by Anna Gerard
I lifted and carried one end of every piece of furniture—some of them, more than once—about the room until he was satisfied with the results. By the time he called it quits, I had to agree that the place looked pretty livable.
With the space divided into roughly thirds, there was a sleeping area, a sitting area, and near the sink, a dressing area: a neat little studio apartment minus the full bath. He’d found somewhere a couple of small lamps and a few tchotchkes—a red glass vase, a bright-yellow candy dish, a chalkware horse statue—which we arranged atop the dresser. The box fan was propped in one of the windows and doing a tolerable job of pulling out the remaining dust and hot air. Once the sun set, it would cool off enough to close the windows and pop open the door so he could get some actual air-conditioning.
“I’ll bring up some of my clothes and things now,” Harry told me. “And then I’ll grab a shower and go get food for tonight. There should be someplace on the square open past six.”
There was a questioning note in his tone, and I rolled my eyes. I knew what he was hinting. Unfortunately for me, I was getting soft in my old age.
Before I could think the better of it, I said in a rush, “I know I told you that you were responsible for your own meals, but why don’t you join me and the sisters for supper tonight? Sister Mary Paul is a Cordon Bleu chef, and she’s whipping up a feast for us.”
His eyes widened in appreciation before narrowing as he shot me a suspicious look. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. It’s just that you worked hard to clean the place up, and nothing’s worse than being exhausted and having to cook for yourself. Why don’t you get your clothes and such arranged, and then we’ll see you downstairs around six thirty?”
At precisely six twenty-nine, Harry appeared in the dining room wearing fashionably distressed jeans that clung to him almost as closely as the black ones had. Over the pants, he wore a dark-brown, nubby-textured shirt that I determined was made of some outrageously expensive—but doubtless 100% organic!—natural fabric.
Since he looked in need of a task, I sent him off to find my wine opener and stemmed glasses in the butler’s pantry. The mini wine refrigerator already had bottles of white and rosé chilling, and so I told him to pick one of each.
The sisters, meanwhile, were finishing setting the table with what I recognized was my wedding china. After the first couple of years of marriage, the expensive set had stayed in the cabinet except on major holidays. And after a few more years, it never came out at all.
Sister Mary Christopher caught my look of surprise.
“Oh, dear, I hope it’s all right that we used the pretty china,” she warbled in concern as the other sisters bustled about bringing in side dishes. “It’s just that it seems a shame to save it for special occasions. Why not enjoy the nice dishes all the time?”
“You’re right. I’m going to start using them more often from here on out. Besides, this is the first time we’ve all sat down together for a big meal. And, technically, that makes it special.”
Harry, meanwhile, was busy opening and pouring wine with an efficiency that made me guess bartending had been one of his side jobs while he looked for acting work. A few minutes later, everything was on the table and we’d all taken our seats: me at the head of the table, Mother Superior at the foot. Somehow, Harry had ended up to my right. Quite the dinner party, I decided in approval.
With everyone settled, Mother Superior addressed me.
“Nina, I trust you do not mind if we say grace first?”
“Not at all,” I told her, quickly putting down my wine glass, from which I’d been preparing to take a well-deserved gulp. “I think we’d be pretty remiss if we didn’t give thanks for this fabulous feast Sister Mary Paul whipped up.”
And feast was not an exaggeration. The nun had done the culinary equivalent of fishes and loaves. She’d transformed a tray of chicken thighs I’d had in the freezer and some staples from my refrigerator and pantry into a magnificent herbed entree served atop a creamy pasta base and accompanied by a side of steamed veggies. A small salad and the wine finished off the menu. Should I ever decide to add a supper option to my B&B menu, I’d definitely give this dish a try.
With a nod, the nun launched into a prayer that, while, relatively brief, still managed to cover all the bases of food and friendship and hope for the future. I was a bit surprised when she ended to hear a fervent “Amen” from Harry beside me. Apparently, all that time spent among the Hollywood crowd hadn’t completely knocked his childhood religion out of him.
Once the food had been passed around family-style, Harry raised his wine glass. “I’d like to propose a toast. To our gracious innkeeper, Nina Fleet, who kindly opened her home to us all when we were in desperate need of lodging and has made us all feel welcome.”
I shot him a disbelieving side-eye. Our earlier negotiation process could hardly be termed “gracious,” and I suspected he knew I’d caved only because it was the easier choice. The nuns, however, took him at his word.
“To Nina!” they chorused with smiles as they raised their own glasses and took a drink in my honor. Plastering a gracious smile on my face, I waited until the official toasting was done to pick up my own glass.
“Thank you,” I told them, feeling an unexpected hint of melancholy sweep me. “I’ve been on my own for a while now, and I didn’t realize how much I missed having friends and family around. And so, I’ve made my decision. I’m going to stay in the bed-and-breakfast business, at least for the foreseeable future.”
“Hear, hear!” Sister Mary Julian bellowed, taking another gulp of wine while her sentiments were echoed by the rest.
Once that final bit of hoopla died down, Mother Superior raised her fork. “What are we waiting for? Let us, as they say, dig in.”
The meal lasted a pleasantly long time, fueled by anecdotes about goats and cheese on the sisters’ part, and movie star gossip on Harry’s. For a group of elderly nuns living in the country, they were surprisingly up-to-date on the latest television and movie and reality stars.
“Of course, we don’t watch all these shows,” Sister Mary George, to my left, quietly confided as Harry recounted an amusing incident he’d witnessed involving Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and a macaw on a movie set. “Very few of them are morally uplifting. But we hear all sorts of chatter from our customers, particularly when a tour bus stops by. That’s how we keep current. It’s important to know about these things, even if we don’t approve of them.”
All too soon, we’d all pretty well licked our plates clean. But barely had the compliments to the chef recommenced when Sister Mary Paul decreed, “We not finished. Dessert!”
She trotted off to the kitchen, returning with a glass bowl filled with layers of cubed cake, pudding, and whipped cream and topped with sliced strawberries left over from breakfast. She began spooning up the confection in small bowls, while Sister Mary Thomas brought in a pot of coffee that had just finished brewing.
“Mary Paul made the trifle out of leftover muffins,” Sister Mary Julian bellowed as the dessert was passed around. “It was a good thing you had a package of pudding in your cupboard, Nina.”
By unspoken consensus, we remained at the table until we’d finished our coffee and Harry had polished off a second serving of trifle. But when I finally rose to start clearing the table, Sister Mary George put out a restraining hand.
“Don’t you trouble yourself, Nina. Me and the other sisters—and you, too, Harry—will take care of the cleanup. Why don’t you have a little chat with Reverend Mother in the meantime.”
Knowing that, as with the Borg, resistance was futile when it came to opposing a group of nuns, I graciously acquiesced. While Harry and the other nuns began gathering dishes, Mother Superior and I made our way to the parlor, where the former closed the pocket doors behind us.
“Sister Mary George told you about our situation … most particularly, about the fact all the sisters will be split up after we reach Atlan
ta.”
She said all this without preamble once we were seated opposite each other on the two blue velvet love seats. When I gave a sober nod, she went on, “Perhaps Mary George didn’t share the fact that she and I both knew about this eventuality long before we moved out of the convent. It has been a sad and frustrating few weeks, especially since we decided to spare the other sisters the bad news until we knew when the move to Atlanta would be.”
She sighed, and then summoned a smile to continue. “We have so enjoyed your hospitality, Nina, despite the terrible events concerning Mr. Bainbridge. In a way, it’s been like a vacation for us, but we should be leaving in a few days. When His Excellency calls, we must answer.”
“I understand. And I am so sorry that things are ending this way for you and the other sisters.” Then, as another thought occurred to me, I asked, “Are you allowed to go … I mean, because of the murder investigation?”
“I’ve talked to Sheriff Lamb, and the answer is yes. If she has further questions, the archdiocese will know where to find us.”
She paused, and her smile took on a wry little twist.
“But you’re not getting rid of us immediately. It turns out that Mr. Bainbridge was raised Catholic. His family contacted the diocese and asked if we sisters might conduct a Rosary service for him at the convent chapel on Friday night, since his funeral is on Saturday. So we shall be staying here at least until then.”
“Wait, you said yes, after what Bainbridge did to you?” I blurted before I had time to think.
Mother Superior’s gaze through her oversized glasses sharpened, but her scolding was of the mild variety. “Of course we did. Mr. Bainbridge may not have lived an exemplary life, but that is not for us to judge. If we can be of service and comfort to his family, we shall.”
Knowing there wasn’t much more that I could say after that, I rose. “I’d better see how things are going in the kitchen. Harry’s pretty good when it comes to sweeping and dusting, but I’m not sure I trust him yet with the good china.”
It turned out that I needn’t have worried. The dining room was my first stop, and I saw that the table was cleared and the leftovers put away. In the kitchen, the nuns were halfway through the dishes already. Being far taller than any of the women other than Mary George, Harry had been designated the official putter-upper, replacing the dishes in the cabinets as they were washed and dried. Despite my sorrow over the nuns’ situation, I couldn’t help but smile a little as I peered around the kitchen door frame and watched them work with the handsome actor.
A sleek brown heron among the penguins, I thought with a regrettable snicker.
The rest of the evening was spent in the parlor, with the nuns softly chatting or reading. I’d reclaimed my cat mystery and was doing my best to enjoy the felines’ fictional antics. Harry had already retired to his tower room, claiming he intended to finish unpacking his duffle bag full of clothes. Sister Mary Julian and Sister Mary Paul were busy knitting what appeared to be tiny caps using soft pale yarn.
“For early babies,” the former explained when I paused after a couple of chapters and admired her skillful work. I realized after a moment that she meant the preemies who needed the caps for additional warmth in the NICU. “We make many and send to hospital.”
By nine PM the nuns had called it a night and rose to go upstairs. I turned out the parlor lights and followed them down the half-lit foyer toward the main stairway. Mattie had slipped behind Sister Mary Thomas and was keeping her head low so that I, the unobservant human, wouldn’t notice what she was doing.
Knowing that the nun would have but a few more chances to snuggle with the pup, I didn’t bother whistling the Aussie back. Instead, I smiled and said, “Sleep tight, everyone. Don’t forget, I’ll have breakfast ready again at seven.”
They made their individual good-nights, with Mother Superior the last one to mount the steps.
“Thank you again, Nina,” she told me, pausing to grasp my larger hand in her two wrinkled ones. “We will remember this lovely evening for a long time.”
“No, thank you,” I told her. “I’ll remember it, too.”
Chapter Eighteen
Despite the unsettling day before, I slept quite soundly that night, waking to my alarm clock at six AM so I could get a shower and feed Mattie before Jasmine arrived. I felt mentally recharged and, to quote Travis Gleason once again, ready to stick my nose into things. Which meant as soon as breakfast was over, I’d follow my plan from the day before and start with a visit to my friend Mason. Depending on what I learned from him, I might chat with a few other folks on my list, too.
I gave my head a rueful shake. Maybe it was the nuns’ influence rubbing off on me, but I was beginning to feel that I owed Bainbridge something. Not because he was a great person, but because I was … or rather, I strived to be. And if the nuns could put bygones behind them after how he’d upended their collective lives, the least I could do was ask a few questions about who wanted him dead.
Plus, if I could figure out who was responsible for the developer’s murder, I’d be that much closer to bidding Harry Westcott goodbye.
The Aussie had slipped out of Mary Thomas’s room sometime in the night and come back into the billiards suite to snooze with me, so she was waiting patiently at the porch door for me to let her out for potty. She and I both performed our morning ablutions before I pulled on a pair of white denim jeans with rolled cuffs and a short-sleeved linen blouse in a summery pink, white, and gray print. I’d prepared Mattie’s food and had the coffee, juice, and cereal already staged when Jasmine rang the doorbell promptly at seven.
Once again, she looked like something the cat had dragged in … well, as much as a naturally beautiful teenager could look bedraggled.
“Hi, Miz Nina,” she said with a yawn as she let me take the top box again and then followed me to the dining room. “Ugh, these early mornings are killing me.”
“Uh, not that I mind or anything,” she hastily backtracked when I glanced her way. “I mean, I like delivering to people and all. It’s just it’s so early, and—”
“Don’t worry,” I cut her short with a smile. “I hate getting up early, too. But when you’ve got a job to do, well, that’s life.”
“I guess,” she replied, not sounding much convinced as she set the box down on the table.
But, like the last time, her expression brightened significantly when I gave her the usual tip. “Thanks, Miz Nina. See you tomorrow.”
I smiled and walked her to the door. She was almost skipping as she rushed off the porch and down the front walk. I figured out why when I glimpsed a tall figure with red hair on a bicycle waiting just beyond the gate. My smile broadened. Apparently, she’d convinced the boy she’d been talking with the other day to haul his butt out of bed at the crack of dawn, too, and keep her company on her ride.
I closed the door and headed for the kitchen. Light seeped from beneath the closed pocket doors in the parlor, and I heard the faint murmur of morning prayers that would continue for another thirty minutes before I headed into the kitchen to get the coffee started—and almost bumped into Harry standing at the kitchen island.
He was wearing the same distressed jeans and nubby brown shirt as he’d worn the night before. Like Jasmine, he looked like the cat had given him a good dragging … and, similar to Jasmine, he appeared as disheveled as a guy with movie-star good looks could.
“What are you doing up this early?” Then, noticing he clutched my favorite I ♥ AUSSIES mug in one hand, I added, “And what are you doing drinking out of my personal coffee cup?”
“Roy boss,” he croaked in a sleepy voice, and toasted me with the mug.
I blinked. “Roy who?”
“Rooibos,” he repeated, this time carefully making the two syllables into a single word. “It’s a kind of tea, filled with antioxidants. I drink it every morning. Would you like me to make you some?”
“No thanks, my oxidants are just fine. And I expect you to wash my mu
g when you’re finished.”
Doing my best to ignore his presence, I fired up the coffee maker and started pulling down plates. But it got increasingly difficult to pretend he wasn’t there while I sliced up fruit and arranged the quiches and pastries. Not that he said anything, but I could feel his gaze following me … or, rather, following the food.
Almost as bad as Mattie, I thought as I started moving everything into the dining room. Though at least he refrained from drooling all over the floor. That is, until I whipped the foil off Daniel’s latest freshly baked cobbler. As the sweet peachy aroma wafted through the kitchen, I could have sworn I heard a small whimper from his direction.
It was just half past seven when I heard the pocket doors slide open again, and the nuns came filing into the dining room.
“Oh, Nina, this looks even better than yesterday’s breakfast,” Sister Mary Christopher warbled—though in fact it was the identical spread, other than blueberry muffins instead of strawberry. But I told myself it was the presentation, since I’d double-plated and done a little fancy folding with the napkins.
Harry had come into the dining room, too, and was watching as the nuns filled their plates at the buffet station. I saw his eyes grow large as he took in the bounty, but he limited himself to a longing sigh as he pulled a granola bar from his shirt pocket and made a production of reading its label.
I shook my head. In another minute, he’d have the bar unwrapped on a plate and be cutting it with a knife and fork into miniscule squares. Next would be savoring each bite like a grateful Tiny Tim nibbling a bread crust. And, of course, all the nuns would then insist that he join in their breakfast.
Might as well bow to the inevitable and ring down the curtain on that dramatic performance before it started.
Besides which, when I’d gone back into the kitchen a few minutes earlier, I’d found my I ♥ AUSSIES mug already washed and neatly replaced in the cabinet. He got points for that.
“Harry, why don’t you save the granola bar for later and join us all for breakfast?” I suggested with a sweet-as-peaches smile.