Sloane’s taxi drew to a halt beside a stone fountain in the circular drive of a storybook house with a caramel-brown stone exterior, a green slate roof, and beehive chimneys on each end. Three stately windows on the main floor and four gabled ones on the second floor finished the façade.
“333 Mallow Avenue,” the cabbie said. “Mallow Cottage.”
The Wests’ house stood among a handful of gnarled and knotted mature trees and flowerbeds undulating along the sides of a lush, green lawn. “This is not what I expected,” Sloane whispered. She lifted Bear’s carrier and alighted while the driver popped the trunk and removed her bags. The air was heavy with winter jasmine. Its blooming vines crawled over the entire left side of the cottage.
Something moved behind a rose hedge separating Mallow Cottage from the neighbor’s hobbit-looking house, moss growing over its sloping roofline. Sloane peered into the dense foliage.
“May I put your luggage inside?”
She turned back to the driver and set the carrier down on the drive. “No, thanks. I’ve got it.”
The cabbie reached out his hand. “My card for when you’re ready to return to the airport. It would be my pleasure to take you.”
She shoved his card into her back pocket. “I’ll give you a call in a few days.”
As the taxi pulled away, Sloane felt a vibration inside her body. She rubbed her arms. The start of a new job always excited her, but this was different, and so was this case. None of her past work involved an inheritance or finding lost family and a murderer in another country.
She bent down and peeked under the blanket covering the carrier. Bear was sleeping off the travel tranquilizer. She whispered to her anyway. “Questions lead to answers, Bear. So let’s start asking.”
The Wests’ front door opened, and Sloane straightened. The woman who had been with Charles Huxham at the 78 th Precinct walked out of the house, waving enthusiastically. She joined Sloane on the paved drive. “Hello, I’m Lore Reed. Charlie Huxham’s friend. He’s in a meeting and asked me to open the cottage for you. But he’ll be here soon.”
“Thanks. I’m Sloane West.”
“I know, dear. I would recognize you anywhere. You look exactly like your mother. We were close friends growing up, like sisters, really. Tends to happen when you’re the same age in a small town.” She looked down at the carrier. “Who do you have there?”
Sloane pulled back a corner of the blanket. “This is Bear.”
Lore peeked inside. “Well, well. Hello, Bear. I’ve never had cats, even though I adore them. But I’m allergic.” She straightened and extended the handles on Sloane’s luggage.
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll come back for those.”
“After your long flight? Absolutely not. Let me help.” Sloane picked up the cat carrier and followed her inside.
Lore led her through a living room and breakfast area. The familiarity of the place overwhelmed Sloane. It was a bigger version of her childhood home, with dark wood furniture, Impressionist paintings randomly hung about the walls, and the heavy, enduring smell of the past. She held the carrier tighter to her chest and thought, why would Jane want to replicate what she ran from?
Lore passed down a hall and opened the only door on the right. “Here we go. I made this guest room up for you. There are two more on the second floor with the family bedrooms. But I thought you would be more comfortable down here.”
Sloane placed the carrier on the bed. It sank inches into a plush duvet, and for a moment, she wished she could join Bear, who was still asleep. “This is great. Thanks.”
“Wonderful. I hope you like it here. Your grandparents’ cottage is lovely. I’ve been taking care of the plants since…” Lore’s voice trailed off, and she turned away, putting Sloane’s bags in the closet.
“That’s kind of you.”
Lore turned back and gave her a faint smile. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get something off my chest.” She clasped her hands. “I apologize for not saying hello in New York. It was a hectic day. Charlie was in a state, and I was devastated and nervous. I’d never been there before, and I nearly fainted when I saw you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ve been reminiscing about sweet Jane ever since. I would never forgive myself if she knew I didn’t introduce myself to her daughter.” She bit her lip and straightened a throw pillow in a navy-blue recliner. “I asked Charlie what he thought when he saw you, but he said he didn’t recognize you. Which was ridiculous. You really could be your mother.”
“Yeah. That’s what I’ve heard.” Sloane put her toiletry bag in the en suite.
Lore managed another smile. “You must be exhausted. Come with me to the kitchen. I brought some things to help you relax. Hopefully, they’ll help you feel right at home.” She scurried out of the room.
They passed through a brick archway into the kitchen, and a pungent odor overwhelmed Sloane. A stunning floral arrangement with trumpet lilies sat on a long, white granite island. She read the card attached to the arrangement and looked at Lore. “Thanks for the flowers.”
“You’re welcome. It’s the least I could do.” Lore doted on the blooms as if she were preening a child for a portrait. “If you want to keep a fresh arrangement during your stay, I own A Different Petal on Old Main, and I’d be happy to order your favorites.”
“No thanks. I won’t be here long enough.” Sloane moved the vase down to the opposite end of the island.
“Of course. What was I thinking? New York is your home.” Lore removed three wineglasses from a cupboard, uncorked a bottle of red, and filled two of them. “This is pinot noir. I hope you like it. I brought you a cabernet sauvignon for later if you don’t.”
“That’s nice of you.” Sloane sat on a barstool. Lore’s hospitality seemed excessive. Whatever happened to leaving the keys under a doormat and a welcome basket on the counter, preferably one with a bottle of Jameson?
Lore sat on a counter stool next to her. “If you decide to stay longer, please let me take you on a village tour.”
Sloane remembered Huxham’s promise. She took a long drink and managed a nod.
“Of course, only if you want to. I’m just proud of our little town.”
“Harold was too,” Sloane said.
“Oh, yes. He was. He won several key lawsuits that made our village what it is today. He secured our heritage status, and won our most important petition, making the business block of Old Main a pedestrian-only street. It’s a lovely place to shop.” Lore sipped her wine and flushed.
“So how old is the village?”
“Well, let’s see. Old Main’s original businesses have been open since the mid-eighteen hundreds.”
Sloane recognized an urgency in Lore that might trip her up if she continued to answer questions. “Which businesses?”
“My father’s fish market, for one. It’s three doors down from my flower shop if you’re walking toward the coast.” She drew a map in the air. “If you enter off Mallow Avenue, you walk under a beautiful arbor. My store is the first building on the right. The Keanes’ Spotted Owl Inn and Pub is next. It’s a great place to mingle with locals. Natty and Mary’s gallery is between the pub and the fish market. The Grind is next to my dad’s market. They serve wonderful coffee. And Huxham Law is at the end of the block.”
“That’s right. Harold did tell me the Wests had a gallery.”
“Oh, yes. Your family has owned it for generations. Three artists are showing in it right now, not removing their work, a kind gesture of respect for Natty and Mary and the gallery’s long history. They have always supported our local artists.”
“What about the Huxhams’ law firm?”
“It started in the late eighteen hundreds as well. And my brother’s medical office is the newest of our families’ businesses. But it’s across the street from my shop. He has to rent, but he desperately wants to buy his space and the empty building next to him.”
“A close-knit community, huh?”
“Basically, our four families, the Wests, the Huxhams, the Keanes, and the Reeds run Old Main. We make up the majority of the Old Main Commerce Community, the MCC.” Her lip quivered, and she stepped down, walking to a counter behind them and bringing back a box of tissues. “I should have said we did .”
Sloane looked at Lore empathetically while studying her face. “So you are all close?”
Lore dabbed her eyes. “We are. Oh, I can show you. I’ll be right back.” She stepped off the stool and rushed out of the room, returning with a photo. “Here they are. The Four Musketeers. Raymond Keane, Harold Huxham, Natty, and my dad, James Reed. They were best friends. We kids grew up in each other’s houses.” She passed the picture to Sloane. The Musketeers were likely teens in the photo, young with carefree, sunbaked faces and arms around each other’s necks.
“So you and Charles grew up friends?” She set the framed picture on the granite.
“Yes. Charlie, Ken Keane, your mother, me, and my brother, Quinn. We were all close.”
“Are you and Charles in a relationship now?”
“A romantic one? Me and Charlie?” She shook her head and said sympathetically, “Our friendship is complex but not romantic. Charlie isn’t really partner material. He’s struggled over the years. And now, with Harold’s death. Well, he’s a mess.”
Lore wiped her nose. “The last time the Musketeers were together was at my mother’s funeral. We say that Old Denwick is charmed. But in the last six months, we’ve been anything but. Alice, my mother, died of Alzheimer’s last October, Sean Gildey—he was the patriarch of Denwick’s original family—and your grandparents died in January, Jane in February, and now Harold. The losses have been a bit much to handle.”
“I’m sorry about your mother.”
“Thank you. Mother was special. Everyone loved her. It was hard. I took care of her during her decline. In the end, it was a blessing she no longer had to suffer.” Lore wiped away the tears swelling in her eyes. “Listen to me ramble on. Here you’ve lost your mother and grandparents. And I’m taking up all the air in the room. I’m so sorry.”
“No need to apologize.”
Sloane stared at Lore over the rim of her wineglass. Lore was maudlin about Harold and her mother but still held her tongue. If she was lying about something, she was not showing any tells. “Listen, if you’re not in a hurry, can I ask you a few questions?”
“Sure. I have plenty of time to chat.”
“All right. Before Harold told me, I didn’t know Jane was from here. And I’m curious if she’d contacted anyone after leaving?”
Lore looked down. “I’m afraid she didn’t. Not even her parents. Unless Natty and Mary kept her secret, but they were so desperate to find her. I can’t imagine it was an act.”
“So no one from Denwick knew where she went after her holiday to NYC or about me?”
Lore lifted her gaze to Sloane. Her mouth opened and shut, and she shook her head slowly.
“It’s okay. That’s what I expected. Jane didn’t tell me about any of you, either.”
“I’m so sorry. We just had no idea Jane had had a child. Had you. But for what it’s worth, I knew your mother. She must’ve had a good reason to keep you secret.”
“A good reason?”
Lore winced. “I’m sorry for upsetting you. It’s just that running away was so unlike the girl I knew. Ask me anything about her. She was my best friend. And even though I didn’t know about you, I’m so glad you’re here, a beautiful piece of her. With you here, our four families are still intact, despite everything.” Her chin trembled, and she gulped the rest of her wine.
Sloane had trouble with melodramatic people, and Lore was hyperbolic. But she stayed calm, waited for Lore to finish blowing her nose, and launched another question. “Did Jane and her parents have a decent relationship?”
Lore stuffed the tissue in her pocket. “Of course, they did. You couldn’t be more wrong if you think she left because of them. Natty and Mary were wonderful, supportive and loyal. They adored her. And for a good reason—she was the perfect daughter.” She stared into the room, lost in memory. “I loved being over here when I was younger,” she said finally. “I still do. I’ve taken care of Natty and Mary’s houseplants for years.”
Sloane tapped her finger on her glass. “I find it hard to believe Jane decided to leave such a happy home. Runaways are running for a reason. Did she ever say she was upset about someone or something?” She searched Lore’s eyes.
Lore seemed to think back. “No, I’m sorry. Jane was happy. She had a loving family and friends. A boyfriend. And she was excited about going to university.”
The doorbell chimed.
Lore jerked and clutched her chest. “Oh, my God, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so jumpy. It’s just Charlie. I’ll let him in.”
Sloane nodded, sat back, and braced herself. It had been two weeks since Harold had been murdered in her apartment, and she was about to confront the man at the top of her suspect list.
Charles Huxham entered the kitchen ahead of Lore, dropped a manila envelope on the island, and barely met Sloane’s eyes. “You must be Ms. West.”
Lore moved from behind him and smirked. “Of course, she is, Charlie. Just look at her. She’s a mirror image of Jane.” She filled the third glass with wine.
Sloane extended her hand. “Again, I’m sorry for your loss. Harold and I spoke for only a short time, but he seemed like a nice man.”
Charles’s lips drew tight, and he looked out a wall of windows into the backyard.
Lore held out the wine. “Here, Charlie, have this.”
He frowned. “I don’t want that.”
“Maybe you should,” Lore whispered and rolled her eyes. She sat down at the island and poured his share into hers and Sloane’s glasses.
Charles looked at Sloane. “He was a nice man. Too nice. He was adamant you deserved to hear his news in person. Even though he could’ve just called you.”
“Charlie, calm down. She was only giving her condolences.”
“I don’t need you telling me what to do, Emilie.”
“Do you think now’s a good time to fight?”
“Isn’t it always open season with you?” he answered, his tone was harsh and accusatory.
Sloane listened to their voices’ every nuance and studied the emotions flashing across their faces. Friends didn’t fight this way.
“You’re acting in poor taste, Charlie.”
“Like Ms. West showing up in Denwick.”
Sloane held Charles’s eyes. “Listen, Mr. Huxham. I didn’t invite Harold to New York. And maybe you don’t know this, but Harold’s killer tried to shoot me too. That wouldn’t have happened if your uncle hadn’t looked me up and knocked at my door.”
Charles set his jaw, the muscles flexing. “This is the new paperwork.” He slid the envelope across the island. “You need to read it and sign at the highlighted places. The copy of the Wests’ will is yours to keep. We can finish this on Monday at ten a.m. if that works for you.”
“Wait a minute, Charlie.” Lore’s voice rose. “Invite Sloane to Harold’s repast. She’s a West, for God’s sake.”
He glared at her. “I wasn’t speaking to you, Emilie.”
“Oh, I need permission to talk?”
“Don’t be late with the funeral’s flowers,” he said, ignoring her comment. “I’ll let myself out.”
Lore shouted after him, “For God’s sake, Charlie, stop being so rude.” The front door slammed, and she turned to Sloane. “I’m sorry. See what I mean, though. He’s terribly wound up.”
“Yeah. Pretty tight.” Sloane swirled the wine in her glass. “So why does he call you Emilie?”
“He has since we were little. It’s my middle name, a family name.”
“I see.”
Lore Reed and Charles Huxham might not be a couple now, but something still bound them. Why else would she put up with his arrogance? Sloane thought if she was willing to stay with him even now, chances were she wouldn’t be a good informant.
“I brought you a few more things.” Lore opened the refrigerator. “A baked lasagna for dinner. Just reheat it at three-fifty degrees for about thirty minutes. It’ll be ready at dinnertime.”
“I appreciate all your trouble. It’s nice to have a friendly face in a new place.”
“Oh, forget about Charlie. No one else is going to act like him, believe me. The rest of us are thrilled you’re here.” Lore gathered her purse from the back counter and slung it over her shoulder. “If you don’t have any more questions, I’ll let you get settled.” She walked away and stopped. “Again, I’m sorry about Charlie. Please come to Harold’s memorial with me. Sunday, ten a.m. at the Old Denwick church. You can meet all the people who love your family, okay? Charles can’t deny you if you’re my guest, now can he?”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
Lore pulled out a business card. “Here’s my number. Just let me know, and I can pick you up.”
After Lore left, Sloane opened the French doors to the backyard. Three crows perched on the patio railing scattered. They flew in a circle and settled back in the same place. “I don’t have any food for you, so scat.” She stomped her foot. This time the birds dispersed into the yard.
She sat on a lounger and stared out at the Wests’ garden. Its expansive lawn, soaring trees, and flower beds could pass for a park in NYC, except none of the boroughs had pines as tall. The sunset slipped through a wall of sky-scraping spruces bordering the back of the yard and washed the flower beds in a warm orange glow.
A meow came from the French doors, and Sloane turned. “Hey, you’re awake. Are you hungry?”
Bear blinked her sleepy eyes.
“I apologize for drugging you. But I promise it would have been worse if you’d flown here awake.” Sloane picked her up and went back inside. “Look at this counter. It’s called an island. What do you think? Three times bigger than our counter, right?”
Bear lay on the white granite and purred.
“Looks like you’ll have no trouble making yourself at home.” Sloane petted Bear’s head and opened the refrigerator. “We have lasagna, and I brought some canned tuna. You’d probably enjoy the tuna more.” She searched for a can opener and a couple of plates.
After eating, Sloane opened the cabernet sauvignon, poured a glass, settled into the patio lounger again and opened the envelope Charles had given her. “Jesus. That’s a fuck-ton of money.”
Bear sauntered outside and curled up by Sloane’s feet.
“All right. This is what we know so far. For over a hundred and fifty years, four families have owned property in common on Old Main. They have established businesses on the land. Unless one family’s share in the jointly owned property is transferred directly to an heir at probate, it reverts to the other three families.”
Bear looked up.
“Yeah, I agree. Motive. Just the Wests’ business and share of the property is valued at six hundred and fifty thousand.” Sloane sipped her wine and dropped the papers on the side table. “If Morris had killed me that’s a lot of money to split between three families.” She stared into the dark garden. “So who benefits from Harold’s death,” she whispered.
Bear bristled and hissed, crawling into Sloane’s lap.
“They’re just crows. You’ll hear a lot of birds here, not just sky rats.” As the sky darkened, they lounged silently, watching crows roost in a tree with sprawling branches. Sloane stroked Bear’s back and said in a low voice as if the crows were listening, “I know Morris’s employer is here, and he has a problem. I’m still alive.”