A clanging of pots and pans assailed my ears as I stepped into the kitchen.
“What’s up?” I asked, closing the door behind me.
“Interfering cops, that’s what.” Alicia slammed a frying pan down onto the gas stove.
Thank goodness the burners are heavy metal, I thought, before forcing a smile. “Have they been in the house again this morning?”
“Yes, asking all sorts of stupid questions.”
I strolled over to the counter where the percolator bubbled and hummed. “What about, or can’t you say?”
“Some coat and hat they found out near the carriage house. Stuffed into a plastic bag that was shoved inside that gardening bin under the windows. Guess they thought the killer used it as a disguise or something. ’Course, as I told them, I know nothing about it.”
I poured coffee into one of the white ceramic mugs Alicia had set out on the counter. “Neither do I, which is what I’ll tell them when they ask.”
“I’m sure they will. They seemed pretty darned interested in figuring out who hid that stuff there.”
“Makes sense, I guess.” Realizing I was stirring the creamer in my coffee furiously enough to whip butter, I removed the spoon and placed it on the tray set up to collect dirty utensils. “If the killer used those items to cover their clothes …”
Alicia shook her head. “No blood on them, from what I heard. Or overheard, I should say.” She cracked an egg into the pan with one hand before glancing over her shoulder at me. “I may have listened in on a couple of the younger officers. Chatty lot, I must say.”
“Which means they probably weren’t worn during the murder.” I pondered this as I sipped my coffee. “Maybe the killer was going to use them for a getaway but decided against it. Or realized they could slip away without any disguise.”
“Could be. Or it might just have been a guest from another event. Someone could’ve stored those items there for some kind of surprise, then forgot all about them.” Alicia waved her spatula through the air like a baton. “It was an old trench coat and fedora, from what I heard.”
“Overheard,” I said, my lips quirking upward.
“Well, if you want to get technical …” Alicia tugged her hairnet over some loose curls spilling down the back of her neck. “Anyway, the coat and hat looked like items from the thirties or forties, according to those cops. Like something a guest might’ve worn to the party we held for the Dashiell Hammett weekend.”
I took a long swallow of my coffee as I watched Alicia expertly flip the eggs. The older woman seemed determined to find a reason the garments would’ve been hidden in that garden bin—a reason unrelated to the previous night’s party and murder. Which raised my curiosity as well as the hair on my arms.
“I suppose that’s possible,” I said, deciding that alerting Alicia to my suspicions was not a smart move. “They took the coat and hat away for analysis, I suppose.”
“Yep. Sending them to the lab, they said.” Alicia lifted the perfectly cooked over-easy eggs with the spatula and slid them onto a plate. “Could you carry this into the dining room? Mr. Kepler’s in there all by his lonesome. I thought I’d make something to order.” She turned and held out the plate. “There’s also some toasted English muffins and bacon in the warming oven.”
“Sure.” Taking the plate from Alicia, I looked her squarely in the eyes. “The carriage house key never showed up?”
“Nope. Nor that knife. Got asked about them again too.” Alicia wiped her hands on her apron. “Vanished into thin air as far as I’m concerned, I told them.”
“I’m sure the police will eventually sort it out.” I kept my tone light. Staring into the housekeeper’s dark eyes, I tried to imagine her as a murderer. It seemed improbable.
But definitely not impossible, I thought, as I collected the muffins and bacon from the warming oven. Not if it meant protecting Isabella Harrington’s reputation and the solvency of Chapters.
I carried the full plate into the dining room, where Scott sat at one of the tables, reading the morning paper.
“Ah,” he said, folding the newspaper and setting it aside. “Smells delicious.”
“Ms. Simpson went all out for you this morning.” I set the plate in front of him. “Eggs cooked to order, no less.”
“Thanks.” When Scott looked up, I noticed the dark circles under his eyes.
“No problem. The others haven’t come down for breakfast and I think Alicia was eager to cook for someone.”
“Well, I can certainly understand Jennifer and Tara Delamont not being interested in food.” Scott picked up the pepper grinder. “They’re the only other guests here, right?”
“Yes. The Rowleys are staying on their yacht. Although, surprisingly, I had a message from them about tonight’s scheduled book discussion.”
Scott, grinding pepper over his eggs, didn’t look up. “You’re going ahead with that?”
“I thought maybe I should. It’s not the guests’ fault everything has gotten so messed up. I thought I’d try to keep to the schedule as much as possible.” I gnawed the inside of my cheek for a moment. “The Rowleys and the local people have all agreed to come back, so we’ll have around six participants tonight. Of course, you’re welcome to join in if you wish.”
Scott set down the grinder. “I never paid for any events.”
“I know, but I’m pretty sure that neither Jennifer nor Tara Delamont will feel like joining us. You could take their place. We planned the refreshments for the number of guests, and we’ll be missing two.” I grimaced at the thought of Lincoln lying in some morgue. “No, three. So you’re welcome to join us.”
“I’ll think about that. I have read a bit of Tey. A while ago, but maybe I can remember enough to add one pithy comment to the discussion.”
“Frankly, I think your presence would be a welcome addition. It might balance out the dynamic between the lodgers and the locals.”
“Thanks, but you didn’t have to add the disclaimer.” Scott cast me a crooked grin. “I like to think I’m a welcome addition at any event.”
I stared down at my hands, which were clasped tightly at my waist. “Of course. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
“Don’t worry. I was just teasing you.” As Scott speared his eggs with his fork, the yolks pooled around the ruffled edges of the whites.
Like a halo. I shook my head at this fanciful thought. “I suppose I should get back to the kitchen. I do hope your day turns out much better than yesterday.”
“Not too hard to achieve,” Scott said, glancing up from his plate. “If anyone asks—like the police—I’ll be visiting a friend at the Maritime Museum today. He has some information that might prove useful for my book.”
“Okay.” I flashed him my practiced hostess smile before leaving the room.
Entering the kitchen, I was surprised to find Damian slouched against one of the counters.
“What are you doing here so bright and early?”
“I got called in by the cops. They wanted to ask me about some stupid coat and hat, and”—Damian shot a fierce glance at Alicia—“a missing kitchen knife.”
“And key,” Alicia muttered, without turning away from the sink.
“Right, those clothes they found out in the garden bin near the carriage house.” I kept my tone light, having no interest in enflaming the animosity brewing between Alicia and the young chef.
“Just as I did last night, I told them I left Chapters before that fellow was murdered,” Damian said. “Lots of people saw me storm off after that argument with Pete Nelson. Pretty sure that’s when Lincoln Delamont was still alive and kicking, so I don’t know why I’d be considered a suspect.”
Because you could easily have grabbed both that key and the knife, and you live close enough to sneak back without any difficulty. I bit my lower lip to prevent me from voicing those facts out loud.
Alicia turned around. “Don’t be silly. They have to check into you, same as the rest of us. Everyone who was here last night is a suspect.”
“Including me,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll be grilled again as well. It’s what the authorities have to do in these situations.”
“It still ticks me off.” Damian crossed his arms over his chest. “Why would I want to kill some stranger? It’s not like I knew the guy. You all had more interactions with him than I did. I only caught glimpses of him at dinner last night.”
As I examined Damian, I noticed the tension tightening his shoulders and jaw. “You never encountered him in Beaufort before? When he registered, Lincoln told me he’d made several previous visits. I thought, since you’ve temped in several restaurants in the area—”
“What? That I stabbed him because he sent a dish back one too many times?” As the words exploded from Damian’s lips, Alicia shot a questioning glance at me.
“Of course not. But I thought maybe you’d seen him somewhere, since you’ve worked so many different places.” I spoke in the soothing tone I’d perfected in dealing with hormonal teenagers. “If so, even if it’s something you only remember upon reflection, I think it would be better to tell the police that up front, rather than have them find out later.”
I didn’t add that I was suggesting this because I myself hadn’t mentioned Lincoln’s hints of blackmail. I’d have to deal with any fallout over my own omissions. I didn’t want Damian to face the same problem.
“I didn’t know the guy, okay?” Damian strode across the room and stared at the broken ice machine. “Sorry about this. Like I said, dock my pay to cover the repair.”
“Trust me, I will. The next time you chef for us.” I met Damian’s gaze and held it. “Yes, I will hire you again. Your talent overrules some of your bad behavior.” I raised one finger as he opened his mouth to reply. “Some. But don’t break anything of mine again or I might change my mind.”
“I promise to watch my temper in the future.” Damian cast Alicia a sharp glance as she snorted at this comment.
“Good. Because I want to work with you, but I can’t afford to replace kitchen appliances on a regular basis.”
“Cheaper to replace chefs.” Alicia turned away and made a great show of rattling the pan lids she’d pulled from the overhead rack.
The noise covered the sound of someone entering the kitchen from the hall.
“Sorry, I just wanted some coffee,” Tara said without looking at me.
“Of course. Please help yourself.” I moved away from the counter and motioned toward the percolator and mugs. “I think I’ll just go check on a few things.”
As she walked away, I noticed how pale and drawn she looked. Haunted, I thought. Which isn’t surprising, considering her father’s untimely passing. I frowned as I pondered Jennifer Delamont as a prime suspect in Lincoln’s murder. If that turned out to be true, it would be tragic, not just for Jennifer—and Lincoln, of course—but also for their daughter.
After stepping out into the hall, I pressed my fingertips against my temples for a moment. I might suspect everyone at Chapters, but I couldn’t allow those thoughts to cloud my mind. Yes, it was possible that Jennifer had stabbed her philandering husband, but it was also possible that the killer was someone else. Someone like Scott, I thought, glancing over at the open door to the dining room. Someone Lincoln cheated or swindled.
I sighed. Apparently, Lincoln had been the type of person a lot of people might have wanted dead. Which wasn’t going to make discovering his killer a walk on the beach.