by Bailey Cates
“See you in a couple of hours.”
I stared at her for a moment, confused.
“The showing, remember? You haven’t forgotten already, have you?” she chided.
“No, of course not. Um, do you think we could . . .” I trailed off when I saw her expression begin to morph from happy to disappointed. She’d put in so much effort to find the perfect place for Declan and me. The least I could do was go see this house she was so excited about. Taking a deep breath, I tried to buck up. “Six o’clock, right?”
“Right. I’m driving. All you have to do is enjoy yourself.” She beamed. “Oh, Katie. You’re going to love this one. I promise!”
I smiled weakly. “See you at six.”
She left with a bounce in her step the others hadn’t possessed. It wasn’t surprising, really. She’d lived through a great deal in her life, including having her father, a voodoo priest in Haiti, killed by a curse. At the age of nine, she’d relocated to the U.S. with her mother and brothers. Cookie had earned her resilience.
After locking the door, Lucy cleaned up the virtually untouched food and began wiping down the kitchen. I mixed the sourdough levain for the next day, while Ben shut down the coffee area and cleared out the register. By the time we were ready to leave, it was almost our usual closing hour of five o’clock.
As I made one last swipe through the reading area, I spied the books that the spellbook club had brought. They were still lying on the floor in front of the bookcase. Dropping to my knees, I arranged them on top of the coffee table to take a look. The titles were eclectic as usual. There was a primer on how to build garden gates, which went into the nonfiction section. The collection of advice columns went on the self-help shelf, but the book on UFOs looked strange enough that I didn’t know where it should go. Shrugging, I tossed it randomly into an empty space, faceup, sure that anyone who was meant to find it would. There were two books from the Boxcar Children series, which went into the kids’ section, a Chilton’s car care manual for a 2006 Accord, a book about modern cowboys, three paperback romances, two mysteries—both hardbacks—and a title that made me pause.
Telling Fortunes for Fun and Profit.
On impulse, I tucked it under my arm. Since I slept very little, I read a lot at night. Perhaps this would be entertaining. Or helpful. After all, I sure wasn’t going to learn the rest of my fortune from Orla now.
• • •
Declan had texted when he got home, assuring me that he’d prep something for a late supper after we’d checked out Cookie’s next real estate option. He hadn’t forgotten about our house-hunting date, despite the crazy afternoon we’d both had.
When I walked into the kitchen, he was mixing up a simple orzo salad with a lemony vinaigrette and lots of spring vegetables from the garden. Baby carrots, scallions, radishes, peas, blanched spinach, and asparagus, along with chives, parsley, tarragon, and sage blooms studded the ricelike pasta. Next to it was a bowl of deviled crab to serve on top. I checked in the fridge and smiled at the bottle of Pinot Grigio chilling.
“You know I love your deviled crab,” I said, coming up behind him and wrapping my arms around his waist. “Among other things.”
Yip!
Mungo stepped over to his place mat on the floor and immediately tucked into the dollop of plain crabmeat and crumbled biscuit my fiancé had ready for him.
Declan put the mixing spoon in the sink and turned. “I thought you deserved a little something special after today.” Putting his arms around me, he pulled me close. “Of course, I think you deserve a lot of something special no matter what kind of day you’ve had.”
I felt the tension flow out of my shoulders, and I relaxed into him. “I don’t know why that was the right thing to say, but it was,” I said. I wasn’t usually one to feel sorry for myself, but I’d really been hoping the last murder I’d investigated would be exactly that: the last. A part of me really hoped that Orla had been felled by something like a heart attack or a dizzy spell, rather than someone deliberately killing her.
Wait. Could the driver of that car have known her? He’d looked so miserable that I assumed he hadn’t meant to hit her. And his story did jibe with Lucy’s. Still . . .
Then I realized that here, enveloped in the arms of my sweet fiancé, who had just said a sweet something to me, I was thinking about murder suspects.
It was getting to be a bad habit.
I tipped my face up and gave Declan a nice long kiss to make up for being distracted. He, of course, didn’t know I’d been distracted and moved his hand to my back, sliding it under my T-shirt.
“Whoa there, big guy. Cookie’s going to be here any minute.” Stepping back, I pointed to the round flea-market clock on the wall over the kitchen window.
He grinned. “We don’t have to open the door.”
“Oh, yes, we do. She’d have a fit. I tried to get out of this thing tonight, but she looked like I’d taken away her candy.” I sat down on one of the kitchen chairs.
“Well, at least you can have this while you wait.” He retrieved the wine from the refrigerator and poured a couple of inches into two glasses. Putting one in front of me, he sat down across from me. He looked uncomfortable jammed into the corner by the window on the little chair.
“Have you thought about what kind of table you want to get?” I asked. “A big dining table where we can entertain twelve people? Or something smaller with leaves?”
He cocked his head and gave me a slightly puzzled look. “Don’t you think that’s something we should figure out once we find the right place? I mean, what if there isn’t a formal dining room? Wait. Do you want a formal dining room?”
I took a drink of wine, feeling the sweet yet acidic liquid flow down. My throat loosened a little. I hadn’t realized how tight it had been all afternoon, as if I had been unconsciously holding back tears. Or frustration. Maybe both. I took another drink.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Do you?”
He took a sip. “If you do. I don’t really care.”
“How long were you at the hospital?”
Blinking, he changed gears. “A little over an hour.”
“Did you hear anyone talk about whether Orla could have suffered from some kind of underlying physical problem, like a heart issue? Or an aneurysm?” I licked my lips, thinking. “Or even a brain tumor. Will there be an autopsy?”
Declan sat back, a strange look on his face. “Funny you should ask.”
I quirked an eyebrow at that.
“The victim’s family arrived at the hospital just before I left. I kind of, you know, made myself unobtrusive and listened in.”
A small laugh escaped my lips. “You? Unobtrusive?”
He looked insulted.
Declan was six foot four. He had a dimple, for heaven’s sake. In my book, he was anything but unobtrusive. Of course, that might have just been my book. But tall, dark, and handsome is still tall, dark, and handsome. However, grief was a big leveler. When I’d first met him, I’d been worried sick about Uncle Ben, and Declan’s good looks had just irritated me. It was the way he’d taken care of Lucy that first started to melt my heart.
“Was it Fern who came to the hospital?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Someone named John,” he said. “I think he was Orla’s brother-in-law.”
“That name came up earlier, and I remember Orla saying he wasn’t happy about her decision to stop working at the riverfront. I hadn’t realized he was her brother-in-law, though.”
Orla’s deceased husband’s brother? Must be, because they shared the same last name.
Declan nodded. “Then Fern got there right before I left. John told her he’d already requested an autopsy.”
“Well, I guess that makes sense,” I said. “A sudden death like that.”
“Right. The medical examiner probably would have done one
anyway.”
“Then why do you look like that? The family wants to understand what happened. Heck, I want to understand what happened.”
I was about to ask him whether Connell had any inside information in that regard when a speculative look crossed his face. “You may be right, but this John fellow seemed a lot more concerned that the insurance company would need the autopsy than he was about asking questions about exactly how his sister-in-law died.”
The alarm bells that had grown quiet over the course of the afternoon started ding-a-linging in my head again. “Insurance company? As in life insurance? Or is the brother-in-law planning to go after the driver and his insurance company for damages? Either way, they’d probably need an autopsy, but it seems awfully cold that he’d be asking about that right away.”
“That’s what I thought, too.” One side of his mouth turned up in a half smile. “A guy that used to work at Five House has a job with the Chatham County medical examiner’s office now. Seems like a good time to touch base with him, don’t you think? See how the new job’s going and all.”
“By all means,” I said. “You have to stay in contact with old friends, you know.”
His eyes flashed with humor.
Sobering, I said, “You mentioned something to me right after Orla was killed. Something about it being suspicious. Was that from Connell?”
Declan nodded. “He gave me the distinct impression that Orla did not die by accident. Someone was responsible for her death.”
My shoulders slumped. I rubbed my hands over my face. Great. Then a shiver ran down my back, and I looked up. “But how? What else did he say?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, ‘nothing’?” I demanded.
He shrugged. “I mean that’s all I got from him.”
“Well, ask him for more information!”
“That’s not the way it works,” he said.
“Can’t you try?” I wasn’t proud of the whiny undertone in my voice.
A sigh, then Declan dipped his chin. “Sure. I’ll give it a go.”
He closed his eyes, and his breathing quieted. The seconds stretched out to a minute, then two. Finally, he looked up with an apologetic expression. “Sorry, hon. No go. I get what I get from Connell. It’s also possible he doesn’t know any more.”
“Maybe,” I grumbled. What good was having a resident guardian spirit if he just teased with hints and whispers?
The doorbell rang.
Chapter 6
Declan drained his glass of wine before going into the living room. Moments later I heard Cookie’s voice. I put our supper in the fridge and went to join them, Mungo trailing at my heels.
Cookie stood in the doorway. She’d changed into black slacks and a sleeveless lime-colored shell. Since she’d started working in residential real estate, she’d gotten rid of the purple—or blue, or green, depending—streak in her long black tresses. Now they tumbled down her back, the angled light bringing out just the slightest hint of red in their depths.
“Katie! Are you ready to see the absolutely most perfect place you can imagine?” She bounced a few times on the balls of her feet. “I can’t wait to show you what I found!”
I smiled and walked to the row of hooks by the French doors where our coats hung. “Sure thing. Let me grab a jacket.”
She put her hand on her hip and looked around the room. “You know, you keep this place neat as a pin, and it doesn’t really need any repair work. Is there any reason I shouldn’t go ahead and list it? I’m sure I could start showing it right away.”
The pang of impending loss that I felt every time I thought of selling the carriage house struck beneath my sternum, but I kept the smile on my face. “Let’s see how we like this new place, first. Okay? You’re right that we don’t want two mortgages, but we don’t want to be out of a place to live, either.”
As Mungo and I walked out to the yard, I heard her say something to Declan about contingencies. Ignoring them, I hurried to the dark blue Lexus she’d parked in the driveway behind my car. I couldn’t ignore her excitement, however. It fairly oozed out of her pores.
Maybe this really will be the perfect place. Maybe I’ll like it even better than the carriage house. It’s possible. I just have to keep an open mind.
Declan and Cookie chatted about a recent television series in the front seat, and Mungo and I buckled up in the back. I was grateful for their meaningless chatter, which was entertaining enough to keep my mind off the memory of Orla Black lying in Broughton Street, but unimportant enough that I didn’t feel a need to offer my own opinion.
She drove with a deft hand for someone who had for years relied on public transportation, guiding her recently purchased vehicle in and out of traffic. After a while, I realized the route was familiar. In fact, I frequently drove these streets to get to Lucy and Ben’s town house in Ardsley Park. A few minutes later, Cookie made the turn into their neighborhood.
“Are we going to the Eagels’ first?” Declan asked.
A grin broke out on her face as she met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Nope! This is the surprise! A town house right down the block from your aunt and uncle’s place is up for sale, Katie! You always talk about how much you love their home, and I know you stayed with them for a while when you were getting the bakery going and looking for your own place.” She practically vibrated with delight. “The layout is even the same. Lots of light from those big, two-story windows in the living room, and, Declan, you can have a man cave just like Ben’s.”
“Wow” was all I could think of to say.
“Man cave,” Declan repeated. He turned to give me a questioning look as we drove by the walkway that led up to Lucy and Ben’s front door. I could tell he was trying to gauge whether I liked Cookie’s surprise.
Two blocks later, she pulled to the curb and bounded out of the car. “Come on!”
We followed her up the stone walkway more slowly. She had the front door open by the time we got there. The three of us stopped in the foyer to look around, while Mungo ran into the living room.
Yip!
His bark echoed off the bare walls and high ceiling.
The layout was, indeed, identical. The spacious kitchen was to the left, and a staircase led from the far end of the living room to the second and third floors and the rooftop above. But instead of Lucy’s dark cherrywood floor, this place had a nondescript mottled carpet. There was a white marble mantel instead of warm brick, and I could see cold granite and white cupboards in the kitchen rather than Lucy’s welcoming butcher block and glass-fronted cabinets, where she displayed her casual stoneware and rows of home-canned produce. The staircase was metal rather than wood, and the paint throughout was standard eggshell white.
But mostly, the difference was that there was no flora. Lucy had plants everywhere. She was, after all, a hedgewitch. They lined the front walk and flowed from pots on the steps. Inside, ivy twined up the brick fireplace facade, palms towered near the windows, and vines trailed from hanging planters.
“Can’t you just see yourself here?” Cookie gushed. “Of course, you’ll need new furniture. Get rid of that old stuff of yours and start all over. Maybe hire a designer. The sellers just did the kitchen over, and the baths, too.”
“Nice,” I said, noncommittally.
Declan looked over at me. “Cookie, this is a terrific place. I mean, what a nice idea, moving in so close to Ben and Lucy. And we do love their home. But I’m pretty sure Katie and I want a real yard.” He glanced down. “Mungo, too.”
She waved away his words. “Oh, I know Katie likes to garden. It’s part of her gift. But Lucy is the same way, and she has that terrific space up on the roof where she grows all her herbs and magical plants. Katie can do the same thing.”
“But I don’t—” I began.
“Sure, Lucy makes that work for her,” Declan s
aid in an easy manner. “But you see, I like to garden, too. Katie and I put in most of those beds in her backyard before we were even officially a couple. I really enjoyed the work. I don’t think it would be the same, growing tomatoes in pots.”
A quick frown flashed across Cookie’s face, but she wasn’t giving up. “Well, let’s go upstairs. You need to see the view from the roof. It’s terrific.” There wasn’t as much bounce in her step as we went up the stairs.
I gave Declan a grateful smile. It was true that he liked to garden—he’d grown up gardening with his mother and four sisters—but his current apartment didn’t have room, either. He knew I wasn’t crazy about living in a town house, in this neighborhood or any other. And since he was so good at reading my feelings, he probably understood why.
While I adored Lucy and Ben’s place, it was because it was theirs. They’d put their own mark on it, making it cozy and welcoming, verdant and rich with texture and atmosphere. Of course, I had done the same thing with the carriage house but in my own style. And that style didn’t seem like it would translate well to this high, wide, and handsome space.
Get rid of my “old stuff” and start all over, indeed.
Also, while Lucy had created an oasis on her rooftop, with built-in planter boxes, trellises all around the exterior, and pots attached to the brick walls and wrought-iron railings, I didn’t want to do the same thing. I wanted my wending garden beds, flowing from one to the next. I wanted the little stream that cut across the corner of my backyard. I wanted to see my rowan tree grow tall and beautiful. I wanted—
Stop it. You have to give up on seeing that rowan tree mature. Can’t have everything. This town house might not be the right place, but some place will be.
“This is where Lucy has the guest room,” Cookie said on the second floor. “You can make that room on the third floor that she uses as a hobby room a guest room instead, and use this as a nursery.” She winked. “And your aunt and uncle will be close by for babysitting.”