by Linda Reilly
“Mostly from his ex. She’s a half owner in the lighting shop. I guess she wanted him to make some sweeping changes, changes he would’ve hated.”
“Like what?” Talia asked.
“Pretty much a complete overhaul of the place. Plush new carpeting, updated window treatments, that sort of thing. She felt the place was too stodgy, that it was deterring the younger buyers—especially the ones who had plenty of dough to spend and could easily go elsewhere.”
Talia hadn’t realized Phil had a business partner. Maybe the police should be looking at her as a potential suspect. Didn’t Rachel say Turnbull referred to his ex as the K-witch?
“Jill, forgive me for being so blunt, but … honestly, what did you see in Phil? You are so amazingly gorgeous, you have a daughter you adore, this wonderful shop—” Talia broke off, realizing how insensitive she must sound.
Jill’s voice grew quiet. “Phil and I have a history, Talia. We go way back. Oh, don’t worry, I know he did everything in a skirt, so to speak.” Her smile was achingly sad. “In the end, he always came back to me.”
Yeah, for a guaranteed roll in the hay.
Talia had so many questions. Not the least of which was: what about your husband?
Jill laughed. “Now I can read your mind. You’re wondering where my dear, devoted spouse fits into the picture.”
“I guess so.” Talia shrugged. “Is he devoted?”
“Oh absolutely—to his job. If I really want to rev up the fire in his furnace, I just give him a spreadsheet filled with scads of lovely numbers. Gets his blood flowing every time, if you catch my drift.” The irony in her tone was unmistakable.
“Were you thinking of leaving him for Phil?”
Jill laughed. “Good heavens, no. Are you nuts? Phil would’ve made a rotten husband. He didn’t like kids much, either.” She frowned, and a tiny crinkle formed between her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m speaking about him in the past tense. It seems so … surreal.”
Talia felt a surge of sympathy for Jill. Right or wrong, the relationship she’d had with Turnbull had been a significant part of her life. “Murder never makes sense,” Talia said, and then a thought struck her. “Jill, do you have any photos of Carly? I’d love to see them.”
A grin spread across Jill’s face. “Oh gosh, I just got her school picture. It came out really good—well, of course I’d think that, right?” She went over to the oak counter that housed a sleek cash register, and reached underneath it for her handbag. She dug out her wallet and sat down again, extracting a photo from one of the slots. “Here, this is her third-grade picture.” She gazed lovingly at the photo and then handed it to Talia.
“Oh, Jill, she’s adorable,” Talia said. The little girl’s curly hair, a pale shade of auburn, framed a sweet, heart-shaped face. The impish twinkle in her dark brown eyes spoke of a child who was loved deeply and felt secure in her nook of the world.
Talia peered closely at Carly’s face. Was she the same little girl in the photo Talia had found in Turnbull’s showroom? There was a least a four-year age difference in the two pictures, and kids changed a lot from toddlerhood on. And even if the two photos were of the same child, did it mean anything? Couldn’t it simply have fallen out of Jill’s handbag during one of her assignations with Phil?
Talia didn’t realize she’d been studying the picture so intently until Jill slipped two fingers over it and tugged it away from her. Talia flashed an innocent smile. “You’re very lucky.”
Jill stared at it again, her eyes filling with tears. It was in that moment Talia wondered if Carly was Turnbull’s biological child. Yet another secret Jill was keeping from her husband?
Jill blotted both eyes with the tip of a manicured finger. “I guess we should go, but I want to tell you that I really appreciate your help tonight. And I’m sorry I pointed a gun at you.”
“Yeah, I meant to ask you about that. Why did you have a gun?” Talia swallowed the last mouthful of her tea.
“I carry it for protection,” Jill said tightly. “Don’t worry, it’s registered, and Carly never has access to it. She doesn’t even know I carry it.”
Talia nodded as if it made perfect sense, but she’d always had somewhat of an aversion to firearms. Why was Jill so concerned about her safety? Did she think her husband was a potential threat?
Jill collected their empty teacups and walked them over to the counter. Talia picked up the teapot and followed her.
“Thanks.” Jill took the pot from her and set it down on a shelf beneath the cash register. “I’ll wash these in the morning. No biggie. But before you go, I want to give you something.”
Jill scurried over to an oak display shelf that lined one of the walls. She snagged a tall rectangular box off the shelf and went back to the counter with it. “This is a tea starter kit. It has everything you’ll need to brew the perfect cup of tea. I’m also going to give you a tin of my strawberry-orange blend. Somehow I think it suits your personality. After you’ve tried it, be sure to let me know how you like it.”
Talia studied the box, which contained a glass tea maker and all sorts of tea accessories. “Jill, I can’t accept this. It looks so expensive. What if you gave me just a few tea bags to try out?”
At the words “tea bags,” Jill feigned a spell. “Talia, no tea connoisseur would ever use anything except loose tea leaves, and they have to be brewed properly in order to be enjoyed. Trust me.”
Talia smiled, but she couldn’t help wondering if Jill’s gift was a bribe of sorts. Still, it would be fun to experiment with brewing loose tea. It was something she could do with her mom and Rachel some lazy Sunday afternoon. “This is really sweet of you, Jill. Thank you.”
“I’m thrilled to do it,” Jill said with a sly wink. “And I guarantee, once you sample some of my luscious blends, you’ll be begging for more. You’ll probably end up being my best customer.”
Before they left the tea shop, Jill gave Talia a quick hug. Talia waved to her as she strode across the cobblestone arcade toward Main Street, where her Fiat was parked. The temperature had dropped into the high forties, and a shiver boogied up her arms.
As she tossed her purse and her goody bags onto the passenger seat of her car, Talia thought over everything she’d learned. The tidbits she’d gleaned about Phil Turnbull had been nothing short of startling.
Not the least of which was the astonishing revelation that he’d loved Jill Follansbee.
7
At six twenty-five Friday morning, Talia’s internal clock poked her awake. She hobbled out of bed, scrubbed her face, and headed for the kitchen. The long, relaxing soak in a pumpkin-and-spice scented bath the night before had gone a long way toward soothing her tattered nerves. She had to hand it to Suzy—the bath oil blend she’d created was delectable.
After a fast breakfast of wheat toast and orange juice, Talia threw on a pair of navy slacks, topping them with a mushroom-colored sweater. Around her neck she tied a square of sheer purple rayon. She fluffed the ends out to one side a la Audrey Hepburn, then threw on her flared jacket.
The morning air felt icy, despite the bright lemon ball in the sky that promised a stunning day. A coating of frost blanketed Nana’s tiny lawn, reminding Talia that Halloween was nipping at her ankles. She should probably plop a few pumpkins on the front step, the way Nana had always done.
Talia groaned when she swung her Fiat into the town parking lot. Two enormous news vans had taken up residence along Main Street, squandering a slew of prime parking slots. She uttered a silent prayer that the arcade wouldn’t soon be plagued by the media.
Using the key Bea had given her, Talia let herself into the eatery through the back door. Bea wasn’t in yet—a bad sign. Normally she was bustling around the kitchen by eight o’clock, performing her daily “changing of the oil” in the fryers.
First things first: Talia fired up the coffeemaker. While the coffee brewed, she hauled a sack of potatoes out of the storage closet. She was filling a large pot with ice w
ater when the kitchen door swung open.
“Morning, Bea!” Talia said brightly as her boss stomped in.
“Morning, luv.” Bea looked around distractedly. Charcoal bags hung beneath her lower lids, and her eyes looked cloudy, without their usual sparkle. Spying the row of hooks on the door, she peeled off her fleece coat and slung it over the middle peg, next to Talia’s flared jacket.
“Did you manage to get some sleep last night?” Talia poured each of them a mug of French-roast coffee, adding a dollop of milk to her own.
“Very little.” Bea ripped open a packet of raw sugar and dumped it into her steaming brew. “I couldn’t stop thinking about that bloo—blasted Turnbull.” She slugged back several mouthfuls of the scalding java.
“I know what you mean. Yesterday was not a good day.” Talia had already decided not to tell Bea about her encounter with Jill in the lighting shop. Neither of them should have been there. In the light of day, the entire incident horrified Talia. What had she been thinking, rummaging like a thief through a crime scene? Her only consolation was the certainty she felt that Jill had nothing to do with Turnbull’s death.
“I got a call from the police chief early this morning,” Bea said dismally. “The state police are going to ask every shop owner in the arcade to be voluntarily fingerprinted.”
“That’s not surprising,” Talia said. “It’s probably standard operating procedure in their little manual of murder.”
Bea gasped over a mouthful of coffee. “The coppers have a manual of murder?”
“No, Bea. I didn’t mean it literally. I only meant that it’s probably part of a normal homicide investigation.”
“Homicide,” Bea grumbled. “I hate that word.”
Talia reached for the coffeepot and topped off Bea’s mug. “I wonder when the last murder was in this town. I mean, was there ever a murder in Wrensdale?”
Bea lifted her shoulders in a weary shrug. “Couldn’t tell you that, Tal. I wasn’t born here.”
Talia still couldn’t grasp the concept of Derek Westlake as chief of police. She’d been a freshman in high school when she was recruited by her class advisor to tutor Derek in English. He hated his English class—and reading—with a purple passion. As a guard on Wrensdale High’s basketball team, he needed to earn at least a C or be kicked off the team. Talia had struggled to make reading enjoyable for him, but it had been an uphill battle for sure.
“You’ve got that glazed look,” Bea said.
“I was just thinking about Derek when he was in high school. The real mystery is how he ended up being chief of police.” Talia gulped down her coffee, then pulled the potato peeler out of the utensil drawer and grabbed a humongous spud from the bag.
Bea snickered. “Did you have a crush on him?”
“Hardly. But I tutored him in English for a while.”
Okay, she might have had a tiny crush twenty years ago. Not even worth mentioning.
Bea drained her mug and plunked it in the commercial dishwasher. Her voice grew hoarse. “Westlake said the state police are handling the case now. The same detective from yesterday, Liam O’Donnell, is in charge. But get this. The coppers got some flippin’ preliminary report in from the lab this morning.” She looked at Talia, her green eyes filling with tears. “Oh, Talia, they think I did it. They think I killed Phil Turnbull!”
• • •
The next few hours dragged by in a haze, with Bea alternating between sobs and rants. Whitnee arrived a few minutes before eleven, her thin face drawn. She set to work making the mushy peas—her favorite thing to prepare. Talia tried to engage her in a few pleasantries, but received only a nod or head shake in return.
At eleven thirty, Bea asked Talia to flip the CLOSED sign to OPEN. Almost instantly, the door swung ajar.
“Hey, everyone.” Suzy Sato poked her head inside, her reddish gold curls bouncing around her face. “How are y’all doing?” She stepped inside and gave Talia a quick hug.
Bea gave Suzy a faint wave with her wooden spoon and went back to stirring batter. Whitnee glanced over at Suzy but didn’t acknowledge her.
“We’re doing,” Talia said. “By the way, that bath oil was scrumptious. I dumped a pile of it in the tub last night and soaked for a good half hour.”
“Oooh, I’m so glad you liked it. Um, I’ve got to get back to the shop, but do you and Bea have a minute?”
Bea wiped her hands on her apron and slipped around the side of the counter into the dining area. “Hi, Suzy. Didn’t mean to be standoffish. I’m not having a very good day.”
“Oh, Bea, I’m sorry to hear that.” Suzy threw her arms around Bea and gave a hearty squeeze.
Bea shook her head and dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “Don’t mind the tears. I’m like a leaky faucet today.”
“Well, listen,” Suzy said. “I got a call from Jill Follansbee this morning, and she came up with a pretty good idea. You all know her, right?”
Talia bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud. “She owns Time for Tea.”
“Exactly, and she got thinking about how slow things were yesterday. I mean, we all lost business, right?” Suzy rolled her eyes and ran her fingers through her curls. “I mean, it was so obvious that customers were staying away from the arcade in droves, wasn’t it?”
“I guess so.” Bea frowned. “It was frightfully dead in here, that’s for sure.” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oops.”
Talia squeezed her shoulder. “It’s okay to use the word dead, Bea.”
“I know, I’m just so …” Bea swallowed and then looked at Suzy with misery in her eyes. “The coppers think I had something to do with Turnbull’s murder,” she choked out.
Suzy’s mouth opened in shock. “Why, that’s preposterous. What could possibly make them think that?”
Bea shrugged. “I guess I was the last holdout on the comic book store petition. Turnbull said Jepson had agreed to sign the petition. He claimed I was the only one bollocksing things up.” She rearranged the folds in her soggy napkin.
Suzy’s face turned bubble-gum pink. She looked at her watch.
“Plus, Phil and I had a big blowup that same day. If it hadn’t been for Talia, I’d have nailed him in his smug face with a fish.”
“I have a question,” Talia said, gauging Suzy’s expression. “Even if every proprietor in the arcade signed the petition, who’s to say the landlord was going to take it seriously?”
“There’s something in the by-laws,” Suzy explained. “If the objection is unanimous, then it flies.” She bit into her glossed lower lip. “Look, Bea, I know Phil told you everyone else was against the comic book store, but I, for one, was not. So don’t believe everything you hear, okay?” She gave Talia a pleading look.
Talia opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing. What was Suzy trying to convey? Had she signed the petition or hadn’t she?
“I’ve got to run,” Suzy said, “so I’ll get to the point. Jill has invited all the arcade owners to meet at her shop at seven this evening, after we all close. She’ll serve snacks and tea, and we can all brainstorm. We need to find a way to entice shoppers”—she waved a hand at the kitchen—“and diners, back to the Wrensdale Arcade. Among all of us, we should be able to come up with some ideas, right?”
Bea looked as if she hadn’t heard Suzy. Her eyes again grew misty.
Talia felt her own eyes filling. She glanced out at the dining area and then the kitchen. She loved this place—she had since she was a teenager. And Bea and Howie were family to her. She hated that so much bad luck had befallen them.
“It’s Bea’s call,” Talia said. “I only work here, but I’ll be glad to do whatever I can.”
Bea nodded slowly. “Sounds fine,” she said dully. “I don’t want to stay too long, though. I visit my Howie at the hospital every night, and he’ll worry if I don’t show up.”
“Of course.” Suzy plopped a light kiss on Bea’s cheek. “Our families come first. I think we all agree on that.” She shot
another look at Talia.
“See you after closing, then,” Talia agreed. “Can we bring anything?”
“Only if you want to. Knowing Jill, she’ll have enough goodies for all. Oh, and keep your eyes peeled for reporters today,” she said in a stage whisper. “I saw one of them hanging around Queenie’s Variety this morning. Dressed to the nines and trying to nab people for an interview as they were leaving the store.”
With a wink and a wave Suzy left the eatery, leaving Talia to wonder. Was Suzy being honest about not objecting to the comic book store? Had Turnbull flatly lied about Suzy signing the petition?
So many questions, not enough answers. And now that Talia thought about it, where was that petition? She’d love to take a peek at it.
She was mulling that problem when the door slowly opened. Three elderly women shuffled in, their flat shoes stepping carefully over the blue-and-white tile floor. Vinyl purses hanging off their wrists, they huddled in a knot and looked around. “Are you open?” one of them asked, her bright blue eyes studying Talia’s face.
“Yes, we are!” Talia graced each of them with a cheerful smile. “Welcome to Lambert’s Fish and Chips. Is this your first visit?”
They all nodded. Talia guided them to a table near the far wall, where the cold air from the doorway wouldn’t affect them. She offered to hang their coats but they refused, opting instead to drape them over the backs of their chairs.
“Oh my,” one of them warbled, perusing the crisp, single-sheet menu. “Lil, you and I haven’t had a proper fish and chips lunch since we visited Rodney in Maryland last year. This is going to be such a treat!”
Notepad in hand, Talia took their orders and brought each of them a mug of coffee. Bea had disappeared for the fifth or sixth time, no doubt to pay another visit to the “loo.” In between bouts of tearful outbursts, Bea had been drinking coffee nonstop all morning.
Whitnee, too, had taken a quick break. She’d been shivering since she arrived and had to dash out to her car for a sweatshirt.
Back in the kitchen, Talia opened the fridge and extracted a container stacked with fresh haddock fillets. She set it down on the work counter next to the lemon, the large dill pickle, and container of mayo Bea had plunked there. Every morning Bea whipped up a fresh batch of tartar sauce—a concoction a local restaurant reviewer had dubbed “a tangy delight.” Normally Bea would’ve had the tartar prepared by now, but her morning had been anything but normal.
