by Vicki Delany
“Charming family,” Ryan said.
“Any chance Dan hired someone to whack his wife?”
“Is that an English phrase?”
“Americanisms must be rubbing off on me.”
“Anything’s possible. Dan stands to inherit a great deal of money. I haven’t seen Elizabeth’s will yet, but I will later today.”
“If he did hire a killer, he acted mighty fast. Elizabeth only threatened to divorce him a few hours before she died.”
“Locating and hiring a contract killer,” Ryan said, “arranging the hit, and making the preliminary payoff takes longer than a couple of hours.”
“I must ask someday how one arranges that.”
He grinned at me. “I wouldn’t want you for an enemy, Gemma Doyle.”
I leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. He tasted of hot spicy mustard.
“One thing does occur to me,” I said when we separated.
“Go ahead.”
“We’ve decided it’s not worth considering that Elizabeth and Kathy were murdered in unrelated attacks, but it is possible there were two killers. I thought Elizabeth had murdered Kathy, although I have no evidence to that effect. Is it possible someone else came to the same conclusion and killed Elizabeth in an act of revenge?”
“Anything’s possible. Which is why this case is such a darned mess.”
“Maureen believes she’s no longer under suspicion.”
“That’s correct. She has a rock-solid alibi for last night.” He grinned. “Far from lying to protect her, I got the impression Maureen’s sister, who we spoke to, would have loved to get Maureen in trouble if she had the slightest opportunity. Maureen had neglected to tell us that a couple of months ago, she’d been in a public altercation with Kathy Lamb over a bumped shopping cart in a parking lot. Keeping information from the police always makes us suspicious, but in this case, Louise and I agreed that Maureen was only trying to make herself look clean.”
“Her past history—”
“Has nothing to do with this case,” Ryan said, firmly closing the door on my weak attempt at getting the information out of him. He yawned.
“You need to go to bed.”
He gave me a sad smile. “If I wasn’t so tired, I’d take you up on that.”
I laughed and started on the chocolate brownie Ryan had bought for my dessert.
As we finished our lunch and wrapped up our trash, I told him my thoughts. “I’d like to go to the museum this evening, check things out. Other than Dan’s family, the only person I can find who Elizabeth and Kathy both knew is Robyn Kirkpatrick.”
“Do that,” he said. “But remember, no foot chases down dark streets.”
Chapter Seventeen
Tonight’s meeting of the museum board would be held on the grounds of the old house, as the building itself was unusable. The meeting would be open to museum volunteers and other interested people. Attendees were asked to bring their own chairs and something to share for dessert.
A chair and dessert. I could manage that.
At twenty-two minutes to four, I cleared my throat.
“Partners’ meeting, back in twenty minutes. Carry on without you. Call you if needed. Got it,” Ashleigh said.
I wondered if eventually we’d be able to get through an entire day without speaking to each other, like a longtime married couple.
Jayne was seated at the window alcove when I came into Mrs. Hudson’s, talking on her phone. A few tables were still occupied, and Jocelyn was bringing one of them a fresh pot of tea while Fiona tidied up behind the counter.
I eyed the sparse remains. “I don’t suppose there are any more brownies in the back?”
“We ran out of those long ago, Gemma,” Fiona said.
“I’ll take everything else then.”
“Everything?”
“Yes, please.”
Fiona put three raspberry and two blueberry tarts, a slice of carrot cake, two pecan squares, and three coconut cupcakes into a box.
“Thanks,” I said.
I carried the box to our table and sat down. Jayne smiled at me and pointed to her phone. “That would be nice,” she said. “Seven it is.”
Jocelyn arrived with a pot of tea, a pitcher of milk, two cups, and a plate of small sandwiches. “No pastries today,” she said. “Someone bought the last of them.”
“Bye,” Jayne said. “See you soon.” She slipped her phone into her pocket.
“What are you smiling at?” I asked.
“I’m not allowed to smile on a nice day over a cup of tea?”
“Not with that self-satisfied look about you,” I said. “Date with Jack tonight?”
“If you must know, yes. We’re going out for dinner.”
“I have a better offer.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Sure you do. It’ll be boring, no dead bodies involved. I’m bringing dessert.” I pointed to the bakery box.
“Why would I want to go to a boring event to eat my own baking, when I can have a pleasant dinner with a handsome man?”
“The Scarlet House board is meeting tonight at seven. Potluck desserts.”
Jayne sighed. “And you’re going. Fiona told me Ryan came in at lunchtime and bought two sandwiches, which he took into the Emporium. I assumed he was here to tear a strip off you.” She eyed me. “You look remarkably unscathed.”
“Not only unscathed but continuing to stick my nose where some might say it doesn’t belong.”
“Thus we’re going to the board meeting.”
I grinned. “That we are.”
She sighed heavily. “Someone has to keep you out of trouble. Might as well be me. I’ll call Jack back.”
* * *
When we arrived at Scarlet House, each of us with a folding chair and me carrying the bakery box, the parking lot was almost full. Most of the cars were new and pretty high end, but I didn’t see Robyn’s Lexus. I parked next to a nifty little white Mercedes SLK.
As we got out of the Miata, I studied the main house. The warren of scaffolding was still in place, plywood nailed over the windows, and “Keep out” signs posted on all the doors, but much of the detritus of an active construction site was gone. Work had stopped, I assumed, pending the finding of further funds, although the lawn had recently been cut and the flowerbeds freshly weeded. That would likely be the work of unpaid volunteers.
We followed the buzz of conversation to the back of the main house. The building loomed over the meeting area, wrapped in shadows. Lights were on in the barn, and from it came the sounds of shuffling animals settling down for the night. A piglet squealed, and its mother grunted in reply.
Arrivals were placing their chairs in straight rows next to a neatly hedged section of well-maintained garden. “Unusual plants,” I said to Jayne.
“That’s our physick garden,” a woman said to me. “One of the highlights of the museum. All the plants growing there would have been used in some form or another in the seventeenth century to treat illnesses.”
“Interesting.” I made a mental note to come back at a later time to give it a closer look. Many things that can be used to treat the sick can be used in higher concentrations to kill.
The woman pointed to another section of hedge-outlined garden. “We also have a kitchen garden where we grow a variety of vegetables that would have been known to the earliest settlers.”
“No broccolini then,” Jayne said.
She laughed. “Certainly not. You’re Jayne from the tearoom, and Gemma from the bookshop. I saw you both at the auction. I’m Lacy Montgomery.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Jayne and I chorused.
“You maintain the gardens yourself,” I said. “That must be a lot of work.”
“How did you …?” Lacy laughed again and lifted her hands. “It’s my passion. I never can get all the dirt out. I wear gloves most of the time, but on occasion I can’t resist getting my fingers down and dirty.” Black soil wa
s trapped in the deeper crevices around her cuticles, and her rings needed a good scrubbing, but it was the pride in her voice when she mentioned the gardens, and the affectionate look she gave them as she talked that told me.
“I see you brought something from the bakery for our potluck,” Lacy said. “Why don’t you put it on the table and grab yourself some refreshments before we begin?”
“Thank you,” I said. “We will.”
Lacy went to greet more new arrivals, and I set up my chair at the back of the slowly forming rows.
“Don’t we want to be nearer the front?” Jayne said.
“I need to see everyone.” I handed her the box and wandered into the crowd. To show their support of Scarlet House, many people wore something red or had the scarlet badge of the museum pinned to their shirt. A long table had been set up on the lawn, facing the rows of chairs. Sharon Musgrave put a stack of papers on the table and placed a rock on top to keep them from blowing away in the wind. She was dressed in her historical costume, and I wondered if that was because she hadn’t had time to change after her shift of making inedible cookies or because she took every opportunity she could to wear it. She bustled over to the refreshments table and began pouring glasses of tea or lemonade. At that signal the attendees surged forward and dug into the plentiful dessert buffet. Most of the offerings were bakery bought, but some, such as a huge deep-dish apple pie and a platter of oatmeal cookies, looked homemade. A plate of rocks, aka Sharon’s pioneer baking, went untouched.
I recognized many of these people from the auction. Several of them knew me and extended greetings; those who didn’t smiled politely, searching their memory banks for where they’d seen me before.
“Probably the last person I’d expect to find here,” Grant Thompson said. “Are you joining the board?”
“Just curious.”
He mock-slapped his forehead. “You’re still interested in the death of Kathy Lamb.”
I lifted my finger to my lips, and he gave me a grin. I smiled and said nothing. “Anyone you want me to introduce you to?” he asked.
“What’s on the agenda?”
“Electing a new chair is first and foremost, and then we’re going to talk about raising money to continue with repairs to the house.”
I glanced around the lawn. Thirty-four people were here, chatting to friends and enjoying the refreshments. Sharon scurried about, pouring drinks, handing out napkins, trying to press her cookies on the unwary, while the edges of her stack of papers fluttered in the breeze blowing in off the sea. A man in a Boston Red Sox ball cap walked past with half of one of Jayne’s coconut cupcakes in his hand, a smear of icing on his lips, and a look of pure bliss on his face.
“Who are the candidates for chair of the board?” I asked.
“As far as I know, only one,” Grant said. “That’s her arriving now.”
I turned to see Robyn Kirkpatrick crossing the lawn, her sharp heels digging into the grass. She was dressed in a red linen jacket worn over a white blouse and white trousers with dark red—scarlet—pumps. She greeted everyone with a quick word, a kiss on both cheeks, and a hug, looking like a politician at a fund-raiser. Everyone seemed happy to see her; they all smiled and accepted her air kisses and hugs.
“She seems popular,” I said.
“They’re just happy someone’s prepared to step in and take over. Means they won’t be asked to do it,” Grant said.
“Sounds like every nonprofit I’ve ever been involved in.”
“Got that right.”
“What about Kathy’s friends and allies? How do they feel about it?”
“The same, I guess,” he said. “Kathy hadn’t been chair for long, meaning she hadn’t made much of an impact.” He lowered his voice. “This is a well-meaning volunteer group, people proud of West London and interested in its history. No one wanted to find themselves forced to take sides in a power struggle. Tell you the truth, I don’t get the feeling many members are all that bothered about Kathy’s death. All that unpleasantness can be forgotten, and everything can go back to where it should be. Excuse me, Gemma. I see someone I want to talk to. She’s interested in acquiring a first edition copy of the Moonstone, but she’s dragging her decision out, hoping I’ll think she’s unsure and thus drop the price. Not a chance.”
He pasted on his professional smile and approached an elderly woman with a helmet of slate-gray hair, wearing a ferocious frown and a powder-blue suit that was fashionable in the days of shoulder pads. When she spotted Grant heading her way, her frown disappeared, and a look of sheer girlish pleasure crossed her face. I laughed to myself. She wasn’t dragging out her decision about the book in an attempt to haggle over the price. She wanted the company of a handsome, charming young man. And Grant was all of that.
“How nice to see you, Gemma.” Ben Alderson joined me, clutching a glass of lemonade and a plate of treats. “Thank you for coming.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said.
“You’ve decided to join us—that’s wonderful. You English people have an appreciation for history. I hope you don’t take it too personally that we kicked you out back in seventy-six.” He laughed heartily.
I smiled politely. “I haven’t decided.”
He ignored me. “Being a small-business owner, you must have a good eye for detail. We need someone to coordinate the purchasing efforts. We’re going to need a lot of furniture and household goods to replace what was lost in the fire. We’d prefer originals, of course, but the expense might run to more than we can afford. You and your team can take charge of that.”
“My team?”
He finished his piece of apple pie and picked up a raspberry tart. “Once we get the board reorganized and the matter of financing out of the way, then we can start working on the subcommittees. I’ll send you a list of interested folks, and you can give them a call in a day or two, form your committee, and start developing your plan.” He stopped talking long enough to take a bite of the tart.
“Committee? My plan?” I said weakly.
“Oh good. Peter came. I was worried he wouldn’t make it because of his leg. Talk to you later, Gemma.” He tossed the last piece of tart into his mouth and hurried away. I blinked and watched him cross the lawn. With one quick movement of his arm, he threw one of Sharon’s cookies into an heirloom rose bush.
Jayne’s mother, Leslie, had arrived, and they were chatting at the edge of the crowd. I went up to them. “A word to the wise. Don’t get trapped into conversation by Ben Alderson. You’ll end up being assigned to do all the catering for the work crew.”
Jayne blanched.
“That’s Ben,” Leslie said.
Sharon slipped out from behind the refreshments table and headed for the barn. I decided to check on the piglets.
The barn was as neat and tidy as it had been on my last visit, the floor so clean you could eat off it, if you were so inclined. I doubted that was faithful to the condition of most seventeenth- or eighteenth-century barns. Heck, it wasn’t the condition of most seventeenth- or eighteenth-century homes. The animals were all in their pens, the goats standing on their hind legs, forelegs on the fence, interested in what Sharon was up to. The scent of fresh straw and clean animals filled the air.
Sharon picked two lanterns off a makeshift kitchen cabinet and turned. She let out a small scream and lifted one hand to her chest. The lamp was iron and old-fashioned, with a large base, hourglass body, and flip handle, but battery operated. “My goodness, you frightened me.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to. I love the atmosphere in an old barn as dusk settles, don’t you?” Not that I’d ever been in a barn, at dusk or any other time, before this week.
Her face beamed with the same intensity as the lights in her hands. “Oh my gosh, yes. Everything settling down for the night. All’s right with the world.” She patted her mouth, but I caught the scent of something strong and sweet on her breath. Homemade rose-hip wine was my guess. I glanced at the cabinet. The do
ors were closed, secured with a piece of wood through a loop. As well as coming in for the lanterns, Sharon had taken the opportunity to fortify herself for the meeting.
I waved in the vague direction of the gathering outside. “Everything seems all right in the museum world as well. Are things getting back on track?”
“Slowly.”
“It hasn’t been long since you lost your board chair.”
Sharon shrugged. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but we’re better off without her. The priority right now has to be to get the house useable. Robyn’s much better at fund-raising than Kathy ever was.”
“You think Robyn’s going to be voted in as board chair?”
“It’s a foregone conclusion,” she said.
“You’ll stay on as bookkeeper?”
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s never been in doubt, not with Robyn.”
Fortune favors the brave, or so they say. Sometimes the only way to get an honest answer to your question is to out-and-out ask it. “But not under Kathy?”
Sharon stiffened and her brow darkened. “Kathy had some foolish ideas about making changes that everyone knew weren’t needed. I told her she’d never get anyone as good as me, as dedicated to the museum, at the wages they were able to pay.”
“You must love it here a great deal.”
Her face softened. “It’s the center of my life,” she said quietly.
The arson investigator’s report concluded that the fire at the museum house had been an accident. A candle left unnoticed when the docent locked up for the night, an open window, a sudden gust of wind. The volunteer hadn’t been mentioned by name. The report only said that when questioned she’d been extremely upset about what had happened.
This person was, I knew, Sharon Musgrave. If Kathy had threatened to fire Sharon from her paying job as the bookkeeper, she would likely have also threatened Sharon’s volunteer position. It can be difficult to fire a volunteer if she’s good at her tasks, but it can be done. Causing the house to burn down would be cause enough.
