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“There’s something I need to say.” Nick reached for Harriet’s hand across the pristine white tablecloth. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while ...” He flashed the boyish grin that never failed to tug at her heart, but the smile was quick to disappear. Within moments he looked serious, anxious even. “I’m a writer, but I’ve struggled to find the words ...”
Harriet labored to read the expression on his face. Were the words he’d been struggling to find words she wanted to hear? She leaned in; he was speaking so softy.
“Ughh!” What was that awful smell? It felt like there was a stinky, wet sock on her mouth and nose. Harriet startled and blinked and forced her eyes open. Chester was six inches from her face, his tongue hanging out. He leaned in for another lick that she managed to evade, then, having achieved his goal of waking her, he yawned and wandered over to his chair. Harriet grunted and stretched and swung her feet over the side of the couch. Gran’s sofa was comfortable for a nap but hard on the back after an entire night.
The first thing she did was check her phone for new messages. Nothing. What was up with Nick? She’d barely heard from him, apart from a text saying he’d booked an early flight on Sunday morning and assuming the roads were open, he’d be in Sevenoaks by noon. There was nothing from her mother either. What happened to the exciting news? On the other hand, not hearing from her mom was a relief. Given the uncertainty with Nick right now, it would be a struggle to feign enthusiasm over her mother and Craig’s engagement.
“Morning. Rise and shine.” Gran was always cheery in the morning. “It’s going to be a beautiful day. Beautiful weekend for that matter.” She was already dressed, in a pair of slacks and a pretty, flowered blouse. She placed a cup of tea on the table beside Harriet and stood with her hand on her hip, assessing the outdoors through the large picture window. “Chester and I are going to come to the café with you this morning. There’s so much going on; we don’t want to miss any of the action.”
Harriet put down the phone and tried to hide her anxiety over Nick. “Sounds good,” she said with a smile. “The Bluebell will likely get slammed again, and Taffy will need lots of help getting ready for Sevenoaks Day.”
“At least she’ll be able to relax a little,” said Gran. “Meachum won’t be harassing her after what happened to Paige.”
“I don’t know how relaxed she’ll be. She’s probably thinking about how bad this is going to be for tourism, two murders so close together.”
“And she’d be right. She’d better think long and hard before she lets TV people loose in Sevenoaks again.” Gran walked over to scratch Chester on the head. “I chopped up some sardines in his kibble. Good for his skin in this dry weather.”
“What he needs,” said Harriet, “is a handful of breath mints in his kibble.” She took a swig of tea and gave Claire a call and asked her if she would swing by and pick them up. Harriet’s car was still buried in the parking lot of The Stone Pony, and as agile as Gran was, the sidewalks were too slippery to risk her walking all the way to the café.
“Claire will be here in twenty,” said Harriet. “I’d better hurry and get ready.”
Gran was sitting at her desk, digging through a pile of papers. “I’m thinking if everyone is going to set up a table at this thing of Taffy’s, Aunt Aggie should have one too. I’ll take orders for the cookbook.”
“I didn’t realize it was so close to being done.”
“I’m flying through it. Our fans won’t get their noses out of joint if I tell them a pinch of this and a dollop of that and to take it out of the oven when it’s done. They don’t need babysitting. Look.” Gran reached under the desk and pulled out a cardboard tube. “Ron even put together a poster for me.” She unfurled a colorful poster featuring a chipper looking Gran and a flamboyantly dressed Chester.
“Nice,” said Harriet, genuinely impressed. “I love it.”
Gran beamed with pleasure. “He did a fine job.” She narrowed her eyes and gave Harriet a stern look. “You’re keeping up with the letters, I hope.”
“Not since the power’s been out, but we’re pretty caught up.”
“Good girl. My fans count on Aunt Aggie getting right back to them. Some of their problems can’t wait.”
“Last week someone wrote to ask if she should paint her living room light blue or mint green,” said Harriet, on her way down the hall to the bathroom. “I feel like it could have waited.”
“I hope you said light blue,” called Gran.
Fifteen minutes later, Claire drove up the driveway and they piled into her car. The route to work was quiet. There were a few people out attending to business, but the neighborly camaraderie of the previous day seemed to have faded.
“Everyone’s getting tired of the cold and not having power,” said Claire. “I know I am. I can’t count how many times I’ve flicked a switch, forgetting we had no electric.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “And no hot water. I’m going to have to heat a bucket of water on the stove so I can wash my hair.”
“How are the cats faring?” asked Gran.
“They’re great. They love that I’m sleeping downstairs with them.” She glanced over her shoulder at Harriet in the back seat. “Thanks for asking.”
“I was just about to inquire how the cats were doing,” said Harriet. “I was especially concerned about Marmaduke.”
“Marmal —,” said Claire, before she caught herself. “You’re hilarious.”
It was a quarter to seven when they pulled up in front of the café. Denise was already there, polishing flatware and inspecting glasses for smudges. “What would we do without Denise?” said Harriet, a comment she made on a regular basis.
“I don’t want to think about it,” replied Claire.
Inside the fire was lit, and the tables were set for breakfast. “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” said Denise. “Morning, Joyce.”
“Morning, hon.” Gran shrugged off her coat and draped it over her favorite armchair, staking her claim. “You tell me what I can do to help.”
While Gran ensured the condiments were topped up and Chester wandered around hoping to find a stray morsel of food on the floor, Harriet pushed through into the kitchen.
“Morning, Wally.”
He didn’t acknowledge the greeting. “There was a murder up at the inn, and you two don’t even call me about it?”
Harriet glanced over at Claire, who was busy organizing ingredients for her scones. She gave Harriet a shrug as if to say, “Your turn in the fire.”
“Sorry, I thought Holly would have heard.”
“Her phone was dead, but mine wasn’t. We didn’t find out until I dropped her off this morning. I didn’t like leaving her. Someone up there is a killer and it’s not like Andrew’s going to watch out for her. He’s having a full-on breakdown.”
“Full-on? Worse than yesterday?”
“He was ranting like a maniac when I left.”
“He’s under a lot of stress,” said Harriet. “First Fisher’s death and now Paige, and I don’t think he was prepared for how much work it was going to be to run an inn.”
“And Meachum insisted on taking the lamb,” said Claire with a chuckle. “That really sent him over the edge.”
“Yeah, he wouldn’t shut up about his leg of lamb. Shows how close he is to losing it. Paige was a real pain in the arse, but who’d he think was going to pile into a piece of meat knowing it most likely was a murder weapon?” Wally yanked open the fridge and studied the contents. “He said you girls found her body. What is it about you two? Everywhere you go, someone ends up dead.”
“We were only there because Holly called us,” protested Harriet.
“Yeah, she knows how you like to stick your nose in. I’ll tell you this, if Ringo ever gets lost, I’m not even telling you. Who knows what condition he’d be in if one of you found him?” He pulled out a carton of eggs and a brick of cheese. “It’s going to be a small menu today. We did a lot of covers yesterday; our stock is running low.”
“I know,” said Harriet. “I’m going to call around, see if any of our suppliers can come by. They must want to get rid of their food before it goes bad.”
“A lot of them are setting up tables in the park tomorrow. You might have to do your shopping over there.”
“If we can get through today, I’m all for it. I feel bad for people, losing so much business. I think Sevenoaks Day will be a big success.”
“Yeah, maybe. We’ll see.” He studied Harriet for a moment. “How’s that man of yours doing? You heard from him since he left town?”
“Of course, I’ve heard from him.” Sporadically. “The talk show went well, but the airlines are so backlogged he can’t get a flight until Sunday morning.”
“That right? Not until Sunday. I’m surprised he couldn’t find something sooner.”
Sooner? Could Nick have got something sooner? “If there’s no flights, there’s no flights. And the roads won’t be open until Saturday night at the earliest, so there’s not much he can do.”
“If you say so. Where there’s a will, though ...”
“He has plenty of will. Nick is – bursting with will.” Don’t argue with Wally! You always end up sounding like a lunatic.
“Cool your jets. Don’t be such a snowflake.”
“Snowflake,” came a screech from the office. “Whiny little snowflake.”
“Holly taught him that last night,” said Wally, beaming.
“She’s a keeper, all right. So, are you two setting a date?”
“A date for what?”
“A wedding. Holly said you talk about it all the time.”
Wally suddenly found the block of cheese extremely fascinating. “No one’s setting a date for anything. Don’t you have anything better to do than hang around in here talking my ear off when I’m trying to work?”
Denise poked her head in the door. “Two mushroom omelets with cheese. One brown toast, one white. Come help me, Harriet. It’s started.”
“We’re out of brown,” hollered Wally, but Denise was gone.
“We’re out of brown?” said Harriet. “There’s none in the freezer?”
“We sold a lot of sandwiches yesterday. If I could get the oven lit, I’d make a batch of Wally Wheat.” Wally was famous for his bread. On days he made it, it sold out by ten in the morning.
“I guess there’s a chance someone will be selling bread tomorrow.”
“Not likely, and not as good as mine,” said Wally.
By nine o’clock the café was once again standing room only. The atmosphere was subdued; more stoic than enthusiastic. Except for Taffy. She was overflowing with enthusiasm. “We’ve got at least thirty businesses who are setting up tables or booths tomorrow. Are you taking a table?”
“We’ll be too busy. People will want a place to warm up and some of the seniors might have a hard time maneuvering around the park with all the snow. They can have a great view of everything from here.”
“Good thinking,” said Taffy, firmly. “I was hoping you’d see it that way.”
“But Gran will be there.” Harriet exchanged smiles with Gran, who was posing for a picture with a fan wearing an Aunt Aggie T-shirt.
“Excellent,” said Taffy with an approving nod. “We’ll set her up in a prime spot where everyone can see her. Maybe she’d even be willing to say a few words to the crowd.”
Harriet tried to imagine Gran turning down the opportunity to be front and center at a town event. “I know she wants to help any way she can.”
Throughout the morning, whenever she’d had a moment to think, the details of Fisher’s and Paige’s murders ran through Harriet’s head. Nobody much liked Fisher, but if anything, the Sugar Sugar crew seemed ambivalent about his death. And Paige? She was an obnoxious boss, but there were lots of those around. What was the connection between the two murders? Was there one? Were there two killers?
“Patricia,” she said, sidling up to Claire, who’d popped out of the kitchen long enough to gulp a bit of coffee and say hello to their regulars.
“What about her?”
“I can’t figure it. Why is she really in town? Why was she at the Stone Pony, and why was she at Bread and Roses yesterday afternoon?”
“All valid questions,” said Claire. “Not ones that Meachum is asking, from the sounds of it.”
Harriet looked across to Detective Meachum who had commandeered a corner table and was chowing down on a scone while he leafed through his little black notebook. “Why? What do you know?”
“I heard from a semi-reliable source – Aunt Jo – that he’s still convinced Taffy is the killer.”
“What about Paige? He couldn’t think Taffy was involved with that.”
Claire put down her coffee mug and did a deep knee bend. “Remember when she forgot her phone here yesterday afternoon? She was in a tizz because she’d missed so many messages.”
“Hmmm.”
“His theory is she left it behind on purpose so she could sneak over to the inn, kill Paige, and her phone couldn’t be used to track her movements.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Taffy wasn’t at the inn.”
Claire did another knee bend and responded as she ascended. “Not that anyone saw, but according to Meachum, no one saw her anywhere in the time she was gone.”
“Would you stop exercising?” protested Harriet, to the top of Claire’s head. “This is important.”
“Exercise is important.” Claire stood up and started doing her favorite buttock toning hip thrusts. “I say we stop by and see Patricia again.” She thrust her hips at a passing middle-aged man, who stopped in his tracks to watch. “How about after work?”
“Whatever you say,” was his eager response.
Claire shot him a friendly smile because her theory on men was, “you never know,” and headed for the kitchen. Harriet grabbed the coffee pot and did a round of refills and when a chair opened up beside Taffy, she dropped into it.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Fine, all things considered.” Taffy’s eyes were on Meachum, who had finished his scone and was headed for the door. “I’d say there’s a few people who are concerned about associating with a violent murderer like me, but overall we’re in good shape for tomorrow.”
“Claire says Meachum still has you in his sights.”
“That’s what I hear. From what I can tell, his theory is that I stole over to the inn and under a cloak of invisibility slunk into the kitchen, grabbed Fisher’s lamb, and belted Paige in the head. For what reason, I have no idea.”
“Where did you go yesterday afternoon?”
“Nowhere anyone saw me, which is a miracle unto itself. Except for a few hours of sleep, I’ve barely had a minute alone since the storm. I left yesterday because I spilled coffee on my sweater. I popped over to my room to change. Then I did a drive by of Mrs. Lanark over on Spruce because I couldn’t remember if we’d checked on her, but her walkway was shoveled and there was smoke coming out of her chimney, so I didn’t stop in.” She grimaced in annoyance. “Nothing else ... I wasn’t gone that long... Funny thing is, I was going to stop in at Bread and Roses, but I didn’t think I had enough time. I’m worried about Andrew. From what I’ve heard, he’s in a bad state.”
“He does seem agitated,” said Harriet. “Is that normal for him?”
“He was awfully intense when he was renovating, but he’s a perfectionist. I’m that way myself, so it didn’t bother me. That inn has been a dream of his for years. Two murders and a houseful of cranky guests and plugged toilets is not what he envisioned.”
“I can relate. The first week we opened the dishwasher broke, and a waitress quit halfway through her shift. I had no idea what I was getting in to.”
“But you love it.”
“I love it.”
Mid-afternoon there was a lull in business, so Harriet grabbed her coat and put a cardigan on Chester, and the two of them strolled across the street to watch the activity on the green. There was plenty of it. Paths were being cleared, tables and booths set up, and there was a steady stream of barbecues arriving. They did half a turn around the park – only half because Chester planted his feet and stared determinedly at the Bluebell, refusing to walk any further. He had strong opinions when it came to what he considered excessive exercise.
When they returned to the café, Ron had arrived, and Gran asked him to drive her and Chester back home. “I’m a little worn out,” she said, a rare admission for Gran. “It’s a lot of work, being on for my fans all day. I’ve got to save something for tomorrow.”
At four-thirty the last guest left. They did a quick clean-up and Harriet and Claire hopped in Claire’s car, headed for Patricia’s house. Claire brought a paper plate of freshly made scones neatly wrapped in cellophane.
“Okay,” she said, parking on the street three houses down from Mrs. Crenshaw’s. “If Patricia answers the door, there’s no way she’s asking us in. Let’s hit her with a couple of fast questions. Maybe we can catch her off guard.”
Harriet shot her a skeptical look. “I find that unlikely.”
“Me too,” said Claire cheerfully.
They climbed the stairs and tapped on the door and waited. No answer.
“I can’t see any light,” said Claire, peering through the window in the door, “but that doesn’t mean anything anymore.”
Harriet knocked again, louder this time. “There’s a car in the driveway. Where could they be? Mrs. Crenshaw didn’t look strong enough to walk anywhere.”
Claire walked across the porch and examined the side of the house. “We could go around back. They might be in the kitchen and can’t hear us.”
“We’re here, so we might as well try it,” said Harriet. She followed Claire down the steps and ploughed through the high, heavy snow. She’d worn the wrong boots for off-road walking. “I’m getting soaked.” She wasn’t in the mood for this. She wanted to be home, with Chester by her side, sipping a glass of wine and obsessing over Nick. She stood in the deep snow and waited while Claire knocked sharply on the back door. There was no answer.
“Let’s go,” said Harriet. “There’s no one home.” She made a snowball, and on an impulse fired it at the roof of the house. She’d never had much of an arm. The snowball hit a window with a resounding smack and the effort threw her off balance. She fell backwards into the snow.
“Are you okay?” said Claire.
“I’m fine.”
“Get up, then.” Claire started down the stairs. “Patricia would have to be deaf not to have heard that.”
Patricia wasn’t deaf. The back door swung open, and she stepped angrily out onto the small porch. “What are you doing out here?”
Harriet said nothing. She felt oddly relaxed, lying in the snow, staring up at the evening sky.
“Scones,” said Claire. “We brought you scones. They’re still warm.”
Patricia didn’t respond. Harriet couldn’t blame her, really. She turned her head and eyed Patricia. “Also,” she said, “we think you might have had something to do with Fisher and Paige’s deaths.” She spoke conversationally; she felt calmer than she’d been all day. There was going to be a full moon.
“Something to do —"
“Murdered them,” said Claire helpfully.
“Paige? Paige is dead?” Patricia sounded genuinely surprised.
“You didn’t know?” said Claire.
“How would I know?”
“She was murdered yesterday afternoon.”
“No! By whom? How?”
“Someone whacked her with a frozen leg of lamb,” said Harriet.
“Is she all right in the head?” asked Patricia, jutting her chin in Harriet’s direction.
“More or less,” said Claire.
Patricia narrowed her eyes, suddenly furious. “What do you mean I might have something to do with it? You think I murdered Paige? Me?”
“Paige and Fisher both,” said Harriet. It’s getting cold. I should get up. “You were at the Stone Pony before Fisher was killed and at Bread and Roses yesterday. And when we were here yesterday it’s clear you and your aunt were hiding something.”
“My aunt,” said Patricia angrily, “is dying. We’ve moved a hospital bed and other equipment into the house. I’m going to stay with her until the end.”
“I’m sorry,” said Harriet and Claire, in unison.
Patricia waited a moment, then accepted their apologies with a curt nod. When she spoke, her voice was much calmer; you could almost call it matter of fact. “She’s eighty-four. No one lives forever. We’ve accepted it.”
It sure sounds like Patricia has.
“And you’re keeping it a secret?” said Claire.
“We couldn’t let Fisher know. When you were here yesterday ... it was just habit, keeping it on lock down.”
“Why couldn’t Fisher know?” asked Harriet.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but Aunt Ruth has a substantial investment portfolio. Fisher was stonewalling me on the divorce. I planned to ambush him when he was here. I needed the papers signed before Aunt Ruth passes, so he couldn’t come after my inheritance.”
“No chance of that now,” said Claire.
Patricia narrowed her eyes and shot Claire a poisonous glare. “There’s no question his death makes my life easier, but murdering him is not a solution I would have chosen.” She sounded sincere, as if she was grateful to the universe for solving her problem, but she didn’t quite approve of the method.
“Why were you at the inn yesterday?” asked Harriet.
“Would you please get out of the snow and stand up? You are grating on my nerves.”
Harriet debated for a moment and reluctantly got to her feet.
“I thought Bryan might be interested in buying our bakeries, now Fisher’s out of the picture.”
Out of the picture? She might not have killed Fisher, but she was as cold as the snow clinging to Harriet’s socks. “And why were you at The Stone Pony?”
Patricia scowled first at Claire and then at Harriet. “What is up with you two? Who do you think you are asking me all these questions?”
“Once the roads are open,” said Claire, “there will be police swarming the town asking questions. You might as well get used to it.”
Patricia pinched her mouth tight, like she wasn’t going to respond, but after a moment’s reflection she changed her mind. “I went over to the restaurant because it’s right across the street and I wanted to see what Tony had done with the place.” She gave a short, mean spirited chuckle. “It’s a money pit. I’ll bet he doesn’t last six months.”
What an unpleasant person she is. “Any ideas on who would want Fisher dead?”
Patricia sniffed and half lifted one shoulder. She wasn’t interested enough in the question for a full shrug. “I would have bet on Paige. They had a real hate on for each other, and she was hard as nails. But with her dead too?” Patricia reached over and took the plate of scones from Claire. She looked down at them, unimpressed. “There’s always – no – he wouldn’t have the guts to follow through on it.” She spoke pensively, like she was talking to herself.
“Pardon?” said Harriet, and Claire leaned forward in anticipation.
“Fisher always said there was something off about him,” said Patricia. “So insanely jealous.”
“Bryan?” said Harriet.
“Bryan?” The look she shot Harriet was contorted with scorn. “Why would he be jealous of Fisher?”
“Who, then?”
Patricia rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Andrew, of course.”