Cherry Scones & Broken Bones

by Darci Hannah

  That surprised me. It seemed later than usual. I asked, “And how was she when you went there?”

  “Angry, as usual. And nasty.” The blond head tilted. “But she wasn’t handsy. That was unusual.” A troubled look crossed his face. “It’s kind of a perverse dance we go through, Ms. Bloom. I’ve told you of it, just as I’ve told you not to worry. I can handle Silvia’s insults and the fact that she never signs for her bill. We all know her game. Last night she just called me a brainless twit, took the tray, and slammed the door.”

  “Was anyone else in the room with her?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone. But come to think of it there might have been.” A sly smile came to his lips. “I thought I heard someone clearing their throat—in a manly sort of way. I thought maybe it was Mr. Beauchamp, ya know? But it could have come from the room next door.”

  I thought about that. “I saw Fred Beauchamp leaving the inn around midnight.”

  “He could have come back. Guests always use the side door after midnight. Maybe Ms. Lumiere gave him her key?”

  “That’s a very good possibility,” I said, and wondered why I hadn’t thought of it earlier. Probably because I was tired and overwhelmed by another death at the inn. I then asked if he’d seen anyone else at the inn at that late hour.

  “Only the older dude staying in the Swan Suite and his lady friend. They were on the second floor too, trying to unlock their door. They were a little drunk,” he explained.

  Interesting, I thought, recalling events of the morning. The gentleman staying in the Swan Suite had been fascinated with the crime scene. So fascinated, in fact, that the authorities had asked him to stay in his room quite a few times. “Is there anything else about last night that seemed strange to you or stood out in your mind?”

  His face darkened a measure as he shrugged. “Not really. Kenna and I were busy cleaning the patio. We left shortly after I delivered Ms. Lumiere’s room service.”

  “Oh, and one more thing, did you happen to see Peter at the inn last night, or Hannah?”

  Almost without thinking he gave a quick, dismissive shake of his head. Unfortunately, I thought it a little too quick. I repeated the question again and got the same reply. I had enough experience with Erik Larson to know that although it wasn’t an outright lie, he was hiding something. But it would never do to press him. From years of studying armed forces commercials, I was aware that young men enduring hardships together formed an unspoken alliance. It was like the bro-code on steroids. And although Silvia Lumiere was hardly as dangerous as terrorist-infested streets, she was that psychotic taskmaster who’d put both men through their paces. Erik might be covering for Peter, and it was up to me to figure out why. But now was not the time.

  “Anything else?” he asked. I shook my head and made to leave. I was almost at the door when he asked, “Hey, Ms. Bloom, how’d she die?”

  “By cherry scone,” I said, turning to face him. He almost laughed, thinking I was joking. I quickly elaborated. “It was stuffed down her throat before she was pushed down the stairs. She broke her neck in the fall. Grandma Jenn found her body early this morning.”

  His eyes shot wide, and his face blanched as gray as the undies littering his floor. “Oh, God,” he breathed and flopped back down on his pillow.

  Seventeen

  I was in my red Ford Escape driving back to the inn when my phone rang. It was Giff. I pulled off the road and took the call.

  “Okay, Whitney dear, I’ve done a little digging on our unfortunate portrait painter. It’s amazing what a few phone calls and some pointed internet searching will do. Dredges up all kinds of skeletons in the proverbial closet. Get this. Ms. Lumiere’s Gold Coast penthouse apartment is in foreclosure.”

  “Really?” I breathed, thinking that would explain all the penny-pinching behaviors Ms. Lumiere exhibited at the inn. “Any idea why?”

  “Only the obvious one. The woman spent more than she made. Apparently, Ms. Lumiere liked living large—furs, jewelry, fine dining, expensive spa treatments—all of which she put on credit cards and didn’t pay. And you’re right. She had a nasty habit of propositioning younger men. Five years ago, there was a case brought against her by a young man whose identity has been protected. This man claimed he worked for Silvia at her studio, although there seems to be some disagreement whether she ever paid him for his work. This mysterious person—we’ll call him Jonny Doe—claimed that he worked under constant sexual harassment and ill treatment. Now, you might not want to believe this, angel, but sexual harassment against males isn’t taken as seriously as it is for female employees, especially five years ago, when this case supposedly occurred. It appears that it took our Jonny Doe some time before he spoke up about it. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when Ms. Lumiere allegedly made him pose in the nude for an erotic portrait, stating that once he did she’d pay him all the monies owed to him. According to sources, Jonny Doe claimed to have posed in the nude, but there’s no evidence that this painting exists. And if it did, Ms. Lumiere certainly never paid him. The entire case was thrown out of court when Silvia made a mockery out of this poor man by countering his accusation with a salacious one of her own, stating Jonny Doe was the real abuser and that he was just after her money. She must have been very convincing, because after the hearing there was never any mention of this person, or this case, again.”

  “Oh, the poor man,” I replied, empathetically. “From what I know of Ms. Lumiere, he was probably telling the truth. In fact, Tate recently told me that ever since Silvia’s been coming to Cherry Cove, she’s flirted with him. She even tried to pinch his behind whenever he wasn’t looking. Tate, being Tate, just laughed it off, until last year when Silvia tried to get him to pose in the nude for a portrait.”

  “My, my,” Giff uttered. Then, with a little too much enthusiasm, added, “And did he?”

  “Of course not! Tate has his standards.”

  “Well, good for him.” Giff’s voice was laced with a heavy dose of sarcasm as he said this. He cleared his throat, invoking “corporate Giff” once again. “Anyhow, I just thought you’d be interested to know that there’s a Jonny Doe running around out there with a pretty big axe to grind against your unfortunate guest. She really was quite talented, though.”

  “So I hear. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Two things. The first is that I’m on my way to the Cherry Orchard Inn. I’ll be arriving in time for supper. And, if you’re back on that delicious ex-boyfriend of yours, call him. I don’t mind third-wheeling it with you two.”

  I was relieved to hear Giff was coming to Cherry Cove. He was a good friend, always entertaining, and had valuable skills that would come in handy when trying to crack this case. He also adored my family and valued my friends nearly as much as I did.

  “I’ll do better than that,” I told him. “I’ll call Tay and her valiant knight, Lance, as well. Hannah and her new man will most likely want to join us too. And Grandma Jenn, of course. There’s always a crowd at the inn for dinner.”

  “Excellent! You know that Grandma Jenn’s my spirit animal. As long as her pie-bribing nemesis Edna’s not there, count me in.”

  “Will do. But I’m putting you up in the family quarters. There’s a lot of crime scene tape hanging around the inn.”

  “Nothing ruins a party like a swag of crime scene tape, not to mention the fact that the color’s God-awful unless you’re a bumblebee or a cop. And speaking of cops, crime scenes, and criminals, here’s the second thing I wanted to tell you. Silvia has an ex-husband. Again, it should come as no surprise that the man had money. It only lasted seven years, though. Nasty divorce. No kids involved, but she did get a hefty settlement of two million dollars. However, this divorce happened ten years ago. Apparently the money’s gone, and although Ms. Lumiere is a fine painter, her work doesn’t demand the high prices it once did.”

  I
sat a moment, absorbing this new information, and then thought to ask after the ex-husband’s name.

  “Stanley Gordon,” Giff offered. “Owns a string of high-end car dealerships in the greater Chicagoland area.”

  The name sounded familiar. “Can you text me a picture?” A moment later, staring at the face on my iPhone, my suspicions were confirmed. Stanley Gordon was the middle-aged man gawking over the railing at the body this morning. Stanley Gordon was the name of the man staying in the Swan Suite.

  Thanks to Giff and his dogged research we had another name to add to our growing list of suspects. As I raced back to the inn I was filled with a sense of excitement. Stanley Gordon was a weekend guest. I remembered the man checking in on Friday afternoon, booked for a two-night stay. How convenient that he’d be checking out today, I thought, especially after the mysterious death of his ex-wife. However, I doubted if anyone else but Giff and I knew of his connection to the dead woman. After securing the crime scene, Jack had conducted a preliminary interview of all the guests, which largely consisted of taking down names, permanent addresses, and any statements willingly offered. But Jack had been so focused on me as his prime suspect that I doubted he’d given Stanley Gordon a second look. And why would he? Well, I was going to give him that second look, and hopefully put an end to this troubling case. Another death at the Cherry Orchard Inn was not going to be good for business.

  I was pondering business and the very real problem of damage control as I drove up to the inn, then stopped the moment I saw the parking lot. It was full, too full under the circumstances. The crime scene unit, police and news van had all left, having been replaced by what looked to be guests arriving for a black-tie event, or perhaps a group of misplaced churchgoers. A quick glance at the time on my iPhone told me that church was done for the day.

  The men and women crowding the wide front porch, carrying flowers and teddy bears, small-framed pictures, and votive candles, made me suspicious. Then I spied Edna Baker lugging her insulated casserole carrier up the front steps.

  “No,” I hissed. My suspicions were further confirmed when I saw Alexa Livingstone dressed in black emerging from her white Audi. Beside her was the potter and romancer of Silvia Lumiere, Fred Beauchamp. I slammed the car door, dashed through the parking lot and pushed my way up the front steps.

  “What the heck is going on here?” I demanded.

  “It’s her!” Alexa cried, her arms loaded with red roses, her face streaked with tears. “It’s Silvia’s murderer! We all knew you had it in for her, but why, WHY, did you have to kill her?”

  “What? Wait.” I was dumbfounded, and more than a little angry. “Please, all of you, listen to me. I’m not responsible for this! The notion’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” Fred Beauchamp challenged. I didn’t like the way he was looking at me. “The poor woman was choked with one of your scones and pushed down the stairs in the middle of the night. You knew she was arthritic and yet you made her stay on the second floor.” Like Alexa, his eyes were red and his cheeks wet with tears.

  “We … we have an elevator,” I reasoned, feeling fear nipping at my heels.

  Fred rounded on me. “She was a difficult woman, I’ll grant you that. But she didn’t deserve to die like a pitiful beast, all alone on the cold, hard floor.”

  “How … how do you know how she died?” I asked, thinking it a bit odd that he knew all the specifics. I was also recalling what Erik had said about folks using the side doors after midnight. Silvia could have been making a show of teasing Fred and then sending him home, but not before slipping him her room key for a more private visit. Erik thought that somebody could have been in the room with Silvia … why not Fred? I swallowed my fear and gave him a hard look.

  He threw it right back. “We all heard it. Greta Stone broke the story this morning. We all saw that picture of you holding your incriminating sign. It’s all anyone is talking about—all thanks to you and your … your damn murderous cherry scones!” These last words were flung in my face like a rotten tomato.

  “I did not kill that woman!” I averred, staring at the angry crowd. I soon realized that whatever I said was going to be judged harshly. I’d already been convicted of a crime I didn’t commit by these people. I decided it best to go on the attack. “And would someone mind telling me what you’re all doing here, the entire Cherry Country Arts Council—and Edna Baker—standing on my front porch?”

  “We are honoring the memory of the renowned painter and our dear friend, Silvia Lumiere,” Alexa called from within her circle of friends. “The police won’t allow us into the building, so the inn’s front porch has, by default, become the sight of our memorial to the beloved Ms. Lumiere.”

  “Oh no-no-no!” I cried. With anger pulsing through my veins, I grabbed Alexa Livingstone by the arm and pulled her down the steps of the front porch with me. Standing on the other side of the inn’s iconic turret for privacy, I said, “Look, Alexa, this is a place of business. I know you’re upset about Silvia. I am too, but your people cannot place flowers, teddy bears, lit candles, and … and …” I glanced back at the porch, where I caught a glimpse of a framed picture depicting Fred Beauchamp kissing Silvia Lumiere on the lips. I swallowed hard, choking back the bile, and continued. “And slightly inappropriate photos of Silvia Lumiere here!”

  She looked at me, pity in her eyes and roses in the crook of her arm. “I thought, I truly thought, you understood, Whitney. It was about the greater good. Letting Silvia’s unkind ways roll off your back.”

  “But I did,” I told her. “I really did, Alexa.” It was then that a thought popped into my head. She was, after all, Silvia’s friend and the head of the arts council. “What about you? Where were you last night?”

  The dark eyes nearly popped out of their too-tight sockets at this question. “What are you suggesting? Are you trying to cast blame on me now? Well, your little trick isn’t going to work.”

  “There’s no trick, Alexa. And I didn’t kill your friend. All I’m asking is where you were last night.”

  She took a deep breath and adjusted the flowers in her arm. “Very well,” she seethed. “Remember, I owe you nothing. You’re not a cop and I shouldn’t even respond to your stupid question, but I will. I will because Silvia was my friend and she deserves better than she saw here.” A condescending smile touched her lips as she answered. “I was at home. I ate dinner in, attended to some work, then went to bed. That’s all.”

  “It sounds remarkably similar to what I did,” I remarked and crossed my arms. I imagined it was how Jack felt, heady with the power of interrogation. Unable to let it rest there, I pushed. “And do you have a witness who can verify that statement?” Knowing that, like me, she didn’t.

  “I do,” she said, knocking me off my power trip. I stared at her, noting the chilling confidence with which she spoke. “Paulina, my housekeeper, can verify that I was in bed by eleven. Do you want me to have her call you? Or will you take me at my word?” She was about to head back up the steps when she turned around again. “Perhaps I should let Officer MacLaren know about this little conversation. Does he know that his prime suspect is snooping around, asking questions of mourning civilians?”

  “Don’t call him,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll be calling you.”

  I had climbed the porch stairs as well and was about to enter the inn when Edna shoved her casserole carrier into my hands. It weighed a ton and I told her as much.

  “You should have thought about that, sweetie pie, before you gave Silvia the old bumpity-bump-bump down the stairs. Now be a dear and bring that to Jenn. It’s my tuna-funeral casserole surprise. Tell her to plate it up and bring it out with some forks and some lemonade. We’re all getting parched out here. Mourning is tough work and your porch is getting hot. Also, Jeffery”—she indicated a sandy-haired young man on the other side of the crowd wearing tight jeans and a wrinkly T-shirt—“has brought his g
uitar. He’s a knot-artist.” She rolled her eyes as she said this. “Ties a bunch of knots in hemp rope and calls it art. Anyhoo, he thinks he can sing as well. I’m giving you fair warning because we’re both Gilded Cherry trophy winners. Bring out the casserole soon or there’s going to be a racket out here that’ll raise the dead.”

  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again. “Anything else?” I asked.

  “You could bring us some of those scones of yours, if you’ve got any left.”

  “Really?” I said, staring at her with dripping incredulity. “Don’t you think that’s in poor taste, considering how the woman died?”

  “Actually, it’s quite fitting,” Alexa broke in, aiming her pointed stare at me. “Under the circumstances.”

  I was shocked to see Tate in the inn’s office dressed as a Viking marauder. He was with my parents, Grandma Jenn, and Brock Sorensen, our accountant, who didn’t usually work on Sundays. Today was obviously an exception. I had barged in on a discussion, a troubling one if the looks on their faces were any indication. And then my eyes settled on Tate. In all the commotion at the inn this morning I’d forgotten to call him and tell him that our outing had been canceled. Truthfully, I had never invited him to begin with, but seeing him standing there, dressed in camel-colored pants bound in leather strapping from the knees on down, shirtless, plastic horned Viking helmet atop his head and a bear skin rug draped around his thick shoulders, I couldn’t help but smile. He looked good, and his look of genuine concern was just as attractive.

  “Babe,” he said to me the moment I came through the door. “What a tragedy. You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I assured them all. “But we’ve got the arts council on our front porch to deal with, and they’re acting a little batty.”

  “Indeed they are,” Gran concurred. “They’re acting as if that woman was a saint, the fools.” Her eyes dropped to the object in my hands. “Dear heavens, that looks like Edna’s casserole carrier.” She eyed the hefty dish with suspicion, then scrunched her nose. “Smells like her tuna-funeral casserole surprise. Let me tell you, nobody wants that kind of surprise at a funeral. Spoiler alert! Funyuns! That’s the surprise. Those nasty little onion-flavored cornmeal rings are crunched up and stirred in there. The woman’s obsessed with the things. If you were wondering why she always smells like onions and garlic, now you know. And she has some nerve bringing that here. Jani and I are top-rate cooks, and we have a smashing good chef on staff.”