A few weeks later, after numerous sessions with the police, and after I’d heard that Kelly had been released on an astronomically high bail but confined to her primary home in Annapolis, Maryland, until her trial, I faced some of my Tey week guests in the library again. Minus the Delamonts and Rowleys, of course.
This was a regular meeting of the book club we held at Chapters once a month. Although other guests staying at the bed-and-breakfast were always invited to join this activity, they usually declined. This Sunday was no exception—my paying guests had chosen to take an ecotour of some of the barrier islands near Beaufort. Which I really couldn’t argue with. Visiting the shore without indulging in at least one boat trip always seemed like a missed opportunity to me.
“I guess they figured she was a flight risk,” Bernadette said. “Which makes sense when your wealthy husband owns a yacht and a jet, not to mention property in other countries.”
Julie stretched out her legs and wiggled her feet in her scarlet espadrilles. “I’m surprised she made bail at all.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It was basically self-defense, from what I’ve heard,” Scott said. He’d told me earlier that he’d decided to join our discussion of John le Carré’s latest espionage thriller because he needed to “take a break from his research.”
Or so he’d said. I observed him eyeing Julie’s shapely legs with a smile. It seemed Scott had a new reason to visit Beaufort, unrelated to the history of pirates. Which was, in my opinion, at least one good outcome from the Tey celebration week.
“Just imagine, though, stabbing someone and having to spend the rest of the week pretending everything was normal.” Ophelia fiddled with her seashell necklace. “I couldn’t have done it.”
“She was living on the yacht, though,” I said. “I think it would’ve been more difficult if she’d been forced to stay at Chapters.”
Ellen nodded as she took a sip of her lemonade. “True. But she was clever, I’ll give her that. Pretending to lose her cloak and then retrieving it and carting it off to the Celestial before anyone could check it for bloodstains. That was quick thinking.”
“Apparently she ditched it in the back of the garden and was able to grab it and ball it up, inside out, before anyone thought to confiscate it,” Scott said. “Of course, everything was so confused that night, I suppose one can’t blame the police for missing that.”
“And there was really no reason to suspect her at that point.” I mouthed a silent thank you as Alicia brought in a tray of snacks.
“I have to say, she was a cool customer,” Alicia said, turning to face everyone after placing the tray on the desk. “Reminded me of a few of Ms. Harrington’s guests. All polish on the outside, but they showed a razor edge from time to time.”
“Oooo, I remember a couple of those.” Ophelia waved her copy of A Legacy of Spies. “Always wondered if they were secret agents or something.”
I sputtered over a swallow of lemonade. Waving off the others’ concern, I finally found my voice and choked out, “I’m fine. Just went down the wrong way.”
“You’ve been reading too many thrillers, Ophelia.” Ellen’s tone was smooth as her bright-pink silk caftan. “Speaking of which, I hear le Carré has a new book coming out later this year. You might want to preorder it, if you like that sort of thing.”
“Don’t you like spy stories?” Pete asked. “I find them fascinating.”
Sandy glanced over at her husband. “He likes the films too. So do I, although I draw the line at the James Bond–type stuff. Too far-out for me.”
“They are a bit over-the-top,” Ellen said. “And not just because of the gadgets.” She pressed one palm over the cover of the hardback book balanced on her knees. “I find books like this more believable.”
Scott cast her a questioning glance. “You mean the grittier stuff. Not all bon mots and martinis?”
“Exactly,” she said. “I mean, think about it. Who would make a better spy? Some high-living dandy like Bond, or a nebbishy guy who looks like he works for a failing accounting firm?”
Scott grinned. “Because real spies would want to go unnoticed. Yeah, I’ve often thought the same thing. I even mentioned it to my dad in relation to some of his books, but he told me that readers expected their heroes to be dashing daredevils.”
Ellen shrugged. “Fiction versus reality. Real life can be so boring, I suppose. Not something anyone wants to read about.”
I side-eyed her as I took another sip of my drink. She’d called my great-aunt “reckless,” but she seemed to possess a bit of that quality herself. All this dancing around the truth …
“Not always,” I said. “I think our recent experiences have proven that real life can be just as exciting as books and movies. Of course, I’m not sure that’s always a good thing,” I added with a grimace.
“You have to admit it’s ironic that a celebration of a murder-mystery author would result in a murder.” Julie sat back in her chair and shared a smile with Scott. “I mean, you couldn’t have planned that any better, Charlotte.”
“Fortunately, I had nothing to do with it,” I said dryly. “Even if some of you did suspect me early on.”
Julie pointed a finger at me. “You suspected us too. Admit it.”
“Hmmm … maybe,” I said, burying my face in my glass.
Ellen laughed. “Oh, we had quite a list.” She glanced around the room. “Although we did eliminate Sandy and the Sandberg sisters.”
“So just me, Pete, and Julie? Thanks,” Scott said, with a sarcastic grin.
“No, Ms. Simpson and Damian Carr were prime suspects too,” Ellen said. “And the Delamont women, of course.”
“But not Kelly Rowley,” I said. “Not until much later, anyway. Which just goes to show that I should leave the detecting to the professionals.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Ellen shot me a conspiratorial look. “I’d say you have some skills in that area.”
“Yeah, you must’ve suspected Kelly Rowley there at the end, the way you took out after her,” Bernadette said. “Which was rather foolish, if you ask me.”
A vision of Kelly pressing a gun to Ellen’s head flashed through my mind. “Probably not my smartest move.”
“But so brave.” Ophelia widened her blue eyes. “Ellen, too. I don’t know how either of you kept from falling apart, being held hostage like that.”
“Shock, pure and simple,” Ellen said. “And you didn’t see me later, quaking on my bed so hard that I upset poor Shandy. He kept whimpering and licking my arm. Trying to make me feel better, I guess.”
“Dogs are good for that,” Pete said.
Sandy looked over at him, pouting. “So why won’t you let me get one?”
“Dogs in a café?” Pete raised his eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound like it would work.”
“The dog could stay upstairs in our apartment,” Sandy said.
“And bark all day?”
Sandy motioned to her husband as she looked at Ellen and me. “He’s just looking for an excuse to say no.”
“Keep at it,” Ellen said, with a smile. “I bet you can eventually wear him down.”
“Now, wait a minute. I feel outnumbered.” Pete turned to Scott. “Back me up here.”
“Not me,” Scott said, throwing up his hands. “I’d love to have a dog, but I travel too much. If I was living in one place most of the time …”
I couldn’t help but notice his swift, sidelong glance at Julie.
“Way to cop out, man,” Pete said with a smile.
Julie, who’d obviously missed Scott’s significant look, toyed with the end of her long braid. “Well, Charlotte, I imagine you won’t be planning any more literary events celebrating murder-mystery authors anytime soon, will you?”
“I certainly haven’t scheduled anything like that.” I stood up and crossed to the desk to refill my glass. “Anyone else?” I asked, lifting the pitcher.
After serving the remaining lemonade to the rest of the party, I returned to the desk and grabbed my own glass before sitting down again.
“Actually, to answer Julie’s question, I am focusing the rest of this year’s events on classics, historical fiction, and a few local authors. Although I’m sure I’ll do an event related to mysteries or thrillers again. Next year,” I said firmly. “Along with something celebrating children’s book authors and illustrators. That could be fun.”
“Especially if you could get a few to visit during the week,” Julie said. “I have some contacts, so just let me know.”
“Will do.” I looked at each of my guests in turn. “I do want to offer each of you a complimentary event of your choice. To make up for the Tey week going so wonky. I’ve offered that to the Delamonts too, although I’m not sure either Jennifer or Tara will ever want to return to Chapters.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Sandy said. “We all understand it was something you couldn’t control.”
“Exactly.” Bernadette drummed her fingers against the book in her lap. “It wasn’t your fault that someone was murdered during one of your events. Just bad luck.”
“Something that seems to follow me around, I’m afraid,” I said.
Ellen turned in her chair and looked me up and down. “I don’t think it’s bad luck. I believe it’s the universe drafting you into solving problems. Which you do quite well, by the way.”
“Oh heavens, not sure I want to subscribe to that theory.” I gave an exaggerated shudder. “Sounds terrifying.”
“I think it would be exciting,” Bernadette said.
I shook my head, but when I glanced back at Ellen, I noticed her lips twitch before she took a swallow of her lemonade.
She really can read people, I thought, before launching into a monologue covering my thoughts on the le Carré book.
Because Bernadette was right, and Ellen knew I knew it. The idea of sleuthing out clues and solving mysteries was exciting. And something, I realized, that I would welcome. Despite the potential danger.
I sat back in my chair, considering the possibility that I might have inherited more than Chapters from my brilliant, reckless, and free-spirited great-aunt. And mulling over the fact that her former handler—my neighbor the garden-club member, world traveler, and small-dog owner—had recognized those qualities in me long before I had.
Which made me wonder, as I sipped my lemonade and listened to my guests discuss their thoughts on A Legacy of Spies, whether I, like Isabella, had been recruited into something before I knew what was really happening. Maybe not espionage, but the possibility of future investigations and adventure.
I glanced over at Ellen, who raised her glass and gave me a wink. “To Isabella,” she said, in a voice so soft only I could hear her.
I lifted my glass in response.
That was it, then. I was in the game.