How much?”
In answer, Fiona cupped her hands and held them out. Looked down at them.
“Maybe more than that. I have small hands.” She spread them apart.
Hardly the precise measurement Jamieson was hoping for. How much would it take to make a woman laugh herself to death? A tiny woman, like a bird.
“How much experience do you have with saffron?”
“None. Only that. Never seen it in my life before.”
That was easy to believe. Jamieson doubted there had been saffron at all on the island before the burgeoning of fine-dining restaurants in the past decade or so. That it would ever have reached Fiona’s trailer life seemed highly unlikely.
How would Fiona have such obscure knowledge of the crocus, and, besides, what motive would she have to kill Viola Featherstonehaugh? Some slight, real or imagined?
Something Fishy Page 13
