A Darling of Death

by Gin Jones

  "Nothing's wrong," Tate said evenly, allaying her fears. "I just thought I'd see if you were here and ask what you wanted for lunch."

  Helen narrowed her eyes at him, her relief making her even more irritable with him for having caused her to panic.

  He never asked what she wanted for lunch, any more than she ever asked what he wanted. He certainly didn't venture out into the hot weather to ask her. They both simply chose whatever they felt like having, as long as it wasn't something the other person actively disliked.

  And then it dawned on her. He was doing it again. Being nice.

  Helen liked being catered to as much as the next person, and Tate was never intentionally hurtful or even as irritable as she herself could be sometimes. But this excessive concern for her feelings was wrong. He was acting like someone he wasn't.

  She didn't want someone else. She wanted him. The old him. The real him. The one who told her the truth and didn't mince words.

  For a moment, she wondered if perhaps he thought that if he changed, then so would she. Maybe he didn't like the current, irritable her, and he was trying to lead by example. Helen didn't particularly like her current mood either, but she needed to work through it for herself, not to please someone else.

  "I don't believe you," she said flatly. "You know what I like and what I don't. You didn't have to come all the way out here to ask me what I want for lunch."

  He shrugged. "I was in the neighborhood. Adam asked me to stop by the law office for a consultation."

  Adam was Tate's nephew and now owned the legal practice his uncle had started. It wasn't unusual for the younger lawyer to ask for advice from the more experienced one. Still, she thought there was more to Tate's presence today than a routine consultation.

  "You're retired," she reminded him.

  In the past, he would have responded with something like I didn't think you'd noticed, since she'd frequently pestered him for legal advice, but today all he said was, "I make exceptions for family."

  That got through Helen's self-absorbed indignation. There was more to the visit with his nephew than Tate was saying. The last family member he'd made an exception for had been accused of murder.

  "What kind of trouble has Adam gotten into that he needs your assistance? And don't tell me it's confidential. As long as Adam's dating my niece, he'd better not be doing anything that might get him arrested."

  Tate's jaw tensed, proving how hard he was struggling not to say what was on his mind. He was probably thinking something to the effect that she was the last person on earth who should judge someone for doing things that might lead to being arrested, considering how often Detective Hank Peterson had threatened to drag her away from a crime scene in handcuffs.

  Until recently, Tate would have said exactly that. Today, though, he simply shook his head and said, "Adam's not worried about himself. It's his paralegal."

  "Spencer Nagle?" Helen said in surprise. She'd met him a few months ago while consulting Adam about a will contest. "He's such a nice young man. And he's caring for his elderly parents. He couldn't possibly have enough spare time to get into trouble. But you must know that."

  He didn't say anything, either confirming or denying what he knew about Spencer or his parents. He studied Helen's face for long moments, as if waiting for her to add something more. Or perhaps he was debating what else he could tell her without violating client confidentiality. Or without upsetting her in some way, since he seemed unduly concerned about her reaction.

  Helen didn't have any other information to give him, and the only thing upsetting her right now was the way he refused to just say whatever was on his mind.

  After a few moments' silence, right when Helen thought he was going to turn around and leave, he spoke again. "So you haven't heard any rumors about Spencer's involvement with Danica Darling?"

  "Danica?" Helen echoed, even more surprised than before. It was immediately obvious to her what Danica would see in Spencer—he made Tate and Adam, both good-looking men, seem rather average in comparison, thanks to his dark curls, square jaw, and the pronounced dimple in his chin—but what on earth would such a kind, generous, and smart man see in the abusive woman? Unless Helen had misunderstood, and Tate had meant they'd been involved in some way other than a romantic relationship. "What kind of involvement?"

  "The usual kind," Tate said, amusement creating tiny laugh lines around his eyes. "At least to start with. They'd been dating for the past few months, but it was a rocky relationship. Spencer wasn't at the office this morning, so I didn't get the details from him, but Adam said he came back from a closing about a week before she died and found them in the reception area screaming at each other. Or at least Danica was screaming at Spencer, and it sounded like there might have been a slap or two. Everything stopped as soon as Adam opened the door. They moved apart, both of them acting like nothing had been happening. Adam didn't think much of it until he heard that Danica's death was being treated as a homicide. He wants me to be prepared to represent Spencer if it looks like he's a suspect."

  "Is that why you're buttering me up with special lunch requests?" It would be a relief if it was. Almost anything was better than thinking he'd decided he didn't want to be around her any longer. And since she was more than happy to help keep Spencer out of trouble, Tate could stop being so nice now. "You want me to pass along whatever information I get from Detective Almeida about the investigation?"

  "I just thought you might appreciate choosing your own lunch, as long as I was passing by." He spoke more slowly than usual, enunciating each word.

  Tate had always been good at keeping his face neutral—it was a useful skill for a lawyer during negotiations—but that careful enunciation told Helen he was at least metaphorically gritting his teeth. If it had been anyone else, the words would have been snapped at her. Despite the civilized veneer, she thought this was as close as she'd ever seen him come to the emotional type of outbursts that apparently Danica had indulged in. Tate had been somewhat irrational a while back when he'd experienced a bout of totally unfounded jealousy, but they'd worked it out and he'd returned to his usual placid self. At least until she'd returned from Boston, when he'd remained placid, but had lost the bluntness she'd always appreciated.

  Helen wished he'd snap out of it and just tell her what was bothering him instead of burying it beneath a falsely polite exterior. She might not like what he had to say, but it would be better than dancing around the topic.

  "I'm fine with whatever you get for lunch." As she spoke, she realized this was how she and Tate had a tiff. By not arguing and instead getting all stiffly polite.

  At least if she were ever murdered, no one would suspect Tate of killing her. Not just because he would never hurt her, but also because he never, ever lashed out in anger. Not with words and even more emphatically not with fists.

  Still, it might be better if they spent some time apart.

  "Actually, if you really want to know what I want today…" She'd been ravenous since the Tai Chi session in the hot parking lot, but she didn't think she could eat a thing while fretting about what Tate wasn't telling her. Helen grabbed her basket of tools in preparation for leaving. "What I want is to skip lunch. I have some things I need to get done."

  Tate looked like he was going to argue with her, but then thought better of it. "Do you need a lift somewhere?"

  "No, thanks." Helen looked toward the street and, once again, Jack proved himself to have impeccable timing as he pulled her loaner car up next to the entrance to the community garden for her grand exit. "My ride just arrived."

  * * *

  "Are you sure this is a good idea, Ms. Binney?" Despite Jack's reservations, he'd driven her to the Wharton B&B, where the car was now idling near the path to the main entrance. "Does Tate know what you're planning?"

  "I don't have any idea what Tate knows these days."

  Still, Helen held off opening the passenger door while she considered whether she was only doing this in order to
goad Tate into his usual blunt self when he found out about it, or if there was a real chance she could find Martha Waddell here and get some answers to what was happening at the nursing home.

  While she was thinking, she studied the exterior of the Wharton B&B. It was a big, rambling farmhouse that appeared to be at least a hundred years old. It was definitely showing its age with faded paint and worn floorboards on the stairs to the wrap-around porch. What had likely once been a simple rectangular building now had assorted bump-outs and extensions that had been added haphazardly over the years. None of them appeared to be recent, though. At a guess, she'd have said newest one was almost as old as she was.

  Over to one side of the building was one jarringly new addition to the property: a white vinyl fence that offered glimpses of the back yard dominated by an equally new swimming pool. The sounds of splashing and laughter suggested it was a popular amenity.

  It was a glance in the opposite direction, though, that sealed Helen's decision to go ahead and check out the B&B. A packed parking lot held a distinctive car that she recognized. It was a Bentley Continental, and it belonged to Martha Waddell.

  "I'm just going to have a chat with Martha," Helen told Jack as she reached for the door handle. "Even Tate wouldn't have a problem with that."

  "True enough," Jack said. "Martha's one incredibly competent woman."

  Inside, the decor was almost Amish or Shaker in its homey simplicity. The straight-backed wood chairs and matching side tables looked almost as old as the building itself, and the paint on the walls was as faded as on the exterior clapboards. The wood floors were immaculate but scuffed and worn down at least half an inch from the original surface height along a line from the front door to an antique trestle table that served as the registration desk. The tabletop was as uncluttered as everything else, holding only an old-fashioned registration book and a multi-line phone console that looked at least thirty years old.

  Seated behind the table was a man in his thirties with biceps that strained against the short sleeves of his plaid cotton shirt. Either he lifted an awful lot of luggage at the B&B or he worked out as intensely as the best of Kolya's Sambo competitors. Helen had never realized until now that there were this many heavily-muscled men in Wharton. Or such good-looking men. The clerk was a redhead, with an extremely short beard and mustache, barely longer than stubble, which made it impossible to tell if he had a dimpled chin like Spencer Nagle, but it served to emphasize the striking lines of his jaw and cheekbones.

  "Sorry I have to stay seated at the moment," the man said, drawing attention to the sleek, black and gray walking cast that covered his right foot and leg up to the hem of his Bermuda shorts. His tone was as upbeat as if he were talking about particularly fine weather rather than acknowledging the unwelcome truth of his temporary physical limitation. "But I'm happy to help you in any other way."

  "I'm looking for Martha Waddell," Helen said. "I noticed her car outside."

  "Isn't it a beauty?" His already substantial smile broadened. Without waiting for agreement, he continued, "I'm certain Ms. Waddell would love to chat with you—isn't she the nicest person?—but she's in a most important meeting at the moment. I'd be glad to give her a message when she's done, though."

  "No, that's not necessary." It was too easy to ignore or at least hold off responding to a written message. The best chance of getting answers was to catch Martha Waddell during a break in her meetings. Fortunately, Helen had anticipated needing an excuse to linger on the premises, so she added, "But as long as I'm here, perhaps I could talk to the manager about a family reunion I'm thinking about arranging."

  "I'm the lucky owner of the Wharton B&B. Neil Campbell at your service." He chuckled as he gestured for her to sit across from him in one of the two antique ladderback chairs with rush seats. "So tell me about this reunion and all the amazing people who will be visiting us."

  "I'm not ready to make the reservations quite yet." Helen remained on her feet behind one of the chairs, although the innkeeper's overwhelming enthusiasm for absolutely everything made her tired. She ought to introduce him to Mia, if her crush on Kolya ever faded. She would probably appreciate Neil's positive, uplifting approach to life. "I just wanted to check out my options. Could I get an idea of the rates?"

  "Of course." Neil gestured at a small wooden tray that, thanks to Helen's exposure to Tate's hobby, she recognized as handmade from an exotic wood, although she couldn't say exactly what species. It held a stack of brochures. "You should find everything you need about pricing in there. How many lovely people are you expecting for the reunion?"

  Helen hesitated. She hadn't thought that far ahead. The number needed to be more than the total of the rooms here, so she would have an excuse to ask him about other B&Bs in the area. She hadn't thought to check on the capacity here while she'd been preparing her story. With all the additions to the farmhouse, it was hard to guess how many rooms there were, so she decided to err on the high side.

  "Oh, probably fifty or sixty. That's not counting the plus-ones." It was such a whopper of a lie that she was sure Neil would notice. It was small compared to what Helen had once been responsible for organizing, but she fervently hoped she would never have to oversee—or even attend—a party that big again for the rest of her life. She'd had enough of that kind of socializing when she'd lived in the Governor's Mansion. "I expect we'll need reservations in more than one location."

  "You're right. No single hospitality provider in tiny, little Wharton could accommodate that large a group. Not that I wouldn't love to be able to do it, but the basement really isn't fit for guests." He laughed as if he'd made a particularly funny joke, which should have been annoying, but there was a sincerity about his amusement that made it contagious. Even Helen's lips turned up at the corner.

  Once his laughter settled down, he added, "Don't worry, though. I'm sure we could work with some other places to make sure everyone gets a room that they'll love."

  "I was hoping you'd say that," Helen said. "It would be so much easier to coordinate everything through just one person. You must know all the other B&Bs in town. I've heard good things about the Darling one. Would that be an option?"

  "That's definitely a possibility." For once, the good humor in his expression didn't seem genuine. The tightening around his eyes suggested he wasn't as accepting of her idea as his words indicated. "On the other hand, anyone as discerning as one of your guests undoubtedly are might prefer a place that's a bit more…refined, shall we say?"

  "Is there something wrong with the Darling place?"

  "Let's just say that it's going through a bit of management turnover at the moment." He wasn't anywhere near as good as Tate at hiding his real feelings, so it was obvious Neil was holding back whatever he really wanted to say about the Darling B&B. "The owner passed away unexpectedly."

  "I'm sorry." It was the first completely honest thing she'd said since walking into the lobby. Helen hadn't liked the abrasive woman, and she might even have wished something on Danica that was annoying but ultimately harmless, like a bunion or a contagious rash, whatever would have kept her out of the upcoming tournament as a bit of justice for how she'd apparently prevented her sparring partner from competing, but without doing her any serious harm.

  "The death was indeed sad," Neil said, but he couldn't prevent the hint of satisfaction that underlaid his tone.

  He had definitely disliked Danica, Helen thought. What she couldn't tell for sure was whether his feelings were merely the natural professional rivalry of two businesses competing for a relatively small pool of customers, or something more intense and personal. Did he hate Danica—or love his B&B—enough to want her dead?

  Helen couldn't decide either way about whether he had a sufficient motive for murder, but his injury made it seem unlikely that he had the ability to kill her. It would have been a challenge for anyone to overpower Danica, even someone in peak physical condition, and the cast on Neil's foot suggested he definitely hadn't been up to gr
appling with a trained fighter recently.

  Unless the cast was new, and the injury had happened in the course of the murder. It was hard to tell the age of such a high-tech, plastic contraption that seemed as resistant to damage as body armor, unlike old-fashioned plaster casts that accumulated autographs and stains over time.

  "I was going to ask for a tour of this place, but it doesn't look like you're up to it." Helen looked pointedly at his cast. "If you don't mind my asking, what happened to your foot?"

  "I broke a metatarsal at the gym. It's nothing serious. I almost feel guilty about how kind everyone's been to me while I've been chained to this desk for a solid month, wearing my oh-so-fashionable boot." He tapped the cast. "I'm going to miss all the attention when it comes off in another week or so, but I can't wait to be able to drive again. I guess I'm lucky that I live right here on-site, so I don't have a commute, but between the injury and the demands of the meetings that Ms. Waddell has been attending, I haven't been off the premises in weeks. I do love this place, but it's nice to get out and about sometimes."

  "It must have been difficult operating the B&B while incapacitated. You definitely can't be carrying anyone's bags for them."

  "I'm lucky that most people have wheeled bags these days," he said with a chuckle. "I remember when my father had a broken arm when I was a kid, and it was a real problem that he couldn't lift anything for a few months. Back then, the only employees were family members, so it's a good thing I was already pretty strong when it happened, so I could help out. Now, I have the most excellent staff, and they've been taking care of all the heavy lifting while I'm recuperating."

  "So this is a family business?"

  "It is," he said proudly and without a hint of humor. "It's been in my family for four generations. Started well before anyone even used the term Bed & Breakfast. My grandfather used to call it a 'boarding house that caters to tourists who stay for less than a month at a time and appreciate a good breakfast'. "