Jo liked to think of herself as a morning person, awake in the space between dark and daylight, when the world was dew soaked and silent and new. But thinking didn’t make it so. Her alarm had gone off twice already. It was six thirty-five and she’d promised to help load catering. At seven. Dammit. She’d been looking forward to the opening of the Jekyll Gardens for months, but she would have given her left arm to wriggle out of it now. That was the way of public engagements. Like mornings, they were better in theory than practice.
Perfunctory clean-up, hair in a short knot of ponytail. She was about to face a bunch of strangers, so the outfit of safety included her black jeans and a gray T-shirt. Jo tugged her Doc Martens on in the kitchen. So far, the skies looked clear but it was going to be squishy. She filled the electric kettle and set an assortment of teas on the counter with more biscuits. It looked a bit sad—like airline fare. She was going to have to up her game in future, but then again, her lodger hadn’t even thought she’d be there. Technically she already exceeded expectations.
Jo peeked up the stairs: door still shut, no noises. Probably dead asleep. She crept quietly out the door. Jo was almost not late.
* * *
“Will wonders never cease!” Tula said, tossing Jo an apron as she walked into the Red Lion. “It’s as early as I’ve seen you since the jet lag wore off. Be a dear, take the sausage tray out of the oven, would you? Ben’s servicing the coffee rig.”
Espresso machine, Jo translated. It was Ben’s pride and joy, and Jo very much encouraged its use. But so far, it seemed best suited for creative malfunction.
Jo followed orders and retrieved an enormous tray overladen with varieties of rolls and pasties. Tula had already prepped breakfast for a dozen lodgers and half filled the travel cart with meat pies. Normally a welcome sight—but a bit much pork grease on an empty stomach.
“How many people are you expecting to turn up?” Jo asked, handing it over with pot-holders.
“The whole town had better, or I’ll go after ’em with a switch and broom,” Tula said, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. “Best thing to happen in Abington since I don’t know when—we’ll be booked all through the summer!”
That was the general sentiment: the discovery that the Gertrude Jekyll Gardens held historic significance meant a boost to tourism. Jo had achieved semicelebrity status among the town, particularly the small business owners.
“Anyway,” Tula insisted, pulling the warming cover over her delicacies. “It’s our first fete in ages. Sutton—from the poulterers, you know him—is bringing the generator; the cider house should be there, crafters. I ain’t about to run out of eatables.”
Judging from the number of tents ordered, it was going to be an honest to god circus up there. It caused a worrying clench in Jo’s guts. “Fete, fallow, fiduciary,” she whispered on repeat. All she had to do was cut a ribbon; Roberta Wilkinson promised to do the talking. And Gwilym, who was vying for the role of neurodivergent Watson to Jo’s Sherlock, would be there, too. He’d booked his room about six months ago.
Tula signaled to Ben, steered Jo and the meat cart, and they were off on the first delivery trip.
There would be four of those, in the end, partly because Tula’s Scout had the guns to get uphill well laden, and Sutton’s delivery cart did not. Jo walked the green in her wellies; crushed gravel steamed in spring sunshine and temperatures promised to rise. White party tents glistened where Ardemore’s circular drive had been, a combination market, fair and celebration.
Even the local vintner had a table, sporting cowslip wine. Which wasn’t wine at all, but a fermented concoction of yellow petals and sugar (and sometimes brandy). Jo made a slight face; recalling that cowslip actually referred to the manure the flowers grew within. It took the romance right out of it. She settled on the tea tent instead, ordered black with milk and perched on a folding plastic chair. In the shadow of the tent flap, she could watch the general goings-on without being the center of attention.
“If I may say, you look conspiratorial.”
Jo looked up to see Emery Lane, an acquaintance who worked at the Abington solicitor’s office, in a white-and-blue suit, sporting a pink bow tie and boater hat. But he didn’t look like an assistant to the town solicitor. He looked like—
“Luncheon of the Boating Party,” she finished out loud.
Emery smiled under his pencil mustache. “Renoir?” he asked. “Very good.”
“Sorry. But it’s perfect—you could be painted in front of the garden terrace!”
“I was afraid you were going to say you discovered yet another unknown painting in Abington,” he said, taking the seat next to her. “Speaking of which. How is your Augustus John original?”
“Evelyn is presiding over my living room magisterially,” Jo said, blowing on her tea. “Is Rupert coming?”
“He is.” Emery half hid behind his teacup. “But I am guessing that isn’t who you’re waiting for?”
“I’m not waiting for anyone.”
“Not even James MacAdams, over there?” Emery asked, looking over her head.
“He’s here?” Jo swiveled in place, but did not see a rumpled-looking detective. Instead, she saw only a vest-clad, hill-walking Welshman with a ginger man-bun.
Behind her, Emery chuckled.
“My mistake,” he said innocently. “Hello, Gwilym!”
“Emery!” Gwilym gave the man an enthusiastic handshake that almost turned into a hug, but when he turned to Jo, the smile went lopsided. “Erm, I have some news—and I don’t think you’ll like it.”
Jo gave Gwilym a look. No conversation should ever start like that. Especially not today. Jo braced herself, but Gwilym’s attention had already been diverted. He took Emery’s seat and cast his eyes at the tea tent’s baked goods.
“Scones and clotted cream!” he announced.
“Bad news, you said,” Jo reminded him. She could already guess. MacAdams wasn’t going to be there; he’d told Tula, who told Gwilym, who took it upon himself to—
“It’s Roberta,” he said.
Jo heart pancaked against her sternum.
“Oh my God. Is she all right?” she asked, half rising in her seat. Roberta might be stalwart and stern, but she was also elderly and—
“What? Yes! Oh, yes—she’s all right. It’s just that she found a body on her way here and had to call the police to handle it, so she might be running late to the garden ceremony.”
Jo sat down again, hard. So far, this had been a deeply unfair chain of emotional stimulants. She blinked, opened her mouth, then shut it again. Gwilym kept talking.
“Since she’s been delayed, she thought you could give the opening remarks. I mean, you were the one who found the garden plans—”
“A body. Like, a dead body?” Jo interrupted.
“Yes?”
“Whose?”
“She didn’t know—or didn’t say. The mobile service isn’t great out there.”
“Out where?”
“Oh. She was walking the trail from town. You can give the talk, right?”
Jo swallowed tea. Spur-of-the-moment presentation on Gertrude Jekyll. Could she? Obviously; she’d done most of the research for the brochure and could quote a few of the sources verbatim. But Roberta found a body and would be delayed needed to be processed at some point, alongside the police had been informed.
And of course, in Abington, police meant James MacAdams.
“Great,” she said, and meant nothing of the sort.