by Anna Gerard
“I hope you don’t mind,” Sister Mary George said as she ushered me into the dining room. “You already had the ingredients, so Mary Paul whipped up some homemade dressing to go with the salad.”
“Believe me, I never criticize a meal I don’t have to make myself,” I assured the nun with a smile.
But the salad with its homemade dressing, while tasty, couldn’t hold my attention. I’d debated telling the sisters about Harry’s supposed stalker, or the fact that he’d been arrested for Bainbridge’s murder, but in the end I decided to wait. Why upset them until we knew for sure if Harry was actually going to be charged? Tonight at supper would be soon enough to break the news.
And so, to distract myself, I waited for a lull in their murmured conversation and then brightly spoke up. “Sisters, I need some advice.”
The soft clank of forks against plates abruptly halted, and six expectant gazes fixed themselves on me … Mattie being content to remain under the table and not involve herself with human chitchat.
“Of course, my dear,” Mother Superior replied. “If there’s a problem—”
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” I rushed to reassure her, my glance taking in them all. “I need your perspective as businesswomen. Your cheese-making venture was such a success, I’m hoping you can advise me on my bed-and-breakfast. I need some ideas on groups and events to target to bring in more guests.”
“Weddings!” Sister Mary Christopher promptly replied, wide blue eyes growing even wider in excitement. Then, catching Mother Superior’s slanted look through her oversized glasses, she amended, “I mean, of course, for those who aren’t members of the Church. Your gardens are so lovely, they’d make an ideal spot to exchange vows. Except you’d need to build an arbor for the bride and groom to stand beneath.”
“Right,” Sister Mary Thomas agreed. “And if the day is nice, you could serve the champagne and wedding cake beneath the pavilion.”
“Chickens!”
This from Sister Mary Paul in her thick accent. Then, as we all stared at her in confusion, Sister Mary Christopher tittered. “I think Mary Paul means hens, as in hen parties.”
Then, when the older nun vigorously nodded, Sister Mary Christopher clarified for the others, “You know, bachelorette parties. You could serve cocktails and lady fingers and watercress sandwiches, and the girls could make wedding veils out of toilet paper.”
Mother Superior said, “I think those are excellent ideas. And, Nina, you might consider advertising to literary groups and women’s organizations. They often schedule destination events for their members and are always looking for interesting venues.”
“What about targeting rosarians?” Sister Mary George wanted to know.
Before I could ask what rosaries had to do with anything, she continued, “I’m sure there are all sorts of gardening groups dedicated to cultivating heirloom roses who would love to meet somewhere new. And with such fine specimens as you have growing, all you need to do is take some professional photos of them and add an album of heirloom roses to your B&B website. You do have a website, don’t you?”
“You must have a website!” Sister Mary Julian bellowed in agreement. “Can’t do business these days without one.”
“I don’t have one yet, but that’s next on my list,” I assured her.
We spent the next several minutes bouncing ideas off one another. Finally, I shoved back my now-empty salad plate and said, “I should have thought to bring a pad and paper and take notes. You’ve all been most helpful.”
And they had. Already I had a few new ideas percolating in my brain for targeting potential new customers. Beyond that, I had almost unlimited resources in the various local business owners who might be willing to partner with me on some advertising, or provide discounted food or services in return for a plug.
Standing, I added, “I’d better start cleaning up, and then I need to go write down some of what we talked about.”
“Oh, Nina,” Mother Superior spoke up as I reached for her plate. “I’m sorry, I almost forgot. You had a visitor while you were gone earlier.”
I glanced up sharply.
“A visitor? What did she want?” I demanded, more brusquely than I’d intended.
Telling myself I was overreacting, I tried to tamp down a reflexive sense of panic as visions of a middle-aged tattooed woman with brown—or blonde, or red—hair brandishing a knife flashed through my mind.
“Actually, it was a gentleman. He didn’t give his name, but he said you two had met the other day. He wanted to talk to you about doing some work here at the bed-and-breakfast.”
I dialed back the panic reflex to good old everyday annoyance. Apparently, Jack Hill was stepping up his game and making the first move to search my house for hidden treasure.
Then I frowned, considering. Why not let him? Next time he came by, I’d have him give the place the once-over so he could quote on supposed needed repairs. But I’d channel my inner Mattie and dog his steps the whole time so I could figure out what about the house piqued his interest. And then, once I’d sent him on his way, I’d do a little treasure hunting of my own.
I managed a smile. “I think I know who that was,” I reassured her. “If he drops by again, I’ll deal with him.”
We finished the meal and cleanup in companionable conversation. Then, leaving the sisters to their post-luncheon prayers in the parlor, I changed into grubbies and retreated to the carriage house. I needed something to distract me, and a bit of mindless sweat equity would do the trick.
Kicking on the carriage house’s window unit—no way could a person manage inside in this heat without some sort of air-conditioning—I got to work.
One of the little side projects I’d been doing since purchasing the house had been furniture refurbishing. I’d already stripped and restained two battered side tables and been pleased with the results. My current project was a vintage vanity and bench seat that had been stored in the back of the garage. While it had good bones, it also had more damage than I had skills to fix. And so I’d decided to commit the cardinal sin of style purists everywhere and use a little chalk paint for the “love it or hate it” shabby look. Though it hurt my midcentury-modern self to admit it, even halfway through the process I was liking the look.
I’d been sanding drawer fronts and changing out hardware for almost an hour when a voice behind me said, “Nina, can we talk a minute?”
I yelped and jumped and swung about to find Sister Mary George standing in the carriage house doorway.
The nun gave me an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry I startled you like that. I knocked first, but I guess you couldn’t hear me with the air-conditioner on,” she said, indicating the window unit that was blasting equal parts noise and cold air.
I smiled back and set down my screwdriver. “No worries, Sister. Here, let me find you a seat.”
Over her protests, I cleared a spot on a wooden bench for her and then took a seat on an overturned bucket. “Is there something else the sisters need?”
“Oh, no, everything is lovely. But I’m wondering why you didn’t tell us that Mr. Westcott was arrested this morning for Mr. Bainbridge’s murder.”
Her tone wasn’t the least bit accusatory, but I immediately felt guilty. I guess nuns have that superpower. And, given the fact that the sisters had been right there when we’d found Bainbridge in the alley and that they’d stood prayerful watch over him while we waited for the paramedics, they did have a vested interest in knowing all the details about the whole murder thing.
Sighing, I asked, “How did you find out?”
She reached into the pocket of her black habit and pulled out a late-model smartphone.
“Don’t look so surprised,” she replied when I, indeed, gave her a surprised look. “We may be nuns, but our order lives firmly in the twenty-first century. How do you think we handled all the goat cheese orders? You can only sell so much fromage to folks who happen to stop by. Anyhow, I saw the story on my news feed. Someone p
osted a video of the arrest, and I saw you there while Harry was being handcuffed.”
“I’m sorry, Sister Mary George. I was going to tell everyone tonight. I-I just didn’t want to upset anyone. I’m still pretty upset myself.”
“All the more reason you should have said something,” was her firm reply. “I know we’re nuns, and some of us are pretty old, but that doesn’t mean we’re fragile or frightened. We choose to live a life of prayer and labor, but we darned sure can handle the tough world out there, if need be.”
I felt even more guilty, if that were possible. In an attempt to keep things “nice,” I’d been both patronizing and ageist.
“Sorry,” I repeated. “You’re absolutely right. If you have a few minutes, I’ll tell you everything that happened this morning.”
I gave her the same rundown of events that I’d given Daniel earlier. But when I’d finished, unlike Daniel, she shook her veiled head and said, “We can’t abandon Mr. Westcott in his time of need. I’m inclined to believe his account.”
“I’d like to agree with you, Sister, but there’s nothing to back up his story about the stalker. And then he’s running around wearing disguises and claiming he’s trying to smoke out Bainbridge’s real killer. With all of that, what makes you believe him?”
“Faith.” She gave me a serene smile. “Once, many years ago, someone believed me when no one else did … and that believing changed my life.”
“All right, Sister. If you believe Harry, then I’ll believe him, too.”
Not that I’d trust him 100 percent yet, I silently amended. But if the sheriff cut him loose, then I’d give him a chance, while keeping a sharp eye on him. Because the whole murder thing notwithstanding, I was pretty sure he still had his beady penguin brain focused on trying to somehow steal my house out from under me.
Sister Mary George nodded. “I’m glad to hear that. Now, I’ll let you get back to your project. Your vanity is going to look wonderful when it’s finished.”
Basking a bit in that compliment, I closed the carriage house door after her … and then gave way to guilt again. Despite what I’d told her, I wasn’t as convinced as the nun was of Harry’s innocence. Not that I’d come up with a motive for him to want the man dead. But apparently Harry’s father was some sort of real estate mogul. Perhaps Bainbridge and the elder Westcott had been in some sort of deal together that, like seemingly every other Bainbridge project, had caused the other man financial ruin.
Or maybe Bainbridge had helped sell Mrs. Lathrop’s house out from under Harry. Talk about motive!
“Not my circus,” I reminded myself. For now, I’d let Sheriff Lamb handle all things Harry.
A short time later I’d finished the dressing table drawer fronts and started tackling the bench. The striped sateen fabric of the cushion was stained and ripped, but fortunately the seat portion was removable. I fought with the fabric for a while—just how many rusted old staples were necessary to hold the cloth in place?—and finally called it a day once I was down to layers of dirty old batting.
Mattie came running out to greet me as I left the carriage house. I didn’t need to glance at my phone to know it was 4 PM, otherwise known as doggy snack time.
“Let me wash the dirt off first,” I told her as we went into the kitchen. There I found all the sisters except Mary George and Mother Superior gathered near the butler’s pantry and making notes.
“Don’t mind us,” Sister Mary Christopher called in her cheery warble. “We’re trying to decide what Mary Paul should cook for us tonight.”
Leaving the menu to them, I went to my room and took a nice long shower, then threw on the same outfit from that morning. Mattie, meanwhile, was dancing impatiently about the room to communicate that she was at the point of total starvation.
“Right, girl, you’re so undernourished I can see your ribs … not,” I teased her. “Come on, let’s get your snack.”
We returned to the kitchen, where she peered nervously in the direction of the outside door, ears quirked as if checking out something. The rustle of the treat bag distracted her, however, and she did her required sit, down, stay in return for organic lamb treats stamped into the shape of little bones. She’d just finished the last one when I heard the doorbell ring.
Her ears went up in full alert mode. Mine did, too … at least figuratively.
“So that’s why you were all antsy,” I observed. “Probably our buddy Jack again. Come on. I’m going to want you along with me if I let him loose in the house. Though maybe we can talk about the arbor idea that Sister Mary Christopher had.”
The bell was ringing a second time as I reached the entry. I peered through the sidelight, then gasped and pulled open the front door.
“Harry, you’re out of jail!” I exclaimed, stating the obvious. Then, frowning, I added, “Did Sheriff Lamb believe your story about your stalker?”
“Let’s just say that, after a few hours of questioning, Connie apparently decided her eyewitness testimony wasn’t quite as open-and-shut as she thought. For the moment, I’m free to go, though she gave me the old don’t leave town speech.”
“That’s great,” I cautiously replied. Frankly, it would have been easier on me if he’d spent a day or ten in the clink so I didn’t have to keep tabs on him. Then, eyeing him more closely, I added, “What’s wrong? You don’t look very cheerful for an innocent man who was just set free.”
Since his release, he’d apparently gone back to his bus, for he’d exchanged the old man khakis and checkered shirt for an outfit somewhere between hipster and nerd: tight black jeans and a short-sleeved blue chambray shirt. He’d rolled and looped a faded yellow bandana around his neck in a look that might have made sense if he actually worked outside. But it wasn’t just the deliberately wrinkled shirt and late-afternoon stubble on his cheeks that gave him a world-weary look. If I’d had to interpret his expression, I’d have said he appeared uneasy.
“Can I come in?” he asked, furtively glancing over his shoulder. “I need to talk to you.”
Which led to another question. Namely, why was his second stop after being sprung from jail my place?
Feeling a bit uneasy myself, I opened the screen door. Had I been alone, or had it been after dark, I’d probably have reacted differently, but for the moment my curiosity ruled. “The sisters are in the kitchen, so we can sit in the parlor. You know where it is.”
Mattie followed us down the hall, ears back to their usual half-mast state, which I took as a good sign. In the parlor, Harry sat on the same blue velvet sofa where he’d lain a few days earlier. Once again, I took the threadbare sofa opposite him and waited for him to speak. When he remained silent, however, I prompted him.
“You said you needed to talk. So what’s up?”
“Here’s the thing. After Connie cut me free, I called an Uber for a ride back to the bus. I changed clothes, and then came back outside to collect my camping gear. Turns out a town ordinance forbids parking in public lots for more than a couple of nights running. I didn’t want a ticket, so I figured I’d better pack up and find another spot.”
I nodded and waited, not sure yet where he was going with this story. And then he hit me with the punch line.
“I went to fold up my lounge chair, and that’s when I saw that someone had used a knife to slice up all the webbing.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sliced the lounge chair webbing?
As a punchline, it was a letdown. My first impulse was to dismiss the action as petty vandalism. The culprit was probably someone who was ticked that Harry was hogging two primo parking spots. Except that I could see he believed otherwise.
“You think she did it.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“Lana wanted me to know she knew where I was,” he agreed, rubbing his temples as if he were in pain. “I mean, she obviously knew I was in town, but she wouldn’t have any idea I was camping in the bus unless she followed me back from one of my gigs. I mean, it wasn’t
like I had a neon sign posted on it that said, ‘Here Lives Harry.’ ”
“I’m sure that was pretty unnerving,” I observed. “So what did you do next?”
“I tossed the chair in the dumpster, put everything else in the bus, and hightailed it out of there.”
“What about making a report? I mean, if it really was Lana, you need to document what she did … you know, a paper trail. Did you call the sheriff?”
He looked up again and nodded. “I took a few pictures of the slashed chair before I trashed it and emailed them to Connie.”
He pulled out his phone from his shirt pocket and poked at the screen a moment, then leaned forward to show me several photos of the vandalized lounge chair from multiple angles. Each section of once-taut webbing had been sliced in half, almost as if someone had run a circular saw’s spinning blade down the chair, leaving only ribbons of webbing hanging from the aluminum frame.
Disconcerting, to say the least. Though the revived skeptic in me noted that Harry could just as easily have done the damage with the Swiss army knife he’d told the sheriff he had.
Harry, meanwhile, gave an exaggerated shudder and stuck the phone back in his pocket.
“Connie called me back and said some out-of-towner probably was mad that I’d take up two parking spots and did it out of spite. But she did say that she’d put the pictures in the file. And then she made sure I remembered about the ordinance having to do with staying overnight in public lots, which is why I drove off.”
“So if you’re not there by the square anymore, where’s your bus parked now?”
“In your driveway.”
And there it was, the actual punch line.
I felt my mouth literally drop open as I stared at the man. True, I should have heard the bus belch and clank and squeak its way up the drive, but I hadn’t. All I could guess was that he’d made his move while I was in the shower. My fault for not keeping the driveway gate shut, though in my defense, regularly wrestling that iron barricade open and closed took a fair amount of strength.