She was lovely, this woman. Tonight she had dressed up for me . . .
—Mickey Spillane, My Gun Is Quick
THE EVENING STARTED predictably enough. Bonnie agreed to extend her hours into some evening babysitting. She was now ensconced in the living room with Spencer, Amy, a fresh bowl of popcorn, and the Avenging Angel game.
Bud Napp showed up a few minutes later. A lean, energetic man just touching seventy, Bud looked dapper in an off-the-rack pin-striped suit, silk tie—and “Napp Hardware” ball cap.
“You’re taking that off right now!” Sadie insisted as she fussed in front of the mirror with the bow on her silk blouse, beneath her best embroidered sweater.
With a shake of his head, Bud removed the crimson cap and helped Sadie with her coat. “We’d better get cracking. It’s nearly eight.”
To Budd’s chagrin, I had to run upstairs one last time.
When I’d changed for the evening, including fresh underthings, I’d left something important behind.
You can say that again!
Sorry, Jack . . .
I found the tiny silk purse on my dresser and pinned it carefully next to my heart. Inside the soft pocket was an old United States Mint–issued Buffalo nickel. Some time ago, it had fallen out of the files downstairs—Jack Shepard’s files.
When I’d first found the nickel, I’d kept it for luck, and quickly discovered Jack’s past contact with it allowed the coin to work as some kind of transmitter. After decades of imprisonment within the fieldstone walls of our shop—the location, as he put it, of his “lead poisoning”—Jack was finally able to travel, as long as I remembered to take his lucky nickel along!
I’m with you, sweetheart. Let’s hit the road.
WE DID HIT it, with Bud at the wheel, and not in his hardware store’s battered old van, either. Tonight, Sadie and I were being squired in the man’s big, shiny Chrysler sedan.
We traveled down Cranberry Street, past the commons and toward Quindicott Pond, our local name for a pretty Atlantic inlet (a real draw around our region for fishing and scenic boating).
Moving through a pair of wide-open antique iron gates, we followed the long drive that led to the Finch Inn. The early-fall evening was temperate, and I rolled down my window to enjoy the night air. An icy salt breeze stirred the tall oaks on either side of the road. Their rippling leaves and swaying branches reminded me of the nearby ocean. Like Jack, I couldn’t see its body, but I could feel the effects of its tempestuous changes.
Farther out, the moan of a ship’s horn drifted down from the treetops like the lonely call of a night bird looking for its mate.
Finally, the historic home showed itself. Lit by a golden glow from within and tasteful landscape lighting from without, the beautifully kept turn-of-the-last-century Queen Anne looked like a colorful gingerbread house. Now a popular bed-and-breakfast, the Finch Inn featured three floors of luxury rooms, a widow’s walk, and working fireplaces in all the suites.
Visitors found it hard to believe this cheerful, welcoming Victorian confection had a dark history, but then nearly everything in New England did. Once upon a time, this estate belonged to an insane relative of the McClure family—the very clan I’d married into (but that was another story).
Following the winding drive, we reached the part of the pond where the lapping of the inlet’s tidal waters mingled with the sounds of laughter and the clatter of dinner plates. The inn’s new glass-walled restaurant, Chez Finch, had been built close enough to the pond for its glow to be reflected off the whispering waves.
Innkeeper, owner, and hostess Fiona Finch greeted us in the entryway. Though diminutive, she was easy to spot in an evening dress the color of blue finch feathers, accessorized by a scarlet brooch depicting two macaws on the wing—one of her favorites among the hundreds of bird pins she’d acquired, “because,” she said, “like Barney and me, macaws mate for life.”
“You should have let me know you were coming!” Fiona cried. “We’re busy, though I might be able to squeeze you in.”
“Actually, we’re meeting someone who’s already made reservations.”
Fiona’s eyes lit with interest when I dropped the name of Emma Hudson’s ex-husband, Philip.
She looked me up and down. “You’ve dressed to impress,” she said with an approving nod.
I confess I made an effort tonight. Given Emma Hudson’s posh wardrobe, I didn’t want Mr. Hudson looking down his nose at me, thinking I was a country bumpkin who couldn’t be trusted with a valuable consignment of first editions. I had to look the part of a successful business owner, and I did.
Digging through my old Manhattan wardrobe, I found a chic black cashmere sweater. I paired it with a pearl necklace and earrings, ebony tights, and a tailored skirt that I was amazed I could still squeeze into.
Fiona’s interest in my appearance was a puzzle, however, until she led us to the restored oak and brass bar that once graced a luxury Pullman car, and introduced me to our host.
Flashing an easy smile, Philip Gordon Hudson set a gin and tonic aside and slipped off the barstool to greet us. My eyes widened in mild shock at the sight of him.
Who’s the Alvin? Jack cracked.
It came as no surprise that a man with Newport ties would be impeccably dressed—and getting a head start with cocktails. What surprised me was that the tall, tanned, athletic man with the thick swath of blond hair appeared to be in his mid-forties. Emma Hudson had been at least twenty years older than her spouse.
“Good evening, Mr. Hudson,” I managed to squeak out. “Nice to meet you . . .”
Hudson was the kind of golden-haired guy you’d expect to see in preppy clothes, lounging on a yacht with a martini. That said, he wasn’t aloof or condescending. His manner was warm and welcoming, and his blue eyes sparkled in the candlelight as he pushed his sun-burnished bangs back with a strong hand.
Emma Hudson must have had something to land a pretty, blond daisy like this one, Jack said.
Well, she was certainly an attractive older woman—
Clear your ears, Penny. I said Emma Hudson must have had something. Like stacks and stacks of dough-re-mi.
You’re saying he’s a gold digger? That’s crazy, Jack. The Hudson family is old money. Everyone in Newport knows the name. I’m sure Philip Gordon Hudson never wanted for cash. And believe it or not, there are May-December relationships that don’t involve money, so you might consider the possibility that they really did fall in love.
I might, for the blink of a fly’s eye.
Well, he’s charming enough. I can see why Emma was seduced.
Seduced? Interesting choice of word . . .
“Delighted to meet you at last,” Philip Hudson said, taking my hand in his. “Believe it or not, Mrs. McClure, my family’s ties with yours go back a long way.”
“Really?”
“The McClures and the Hudsons were among the first to settle this region. As a young man, I was a guest at Windswept many times, and I attended boarding school with Percy McClure, one of your cousins—”
“By marriage.”
“Of course. I asked around and was told about the unfortunate circumstances of your husband’s passing. You have my condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“At the same time, I heard many very impressive things about you, personally.”
“Really?” Sadie interjected. “Curious me! Tell us what they’re saying about our Penelope!”
“For one thing, I learned that while I was living a life of leisure in California, Mrs. McClure was cheerleading a successful revitalization of this town’s business community. From what I’ve seen of the new Quindicott, I must say—I’m quite impressed. We could use Mrs. McClure’s energy and vision in Millstone.
“And . . .” He locked his blue gaze on my green eyes. “I’m surprised no one mentioned that Mrs. McClure was so very . . . attractive.”
I was flattered—I couldn’t deny it.
Jack could.
If this guy shovels on any more manure, I’m sending him to the garden to fertilize the flowers.
My aunt had the opposite reaction. While Jack continued complaining in my head, Sadie beamed like an honor student’s mother.
“We’re all very proud of our Penelope!”
The grin on her face and elbow to Bud’s ribs also told me that my aunt’s previously dormant proclivities for matchmaking me to “promising” bachelors were suddenly reigniting. Fortunately, before she could say anything else, Fiona informed us our table was ready.
To Sadie’s unbridled delight, Philip Hudson gallantly offered me his arm. With a polite nod, I took it, and he escorted me through the dining room.
The glass-walled restaurant glowed with a golden warmth. Candles cast flickering light on the perfectly set tables. Logs crackled in the stone fireplace, but the dominant sounds were talking and laughter, punctuated by the pleasant popping of newly tapped champagne. Aromas of roasted garlic, herbes de Provence, and savory wine sauces tickled my nose as Fiona’s staff scurried about with trays of tantalizing dishes.
I hadn’t eaten since my morning oatmeal, and I was ravenous.
Your dining partner looks hungry, too, Jack warned. But his appetite has got nothing to do with grub.
Don’t be silly, I scolded.