by Imogen Plimp
“…I’m so sorry,” I said, shaking my head.
“We did get to say our goodbyes—for which I’m grateful. But it was … unexpected.” Then he sighed with a certain kind of finality. As if that took all he had out of him.
“I understand. Mine too—my loss, I mean.”
We both looked down at the floor. It sure was filthy.
“Do you find it at all … odd … that Anne died from a fall down the stairs—and so did Leslie?” There, I’d said it.
“I do,” Dale was looking right at me now, confident and open. Relieved to be off the hook, probably.
“Do you think…” More puzzle pieces hovered around me in my mind’s eye, willing themselves to fall into place. “…Do you wonder if someone out there has an ‘out’ for your family?” I asked, cautiously.
“That thought did occur to me,” he nodded. “But then, I don’t know what for. We generally keep to ourselves, try to be as kind as kind can be. With that one exception Ben was involved in.”
“Right,” I winced. “That must have been hard on the whole family.”
Dale nodded again. “It was. But he took responsibility, and he got himself into treatment, and then we all tried to move on.”
“Treatment?” I sat up straighter.
“Yes. For alcoholism. That wasn’t the ‘cause’ of the incident,” he made finger-quotations, “but it was a factor. Ben’s been sober since then—coming up on three years now.”
“Good for him.” My mind hung onto that tidbit for some reason. I’d have to file it away and drag it up later. “And you’re sure you don’t know where he was the night of Leslie’s murder?”
Dale nodded glumly. “Yes.”
I wasn’t going to get anywhere there, it seemed. I felt as if that sealed it—our interview was over.
“Well, thanks very much for your time…” I stood, gathering up my purse and buttoning up my coat.
“Of course.” He reached out and placed his hand compassionately on my bundled-up shoulder. “And—thanks for looking out for our Ben. But do be careful… This isn’t the kind of thing that happens often here in Warren County, but it seems like whoever is responsible isn’t messing around.”
“I agree,” I gave Dale a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll be careful—and thanks.”
Chapter Sixteen
My weekend guests arrived late on Friday night, just as a squall of flurries enveloped the main drag and dusted all my windows with an idyllic wintry shimmer. I felt like I was living in a snow globe—a fairy tale kind of snow globe, not like in a horror movie where you’re stuck in there forever.
My guests’ names were Dan and Ada—a young couple from New York. Newlyweds (as of a year ago), just now getting around to a honeymoon by way of a leisurely but brief weekend of skiing and shop-browsing. Too short for a honeymoon, if you ask me. George took me to Mexico for ours. I was in a bikini (this was back when I would still dare to entertain wearing one) for five days, straight. I never thought I was one for piña coladas—or beaches … or lounging, for that matter—until I’d met Mexico.
Dan and Ada dumped their belongings up in their room—a room named The Summer Day, a cozy, romantic bungalow in scarlets and ivories—and then came down to the den to join me for a cup of mulled wine and a batch of fresh-out-of-the-oven spice cookies I had made with ginger (needed to get rid of it) and molasses (didn’t even know I had it). To be honest, I’m not that huge a fan of mulled wine, but I adore the way it smells up the whole house—it seems to sink into the walls and cushions and stay for days.
Dan and Ada were sweethearts. They were both on the petite side—which made them even cuter as a pair. He had sandy brown hair and was clearly working hard on growing a beard. She had shortly-cropped, light blonde hair, which paired beautifully with her lovely violet eyes. She was a kindergarten teacher at the Brooklyn Heights Montessori—and she looked the part; and he was a newly-minted detective in the New York Police Department, the lower Brooklyn precinct. Bingo! I could hardly contain my excitement. I bit my tongue—trying to keep calm and let the lovebirds have their honeymoon without trying to dragoon them into my little murder investigation.
“Dan, could I ask for your professional opinion on something?” I finally ventured to ask, after a few sips of mulled wine had given me the liquid courage I needed.
“Sure,” Dan consented.
“Have you heard about these murders we’ve had the last couple of weeks?”
“No. I mean, not at work. Not in a professional capacity. I hadn’t heard about them before we left home—but Ada here told me all about them on the way,” he gestured toward his wife, who nearly burst at the mention of the murders.
“I read all about them online right after I booked this place,” she confirmed excitedly. “I was shocked!”
“I know—me too,” I said. “The first one happened here.”
“I had heard! I couldn’t believe it!” She shook her head compassionately and took a sip of wine. Her wedding and engagement rings shone in the firelight as she lifted her mug—a classic pear-shaped diamond and a simple gold band, proudly displayed on her delicate ring finger.
“To be honest,” said Dan, “I started to get a little worried on the ride over that the real reason we were coming here for our honeymoon was so that Ada could get involved in the case…”
“Oh, I will not,” she elbowed him gently.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he mumbled through a sip of wine, raising an eyebrow in my direction.
“I’ve never gotten involved in anything. I just like reading about murders—as a hobby. True crime books and TV shows, that sort of thing.”
I grinned. A cohort! “Me too,” I smiled at Ada. “Seems strange having one happen in your house, though. On one hand, it’s very Agatha Christie...”
Ada’s eyes widened, “I was gonna say!”
Dan rolled his eyes, though he was clearly amused by the both of us.
I reached across the coffee table for another cookie. “But it is different. Different than I thought it would be, anyway. Not that I ever gave being involved in an actual murder much thought before…”
We all took sips from our cups, which were still steaming (and smelled absolutely divine). Ada and I glanced at one another, smiling silently.
Finally, Dan said, “Why don’t you tell me a little about the case?”—as Ada grinned ear-to-ear.
I told Dan the basics. Ada was enthralled, but Dan seemed a little bored by the whole thing. I suppose that’s what comes from taking your work home—or in his case, on your honeymoon.
“I’m not sure about Ms. Delacroix, but I think you’re spot-on about the murderer being a woman—an ex-lover of James. Someone with an axe to grind. Someone with a very personal vendetta. Someone who’s never been pushed to violence before. These are dainty murders, no offense to…”
“To women?” Ada asked accusatorily, crossing her legs and turning to square off with her husband.
“You know what I mean,” he sighed as she swatted at him playfully. “I don’t think this is the work of someone who has much taste for blood, is what I meant. Also, you know how detectives say ‘it’s always the husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend’?”
Ada leaned in toward me. “They really do say that!” she whispered.
Dan continued, “Well, it is—it’s almost always the victim’s partner. Or it is, I’d say … ninety percent of the time.”
I turned my warm cup in my hands. “The only trouble with that is—no one seems to know anything about either of the victims seeing anyone recently—they were possibly seeing each other, but that suggestion is iffy at best.”
“No one knows anything—even in a small town like this, when everyone knows everyone’s business?” Ada asked, incredulous.
“Exactly!” I said. “It’s strange.”
The three of us sat in silence for a moment, thinking, enjoying the wine and the warmth of the fire—which was really warming the place up by now.
“I hope so,” I nodded.
I left the two of them alone in the den, cuddling by the fire—which made my heart both swell and sink. I finished up the dishes and hit the hay early—Rupert and I had some reading to do.
But I didn’t get much reading done. I was thinking about what Dan had said. And then I was thinking about the two of them—fairly newly married, but past the honeymoon stage (ironically enough). They each had their person—someone to sit by the fire with, someone to playfully poke fun at. I missed it—camaraderie. I missed it dearly.
I peeked up above my book at the window in my bedroom. It was one of the windows Ray had fixed (in case of inclement weather). Ray… And then I thought about Henry—about whom I knew nothing, if I was being completely honest with myself. How odd, to know a person by name for decades, and yet know nothing about them…
I folded my book shut, laid it gently on my nightstand, and flipped off my reading lamp. My head hit my pillow and I smiled faintly.
I’d go talk to Henry in the morning.
Chapter Seventeen
On my trip back from to Galway from New York, I had stopped in at a Maryland farmers market and picked up all kinds of goodies. This meant Saturday morning was more feast than breakfast. I prepared farm fresh eggs (aren’t they always better from a farm stand?) poached in a subtle white wine sauce, served on top of pork shoulder, which was sautéed with a mélange of seasonal vegetables—winter squash, red potato, deep purple kale (bitter and delicious!), and golden beets. I even had enough leftover pork for Rupert, and I had picked up some delicious full-fat crème for Nightmare (who was becoming less and less skittish around not only me, but the revolving door that was my cast of houseguests).
I also got up early to bake some good old-fashioned blueberry muffins—partially because I couldn’t sleep, and partially because I had a taste for them when I finally gave up and dragged myself out of bed before dawn. My trick to them is simple: use a little more than half the amount of sugar any decent recipe calls for (the berries themselves are sweet enough as is), and add a healthy pinch of good-quality kosher salt—always a tiny bit more than you think appropriate. That one works for most baked goods, come to think of it.
The lovebirds were up early. They said they wanted to get a good start on the trails so they could hit up some shops and then take advantage of my fireplace in the early evening. Ada also said—complimentarily—that it had been the smell of my muffins, wafting luxuriously into their room through the crack underneath their doorway, that had done her in and gotten her up and at ‘em.
Dan and I had a lovely chat over coffee while Ada got ready. Mostly it was a comparison of NYC best-of’s. Dan’s pick for best after-work drink was Peter Luger. “Cheesy,” he had said, “but an institution.” I concurred, though I had to admit it had been awhile. We also realized we were all three of us members of the Park Slope Coop—another institution. And a small world indeed!
Ada was ready to be out the door by 7:45 am, which left me plenty of time to tidy up the kitchen and den and set my gracious guests up with fresh sets of sheets and towels.
I ran down the street to the café at about 9:30, right after I mopped up the entire first floor and threw the linens in the wash. I was craving a chai latte, and Rupert was craving a long walk, so I decided on a compromise: I’d buy myself a chai to-go and then swing back around to pick him up.
I had been planning on tracking Henry Castle down for a chat after my walk with Rupert. But fate had other plans. As luck would have it, Henry was sitting at a table for two—all by his lonesome—when I walked in the café’s front door. He looked up at me over his newspaper as I came in—and grinned boyishly.
While I was waiting for my drink, I ran endless scenarios for icebreakers through my head. I was searching for something kind, open, easy-going, but slightly seductive—although not too seductive…
“How are you this morning, Claire?” crooned a silky voice from just behind me. Henry had gotten up from his table to refill his coffee cup at the adjacent serving counter.
Well, my icebreaker problem was solved.
“I’m good, thanks. How are you?” I asked him shyly.
“Oh I’m alright,” he shrugged. “Trying to take it easy this weekend.”
I nodded. “Are you? Been busy?”
“You could say that. Just lots … going on.” He scowled ever-so-slightly. It made his chiseled chin look even more pronounced, as if his whole face had been etched out of a slab of Michelangelo’s stone.
I thanked the pleasant young lady at the counter for my chai and walked over to where Henry was standing, where I pretended to stir my drink with one of those wooden sticks. “You mean because of all these murders?” I hadn’t meant to jump right in, but … oh well!
Henry looked at me blankly for a second—and then smiled uncomfortably, as if embarrassed he had forgotten said murders had occurred. “Yes, that too. I meant I’ve been having to do some shuffling around of some of my properties lately. It’s been a headache. But … the recent events have taken a toll, too. Murder in a town like this is never good for anybody.” He shook his head.
I nodded. “Though I suppose murder anywhere wouldn’t be good for anybody.”
“True.” He adjusted the aubergine and beige flannel scarf wrapped around his neck and gestured over to his table. “Would you care to sit with me for a bit? I understand if you’re running around… I’m sure business for you is booming on weekends…”
“Oh, no, I’d love to!” I smiled widely—trying not to sound too excited.
Henry reached out and placed his right hand on the small of my back, gently guiding me toward his table as if it were the most natural impulse in the world. I shivered with delight at his slight touch—and became temporarily concerned I’d left my body behind in a puddle on the floor.
He pulled out a chair for me and gestured for me to sit—with a devilish grin painted on his face. Cocky, but ever the gentleman. Oh was I in trouble…
I shook my head. He’s just too much, I thought.
Henry took the seat across from me, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his legs casually. “I hope it’s going well at your inn—recent crime aside?”
“It is,” I said, taking a spicy sip of chai. “It’s still early in the B&B game for me. Maybe too early to tell… I’m still getting used to the whole idea.” I gently set my cup down onto the table. “But so far, I love it. I love the old house—even with all its problems—and I love the people I’ve met…”
He nodded. “I’ll bet you get to meet your fair share. Lots of interesting people are drawn to this place all year round.”
“I’d imagine. Though James Matthews’ murder gave me a scare. I didn’t expect something like that to happen in a place like this.”
“Of course.” He was watching me intently.
“I didn’t know him well, obviously, but I was getting to know him a little. And I liked him very much.”
Henry nodded and took a sip of his black coffee, his chiseled chin jutting out muscularly. “He was a good man.” His gaze lowered toward his folded newspapers. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I’d detected a faint hint of sadness through the creases around his eyes.
“Did you know him?” I asked.
He looked back up at me. His eyes were an even deeper blue than I’d remembered. It must have been the morning light, streaming through the front windows in golden beams, playing tricks on me. I don’t think I’d ever seen eyes so blue. “I did. We went to business school together.”
“In Boston?”
“Yes. We were good friends back then. As a matter of fact, he’s a part of the reason I decided to start investing in properties here.” Interesting, I thought. Henry continued. “We’ve drifted apart over the years, t
hough. He hasn’t been spending as much time here as he once did.”
“I see.” I was biting my lower lip, thinking. “I hope this question isn’t too blunt, but…”
Henry smiled widely. “Go ahead. Ask away.”
“I heard you got into a bit of trouble in Boston, back in the day? Something about dilapidated properties falling further into disrepair on the south side of town?”
Henry nodded as he watched me speak, patiently quiet, as if hanging on every word. “I did. Another life. I was young and stupid. Bit off more than I could chew, and then I got behind upkeeping my properties. After that, I learned my lesson. Sold everything I owned and eventually moved out here. I’ve been free and clear of adventures in real estate—with the exception of two places here. One I live in and the other I rent out—and to be honest, I’m thinking about selling that one, too.”
“I know how you feel. I just added a second home to my first in New York. It’s more than enough…” I shook my head, overwhelmed just thinking about it.
He laughed. “It is. Plus, I’m not a young man! There are more important things in life than potential return on investment. Truth be told, I don’t want to worry about money anymore. I just want to keep my people close and ski until I can’t stand up. That’s my new plan.”
I beamed at him. “Well, that sounds like a good plan.”
He nodded and took another sip of his coffee, never taking his eyes off me. His gaze sent a funny little chill up my spine.
“Have you found it easy to meet good people here? The kinds of people you keep close, as you say?”
He shrugged. “I don’t meet many people—I’ve always been a little … shy. But the people I know certainly tend to be the kind I’d like to see more of.” He paused, his blue eyes boring straight through me. “Present company included.” He took another sip of joe, watching me all the while.
