“Look at that dress,” Daisy said, touching my arm. “It’s you.”
Mom, Daisy, and I were strolling along quaint Rose Crescent, which was lined with shops like Jo Malone and Crabtree & Evelyn. Daisy had halted in front of a cute little boutique called Pomegranate.
“I love the style,” I said. The dress was black, with a V-neck, fitted bodice, and knee-length full skirt. The sleeves were three-quarter. The other “little black dresses” I’d seen today were too skimpy for my taste—short party dresses with no sleeves and plunging décolleté.
Daisy reached for the door latch. “Let’s go in.”
“Um, I hope I can afford it.” With its tasteful, minimal display, Pomegranate looked like the kind of place I generally avoided—upscale and eye-wateringly expensive. I’m more down-to-earth and thrifty, as my outfit of well-worn jeans, faded tee with plaid flannel shirt, and running shoes attested. My last dressy outfit came from a consignment shop.
“My treat,” Mum said, almost pushing me through the door. “You only live once.”
“Plus you’re going on a date with Kieran Scott,” Daisy said loudly enough for the shop assistant and a couple of browsing customers to overhear. They stared at us with curiosity. “You never know. There might be photographers.”
“I sure hope not,” I said in dismay, my sneakers stumbling on the thick carpet. “I hate having my picture taken.”
“Don’t worry,” Daisy tossed over her shoulder. “You’ll be camera-ready by the time I’m done with you.” She halted in front of the counter. “Good afternoon. My friend wants to try on the black dress in the window.”
“Of course.” With a shake of her silky auburn hair, the assistant put her phone aside and eyed me up and down in an expert manner. “The changing rooms are in the back. Through the red curtains.”
We went in that direction and were soon joined by the clerk, who brought over two dresses in different sizes and hung them in a changing cubicle. “One of these should fit,” she said. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
“In you go,” Daisy said, ushering me into the tiny closet. “We’ll be right here.” She and Mum sat in little chairs to wait, Daisy dispensing water with lemon from an urn for them to sip.
Behind the curtains, I took off my jeans and T-shirt then slipped one of the dresses over my head. The garment fit perfectly, flattering my top half and skimming over my hips. The length was good, just above the knee.
“Come out when you’re ready,” Daisy called.
Before I obeyed her order, I took another look at myself in the mirror. Even without makeup and my hair hanging loose and somewhat tangled, I looked good. My pulse leaped. Good enough to impress Kieran? Yes, quite possibly.
I pushed the curtains open in a dramatic gesture. “Ta-da!”
Mum and Daisy gazed at me with identical expressions of amazement.
“You look incredible,” Daisy cried. “I knew that dress was perfect for you.”
I stepped out, smoothing the skirt and twirling in front of the three-way mirror. “You were right. Not only does it look good, it feels comfortable.” I hated uncomfortable clothing, one reason I rarely dressed up.
“You should wear black boots with that,” Daisy said. “Do you have a pair?”
“Sure do.” A tall leather pair with modest heels that might be okay for navigating cobblestones. We didn’t have far to walk tonight, thankfully, only up the lane to the Holly & Ivy.
The clerk was looking on with approval. “That looks great on you,” she said. “Good choice.”
I glanced at Mum, who nodded. “I’ll take it.”
While the clerk rang up the sale, I browsed through a rack of earrings next to the counter. “What do you think of these?” I asked Mum and Daisy, holding up a pair of chandeliers with tiny jet beads.
“Love them,” Mum said, taking them from me. “Add these to the bill.”
“No problem,” the clerk said. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but where are you from?” she asked me. “Such fun to see all the visitors.”
“Oh, I’m not visiting,” I said with pride. “I moved here recently from the United States. Vermont, to be exact. Mum and I work at Thomas Marlowe. The bookshop on Magpie Lane.”
“That’s a lovely store,” she said. “Welcome to Cambridge.” She handed me a pink bag with handles, my dress and earrings safely tucked inside with tissue paper. “Enjoy.”
The door jingled shut behind us. One hurdle down. I’d found the perfect dress for my date. “Any ideas what to do with my hair?” I asked Daisy, smoothing my ruffled locks with my free hand.
She was thumbing through her phone as we walked. “On it. Looking for styles.”
“Break time,” Mum said, heading for a table and some chairs outside a bakery. She pulled out a chair and sat.
“My treat,” I said, setting my precious bag on a chair. “What would you like?”
“The double chocolate brownies are really good here,” Daisy said. “Believe me, I’ve sampled every bakery and tea shop in town. In the interests of research, naturally.” She dimpled.
“Ah. That’s one word for it,” Mum said. “I’d like to research a brownie too, Molly.”
A few minutes later, I returned with a tray holding coffees, brownies, and glasses of ice water. Mum and Daisy were staring at something on Daisy’s phone.
“I can’t believe that went viral already,” Mum said.
“It must have been one of the customers,” Daisy said. “The store would fire her for doing that.”
I set down the tray. “What’s going on?”
Daisy glanced up at me, her expression apologetic. “Me and my big mouth. Someone posted a picture of you on social media, Molly.”
“Me?” I plunked down in a chair. “Why? I’m nobody.”
“You’re somebody now.” Daisy handed me the phone.
The shot showed me looking at earrings in the boutique. Kieran Scott’s new girl, rumor has it, the caption read. American lovely caught browsing on Rose Crescent, Cambridge. Has our fav KS gone country? But I certainly looked less than lovely with my hair askew from the changing room, dressed in an outfit suited to rambling in the woods.
I cringed. What was Kieran going to think when he saw this? I hoped he wouldn’t assume that I’d sought out the publicity. That was the last thing I wanted.
“Try the brownie,” Mum urged. “It will make you feel better.” She’d already gobbled half of hers.
I picked up the thick, fudgy square and took a nibble. The chocolate and sugar went right to my bloodstream. She was right. I did feel marginally better. One good thing about my new dress was the full skirt. It would hide a multitude of sins—or sweet-eating sessions.
“What do you think, Aunt Violet?” I stood in the middle of the bookshop and twirled so she could view my dress, boots, and hairstyle. Daisy had pulled my hair back in front and curled the rest with an iron before coaxing it into long, rippling waves.
She clapped her hands together. “You look lovely, my dear. Just stunning.”
Daisy, who stood nearby beaming proudly, said, “She does clean up nice, doesn’t she? You’re going to knock Kieran’s eyes out.”
“So is that terrible picture of me.” I cringed in memory.
“What picture?” Aunt Violet asked.
Mum entered the shop, carrying a tray with four glasses of wine. “I told her it’s nothing, but she doesn’t believe me.” Resting the tray on the counter, she passed the wine around. Lifting her own glass, she said, “To another good week at Thomas Marlowe.”
We joined Mum in the salute, although it was only Friday and we were open tomorrow for a half day. But we’d all agreed earlier that instituting a Friday happy hour was a good idea.
“I want to see this nothing,” Aunt Violet said, not letting the subject go.
Daisy pulled out her phone and opened the page. “Some nasty piece of work took this while we were shopping.” She showed the phone to Aunt Violet.
“I think you look cute, Molly,” Aunt Violet said. “But it is rather disturbing that they posted this online. And made those comments about Kieran.”
“Well, a tabloid did, to be absolutely correct.” I took a sip of the soft, fruity wine. “But I’m sure that person got paid for the photo.”
Aunt Violet looked speculative. “Well, if they’re paying for snaps of you, then maybe I should get in on that.” When we all stared at her, mouths hanging open, she laughed. “I’m joking. But even if I wasn’t I’d at least make sure your hair was combed.”
“Thanks, Aunt Violet.” I rolled my eyes. The one time I hadn’t was apparently recorded for posterity.
The shop door opened with a jingle. “Oh darn. I thought I locked that,” Mum said. Then her expression hardened. “No. You’ve got to be kidding me.” She set her wine down and squared her shoulders, fists lightly clenched as though for battle.
A middle-aged blonde woman was making her way through the store, nose lifted as she stared around. Her hair was styled in an immaculate pageboy and she wore a neat mauve wool skirt suit and sleek leather pumps.
As she drew closer to where we stood—or in the case of Aunt Violet, sat—a frosty smile slid over her face, her blue eyes boring into Mum. “Hello, Nina. How nice to see you.” Her tone said clearly that it was anything but.
Mum’s return smile was equally frosty but her tone was chipper. “Hello, Janice. What brings you to town?”
Aunt Janice laughed, triggering my memory of the garden club tea photograph. She was the woman seated next to Kieran’s mother. And maybe I shouldn’t prejudge people, but I could tell already that she was an awful person. Snobbish, rude, unkind. Why hadn’t she stayed away?
“Seeing you of course, silly. Chris told me you were back, so I came quick as I could. I’m so, so busy these days.” Aunt Janice turned to me, raking her gaze up and down my body, which the curl of her lip said she found wanting. “This must be Molly. Oh, pet, you look just like your father.” The headshake clearly adding, poor thing.
I tossed back my wine, not caring if it meant she accused me of having a drinking problem. When I caught her staring, I asked, “Would you like a glass, Auntie? It’s very good.”
“No, thanks,” she said with a shudder. “I can’t stay long.”
Daisy had finished her wine and was making motions that indicated she was leaving. I hurried over to her, and together we walked to the door. “Thanks again, Daisy,” I said, kissing her cheek. “I so appreciate your help with everything.”
“No problem,” she said, grinning. “You can return the favor, all right?” She peeked behind me at Aunt Janice. “And good luck. She’s a right cow.”
“Perfect description. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Her smile was roguish. “You’d better. I want to hear all about it.” Meaning my dinner date.
My innards lurched at the thought of Kieran, which seemed to happen with annoying regularity. The thoughts and the lurching both. “And you shall.”
Daisy gave me a final once-over. “I’m pretty proud of myself. You look amazing.” She headed off toward the tea shop with a wave.
As I shut the door behind her, I glanced up the lane toward the bike shop. No sign of Kieran yet, but he was supposed to be here any minute. Eek. When I returned to the others, the conversation had turned to Myrtle’s murder.
“I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the paper,” Aunt Janice was saying. “You get here, Nina, and next thing you know, there’s a mysterious death in the back garden.”
Mum’s head went back. “That had absolutely nothing to do with me. Or Molly.”
“Or Aunt Violet,” I said hotly. “Myrtle had many, many enemies. For all we know, you’re one of them. Take a number and get in line.” I hadn’t considered Aunt Janice a suspect, but at that moment I felt it would be a pleasure to uncover proof of her guilt.
Aunt Janice backed away, a hand to her neck. “I … I don’t know … what…”
My great-aunt was on her feet now. “Janice. I know you’re family, but I can’t allow you to make insinuations like that in my home. Either apologize to Nina or leave.”
Aunt Janice darted a glance at Mum. “I’m sorry, Nina,” she said, her expression unrepentant. “I was merely making an observation.” She cupped an elbow, fingers tapping on her lips. “For the record, Violet, I don’t believe you did it, either. But I do have to say this: someone really doesn’t like you.”
As if she’d been deflated, Aunt Violet sank into her chair, her features tight with anguish. The fact someone had killed Myrtle in our back garden—with Aunt Violet’s knitting needle—already pointed to this fact, but the way Aunt Janice said it had sent a knife into my heart as well.
“It’s been nice to see you but—” I began, planning to make Aunt Janice leave, forcibly if necessary. But the doorbell jingled, announcing Kieran’s entrance.
Everything faded away—malicious Aunt Janice, my worries about Aunt Violet, Puck trying to claw my leather boot—and I saw only Kieran, framed in light. From the big windows behind him, but still.
He stared at me and I stared at him. He looked “scrumptious”, as Daisy might say, dressed in slim black jeans, a blue button-down, and a tailored tweed jacket. His curls had been tamed but his chin still had a hint of scruff. Yum.
“You look lovely, Molly,” he said, advancing across the room.
I dipped my chin. “Thank you. So do you.” I tossed my hair, feeling flirty. “I’m looking forward to dinner.”
Aunt Janice was quite frankly gaping. “Kieran Scott?” Her mouth flapped. “I know your mother.” Her incredulous glance at me plainly revealed what she was thinking. How did her pathetic niece end up with someone like Kieran?
“You do?” Kieran asked politely. “What’s the connection?”
“Your mum and I are in the garden club together,” Janice said in a furious rush. “I’m Janice Marlowe, Molly’s aunt. We live in Hazelhurst. Right in the village, the enormous thatched cottage. It’s listed, one of the oldest buildings in town. Right up there with the manor house—”
“Nice to meet you,” Kieran said, cutting off the flood. He turned to me. “Are you ready to go?” He sent a smile around the room at large. “Hate to rush off but we’ve got a reservation.”
“I’m ready,” I said. “See you all later.” I picked up my bag then slipped my hand through his arm. As we ambled toward the door, Janice called after us, “Give my best to your mother, Kieran.”
Once safely out in the street, I burst into giggles. “Thank you for rescuing me,” I said. “I was about ready to throw Aunt Janice out on her ear. She’s a piece of work.”
“So I gathered,” Kieran said. My arm was still in his and we moved smoothly in rhythm, my heels clopping on the cobblestones. “Unfortunately you can’t pick your relatives.”
Leaning closer, I said in a low voice, “But you can pick your friends.” The last thing I wanted was to spoil our evening with complaints about my aunt.
He flashed a grin. “Am I your friend, Molly?” He squeezed my arm with his.
Gazing up into those dark eyes so intent upon mine, I could barely breathe. Then I grinned back, lightening the mood. “Yeah, I guess so.”
He feigned hurt. “You guess so? She guesses so,” he told a couple walking by who stared before hurrying away.
I rolled my eyes with a mock sigh. “All right, I admit it. We’re friends. After all, you sold me the best bicycle ever.”
“And are you enjoying the best bicycle ever?” he asked. The topic of Belinda occupied us the rest of the short walk to the inn. The dining room entrance was at the rear and we had the choice of inside or out. Outside was a patio hemmed in with ivy-covered trellises strung with lights.
“Let’s sit outside,” I said to Kieran. “It’s such a nice evening.”
A slim, stylish woman with choppy streaked hair stood behind the podium. “Good evening, Kieran,” she said in a French accent. “How are you tonight?”
“I’m great, Monique,” he said. “This is Molly, Violet Marlowe’s niece.” To me, he said, “Monique and her husband Michael own the inn.”
“He cooks and I clean,” Monique said with a smile. “How nice to meet you.”
“Same here,” I said. “You have a lovely place. I’m looking forward to our meal.”
“We’d like to sit outside,” Kieran said.
“Good choice on a night like this.” Monique picked up two menus. “Right this way.”
She placed us at a table in the corner at the back. From here we could see the rest of the outdoor enclosure and view a glimpse of the lane. Soft music played over hidden speakers, something French with accordions. A candle flickered on our table, next to one perfect pink peony in a vase.
I scanned the menu, curious to see what Asian-French fusion looked like. Eclectic yet delicious was the answer.
“Do you want an appetizer to share?” Kieran asked. “Your pick.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Should it be the quinoa and lotus-stem tikki or the calamari with coconut?” In the end we ordered the calamari, along with duck confit with kumquat sauce for me and lamb with truffle sauce for Kieran. He also ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir, which he said paired with both meals.
“You’ll never guess what happened today.” I dipped a crispy encrusted piece of calamari in a sweet and spicy sauce. “A photo of me went viral.”
Kieran’s lips pursed and his brows went up. “Oh. Page three?”
“No.” I drew out the word. “Nothing as exciting as that.” He was referring to the now defunct British tabloid tradition of daily topless photos. Using a clean finger, I brought up the picture of me at the store, then slid the phone over the tablecloth. “Believe me, if you weren’t mentioned, I’d never show this to you.”
He wiped his hands on his napkin and picked up my phone. After studying the post closely, he gave me a level look. “I’m sorry, Molly. The last thing I want is for you to be dragged into my problems.” He slid my phone back to me. “For what it’s worth, I think you look great. As you always do.”
“Thanks.” I shrugged one shoulder. “I’m not too worried about your problems. I mean, we spend most of our time on this quiet little lane running our businesses. Not exactly tabloid fodder.”
Right then, our server arrived with our piping-hot dinner plates and I put thoughts of gossip columns and unflattering photographs aside as we dug in. Every single bite was delicious. During our meal, we kept the conversation to light topics—sharing favorite books and television shows, travel adventures, that kind of thing. We were both slumped back, groaning over a post-dinner cup of coffee when I spotted Ruth Orforo strolling onto the patio.
When I waved, she detoured over to our table, telling the couple she was with to go ahead and sit. “Hello, Molly. Kieran.” Glancing over the remains of our meal, she smiled. “They feed you well here, don’t they?”
“I’ll say,” I said. “This is the first time I’ve been, and I loved it.” Then I remembered what I wanted to tell her. “Persephone gave me an advance copy of the book. It’s gorgeous.”
Ruth inclined her head in thanks. “I’m quite proud of it. It was especially fun going through the older work. Brought back many fond memories of St. Hildegard’s, when I first met Persephone, as you know.”
“You have a copy of the retrospective already?” Kieran asked me. “I know Mum has been chomping on the bit to get a hold of it.”
“I’ll send her a copy,” Ruth said. “Shoot me a note, okay?”
I wondered about Joan, what Ruth had thought of her work. “Did you know Joan Watson? I’ve been reading her college journal. Her great-niece, Daisy, runs Tea and Crumpets down the street. She had some of Joan’s things in her attic.”
“Joan?” Ruth sank down into a nearby chair. “Of course I knew Joan. We were very good friends. And she was incredibly talented.” She seemed lost in thought for a moment. “We were all stunned by her death. I always wondered if there was anything I could have done.”
“A suicide, was it?” Kieran put in. “I remember hearing about that from Daisy. So sad.”
“I haven’t read any of her poetry,” I said. “But reading the journal makes me wish I could. Her personality really shines through.”
“Her work was marvelous,” Ruth said. “And she was so prolific.” Her brow creased. “Daisy didn’t find any of her poems?”
“Not that I know of.” I thought back to the contents of the box. “We only found study notes. And that journal.”
Ruth glanced over her shoulder at her waiting friends, then rose to her feet. “I wonder where they went. I always wanted to publish Joan’s work. And if you do come across anything, please let me know.” She smiled. “Nice to see you both. Have a good evening.”
Lost in thought, I murmured a response. Where were Joan’s poems? Did her parents have them? It would be wonderful to share her work with the world, even if posthumously. If I can, I will. Joan deserved no less.