The kitchen appeared to have had its last face-lift in the 1950s. The counters were small aqua tiles with white grout, and the gas oven was a vintage O’Keefe & Merritt.
An oval chrome table with matching aqua vinyl chairs sat in the center of the room and Ella gestured for Brenna to take a seat. The smell of peanut butter was thick in the air and she felt her stomach gurgle.
A plate of peanut butter cookies was plunked in front of her with an icy glass of milk. Brenna couldn’t resist. The cookie was warm and melted in her mouth.
“Delicious,” she said. Ella beamed. Marie frowned and shoved a plate of chocolate chip cookies in front of her as well. Brenna quickly took one and pronounced it delicious as well. Marie looked mollified, but Ella looked smug. Brenna shook her head. Sixty-plus years of sibling rivalry and still going strong.
“Now what can we do for you?” Marie asked. She took a seat at the table and helped herself to a cookie. She did not touch her sister’s.
“Well, I have a picture from the inside of a house,” Brenna said. She wasn’t sure how much to tell them, so she hedged. “I believe it’s a house here in Morse Point, but I can’t be sure. As the unofficial town historians, I thought you two might recognize it.”
They both preened under the flattery. Brenna had figured that might grease the wheels. She took out the full photo of Mayor Ripley and Cynthia. She didn’t want to show them the enlargement and risk giving away the fact that she was tracking the owner of the trunk. She figured it might do the Porter sisters in to have to keep that information to themselves. She slid the picture toward them.
“Isn’t this the photo you were having reduced to fit on the collage?” Ella asked.
“Yes,” Brenna said. “Do you recognize where it was taken?”
“Why do you need to know?” Marie asked. She was leaning against her sister, trying to get as close to the photo as possible, and Ella was pushing back just as hard.
Brenna hoped they couldn’t make out the vague form of the trunk behind the mayor.
“Oh, I just wanted to gather some background on each of the photos,” she said. “To figure out how to lay them out, you know, by importance.”
It was a complete bald-faced, bare-butted lie, but she maintained eye contact without blinking, and both sisters nodded.
“Let’s see,” Ella said. “Not much to go on here.”
“That’s Cynthia’s blue number,” Marie said. “She favored that gown for the big events.”
“Like the governor’s ball,” Ella said.
“So, this isn’t local?” Brenna asked, feeling a sharp jab of disappointment.
“I couldn’t say,” Ella said with a sniff. “I’ve never been to the governor’s ball.”
“I have,” Marie trilled. “But I don’t recognize it as part of the mansion.”
“How could you recognize it?” Ella ground out. “It’s not as if you got to see every room in the mansion. You only went to one event there and that’s because you stole my date.”
“I did not,” Marie snapped.
“Did too,” Ella barked. “John Henry thought he was asking me out, and you let him think you were me.”
“I did not.”
Brenna’s head whipped back and forth between them. It was like watching a geriatric Ping-Pong match. She had a feeling this could go on all day. She didn’t have all day.
“Ladies, were there any other events that Cynthia wore this gown to?” she asked.
“The harvest ball,” Marie said. “I remember it distinctly because you took my rose-colored shawl.”
“I borrowed it,” Ella said.
“Borrowing means you ask first,” Marie snapped.
“Like you should have when you took John Henry,” Ella bit back.
Brenna sighed. She could feel a tic start in her right eye.
“Ladies, where was the harvest ball held?” she shouted over them.
They both blinked at her as if to say “duh.”
“The Portsmyth mansion, of course,” they said.
“The Portsmyths host it every November,” Marie said.
“It’s the social event of the season,” Ella added.
And just like that, it all made sense.
“Thank you,” Brenna said. “Thank you both!”
She jumped up from the table and raced back down the narrow hall to the door.
“What do you suppose that was about?” Ella asked her sister as they watched the door bang shut behind Brenna.
“Not a clue,” Marie answered with a shake of her head.
“She’s a nice girl, but a bit of busybody, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” Marie agreed. “I think all that city living must make for a certain amount of nosiness.”
“Good thing we’re more cultured than that,” Ella said.
“Quite right, Sister, quite right,” Marie said. “We’ll just have to take her under our wing.”
In unison they each took one of their cookies and dunked it into their milk, nibbling the edges and working their way around its circumference like synchronized swimmers.
Chapter 22
Use fine-grain sandpaper in between coats of polyurethane and wipe clean with a sponge before coating again.
Brenna parked in front of Vintage Papers, barely remembering to lock the Jeep in her haste. She hurtled through the front door. She had to talk to Tenley before she made her next move.
She found her friend working the counter, ringing up a purchase for Susanna Blair. Susanna’s daughter was having her sweet sixteen birthday party next month, and she had custom-ordered the invitations from them weeks ago. They were lovely, sporting glittery pink 16s in a retro font on a cream-colored background.
Both women turned to stare at her as she banged into the shop, and Brenna knew she must look like a crazy person. If they knew the half of it! She smoothed her hair with her hands and forced herself to breathe. The transaction seemed to take forever as Susanna described the cake, DJ, and party favors in great glorious detail. Just when Brenna didn’t think she could stand another word, Susanna took her package and left.
“I need to ask you a question,” she said as soon as the front door closed.
“Well, hello to you, too,” Tenley said. “Fire away.”
Brenna pulled out the envelope of pictures she’d gotten from the copy store and went to the back table.
She spread out the smaller ones to be used on the plaque and left the enlargement in the envelope.
Tenley followed her and asked, “What’s up?”
“If I killed someone, would you help me dispose of the body?” Brenna asked.
“Why? Has someone been annoying you lately?” she asked.
“Hypothetically, I mean,” Brenna said. “I’m asking as your best friend, would you help me?”
“I don’t know.” Tenley pondered the question. “Do I like the person?”
“Hmm, good question,” she said. She chewed her lower lip. Did Phyllis like Mayor Ripley? As an outsider, it was hard for her to say. “Let’s say you don’t have any feelings one way or another.”
“I don’t know,” Tenley said. “I suppose I would probably decide in the heat of the moment.”
Brenna nodded. That made sense. It was hard to know what you’d do until the situation arose.
“What’s going on, Brenna?” she asked.
“I think Cynthia murdered the mayor and I think Phyllis helped her dispose of the body,” she said.
Tenley sat down hard on one of the chairs at the table. Her mouth was opening and closing in shock. Brenna took out the enlarged picture and told her about the trunk being Phyllis’s and how Grace had overheard the mayor and Mrs. Ripley having a nasty fight the day of his murder.
“That doesn’t prove that Cynthia killed him,” Tenley said. “Or that Phyllis helped.”
“Not yet it doesn’t,” Brenna said.
“What are you thinking?” Tenley asked.
“That Ed might have been on to
something and that’s why he got smacked on the head,” she said. “I’m going to go to the hospital and see if he’s awake. Maybe he remembers something.”
“I’ll come with you,” Tenley offered.
“No, I need you to call Nate and tell him what’s going on,” Brenna said.
Tenley studied her. “Is there a reason you’re not calling Nate?”
“No,” Brenna said.
She knew her voice sounded falsely light, but it couldn’t be helped. After telling Nate she wouldn’t get involved, she did not want to be the one to call him and tell him just how involved she was. It was cowardly, she supposed, but he wouldn’t get mad at Tenley. And once he had time to process the news, she was sure he wouldn’t be mad at her either.
Tenley didn’t believe her—Brenna could tell by the way she was frowning at her—but no matter. Brenna had bigger things on her to-do list, like catch a killer.
The elderly woman at the volunteer desk in the hospital lobby told Brenna to follow the yellow line through the swinging doors, to the elevators, up to Floor 3, and resume following the yellow line to Room 317, where she would find Ed.
Brenna managed it without getting lost, for which she was quite proud of herself. The hospital was cold and smelled of antiseptic and other more noxious things, like certain bodily fluids, that she didn’t want to think about. She rounded the nurses’ station and stopped short. Standing in front of Ed’s room, arguing with a uniformed security guard, was Dom Cappicola.
Brenna watched the exchange. It did not appear to be going in Dom’s favor. Finally, he thrust a handful of balloons at the guard and stalked away, heading straight for Brenna.
He looked up and their gazes locked. She was struck again by the powerful aura he seemed to wear like an overcoat. She was surprised the security guard had had the wherewithal to refuse him entry. She got the distinct impression that Dom Cappicola generally got what he went after.
“Brenna,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”
“You, too,” she said. She held out her hand, which he looked at in amusement. Before she had a chance to back up, he leaned in and kissed her cheek instead. She got a subtle scent of masculine aftershave that made her senses buzz and she stepped back quickly.
“I take it you came to see Ed,” she said.
“Yeah, I heard about what happened, and I didn’t want him worried that we’d shut the paper down while he was flat on his back,” he said.
“You’ll wait until he’s upright?” she teased.
“Big of me, isn’t it?” he asked with a self-deprecating grin.
Brenna smiled. She couldn’t help it. Dom Cappicola had charm; she had to give him that.
“Unfortunately, the monkey with the plastic badge won’t let me in,” Dom said. He threw a glance toward the officer in front of Ed’s door, and his eyes narrowed in speculation.
Brenna followed his gaze. She mirrored his frown when she spotted Phyllis Portsmyth coming down the opposite hallway to stop in front of Ed’s door.
“I am going to be seriously annoyed if they let the mayor’s wife in when they wouldn’t let me in to see my own employee,” he said.
They watched silently as Phyllis was turned away. She glared at the officer and looked as if she wanted to kick him with the pointy toe of one of her shoes. Instead, she trudged back the way she came.
“Well, I guess political clout isn’t what it used to be,” Dom said. He looked somewhat mollified.
“Maybe, but that wasn’t the mayor’s wife,” Brenna said.
“Sure it was,” he said.
“No,” Brenna said. “I just saw the mayor’s wife, Cynthia, at their house. That is Phyllis Portsmyth, socialite extraordinaire.”
“Well, isn’t that interesting?” Dom asked. He rubbed his chin with the back of his hand.
“How so?” she asked.
“Because that woman, Phyllis, is the woman Ripley had with him when he came down to Bayview to talk business,” he said. “And if she’s not his wife …”
He let his sentence dangle and Brenna felt it ripple through her like a shock wave.
“Are you absolutely sure?” she asked.
Dom looked affronted. “Of course I’m sure. She reeks of old money and good breeding, which is why I assumed she was his wife. Not to mention that yellow rock on her hand is the size of a Buick—hard to forget a thing like that.”
Brenna knew the ring he meant as she’d stared at it plenty of times herself. Phyllis wore the yellow Portsmyth diamond everywhere; it was five carats of hard-to-forget, in-your-face conspicuous consumption. This changed everything!
“Dom, you’re brilliant!”
Impulsively, she grabbed his face and kissed him hard. When she would have stepped away, he caught her waist, met her gaze, and kissed her back. The contact was electric, like jamming a fork in an outlet but in a good way. She hadn’t seen that coming.
When he released her, he took in her expression with a grin of satisfaction and a lingering look, which swept her from head to toe. Brenna got the feeling she amused him, but it wasn’t just amusement in his eyes now. There was also desire. Brenna swallowed hard. She was not ready to process this.
“I’ve got to go,” she said. With an awkward wave, she ran down the hall on legs that felt as sturdy as jelly.
Chapter 23
If the sealant ever chips, sand it and protect it with another coat to preserve the piece.
Brenna left the hospital with her heart hammering in her throat, and not just because of Dom, although that didn’t help.
No, this was it. Now she had a motive for the mayor’s murder. Cynthia must have murdered her husband when she found out he was sleeping with her best friend.
It was a twenty-minute drive back to the center of town. Brenna spent it wondering what she should do next. She could go to Chief Barker, but what could she say, that Cynthia was the murderer? And what about the trunk? How did the mayor get in Phyllis’s trunk?
The way Brenna had it figured, Cynthia found out about the affair and murdered her husband in a fit of rage. She then must have blackmailed Phyllis, by threatening to go public with the affair, into helping her dispose of the body in her steamer trunk. Obviously, the two women were in it together, which made sense since they were each other’s alibi, but right now it was Brenna’s word against theirs, unless she could get her hands on the murder weapon. But what was it?
The chief said that Ripley had sustained a head trauma and they’d searched Nate’s house looking for evidence to that effect, but with no success. Cynthia must have hit him with something, and Brenna was pretty sure the police would have searched her house, too. Maybe she had hidden it with Phyllis or …
Brenna slammed on the brakes, causing the Jeep to teeter and lurch. Luckily, no one else was on this stretch of road or she would have caused a pile-up for sure. She couldn’t believe it. All this time the murder weapon had been sitting on a shelf at Vintage Papers, and Brenna had never suspected. How could she have been so stupid?
She stomped on the gas. She had to get back to the shop and fast.
She called Chief Barker first, but he was out so she left a message. Then she called Nate. All awkwardness aside, this did concern him as he was still regarded as suspect number one. He didn’t answer his phone either, and she sincerely hoped he hadn’t been dragged in for questioning again or, even worse, arrested.
She parked down the street from the shop and hurried up the walk. She pulled on the front door but it was locked. Odd. She fished out her keys and let herself in.
“Tenley?” she called.
She made a beeline for the birdhouse sitting on the shelf. She’d take it over to Chief Barker and tell him her theory. The worst he could do would be to laugh her out of the office. The best he could do would be to deliver it to the crime lab and check for traces of Mayor Ripley’s blood.
She stopped in front of the shelf. An empty cavity was all that remained of where the birdhouse used to sit. She glanced on the
other shelves to see if it had been moved.
“Looking for this?”
Brenna spun around to find Phyllis standing behind her holding the birdhouse.
“An unlikely murder weapon, don’t you think?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Brenna said. Her scalp prickled as if it had been pulled taut.
“Sure you do.” Phyllis’s laugh was brittle. “Cynthia bashed her husband’s skull in with this very birdhouse.”
There was a manic light in Phyllis’s eyes that reminded Brenna of a rabid dog, and she felt an overwhelming wave of fear infuse her body with a terrified paralysis. She was afraid to move lest Phyllis attack, and yet every cell in her body seemed to be leaning toward the door, so she slowly put one foot behind her and began to walk in that direction.
“Oh, don’t leave.” Phyllis’s voice was soft, but the warning was unmistakable. “I’ve been waiting for you. I saw you, you know, kissing Dom Cappicola at the hospital. I hope it was worth it.”
“Meaning?” Brenna asked.
“I know he saw me in Bayview as I’m sure he told you,” Phyllis said.
She stepped aside and Brenna saw Tenley and Cynthia sitting tied up at the workroom table behind her. Their wrists and ankles were bound and a wide swath of silver tape covered their mouths. Brenna felt a hard punch of dread sock her in the middle, and she about doubled up. She had been wrong. So wrong.
“Phyllis, what are you doing?” she asked. “Let them go.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Phyllis said.
She put the birdhouse down and fished a shiny silver lighter out of her Coach clutch. She picked up one of the photos of Ripley that Brenna had left on the table. She held the corner delicately between two manicured fingers while she ignited the opposite corner with the lighter.
Brenna felt her mouth go dry as the image of Ripley curled and charred under the hungry flame. The smell of smoke burnt her nose and she watched as Phyllis dropped the photo just before it reached her fingertips, letting the ashen remnants float to the floor.
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