FOURTEEN

The young woman’s mouth hung open for a moment, then she shut it. Had she been listening to our conversation?

“Um,” she said. “I got lost looking for the kitchen. Melanie wants a mineral water.”

Liza took her by the arm and marched her through the door and into the sitting room. “You definitely took a wrong turn. Next time just have Melanie pick up the phone and dial the concierge.”

“Oh, well, she told me to go. So I went. That’s what I do.”

“This way, then.” Liza turned to me. “I’ll be right back, Georgie. Maybe you could go into my office and make sure the door is locked. I can’t imagine why it wasn’t.” She took Caitlyn and left.

I went through the interior door into Liza’s office. A French provincial–style desk with lovely turned legs was situated in the middle of the room, with a desk chair upholstered in a cheerful yellow and blue floral pattern behind it. White china pots of various lush and healthy-looking green plants lined the sills of the huge windows along one wall. It was dark out now, but I could make out the funky outline of a bright full moon through the original wavy glass.

I crossed the room to the door to the hallway. The door was closed, and I turned the thumb lock, giving the handle a jiggle for good measure. I wondered again what Caitlyn had been doing in here. While I could understand getting lost in this place—there were over a hundred rooms—she’d been here for a few days and she must know where the kitchen was by now. There weren’t that many explanations. She really was directionally challenged. She’d been spying on Liza and me, probably at Melanie’s behest. Or she’d been snooping in Liza’s office.

But what would she be looking for? The girl certainly got around. First she was at Gladys’s house hanging around Channing. Could it be as simple as her having a crush on the town handyman? It made sense. The guy was definitely hot, and he seemed nice. She could have been in Liza’s office to see if she could find out any information about him to help her follow him. I liked this idea—just a girl harmlessly stalking a cute guy.

But another idea popped into my head, something quite a bit less benign. Liza had a lot of famous clientele. She almost certainly kept files on her guests, and the files must contain personal information. If Melanie really was having financial problems—and the fact that Liza had been paid didn’t rule that out—she could have sent the devoted and efficient Caitlyn to see if she could find something useful. Again, I was back to blackmail.

I scanned the room. Everything looked neat and tidy to me. No errant papers or files on the desk or any other flat surface. I walked around the desk itself and frowned. A drawer was pulled slightly out. I shoved it back into place with my leg then looked at the floor. A glossy dark hair lay across the gleaming floorboards. Hair the same color and length as Caitlyn’s.

What had she been looking for? And had she found it? I was tempted to snoop in the drawer myself, but my conscience wouldn’t allow it.

I went back into the sitting room to wait for Liza. She came back shortly, with Caitlyn in tow. The young woman was holding a bottle of Evian. Little droplets of water had condensed on the outside of the glass bottle. She transferred the bottle to her other hand and wiped her damp hand on her skinny jeans. “Caitlyn, I need to talk to Melanie. Can you let her know I’m coming upstairs?”

She started, just a little. “Uh, sorry. Melanie just took a sleeping pill—she wanted some extra water to wash it down. I’ve been gone so long she may already be asleep.”

Stop snooping in other people’s offices and you’ll be on time. I searched her face. Unfortunately, I believed her about the sleeping pill. I’d seen the prescription bottle when I got the glimpse of the pepper spray she carried in her purse.

“Fine, then. I’ll see you both in the morning.”

Her lip curled up a little. “Yeah. She’s sending me to the closest mall to get a new outfit for Doreen to be buried in. It kind of creeps me out. But I do what she tells me.”

I had no doubt she did what Melanie instructed. But did this intelligent young woman have an agenda of her own? She probably had access to all of Melanie’s personal information—she’d have to in order to do her job. Was she leveraging that information?

“Yeah. I better go see if she’s still awake. We’ll be ready early, if I can get her out of bed.” She left the room. Liza and I went to the door and watched her walk up the stairs.

Liza turned to me. “I always lock the door to my office, and I know I did it tonight.”

“How did she manage it? I’m no expert but I didn’t see any signs that the lock had been forced.”

“I don’t know. There’s only one key, and I keep it with me all the time. There’s sensitive information in there about my clients. And it’s a new, modern lock. I had them installed on both office doors.” Her forehead wrinkled. “That girl is up to something.”

I debated whether to tell Liza about Caitlyn and Channing, but decided against it. I hadn’t seen anything other than the two of them talking, and Liza hadn’t said they had an exclusive relationship. “You might want to check the drawer in your desk. It was open. And I agree. Caitlyn is up to something. Melanie too. Tomorrow, I’m going to get some answers.”

*   *   *

The next morning dawned clear and bright. Liza had installed me in one of the smaller bedrooms, and I’d slept comfortably under the soft white Egyptian cotton sheets. I woke at six o’clock and went out onto the little balcony, wrapped in one of the blankets from the bed. I shivered and shrank back as I leaned into the cold stone of the castle to watch a spectacular sunrise over the St. Lawrence. There was so much to do today. Doreen’s calling hours were tonight, and the funeral and luncheon were tomorrow. Dolly was scheduled to come in and help me prep the luncheon. I’d decided on a simple menu: Greek salad, warm pitas, Greek meatballs called keftedes, lemony rice pilaf, and coffee and cookies for dessert. The two of us worked efficiently together and we’d get it done quickly.

I needed to call Spiro and make sure he’d gotten a lawyer for Inky. Hopefully MacNamara Senior could help him post bail. I hated to think of Inky in the county lockup, but there wasn’t really anything for me to do. The authorities must have retrieved the box of plastic wrap from the kitchen of Spinky’s and put two and two together, coming up with the sum of Inky. But the back door of the restaurant had been open all day, with workers coming in and out. Anyone could have found the key under the mat. Anyone could have taken the wrap and braided it into a rope. Or planted a half-empty box on the counter.

Which brought me back to square one. Who would want Doreen dead? I went inside, deposited the blanket back on the bed, dressed and went downstairs. I sat down in the breakfast room with a cup of Liza’s fine coffee and a croissant, which I liberally smeared with butter and homemade strawberry jam. Eventually the Spa guests started to trickle in, nobody famous enough for me to recognize. I saw quite a few mangled faces covered in sutures and bandages. Liza did a good business with people coming here to hide out—er, recuperate—after plastic surgery.

All heads turned as Channing entered the room. He was beautiful. Dark hair curling over his chiseled jaw, sharply cut sideburns just a little too long, skin bronzed, presumably from hours in the sun, and wearing a T-shirt and faded jeans that molded to the contours of his body like cake batter poured into a Bundt pan.

He grabbed a coffee and a plate piled high with Danish and looked around for a place to sit. Most of the tables were occupied, though I noticed a couple of middle-aged women scooting their chairs aside to make room for him. His eyes landed on me, and he gave me a questioning look. I smiled and indicated the chair. I felt like I’d just won the bonus round at Bingo—I’d get to admire him up close and maybe get some information about Caitlyn at the same time.

“Thanks,” he said, setting his breakfast on the table and sitting down with that easy grace I’d noticed before. He was a runner maybe, based on that lean build. The guy ought to be modeling underwear. “You’re the one who brought Ms. Ashley and her assistant the other day, aren’t you? What brings you back to the island?” He took a huge bite of cheese Danish and I watched him chew, fascinated by the muscle working in his jaw.

I forced myself to look at his face. Not necessarily a less arresting thing to watch than the jaw muscle. “Uh, yes. I’m Georgie. Liza and I are good friends.”

His face took on a dreamy quality. “Liza’s great, isn’t she?”

“She is.” My estimation of Channing grew. It was clear he genuinely cared about Liza, which was charming.

“The age difference doesn’t matter to me. I like a woman who knows what she wants.”

Liza and I were about the same age. Channing appeared to be about thirty. Ten years didn’t seem like that much to me either. This guy was young and beautiful, but when I thought about what I wanted, I only saw Jack.

“Channing, right? You have the handyman business?”

He nodded, finishing up the Danish in one bite and picking up another with strawberry filling. “Yeah. I close and open pools, do some home repairs and painting, carpentry, and I winterize and caretake several cottages while the owners are away for the season. I get to do something different every day, and I’m my own boss.”

I was about to ask him about Caitlyn, but before I could do so, Melanie parked herself at the table. She gave Channing the once-over, as though he were a donut dusted in powdered sugar. She turned to me. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

Hysterical. “We were just having a nice, honest conversation. Something not everyone knows how to do, Melanie.”

She shot me a frosty look and waved at Caitlyn, who appeared with two cups of coffee and a bowl of fruit salad. No carbs in sight.

Caitlyn sat down. “Good morning,” she said to me, then Channing. Did I notice a slight hesitation when she addressed Channing? Her eyes were focused not on his face, but somewhere in the middle of his chest. Not that I could blame her. It was a magnificent torso.

“You two know Channing, right?” My hostess training never shut off.

“Not as well as I’d like to,” Melanie said. “But yes, we met you when we first arrived on the island.”

“How about you, Caitlyn?” I pressed. “You know Channing?”

Her eyes were big and brown behind the thick black frames of her oversized eyeglasses. “Yes, from around the island.” She went back to her fruit salad.

I don’t know what I thought I was accomplishing here. She was hardly likely to admit she’d been stalking him, however naïve or harmless her intentions. And he might be too much of a gentleman to embarrass her in front of me and Melanie. And if she hadn’t been following Channing in the throes of hipster-lust, she’d been following me and Jack that day at Gladys’s house. I needed to sit her and Melanie down for a nice long private chat. And soon.

“Liza asked me to give you all a ride over to Bonaparte Bay this morning,” Channing said, draining his coffee cup. “Will you have a lot of luggage? If you do, I’ll take the bigger boat.”

Caitlyn piped up. “We each have one bag with the essentials. We didn’t expect to be attending calling hours and a funeral, so we’ll be going to Watertown and shopping for suitable clothes this morning.” She tapped at her phone. “And we should get going.” The girl was efficient, I had to give her that.

“Then I assume you can carry your own bags if they’re small? I’ll go get the boat ready. Meet me at the dock. It’s a beautiful morning for a ride on the St. Lawrence.” Channing headed for the door. The head of every woman in the room, including the three at my table, turned to watch that pair of jeans walk out of the room.

“Damn. That is a fine piece of man-flesh,” Melanie said.

“Yeah, you made it pretty clear how you feel about him. He’s taken, so claws off.” I felt protective of Liza all of a sudden.

Caitlyn flinched, ever so slightly. Maybe she knew about Liza and Channing, maybe she didn’t. I hated to bust anyone’s romantic bubble, but she’d be better off not getting too attached to Channing the Enchanter.

“‘Taken’ is such a relative term,” Melanie said, spearing a juicy hunk of strawberry.

“Finish up, ladies,” I said, waving for a server to come and clear the table. “We have a lot to do today.”

“Fine,” Melanie huffed. “I rarely eat breakfast anyway. I’m not in the habit of getting up with the chickens. Come on, Caitlyn.”

She rose obediently, picked up the two small bags, and we made our way to the dock. I sent a quick thank-you text to Liza. Not very personal, but she’d understand.

A few minutes later we were motoring toward town. Melanie had tied a gray scarf over her blond coif and donned her enormous sunglasses. She hunkered down against the breeze that blew off the water. Caitlyn punched something into her omnipresent phone. Channing looked rather masterful at the helm of the boat. Conversation was pretty much impossible without shouting, so I just watched the scenery go by.

And scenery in September in northern New York is spectacular. The islands and the shores on both sides of the international border, which runs right through the middle of the river, were ablaze with reds, yellows, and oranges set against a backdrop of tall evergreens. With the bright blue sky and the clear water, I took a moment to enjoy the beauty around me. Because when we disembarked, I was going to confront Melanie and Caitlyn and things were going to get ugly.

Channing pulled up at the village dock and extended each of us a hand in turn. Melanie pulled her scarf farther over her face and headed for the mainland, her stylish but impractical high heels clattering on the hard wooden surface. “Hurry up!” she said to Caitlyn, who hustled along behind her carrying the bags.

I thanked Channing as he tied off the boat. “When you see Liza, tell her I said thank you again, will you?”

A blush rose in his sculpted cheeks. Hot and adorable at the same time. Hotdorable. “I’ve got a few jobs to finish up around town before the weekend. But I might head back to the island tonight.”

I smiled. “I’ll see you, Channing. If you want lunch, come around to the back door of the Bonaparte House. We’re not officially open again until tomorrow night, but I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“I might just take you up on that,” he said.

Melanie could move surprisingly quickly on those heels. She and Caitlyn were just stepping onto the sidewalk. I set off at a quick trot to catch up with them. I wasn’t wearing the right bra for running. This body was made for walking. Even that I didn’t do enough of.

I caught up with the two of them in the municipal parking lot. Caitlyn lifted the trunk lid and stowed their small bags in the back. “Hold up,” I said.

Melanie glanced around. “Keep your voice down, will you? That reporter is over by the Dumpsters and I don’t want him taking my picture when I look like this.”

I glanced over. Sure enough, the tall, lanky frame of Spencer Kane was standing there, camera on a strap around his neck, staring in our direction and making notes on a small pad. Melanie ducked into the car, slammed the door, and rolled down the window.

“Melanie. We need to talk. Now.”

She huffed. “Later, Georgie. We’ve got to get to Watertown and get our shopping done. Are there any decent stores at that mall? Probably not even a Lord & Taylor.”

No, no Lord & Taylor. The North Country was more of a Penney’s kind of place.

I relented. “Fine. Go get yourself some clothes, and get something nice for Doreen. I’ll call Clive at the funeral home and ask him to check the size on the clothes she was wearing when they brought her in and I’ll text it to you. But you—both of you—come to the Bonaparte House this afternoon. You owe me some answers and I’m not waiting any longer.”

“That reporter is headed this way,” Caitlyn said.

“Drive,” Melanie ordered. “I’ll see you later, Georgie.” She rolled up the tinted window of the rental car and they peeled out of the parking lot, fishtailing slightly on the gravel and leaving me in a cloud of dust.

Spencer snapped a few pictures of the car as he continued to walk toward me. I glanced around. I’d have to walk right past him to get back home unless I wanted to cut cross-lots behind the rest of the Theresa Street businesses. Oh well, it wasn’t me he was interested in.

“Georgie,” he said.

Might as well get this over with. “Hey, Spencer. What’s up?”

“I could ask you the same question, and probably get a more interesting answer. Look, you and I need to talk.”

“If this is about Melanie, I’ve got nothing for you.”

He turned his head in the direction they’d gone. “Yes and no. It’s about Doreen.”

Had he heard about our relationship? It wasn’t exactly secret. I’m sure plenty of people had figured out Melanie’s real identity by now, once they learned that she and I were in charge of Doreen’s arrangements. Everybody knew everybody in Bonaparte Bay and the environs.

“It’s important,” he said.

“If you know something about Doreen’s death, you should go to the police.”

He flipped his notebook shut and shoved it in the pocket of his rumpled khakis. “I have a little more research to do, then I will, I promise. But I want to talk to you first. Tomorrow? That will give me enough time to find the last bit of information I need.”

Tomorrow was going to be busy, with the funeral and the luncheon afterward. But I was intrigued. What information could he have that he needed to tell me before he went to the police? “All right. If you promise not to take pictures of the mourners, or bother them in any way, come to the funeral lunch at the Bonaparte House. Once the guests leave, we can talk.”

He nodded. “Pinky swear.” His eyes gazed squarely into mine. “And Georgie? Be careful.” He loped off in the direction of the three-story stone building that housed the Bay Blurb.

Be careful? There was a murderer loose in the Bay, so everyone had to be careful until he was caught. But I had the feeling he meant me specifically. Was I in danger? If I was, it was kind of crappy of Spencer to leave me hanging until tomorrow. Maybe I’d ask Spiro to come and stay in his old room tonight. Inky too if he was out on bail.

I made my way to the Bonaparte House, entering through the kitchen door. Dolly was already there, prepping the salad ingredients. “Mornin’, boss,” she said. “I saw your list, so I thought I’d get started.”

“Thanks.” I grabbed a clean apron from the neatly folded pile under one of the counters, then crossed to the sink. I squirted some antibacterial soap into my hands, then began to scrub. A fresh pair of gloves and I was ready to work.

Dolly handed me a bowl of finely chopped onions. “Snazzy earrings, by the way. But you know I already had my birthday this summer, right?”

The overhead lights sparkled on the silver hoops. Dolly had another birthday, the one listed on her driver’s license and birth certificate, coming up in the winter. She usually had two per year. This year there were three.

“I saw them and thought you’d like them. How’s things?” I pulled out packages of ground lamb and pork and dumped them into a large stainless mixing bowl. The chopped onions went on top, along with mint and oregano, fresh bread crumbs, milk, and a pinch of nutmeg. I plunged my hands into the mixture and began to blend gently. This could be done in the food processor or the stand mixer, but hands were still the best tools and it meant fewer dishes to wash. I began to scoop and roll the keftedes into golf-ball-sized spheres.

“Eh, can’t complain. Harold finally got the RV running, so we’re headed for Branson after Columbus Day.”

“That’ll be fun.” Scoop and roll. The rhythm was hypnotic. I’d made so many Greek meatballs over the years I could form them perfectly in my sleep. “Uh, Dolly? You’re happy here, right?” I held my breath, waiting for her response. What would I do if she said no?

She laughed, a rattly sound that bubbled in her throat from years of smoking. She’d recently quit but she’d be feeling the effects for the rest of her life. Hopefully, it wouldn’t kill her. “Ha! You worried Spiro is going to steal me away?” She placed the sliced onions, rough-chopped tomatoes, and sliced cucumbers into separate covered containers. Tomorrow we would mix them together with some olive oil, salt and pepper, and crumble feta over the top. She began to grate cucumber and garlic for the tzatziki sauce.

I grinned. “A little, I guess.” Scoop and roll.

“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” she said firmly. “I’ve known Spiro since he was a kid, but you’re my friend and my boss. Besides, who’d drive Sophie around? We gotta keep her off the roads,” she added under her breath.

That was a load off my mind. “If he offers you more money, you let me know. I’ll do better.”

I could almost hear the calculations running in her head, underneath that mountain of lacquered hair. “Yup,” was all she said as she loaded the prepped food into the walk-in cooler.

Dolly mixed up the dough for the desserts—simple chocolate chip cookies and classic lemon squares, which would be a perfect light finish to tomorrow’s meal. The trays of meatballs went into a hot oven to brown. I checked my watch. Nearly noon. I was supposed to help Jack reorganize Monty’s papers. But Melanie and Caitlyn should be back soon—they’d better be, or we’d have to wrap poor Doreen in a blanket to put her on display tonight. I wondered briefly if a viewing and an open casket were what she would have wanted. No way to know.

My cell phone pinged. A text from Jack. My heart leapt a little.

Making a quick trip to Oswego to get some things out of my storage unit, then I’m heading over to Gladys’s to see if I can help her pack. We’ll mess with the files tomorrow. XXOOX, Jack.

The L-word hadn’t passed between us yet, but we’d progressed to X’s and O’s, and that made me happy. It was just as well he’d postponed our paperwork date. It would give me more time with Melanie.

Where was she? I dialed her number, but neither she nor Caitlyn picked up. A little bubble of anger formed in my gut. She’d better not try to pull a disappearing act like she’d done yesterday, running off to hide out at the Spa.

There was plenty to keep me busy while I waited. I ascended the spiral staircase in the center of the building, up and around to our living quarters on the second floor. Funny, but my room was just as cluttered as the last time I’d been here, so clearly the cleaning fairies had not made an appearance. I rummaged through my closet for something suitable to wear tonight. What did one wear to the calling hours of a relative one didn’t know? The navy blue jersey dress would be perfect. And tomorrow I could wear my black tailored suit. Miraculously, they were still in their dry cleaning bags, so I stripped off the plastic and hung both outfits on the bathroom door. I rummaged around in the closet and found a pair of simple black pumps. My feet gave a throb in anticipation of wearing heels. Shoes needed to be practical and comfortable in the restaurant business, but I could hardly wear my white sneakers with a skirt. I even found a pair of nude hose, so I was in business.

Downstairs, I opened the door to my office, which had been the Bonaparte House’s original library. Autumn sunlight streamed in through the tall, narrow windows, which once overlooked formal gardens but now presided over the employee parking lot.

The urge to slack off—to open up the romance novel I’d been reading, to take a nap—was strong within me. But there’d be plenty of time for slacking off once we closed on Columbus Day. I gazed wistfully at Gladys’s box of recipes. I could almost—almost—justify looking through it for culinary treasures. In the end, I planned the specials through the end of the season, placed my orders with Rainbow Acres and the supplier in Watertown, processed payroll, and did the scheduling for the next couple of weeks.

Doodles and sketches filled the pad of paper in front of me, as I made notes for the off-season. The customer restrooms hadn’t been upgraded in years and they were showing their age. I called the local contractor and scheduled him to come in for an estimate. It would be nice to redecorate my bedroom this winter. Maybe I’d do Cal’s room as well.

*   *   *

Melanie and Caitlyn pulled into the employee parking lot in their black rental car at five o’clock. I was livid. Turns out they’d been back for hours, had dropped off the burial outfit for Doreen at the funeral home (good thing nobody else had died, so Clive had time to dress her), and then gone driving around the North Country. Or so they said. Without bothering to call me. I took them upstairs into Cal’s room and instructed them to change and be ready to leave in twenty minutes.

They emerged more or less on time, and we all piled into the rental car for the three-block trip to the funeral home. Clive greeted us at the door, looking dignified and handsome in his dark suit, his silvery hair brushed back to reveal a widow’s peak over a pair of pale eyes. He was probably fifty or so, with grown kids and an ex-wife.

“Come in,” he said. “She’s in the front room, if you’d like a few moments with Doreen before people arrive.” He gestured to the right, where white letters on a black easel spelled out “Doreen Webber.” “The clothing fit perfectly, by the way.”

Melanie made no move to enter the room, so I led the way. Doreen lay in a coffin made of polished mahogany with brass handles. The casket flowers were lovely. I had no idea what colors she liked, so I had ordered pink roses and white carnations, figuring everyone liked pink. She looked peaceful on her white satin pillow, and her slightly frizzy dark hair had been tamed into an attractive cap. The high neck of her blouse covered the evidence of her manner of death.

Melanie stood staring at the dead woman, her face immobile. Impossible to tell what she was thinking.

Flower arrangements lined the room. I read the tags. There was a tasteful one from the Bonaparte Bay School District. Another featured gerbera daisies, with letters spelling B-I-N-G-O on white cards stuck into the arrangement. A photo of Doreen and a half-dozen other ladies, including Paloma, at the American Legion was stuck into the basket. I had to smile.

From out front came the sound of a car door shutting. Melanie sighed. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”

I wondered if Doreen would mind if I slapped her cousin.

Caitlyn sat in a chair off to the side, tapping something into her phone. I amended my prior thought. I wondered if Doreen would mind if I slapped Melanie with Caitlyn’s cell phone. Melanie and I stood at the foot of the casket as the first of the mourners entered the room.

Doreen had known a surprising number of people, based on the steady stream of folks who filed past her. If I had to guess, I’d say at least half the population of Bonaparte Bay was here. Whether it was to pay respects to Doreen, or to get a look at either Melanie or our second murder victim this year, I couldn’t tell.

Paloma came in, wearing a lovely peach-colored scarf that looked beautiful with her caramel complexion and dark hair. She was accompanied by several other women, some of whom I recognized from around town.

She knelt in front of the casket, murmured a prayer, and crossed herself before greeting us. Her eyes swam with unshed tears. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.

How ironic, I thought. I hadn’t even known the woman, so had I really suffered a loss? I should be comforting Paloma.

“Thanks, Paloma,” I said. “You’ve been a good friend to her and a big help to me.” I cut my eyes to Melanie, who stood there rigid and unsmiling. She seemed uncomfortable, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Not surprising, considering the ridiculous shoes she was once again wearing. How many pairs did she travel with anyway?

Paloma reached inside her purse and pulled out a small sheet of paper covered in purple splotches. She showed it to Melanie. “The girls and I were wondering if we could put this inside Doreen’s coffin. We had so much fun on Thursday nights at the Legion.”

Melanie tipped her head. “What is it?” Her eyes scanned the room. She was subtly agitated, her body still but her fingers tapping on her thigh.

Paloma smiled. “It’s a winning Bingo card.”

“I think that’s a lovely idea,” I said. “Go right ahead.”

Melanie rolled her eyes. I gave her a subtle jab with my elbow. What was it to her? I was glad Doreen had had friends.

Paloma waved to the group of women who had congregated near the table of cookies, coffee, and water in the back. They advanced en masse to the casket, where they stood in a line, hands folded in front like fig leaves. Paloma held up the Bingo card, which I could now see bore signatures that I assumed were from her posse.

“O-seventy-five,” she said.

“O-seventy-five,” the others repeated. Somebody rang a little bell.

The ladies filed past us, reaching out to take our hands and give their condolences. One asked if they could all get their picture taken with Melanie later. She shrugged and nodded. Leave it to Melanie to use a funeral as a photo op.

Which made me think again of Spencer Kane. I wondered if he was out front somewhere, waiting for Melanie to emerge so he could take her picture. Melanie was only a minor celebrity, so while pictures of her might be interesting to her fans, I couldn’t see that there’d be a lot of money in it for him. Still, even if one of the tabloids paid him only a few hundred dollars, that was probably a couple of weeks’ pay at the Bay Blurb.

I was about to take a break from coffin duty and get a bottle of water when a hush came over the room. The low murmur of subdued conversation, punctuated occasionally with a too-loud laugh, was gone. The room was still as, well, death. All eyes were focused on one spot.

Inky stood in the doorway, channeling Bruce Springsteen in a narrow dark suit with a crisp white shirt and a bolo tie. His head was freshly shaved and moisturized, skin giving off a subtle glow in the lights. His little soul patch was sharply outlined on his chin.

Spiro came in behind him. Inky nodded to people, but didn’t speak, as they made their way to the front of the room.

I gave Inky a hug and nodded to Spiro, who nodded back. “I told him not to come,” Spiro said. “But he insisted.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he announced. “What am I going to do? Go into hiding?” His voice echoed around the room.

Hmmm. Much as I believed that Inky was innocent, it seemed a teeny, tiny bit inappropriate that he was attending the calling hours for a woman he was accused of murdering. Oh well. Who was there to be offended? Melanie? Me?

Inky knelt in front of the casket, said his prayer, and crossed himself. He stood and stared at Doreen, frowning. His hand moved toward the body.

“What are you doing?” I said in a fierce whisper.

He ignored me and began to fiddle with Doreen’s arm.

This was a disaster. I scanned the room. Yup, every eye was on Inky. Including the steely blue eyes of Lieutenant Hawthorne of the New York State Police, who had taken a seat in the back of the room.

It wasn’t like he could hurt her. I knew it was insensitive, but she was already dead and autopsied. If there was any evidence, the authorities should have gotten it by now or it was going to be buried tomorrow.

“There. That’s better.” Inky stood and straightened his tie so it hung perfectly straight over his sculpted chest. I looked into the casket. He’d pulled up the sleeve of Doreen’s blouse to reveal the dollar sign tattoo on her left forearm.

“She just got the tat and she was so happy about it,” he explained. “But she never got to enjoy it. She’d want people to see it.”

Melanie’s stare was fixed on Doreen’s arm. Her face went pale and her hand trembled ever so slightly as I took it. Finally, some emotion from the Vulcan Queen of the Soaps. “Time for a break, Melanie. Let’s sit down and have a drink.”

“I’m going to the men’s room,” Inky announced. “Do you know how much water I’ve drunk since I got out on bail? There’s not enough water in the St. Lawrence to flush out the toxins I absorbed in the Jefferson County lockup.”

Melanie allowed me to seat her in one of the family chairs off to the side. I realized that Caitlyn was gone, and I hadn’t seen her for a while. I poured Melanie a cup of cold water and put a cookie on a napkin for her. A little sugar never hurt anyone. And it quite often helped.

Lieutenant Hawthorne made his way toward us. Great. More to deal with? Bring it on. He lowered his bulky muscles down onto the chair on the other side of Melanie.

She looked up at him and visibly relaxed. I expected her to purr and make one of her suggestive comments, but she was oddly silent. Melanie almost seemed . . . relieved.

It finally hit me. Under that cool, glib exterior, she was afraid. Doreen’s killer was still out there, true. But what was Melanie afraid of? She’d been gone for twenty years, so it seemed unlikely in the extreme that she’d be in danger from anyone around here. Or had she killed Doreen—for money—and was afraid of being caught? But if that were true, her look of relief at the cop’s arrival didn’t fit. I reminded myself that, mother or no, I didn’t know her anymore and I’d be wise to keep my guard up.

Inky had reappeared and was chatting with Paloma and the Bingo Goddesses. One woman pulled down the neck of her top and pointed to her left breast. Inky turned his head from side to side, examining it, then nodded. She must want a tattoo there. Because if she wanted him to do more than tattoo her, she’d picked the wrong team in the kickball match.

Lieutenant Hawthorne angled his chair so Inky and Spiro were in his line of vision. I decided on the direct approach.

“Did you know Doreen?”

“Did you?” he retorted.

“What? No. Your investigator already asked me that. We might have been distant cousins, but I didn’t know about her and I’d never laid eyes on her until we found her.”

“Then why do you ask?” He pulled out a roll of cherry candies and offered me one. I shook my head.

“Because you’re here. Why aren’t you out looking for the murderer?” Annoyance made me bold.

He cut his eyes to Inky. “Who says I’m not?” His habit of answering a question with another question was infuriating.

His steel blue eyes met mine as I said, “Inky didn’t do it.” Man, I hoped I was right about that.

He rolled the candy around in his mouth and swallowed, making his clean-shaven Adam’s apple bob up and down. A pleasant little whiff of cherry filled my nostrils. “Maybe, maybe not. The fact that he’s out on bond doesn’t make him innocent. It only means somebody came up with the money to post his bail.”

I wasn’t sure where he was going with this. Inky had at least three tattoo parlors that I knew of. My understanding was that the one located by Fort Drum and its ten thousand soldiers and spouses made a fortune. He had plenty of money and he was bankrolling Spinky’s. Spiro couldn’t have come up with the money himself. Since his little escapade a couple of months ago, Sophie kept him on a tight allowance.

“What possible motive could Inky have for killing Doreen? It makes no sense.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t make sense.” He ran his hand down his long-muscled thigh, smoothing out the crease in his pressed blue-gray trousers. “Which is why I’m here.”

Motive. By all accounts, Doreen had a smart mouth and a prickly personality, but she apparently had a loyal group of friends in spite of it. Might she have simply angered someone to the point that she or he snapped? But she thought she was coming into some money. What was it Paloma had said? The time is almost up. That could mean any number of things, including the thought I kept coming back to. She was blackmailing someone for whatever reason, and the deadline she’d given her victim was approaching. Had her victim taken preemptive measures and strangled her? But why leave the body at Spinky’s? It was just a little too convenient that that box of plastic wrap was sitting on the kitchen counter, where any number of people had access to it.

Before I could voice this to Lieutenant Hawthorne, Clive appeared in front of us. “Lieutenant? Could you come with me into the hallway? It’s important.” His normally imperturbable funeral director countenance was faintly flushed and his voice was tense.

The trooper nodded and followed Clive. I debated. Whatever Clive wanted to say to the lieutenant was clearly meant to be private. But if it had something to do with the murder investigation, I wanted to know about it. Inky’s freedom was at stake. My mother was involved in this somehow, I was almost sure. Either way, it was my business. Or so I told myself.

I followed them out into the hallway, just in time to hear Clive say “body.” Had he found something on Doreen’s body? Some kind of new evidence maybe? They went through a door, beyond which I could see the kitchen. I pressed my lips together. In for a penny, in for a pound.

The kitchen’s back door was just swinging closed as I reached it. I grabbed it before it shut and left it open a crack, just wide enough for me to see through. I blinked, then looked again. Someone lay on the ground next to a pot of asters in full bloom. But that wasn’t the only thing blooming. Thick crimson liquid oozed into a growing pool around the head of the victim.