17

AMY MET ME on the porch of The Gabbling Goose and ushered me inside. “Thanks for coming, Jane.”

“No problem.” It was a lie, of course, the problem being that two and a half weeks after that hellish scene in the cemetery, I was nowhere near ready for a nice, civilized sit-down with her dad. He’d asked very politely, through her, for the meeting, promising it would be brief. Part of me wanted to refuse—well, can you blame me?—but another part, the elusive, mature part that’s better at adulting, knew that if I did that, I’d regret it. So there I was.

And face it, if ever any two people had unfinished business, it was Ty Collingwood and me.

Physically, I’d recovered from my concussion, but getting to the point where I no longer slammed awake in the middle of the night, convinced I was suffocating under tons of earth, inhaling dirt and listening to the rhythmic chunk, chunk of a shovel... well, that would take a little longer.

I’d spent one night in the hospital. The next morning, Martin brought me back to my house and essentially moved in for two weeks, waiting on me hand and foot instead of going to work. Maxine Baumgartner, the owner of Murray’s Pub, covered his late-night shifts, and he persuaded her to give Georgia Chen, self-described fab mixologist, a try during the afternoon and early-evening hours, after her bakery job. Georgia happily accepted the part-time gig and proved herself a skilled and popular bartender.

During my convalescence, the padre cooked my meals, monitored my pain meds, kept my house neat and tidy, and ran interference, ensuring my privacy while I convalesced. The only other people who had regular access to me were Sophie and my folks. Dom wanted to come see me, but I gently declined.

Martin even took over my Death Diva duties on Memorial Day, delivering flowers and flags to graves on behalf of my clients who’d requested that service. He included the graves I still decorated out of love and respect for my deceased client Harold Barden, the milk-truck driver responsible for that convenient gap in the cemetery’s fence.

And if you’re wondering why Martin didn’t answer his phone when I tried calling him in the middle of the night, it’s because he had it set to vibrate only, and it failed to wake him. He didn’t get the message until about an hour later when he just happened to wake up and check his phone.

The padre’s personal service did not, alas, include anything too personal. He slept in a guest room and never once tried any funny business. Once the waves of dizziness were a thing of the past and my skull no longer throbbed twenty-four seven, I commanded him very firmly to move out of my house and go back to work. And yes, that firm commandment was accompanied by a very thorough kiss of gratitude for all he’d done for me. That was four days ago, and we hadn’t seen each other since, though we spoke and texted several times each day.

I had not told Martin about this visit to The Gabbling Goose. He would have had some strong opinions on the matter.

Amy leaned closer and murmured, “I’m so sorry, Jane.” Her eyes glistened. “If I’d had any idea...”

She didn’t finish. Well, what could she say? If I’d had any idea my father was a deranged killer, I never would have asked you to go to the cemetery at three a.m. to stop him from digging up his victim.

She nodded toward the adjoining drawing room. “He’s waiting for you. Do you want me to, um, stay with you?”

“No, it’s fine.” I gave her a tight smile and entered the drawing room, a cozy sitting area I’d passed through on several occasions but hadn’t spent much time in.

Ty Collingwood sat in an upholstered wing chair by the cold hearth, which now housed a cluster of live plants. It was a warm afternoon in early June. A breeze wafted through the open windows, carrying the mingled scents of roses and the nearby bay.

Ty came to his feet when I entered, folding the newspaper he’d been reading and setting it on a coffee table, next to a glass of orange juice and a prescription bottle. He removed his reading glasses and tucked them into his shirt pocket.

He appeared to have lost weight, and now looked older than fifty-six—his age according to the various news stories. He’d been released on bail, which had been set at a million dollars.

“Please.” He indicated a matching wing chair. “What can I get you, Jane? I think Shelley put a pot of coffee on. And Georgia baked some blackberry tarts.”

Once we were both seated, he said, “I must admit, I was relieved when you agreed to meet with me. God knows you don’t owe me such a kindness.”

As I attempted to formulate a response, Toby strolled in from the enclosed porch and leapt onto his lap. The big cat gave a few chirps and let her eyes drift shut as he stroked her long fur.

“No words can ever...” He stopped and shook his head. “I was out of my mind that night. This lifelong obsession of mine, to claim that old family recipe—it took over my whole being. That’s not an excuse,” he hastily added. “It’s not much of explanation either, but it’s all I can offer.”

Well, it wasn’t all he could offer. “That’s why you dug up Stu’s body,” I said, “but not why you killed him. And almost killed me.”

He didn’t answer immediately, and I briefly considered assuring him I wouldn’t share anything he told me in a court of law. It was not a promise I could keep, so I remained silent. Of course, it was just the two of us there, so he could always deny having made any self-incriminating remarks. Not that that would count for much. The case against him was too compelling.

His lawyer, Carlos Levine, was reputed to be the best, but unless he could produce bona fide miracles, Ty would be found guilty of murder once his case went to trial. Considering the state of his health, it was reasonable to assume he’d die in prison.

Finally he said, “You heard what I said that night, after I read the note Stu left me. You knew I killed him, so I had to... well, I thought I had to silence you. Of course, thought had nothing to do with it. I didn’t think, I acted.”

He dragged in a deep breath and let it out slowly, staring out the window at the rosebushes. Finally he looked at me and said, “I came to my senses when I realized I was doing to you what my ancestor Sybille did to Percival Ruskin.”

Well, not precisely. In my case it was more like the story “The Premature Burial” than “The Cask of Amontillado,” but suffice it to say, Edgar Allan Poe would have approved—of the familiar plot line if not the act itself.

Ty closed his eyes for a long moment. “I’m so very sorry, Jane. Sorry for all of it, but mostly for what I did to you.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” After a moment he added, “You saved my life. After what you endured, no one would have blamed you for letting me die. I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t performed CPR.” Ty’s eyes glistened, and he struggled to compose himself. Finally he cleared his throat and quietly said, “Thank you, Jane.”

“I’m glad I could do it. My friend Martin also pitched in.” The bizarre circumstances notwithstanding, I couldn’t have lived with myself if I’d sat by and not at least attempted to save a fellow human being. I wondered if Ty would be as thankful when he found himself spending the rest of his life behind bars.

Ty hesitated, but only for a moment. I sensed him deciding he owed me this. “We all know what kind of man Stu Ruskin was,” he said. “And no, that doesn’t excuse what I did. But at that moment, it seemed like there was no other way to stop him.”

“To stop him from what? From trapping Amy in a blighted marriage and getting that much closer to owning...?” I spread my arms to indicate our surroundings, the Collingwood ancestral property. “You didn’t even know about the engagement.”

“I did, as a matter of fact,” he said, “though I was the last to learn of it. I called here that evening, just checking up on things, and spoke with Woody. He told me Stu was sitting back there in the hot tub as if he already owned the place. He referred to him as ‘Amy’s fiancé.’”

I’d asked Woody whether he’d told anyone besides Shelley that he’d seen Stu in the hot tub. He thought he might have, but wasn’t sure.

“Where were you when you made this call?” I asked. “Not Southampton, I presume.”

“No, I was at home. Jeanette was at her sister’s house in Sea Cliff. They get together every Wednesday evening with friends to play cards. Later I told her I went to the jazz club while she was out. I don’t make a habit of lying to my wife, but it was either that or ask her to lie for me. To the police.”

“That’s right.” He continued to stroke Toby, who expressed her appreciation with her musical, trilling purr.

“After I got off the phone with Woody, I was so angry I couldn’t see straight,” he said. “I jumped in my car and gunned it all the way here. It’s a wonder I didn’t get into an accident. I parked around the block and unlocked the gate at the back of the property. No one could have seen me from the house.”

“Why sneak around? Were you already planning to, you know, do something to him?”

“No,” he said, “I just wanted to get the drop on him. Confront him. Let him know he might’ve fooled Amy, but he wasn’t fooling me. I knew what he was really after. My daughter, she’s, well, she can be somewhat naïve.”

“Amy has a good heart,” I said, “and something tells me her naïveté is a thing of the past. Did you know she’d been out there earlier? In the hot tub?”

“No. Woody didn’t mention seeing her—just Stu. I did notice the martini glass on the rim. I just assumed it was his. If I hadn’t been so worked up, I might’ve wondered where Stu Ruskin, of all people, had gotten ahold of a cocktail at The Gabbling Goose. I didn’t find out the drink was Amy’s until a week later when the cops found her fingerprints on the glass.” Ty glanced toward the entrance to the kitchen and lowered his voice. “Shelley thought Amy did it.”

“But she also knew Stu was alive after Amy left,” I said. “Woody told me she went out there to try and chase him off.”

“For all the good it did her,” Ty said. “After you discovered his body, Shelley decided Amy must’ve come back later and shot him. Amy had just broken up with him that morning and was pretty upset.”

“And Shelley never said anything to Amy about it? Never asked her if she did it?”

He shook his head. “Meanwhile, Amy kept her own suspicions to herself. She thought Shelley killed him.”

“Good grief. They were protecting each other.” While all of them pretended to believe the suicide theory. “So Woody told you about the engagement but not the breakup?”

“He didn’t know about that,” he said. “Either he wasn’t told or he was told and forgot.”

“Which is why you thought they were still engaged when you confronted him,” I said. “What were you hoping? That he’d willingly give up your daughter? Abandon his rotten scheme?”

“It was a long shot,” I said, “but I had to try. Of course, I had no way of knowing she’d already dumped him.”

“Just the opposite. Once he realized I didn’t know about the breakup, he taunted me about their upcoming marriage and how all this would be his once I was dead. And how that would be sooner rather than later because of what he referred to as my ‘bum ticker.’”

“But he didn’t stop there,” he said. “He knew how much the Sybbie’s Punch recipe meant to me, how I’d spent my whole life searching for it.”

“I think I see where this is going,” I said. “He told you he had it in his possession, didn’t he? That it had been handed down in his family.”

“That’s right,” Ty said. “He offered to sell it to me for a hundred thousand dollars.”

“You told me you didn’t believe the Ruskins held on to that recipe over the years.”

“I didn’t believe it,” he said, “not until Gilbert showed up here a week after the funeral to tell me he buried it with his brother.”

“But until then, you figured Stu was lying about having the recipe,” I said, “that he was just trying to rip you off.”

Ty nodded. “Which he was, of course. I told him to go to hell, only I didn’t put it that politely. I was boiling mad by that point, as you can imagine. That’s when I noticed this small leather backpack lying there next to his clothes. Out of his reach. I said something like, gee, a valuable recipe like that, I’ll bet you keep it with you at all times. I opened the backpack and dumped its contents onto the grass.”

“At first, yes,” he said. “Then it kind of made sense that a self-important thug like Stu Ruskin would feel the need to strut around with a weapon like that.”

“What could he do?” Ty said. “He was sitting there in his birthday suit, about as vulnerable as a guy can be. He tried to laugh it off, even while I calmly pawed through his gun paraphernalia and screwed the suppressor onto the Glock. At that point I was just trying to rattle his cage.”

I took a slow, calming breath, knowing where this story was heading. “That’s all he did? Laugh?”

“For some reason,” he said, “Stu thought that would be a good time to double down on the taunts. He ridiculed me and my obsession over the recipe. He insulted my daughter in the most degrading way. He said he was going to end up with Amy and The Gabbling Goose and my precious recipe, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.”

Ty fell silent, his blue-gray gaze unfocused as he mentally relived Stu Ruskin’s final moments. He’d stopped stroking Toby, who tried to remind him what his hand was for with impatient head butts. Finally the exasperated cat sprang off his lap, prompting Ty to blink and clear his throat.

“It happened so quickly,” he said. “And it was so... easy. Too easy, really. Stu wasn’t expecting it.”

“I must’ve asked myself that question a thousand times since that night.” He looked even older now, practically gaunt. “I don’t recall making the decision, but part of me must have wanted to do it. To eliminate him.”

Most people have wondered whether they’re capable of murder, under the right circumstances. Ty Collingwood had learned the answer, and it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

“So the note he left you,” I said. “I’m no stranger to death-related practical jokes. I’ve seen a few of them in the course of my odd career. Well, I’ve actually seen a whole bunch of them. I had an assignment not too long ago that involved a reading of the will, only it turned out the deceased woman was very much alive.”

“Her point was to eavesdrop on how her relatives really felt about her,” I said. “Not that she didn’t already know, but she wanted to rub their noses in it while disinheriting them, face-to-face. This is one mean lady.”

“I suppose you’re implying,” Ty said, “that’s Stu’s request to have the punch recipe buried with him was his version of a ‘death-related practical joke.’ Did you notice I wasn’t laughing when I tore open that envelope?”

“You have to admire the planning that went into it, though,” I said. “To dummy up the sealed envelope containing the ‘secret recipe,’ to stash it in his safe and leave those specific instructions in his will.”

“This so-called joke would only work if I was still around when he died—not a given by any means, considering the state of my health and the difference in our ages.”

“But he must have assumed,” I said, “that if he did predecease you, you’d eventually discover the recipe had been buried with him. I mean, supposedly buried with him. You know.”

“He was right,” Ty said. “I would have. Stu knew I was convinced none of the Ruskins had the recipe, but he also had to know that at some point I’d have gotten desperate enough to question Gilbert, just on the off chance they’d found it stashed in Great-Great-Grandma Ruskin’s recipe box or something.”

Okay, here’s the thing. Stu had been dead for fourteen days, and in the ground for nine, when Ty dug him up to get that recipe. Now, a two-week-old corpse is... well, it isn’t something I’d choose to snuggle up with, but trust me, I’ve seen worse. However, Ty seemed to be implying that even if he’d found out, say, ten years from now that the secret recipe for Sybbie’s Punch resided in Stu Ruskin’s moldering jacket pocket, he still would have snuck out to the boneyard in the middle of the night with his shovel.

I didn’t know whether to applaud his dedication or quietly upchuck into my purse.

“Ah yes,” he said, “the envelope enticingly labeled, ‘Percival Ruskin’s recipe for Peg Leg Punch, 1668.’”

“You have to admit,” I said, “it was a pretty clever limerick. ‘Goodwife Collingwood I do accuse’... um...” I tried to recall how the rest of it went.

Ty recited Stu’s note from memory. “‘Goodwife Collingwood I do accuse / Of making a killing with booze / A dude named Percy / Was shown no mercy / And now Ty is singing the blues.’”

“That last line is obviously a reference to the trick he played on you,” I said. “Making you believe the recipe was buried with him. He seemed to be confident you’d dig him up to get at it.”

“He knew how far gone I was,” he said, clearly chagrined to admit it. “That old recipe took on an almost mystical significance for me. I’d have done anything to get my hands on it—up to and including grave-robbing, as it turned out.”

“It would seem,” I said, “that Stu was more or less okay with having his final resting place not be so, well, restful.”

“All that mattered was him getting the last word,” Ty said. “He probably laughed himself sick composing that limerick and devising a plan to get me to exhume him.”

“So I have to ask,” I said. “Your offer to foot the bill for Percival’s funeral and burial—was that prompted by guilt over killing Gilbert’s brother?”

“That was part of it.” Ty gave a weary sigh. “Okay, it was a big part of it, along with horror over what Sybille did. I thought for sure Gilbert would change his mind and refuse my offer, now that he knows how Stu died. I’m glad he didn’t. And I’m grateful you didn’t back out either. Percival Ruskin is owed a decent burial, no matter what he did in life.”

“And he certainly wouldn’t get one from his descendants,” I said, “so I’m glad that worked out.”

I’d thought long and hard about whether to cancel my involvement in Percy’s long-overdue funeral. If I backed out, then Gilbert and Darla would take over the planning, and I couldn’t see that turning out well. Even worse, having decided to go ahead and let Ty pay for it, they’d be forced to deal directly with the man who’d murdered Gilbert’s brother. So, in addition to sharing my vast experience at arranging funerals, I’d also be a welcome buffer between the Ruskin family and the person who was signing the checks. In the end I’d decided to see it through.

“It’s just my medication reminder.” He lifted the pill bottle from the coffee table, shook one out, and swallowed it with a sip of orange juice.

I’d noticed this coffee table before, in passing. It was rectangular, with a glass top that protected an embroidered cloth placed under it. I leaned closer and lifted the newspaper to get a better look. “Sybille must have made this.”

“She sure did.” He moved his glass and pill bottle to a side table so I could take a closer look at this example of Sybille Collingwood’s artistry. “This piece has been displayed in this room since well before I was born.”

The length of linen was about two feet by three feet. Like the inn’s antique kitchen towels, it revealed its age in yellowed patches and a frayed hem. But those flaws in no way detracted from the beauty of the embroidery, which depicted the exterior of The Gabbling Goose in its original seventeenth-century incarnation, before the expansions and renovations that had helped it survive into the twenty-first.

The inn had been rendered in minute detail, from the myriad bricks to the colonnaded porch to the original red clay-tile roof. The Gabbling Goose’s roof was now slate, the shutters on the leaded-glass windows now painted Colonial blue rather than muted green. And apparently there was once a large birch tree in the front yard, along with a profusion of colorful flowers, attesting to Sybille Collingwood’s skill as a gardener as well as a needlewoman. The image included a blue sky, drifting clouds, and a pair of goats nibbling grass.

“This is considered Sybille’s masterpiece,” Ty said, “plus it’s the only record of how The Gabbling Goose originally looked, so her descendants always took care to preserve it. It’s been kept out of direct sunlight, and once UV-filtering glass became available, they started using that.”

“How is it possible,” I asked, “that the person who created this magnificent embroidery, with such loving attention to detail, was capable of such cruelty?”

“Her legacy will forever be tainted.” He grimaced. “As will mine. Future generations of Collingwoods will remember us both as cold-blooded murderers.”

I knelt next to the coffee table to peer more closely at the needlework. “The border is as interesting as the picture of the house.”

All along the edges of the linen were scenes of vegetable gardening, apple picking, bread baking, carpentry, beer brewing and cider pressing, weaving and sewing, milking and cheese making, chickens and goats—the various types of industry required to maintain an active Colonial inn.

Ty said, “I used to stare at that thing for hours when I was a kid. I was fascinated by the pictures of old-fashioned people doing old-fashioned work, right here at The Gabbling Goose. It’s been years since I really looked at it.”

The corners bore four different circular images, depicting foodstuffs. One was a teacup surrounded by a wreath of green tea leaves. The next was half of a brown, oval nut sitting on a curved metallic device with holes in it, and ringed by a swirl of brown specks.

“Of course you do.” I looked at the next corner, a tiny still life executed in colored thread: a pair of dark glass jugs, labeled Rum and AJ, placed next to a red apple. This tableau was encircled by several jointed plant stalks topped by long, thin leaves.

“Those stalks look like sugarcane,” I said, “which makes sense since rum is made from it. But what does AJ stand for?”

He smiled. “Applejack, or apple brandy. The Collingwoods owned a lot of property back then, including a huge orchard.”

Moving on to the last corner, I saw eight lemon halves arranged in a circle around yet another piece of sugarcane and a bowl heaped with a beige substance I assumed was sugar—the minimally processed kind, tinged with molasses.

“More sugarcane?” I said. “Doesn’t that seem redundant, to have the same item in two of the four food pictures?”

“I never thought about it.” He unfolded his reading glasses and put them back on, leaning over the table to examine the image. “Maybe she liked embroidering sugarcane.”

I studied the lemon halves, gorgeously rendered in several shades of yellow, dripping juice. And next to the sugar bowl, a couple of yellow curls similar to the ones I’d seen not that long ago at Murray’s Pub, adorning the rims of Amy’s and Georgia’s cocktails.

You know how sometimes you’ll be working a jigsaw puzzle and you’ll find yourself getting more and more frustrated and nothing seems to fit and then all of a sudden a piece just snaps into place? And then all the rest of the pieces slide home, and just like that, the picture comes into focus.

I sat back on my heels and stared at each of the four corners in turn. I only realized my mouth was agape when Ty said, “Jane? Are you all right?”

“SO WE’RE TALKING dark rum, right?” Martin asked. “Seems to me that’s what they would’ve used in the colonies back then.”

We were in Murray’s Pub. It was late. The locked door sported a CLOSED sign, and the padre had already balanced the cash drawer and cleaned up. The two of us were perched side-by-side on barstools, perusing the list of punch ingredients I’d scrawled on Gabbling Goose stationery.

We weren’t alone in the pub. Georgia and her ex, Henry, were snuggled together on one side of a booth, quietly talking. They’d been like that for two hours, gradually scooting closer to each other, their conversation now punctuated by secret smiles and light touches.

Martin didn’t have the heart to kick them out, and since Georgia had agreed to fill in behind the bar on occasion, thus cementing her status as a kinda sorta employee, he figured if she wanted to hang out after closing to rekindle her fragile relationship with her ex-husband, who was he to play the heavy?

The two of them finally abandoned their booth to join us at the bar. Henry had his arm around Georgia’s waist.

“I didn’t realize how late it was getting,” she said. “You shoulda booted our butts out the door.”

I handed him the list. “It’s ingredients for a Colonial-era punch The Gabbling Goose used to serve. We’re wondering how to turn it into an actual recipe.”

I told her about my discovery at the B&B that afternoon. “I took pictures,” I said, tapping my phone to bring up photos of the embroidery, including close-ups of the four corners.

Henry said, “But how can you be sure these are the ingredients for the punch?”

“Well, Ty’s been researching Colonial drinks for decades,” I said, “and he’s come across these ingredients plenty of times, though not in this particular combination. He has no doubt this is the basis for Sybbie’s Punch.”

The padre said, “It actually makes sense if you think about it. The inn was known for this punch. It ended up costing two men their lives and starting the whole Collingwood-Ruskin feud.”

“As far as Ty’s concerned,” I said, “Sybbie’s Punch is a crucial piece of the Collingwood legacy, which is why he was so determined to hunt it down. He once told me he hoped to set eyes on the recipe before he died.”

“Turns out it was staring him in the face his whole life,” Martin said, “though I wouldn’t call it an actual recipe. I mean, we have the ingredients, but not the amounts or instructions.”

Henry grinned at his ex-wife. “I happen to know a skilled mixologist who just loves inventing cocktails. Think you’re up to the challenge, beautiful?”

Georgia was already sprinting around the end of the bar. “Martin, make some tea. Strong.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He joined her behind the bar and grabbed a few teabags, while she perused the bottles of booze.

“I’m thinking this is closest to what they would’ve used.” She held up a bottle of fifteen-year-old dark rum for his inspection.

“Good choice.” He plucked another bottle off the shelf. “This company claims they’ve been making applejack since the eighteenth century.”

“Close enough.” She slapped several lemons on the bar, along with a glass canister filled with coarse, light brown crystals.

“Demerara,” she said. “It’s a kind of raw sugar, and most likely what Sybille used in the punch. Nowadays it’s still used in some cocktails, which is why we keep it here. Martin, we’re going to need some strips of lemon peel.”

I handed over my phone and she scrolled through the images, her brow knitting in concentration. She made a writing motion, and Martin placed a pen and writing pad in front of her.

As Georgia scribbled notes, muttering to herself, Henry said, “I love watching this lady get creative.”

After a few minutes of work, she put down her pen. “Okay, Sybille would’ve mixed up a whole bowl of punch at a time, but I’m going to try making just four servings. Let’s start with equal parts rum, applejack, and tea. Maybe half as much lemon juice, and just enough sugar to sweeten it without being cloying.”

“So, what did Sybille use that for?” I nodded toward the lemon peel. “Just garnish?”

Georgia shook her head. “In the picture, the peel is shown next to the sugar, which tells me step one is to muddle those two together. So let’s get to it.”

From behind the bar she produced a wooden muddler, which looked like a miniature baseball bat. We watched as she tossed four strips of peel into the pitcher, added a few spoonfuls of the crunchy demerara sugar, and used the muddler to vigorously mash them together. Meanwhile Martin squeezed the lemons into a bowl.

“The sugar acts as an abrasive,” she said. “When you crush them together like this, you’re extracting the flavorful oils from the lemon peel.”

Once she was satisfied with the result, she poured in the rum, applejack, tea, and lemon juice, added some ice, and stirred the golden-brown mixture.

Martin set four copper mugs on the bar, the kind normally reserved for Moscow mules. “We don’t have pewter cups, so these will have to do.”

Georgia lifted the frosty pitcher. “Who’s ready to sample the first batch of Sybbie’s Punch made since, well, since who knows when?”

The rest of us hollered for her to get on with it, whereupon she divided the contents of the pitcher between our four cups.

“Not yet!” Georgia admonished as we reached for our drinks. “Were you raised in a barn?”

Martin ceremoniously handed her a small Lucite-and-chrome contraption, which housed a nutmeg. She held it over one of the mugs and turned the crank on top. Ground nutmeg drifted onto the drink. She repeated the process three more times.

She gave him a look that was equal parts stern and suggestive. “Impatient as always. Haven’t you learned by now, Henry? Some things are worth waiting for.”

He reddened slightly, while chewing back a grin. The padre and I pretended not to notice.

Georgia raised her mug. “Genbei!” She laughed at my perplexed expression. “That’s Mandarin for ‘bottoms up!’”

“I was going to do that one!” I complained. “That’s okay, I’ll just pretend to be Italian. Cin cin!”

My eyebrows jerked up. “Well, dang if this isn’t a mighty tasty cocktail.”

Martin took a second sip. “The flavors are nicely balanced. Well done, Georgia.”

“Well done, Sybille,” she corrected. “I was thinking I’d probably have to tweak this first try, but I don’t know, I’m kinda happy with how it came out.”

“Even if it isn’t an exact duplicate of the original Sybbie’s Punch,” I said, “I doubt it’s far off. Shelley will be thrilled. She can’t wait to start serving it at The Gabbling Goose.”

“How would they even manage that?” Georgia said. “I mean, all of us here know how to make it, and unless they shove that beautiful piece of embroidery in a closet, anyone who visits the B&B can work it out on their own.”

“Ty and Amy are in agreement,” I said. “Sybbie’s Punch belongs to the world. As far as they’re concerned, secret recipes have caused nothing but heartache and tragedy.”

“I have a feeling customers are going to start coming in here asking for this drink,” Martin said. “Georgia, can you tell me how to make a single serving?”

1 strip of lemon peel

2 teaspoons demerara or turbinado sugar

1 ounce dark rum

1 ounce applejack or apple brandy

1 ounce strong black tea

1 tablespoon lemon juice

Ground nutmeg

“Speaking of winners, Henry,” Martin said, “I caught a couple of episodes of your new web series.”

“It’s a baking show.” He shrugged. “I teach the basics. You know, cakes, pies, breads, pastries. Nothing special. Each episode is about fifteen minutes.”

“Oh my Gawd, listen to this idiot. ‘Nothing special’?” Georgia reached across the bar to smack his shoulder. “It’s named after Henry’s bakery, The Cranky Crumb, and he uses all these crazy video techniques and you never see his face, he’s like this disembodied narrator, a cranky disembodied narrator, and it’s so funny. But also really educational for the home baker.”

“Yeah, I’m biased,” she scoffed. “That’s why two different cable networks have put out feelers. He already has a sponsor, one of those home-delivery meal-kit companies.”

“We’ll see.” Henry tried to sound casual, but I could tell he was excited. A brand-new career path, and it had nothing to do with any secret recipes. On the contrary, it was about sharing his baking expertise with the public.

“All those times his friend Steve came over,” Georgia said, “I thought he was helping Henry make videos for job applications. I had no idea till I stumbled over his series on YouTube!”

After we finished our drinks, we all pitched in to clean up. Then Henry and Georgia said good night and left together, holding hands.

“So am I.” Martin did one last check and turned off lights. “It was a messy situation, but if any two people belong together, it’s Henry and Georgia. Why are you lugging that big thing around?”

I ignored the question. We exited the pub into the cool late-spring night. A streetlamp cast a circle of light on the deserted road.

“Where are you parked?” he said, as he locked up. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

“I took a Lyft,” I said. “Good thing I didn’t drive. That Sybbie’s Punch really went to my head. I’m going to need to sleep it off.”

“Seriously?” he said. “That’s the only booze you had all night. Before that, you were knocking back iced tea.”

“If you say so.” He walked the few steps to the next door, behind which was a staircase that led to his over-the-bar apartment. “Maybe you’re getting sick. I’ll drive you home.”

I turned him to face me and stared into his gorgeous, clueless eyes. “I’m telling you, I know what I need, and right now I need to sleep it off.”

He started to respond, and stopped. He glanced into my tote bag, which happened to hold a variety of overnight essentials. Finally he offered a slow, sexy smile. “Are you sure?”

“Ever the gentleman.” I smiled. “I’m sure. Sexy Beast is bunking with Sophie. We have all night. All morning, too, if we want it.”

Martin slid his fingers around the back of my neck. His chest expanded on a slow, deep breath as he stared into my eyes, making no effort to conceal his emotions. His voice was husky as he said, “I need to tell you something first. Before we go upstairs. I love you, Jane.”

My eyes stung. “And it’s a darn good thing, Padre, because I love you, too.”

The kiss that followed was so good, I lost my grip on the tote bag, which crashed to the sidewalk, disgorging its contents. I shoved my hairbrush and bra back inside while the padre held up a particularly filmy article of clothing I’d procured that very morning at UnderStatements, the high-end lingerie store on Main Street.

I sat back on my heels as he examined my new purchase. “I’ll wait,” I said. “Got nothing better to do.”

At last he folded it carefully and returned it to the tote, which he lifted, while helping me rise. “We have all morning, you said?”

“All afternoon, too, if we want it. Sophie enjoys SB’s company, and there’s nowhere else I need to be.”

“What a coincidence.” He unlocked the door and held it open. “Me, either.”

17

Making a Killing with Booze