I never fell back to sleep after my discovery in the library, which meant I was in a daze on Wednesday morning. After helping Alicia serve breakfast to an equally bleary-eyed Tara and her mother as well as Scott, I stumbled back to my room and fell across my bed.
Fortunately, I’d mentioned my ten o’clock meeting to Alicia while we made breakfast, so she banged on my door when I didn’t appear again by nine thirty.
“Said you needed to be someplace by ten,” she said, when I cracked open the door.
I muttered something that I hoped sounded like “Thanks.” After grabbing a quick shower, I didn’t bother blow-drying my hair before I threw on a cap-sleeved lavender silk blouse, white cotton slacks, and a pair of beige canvas espadrilles.
Shandy greeted me, fervently barking as he bounced up and down behind Ellen’s front door. I tapped the oval window set in the door and told him to hush, but of course that had no effect.
Ellen appeared and used one foot to gently hold the Yorkie to the side so I could enter the house.
“Oh hush, Shandy. You know who this is,” she said, as she closed the door behind me.
Indeed, the little dog stopped barking as soon as he sniffed my scent. Bounding forward, he licked my shoe before rolling over to offer up his belly.
I bent over and scratched his fuzzy tummy. “You’re a mess.”
All four of Shandy’s paws waved in delight. “I probably shouldn’t reward you for bad behavior,” I said indulgently.
“It doesn’t matter. I always do. Guess that’s why he doesn’t behave,” Ellen said.
Straightening, I faced off with her.
Something in my expression must have given me away. Ellen pursed her lips and looked me up and down before motioning toward the adjacent front parlor. “Let’s sit in here.” She marched into the room, Shandy trotting at her heels.
I fingered the three letters I’d stuck in the pocket of my slacks before settling into one of Ellen’s comfortable armchairs. “I do have some new information.”
“So you said.” As soon as Ellen sat in the armchair that faced mine, Shandy jumped up into her lap.
I sank back against the suede cushions of my chair and allowed my gaze to wander over the room. Although Ellen had retained many of the Victorian features of her home, including the wainscoting, deep moldings, and hardwood floors, she hadn’t decorated to match. Her furniture was a comfortable blend of casual and modern, in muted tones accented by pale wood. I suspected Ellen had chosen this simple palette to set off the vivid paintings and other works of art that enlivened the space. From previous conversations, I knew she’d collected many of the art pieces during her travels. Everything from Indian wall hangings to Asian ceramics and German cuckoo clocks lent the house an eclectic and exotic air that matched Ellen’s own personal style.
Mysterious, I thought, narrowing my eyes as I stared back at Ellen.
She met my gaze with a confident smile. “You mentioned something about a document you found in one of Isabella’s books. Would you like to share that first?”
“No, before we get into that, I think I’d rather discuss this letter I found in the kitchen last night.” I pulled the documents from my pocket and extracted the letter to Damian, laying the others on the French wine barrel that had been cut in half and topped with glass to serve as a side table. “It’s a letter Damian Carr received from a restaurant in Beaufort. A rejection letter, sadly.”
“For a chef position?”
“Yes. Well, sous-chef, but at this place that’s still a coup.” I held up the letter. “The thing is, Damian lost the job because of his temperament, not his cooking skills. Someone warned off the owner, claiming Damian was difficult to work with. Alicia seems to think that maybe Lincoln Delamont was involved.”
Ellen absently stroked Shandy’s back as she continued to hold my gaze. “How is that possible? Delamont wasn’t in the restaurant business, at least as far as I know.”
“No, but he apparently knew this owner.” I explained Alicia’s theory about Lincoln bad-mouthing Damian due to their previous altercation. “I guess that gives Damian a strong motive for murdering the guy.”
“Which means he stays on the suspect list.”
“Unfortunately. I’ve bumped Jennifer Delamont up to the top of the list, too.” I offered Ellen a brief summary of my discussion with Tara. “It wouldn’t be surprising for a woman who’s been treated with disdain for so many years to finally snap.”
“Especially if she’d always been belittled, and then had her narcissistic jerk of a husband shove his latest girlfriend in her face.”
“Exactly.” I glanced over at the two other letters. “It’s one thing to keep up appearances if everything remains a secret, but when you realize you can’t pretend anymore”—I looked back at Ellen, noticing with interest the wrinkle that had formed between her brows—“it can set off unpredictable repercussions.”
“Very true.” Ellen lifted one hand off Shandy’s back and pressed it against the padded arm of her chair. “Which means now we have Jennifer Delamont with motive and a definite opportunity, if what her daughter says about encountering her near the carriage house is true. But there’s also Damian Carr, who appears to have a strong motive as well.”
“And could’ve walked to and from his apartment easily enough,” I said. “Likely without being seen.”
“Yes, I imagine he knows the area well enough to move about unobserved.” Ellen tapped the arm of her chair. “I’m friends with the owner of that particular restaurant. Perhaps I should give him a call and see if I can find out if it was indeed Delamont who convinced him to reject Damian.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Shouldn’t I share the letter with the police first? They could question him officially.”
Ellen lifted her hand and flicked it, as if tossing away something. “If you feel you must. I just thought that if we discovered that Delamont was not involved in Damian’s loss of a great job opportunity, it would spare the young man another interrogation by the police.”
“There is that.” I studied the older woman for a moment, wondering just how willing she was to bend the law. “If you can call the owner and find out anything, great. I’ll hold off giving Detective Johnson the letter until I hear from you.”
“Good. No use causing more trouble for Damian. It’s all just speculation right now, isn’t it?” Ellen flashed me a bright smile.
“Yes, but …” I allowed my words to trail off. Ellen was right—it was just a theory at this point. A theory that had felt solid last night but seemed less certain in the light of day.
“Very well. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out anything, one way or the other.” Ellen examined me, her forehead crinkling. “It sounds to me like you’ve removed Tara Delamont from the suspect list. Am I right?”
“Yes. I just don’t think she’s involved. Not after you mentioned that clue about her costume, and what she told me last night.” I frowned. “But then there’s Scott. He did explain why he was outside earlier than he first claimed. Apparently, he was planning to appear in costume at the party and stashed a coat and fedora in the garden bin for that purpose.”
“Or so he says.” Ellen quirked her eyebrows. “Be honest, Charlotte. I know you like the guy, and I suspect you hope he can be Julie’s rebound, if not more, but that’s an odd story. And rather convenient. I mean, after the police found that coat and hat, he had to say something. They were likely to connect those items to him eventually.”
I slumped in my chair. “I suppose so.”
Ellen waved her hand through the air. “Playing the logical detective, we can’t rule him out. He does have a motive, if what you told me about his issue with Delamont’s treatment of his father is true.”
“You’re right. Although I can’t imagine him killing anyone, I guess we have to leave him on the suspect list. Along with Julie,” I added glumly.
Ellen’s face expressed sympathy. “I know it’s hard to consider your friends as killers. But you know, over the years I’ve learned that the most unlikely people can do some astonishing things.”
I drew in a deep breath. “You’ve said that before, and I think I have to agree with you.” Setting aside Damian’s letter, I picked up the two documents I’d discovered in my great-aunt’s library. Rising to my feet, I unfolded the one the man who’d called himself Paul Peters had sent Isabella. I slipped the other letter back in my pocket. “Like this letter, for example,” I said, strolling over to Ellen’s chair. “What do you make of this?”
Ellen took the thin paper from my hand. As she shifted to reach for a pair of reading glasses on the side table next to her chair, Shandy yipped and leapt down onto the floor. He cast me a bright-eyed glance before trotting out of the room.
“And this is … what?” Ellen asked, perching the glasses on her nose.
“Something I found in one of the books in Isabella’s library.” I took a few steps back. “A letter signed with the initial P.” I examined Ellen’s face for any flicker of recognition. But she might as well have been playing high-stakes poker for all I could glean from her expression.
“Really? And why is this so important?” Ellen sat back and stared at me over the rims of her glasses.
“Because,” I said, walking back to my chair, “the Sandberg sisters told me about a man they’d met in Isabella’s company. A Paul Peters, they said.” I flopped back down in the armchair. “They also identified him as the man I saw in that photograph I found of Isabella in her garden. The one I showed you at the beach. It was a picture from back in the sixties, if my guess is correct.”
“I imagine Isabella received many letters from friends. Why does this one interest you so?”
“Because it seems … odd. It’s very banal, but there are these repeated phrases that seem shoehorned in.” I tipped my head and met Ellen’s intense stare without flinching. “Almost like they were conveying a hidden message. Like that journal I found, only a different type of code.”
Ellen glanced down at the letter. “I think you’re imagining things. It’s just a letter from a friend, talking about the weather and such.” She lifted the document by one corner and dropped it on the table beside her. “It wouldn’t be surprising that a man she knew wrote to her from time to time. People used to write to their friends, you know, before social media became such a thing.”
“I think they were more than friends.”
“What makes you say that? Just because he appeared in some random photo with Isabella?”
“No, because Bernadette and Ophelia, who actually met him, told me they assumed the guy was one of Isabella’s lovers.”
Ellen shoved the eyeglasses back up her nose. “One of them? Did they think she had so many, then?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Heavens, no. How could I? I wouldn’t know anything about her personal life during that time period, and she certainly didn’t appear to have any male companions later in life. You must remember—I didn’t meet Isabella until I moved here in the 1980s.”
“Yes, about that.” I slipped the other letter from my pocket and shook it. “I found something last night that seems to contradict that story. Another document hidden in one of my great-aunt’s books.”
Ellen looked me over, her eyebrows drawing together. “And what did this missive say?”
“That you knew Isabella before you moved here, for one thing. Unless there were two film-location scouts working in the seventies with the initials E.M.”
Ellen’s frown turned into a glower. “She wrote something about that in a letter?”
“Yes, she talks about a person with those initials. I assumed it was you. She writes that she’d have to run the details of some trip by you because you know so much about traveling the far reaches of the world.”
“Did she indeed.” Ellen took off the glasses and dangled them from her fingers. “How inconvenient of her. But then, she always was a bit reckless.”
“You did know her before you moved here, then?” I held my breath, waiting for her response.
Ellen swung the glasses for a moment before answering. “Yes. But perhaps not quite in the way that you imagine.”
“In what way, then?”
“It was business.” Ellen dropped the glasses on the side table and rose to her feet. “She was involved in some projects I supervised.”
“I don’t understand.” I placed the suspicious document on the side table next to the other letter before standing.
“No, and I can’t explain. Not now. I would need to …” Ellen cleared her throat and snatched up Damian’s letter. “Here, take this too. I’ll make that call to the owner as soon as I can. If he confirms that it was Lincoln Delamont who suggested that he reject Damian’s job application, then perhaps you should share it with the police. But otherwise I would simply discard it.”
I stepped close enough to take the letter from her extended fingers. “I take it you aren’t going to explain your previous connection to my great-aunt?”
“Not today. Maybe another time.” Ellen’s gaze swept from my head to my feet and back again. “For now, I’d suggest not digging any deeper. At least not where Isabella’s past is concerned.”
I turned away to grab the third letter. “Because I might find out information you don’t want me to know?”
“No, because you might discover certain facts you’ll later wish you hadn’t.”
I faced her, steeling myself to make my stare as stern as hers. “All right, I’ll show myself out. Just let me know when you hear something from that restaurant owner.”
“I will.” Ellen trailed me, staying close behind me as I strode into the front hall, where we discovered Shandy asleep on a rug in front of the door. He lifted his head and yawned.
“Sorry, fella,” I said, “but you need to move so I can exit.”
Ellen leaned down and hoisted the sleepy dog up in her arms. “Trust me, Charlotte, I will tell you the truth, if I can.” Her voice was so soft that I could barely hear it over the squeak of old wood as I yanked open the door.
I cast her a questioning look. “Good-bye, Ellen. When, or if, you can talk more, just let me know. Although, to be honest, I think I may have an inkling of what you’re hiding.”
Ellen flashed me a smile that was as brittle as it was brilliant. “I think you may have missed your true calling.”
“Unfortunately?” I paused, one foot over the threshold.
“No, I would say you are actually quite fortunate in that regard.” Ellen grabbed the edge of the wooden door and held it ajar as I allowed the screen door to slam behind me. “Trust me,” she called out as I crossed the porch, “in this case, missing your calling makes you the lucky one.”