by Sofie Kelly
I decided to go for broke. “Ethan says you have a deal in the works that could—” I hesitated.
“Bring me a boatload of money? Yes, I do.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “I was going to say, that could lead to your own career change.”
“You obviously have much better manners than I do,” she said with a laugh. Then her tone changed. “I would never have hurt Emme or Miranda. Miranda was a quiet little thing. I didn’t really know her, but what I knew I liked. And for the record, I was in a little hole-in-the-wall club in Portage Park listening to a band when Miranda died.”
I made a note on the pad on my desk. Marcus would be able to check that alibi pretty easily.
“Kathleen, I find it hard to believe—no, impossible to believe—that anyone would want to kill Emme Finley,” Lucie said. “I don’t know if this will help, but Emme’s sister, Nora, once mentioned Miranda’s family was messy. Maybe you’d be better off trying to see what you can find out about them.”
Maybe I would.
chapter 13
Roma hadn’t wanted a traditional wedding shower, so Maggie and I, as maids of honor, were hosting an afternoon tea for her at Briar House, a new bed-and-breakfast I’d discovered just outside of town that offered a traditional English tea—or close to it—in their dining room.
The owner of the bed-and-breakfast, Vera Webb, who was originally from the British midlands, was waiting for Maggie and me when we arrived. She was in her late fifties, in a simple navy skirt and white blouse with three-quarter-length sleeves, her thick gray hair pulled back into a smooth twist. Her half-frame reading glasses hung on a chain around her neck.
“Kathleen, it’s good to see you again,” she said in her crisp British accent.
“It’s good to see you, too,” I said. Vera had been indispensable in planning the party, and the moment I’d seen the dining room, I’d known it was the perfect place to celebrate Roma’s upcoming wedding. “You remember my friend Maggie.”
Vera offered her hand. “It’s nice to meet you in person,” she said.
“You as well,” Maggie replied with a smile. “Your house is beautiful.”
“Why don’t you both come and see the tea room?” Vera said.
We followed her down the short hall to the left. She opened the sliding wood-panel door and Maggie gave a gasp of happiness. “Oh, this is wonderful,” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together.
It wasn’t the first time I’d seen the room, but like Maggie, I was captivated by how perfect it was.
“Thank you.” Vera beamed.
The high-ceilinged room was filled with light from the vintage wrought-iron chandelier with its white glass shades, as well as from the high, wide windows with their lacy curtains. The dark walnut trim around the windows stood out against the pale blush-colored walls decorated with a collection of vintage mirrors and delicate watercolors. The wide-planked floors gleamed.
Small square tables that could seat four people each were covered with soft green-and-coral-flowered tablecloths, with small bouquets of garden flowers in a variety of cut glass vases in the center of each one. In the middle of the room was a small table just big enough for two, covered with a white lace tablecloth. A tea set of delicate white china with deep pink roses and edged with gold was waiting for Maggie and me to pour for the guests as hostesses.
With Vera’s help we’d decided on a menu that included two of the sixteen choices of tea the B and B offered: Earl Grey, a black tea flavored with oil from bergamot oranges, I’d learned; and rooibos—or red bush—tea, which was naturally caffeine free. Maggie had made those choices since she was the tea drinker. The rest of the menu consisted of traditional English scones with homemade jam and clotted cream; cucumber, smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches; and a sour cream lemon pound cake with lemon glaze and bits of candied lemon peel sprinkled on top. I felt certain all our guests would be pleased.
Roma had wanted to forgo gifts altogether, but as Maggie had pointed out, no one was going to be happy with that. “People want to celebrate with you,” she’d said. She was also the one who came up with the idea we finally settled on—a recipe shower. Maggie had given each guest a four-by-six piece of cardstock and asked them to share a favorite recipe. She’d also asked each person to bring a favorite photo of Roma. Maggie had already created a beautiful handmade book to hold the recipes and photos.
She turned to me now and gave me a quick hug. “Thank you for finding this place. It’s perfect,” she said. “Roma’s going to love it.”
“I wish Olivia could have been here,” I said.
A cloud seemed to pass over Maggie’s face. “Are you sure she’s okay with Roma marrying Eddie?”
I looked at her in surprise. “What makes you say that?”
She shrugged. “It’s not a big deal, but I e-mailed Olivia to see if she’d send me a recipe since she couldn’t make it for the shower. She said she was too busy.”
“Maybe she was,” I said. “She probably has a lot to do before she gets here.”
Maggie nodded. “You’re probably right.” She smiled. “Has Marcus seen you in that dress?”
I felt my cheeks get warm. “Yes,” I said. When I’d come down the stairs earlier I’d gotten a long wolf whistle.
We’d decided that we’d all dress up a little. Maggie was wearing the deep blue sundress she’d texted me the photo of. It had short flowy sleeves and a gathered waist, and she’d chosen low-heeled rainbow sandals. I had decided on a sleeveless raspberry shift with a band of lavender-and-white flowers around the hem and my favorite white sandals with their oh-so-comfortable rubber soles.
Rebecca and the Kings—Ella and her daughter, Taylor—were the first to arrive, all wearing pretty summer dresses.
“This is perfect,” Rebecca exclaimed as she hugged first me and then Maggie.
Ella, who was a talented fiber artist as well as an accomplished seamstress, had noticed a needlepoint sampler on the wall and was asking Vera about it.
I held up the small clutch purse Taylor had loaned me from her collection of bags. “Thank you for this,” I said. “It’s perfect with my dress and shoes.”
She smiled at me. “I thought it would be, and it holds more than you’d think by looking at it.”
I smiled back at her. I tended to carry a lot in my bag, whether it was my messenger bag or a tote bag. Taylor had offered to lend me a small purse when we’d decided to dress up for the party and had very diplomatically suggested that I didn’t need one of my big bags this one time.
Mary and her daughter, Bridget, showed up next. “What recipe are you sharing with Roma?” I asked, pointing at the envelope Mary was carrying. I’d been trying for ages to get Mary to tell me what the secret ingredient in her cinnamon rolls was. She refused and kept telling me to go experiment in my kitchen. I’d been doing that but I could never quite get it right—not that Marcus seemed to mind eating my “experiments.”
“None of your beeswax,” Mary told me now, with a smile.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Susan appear in the doorway. Mia was with her. Instead of her usual updo, Susan had pulled back the front of her hair, holding it in place with a small paintbrush and leaving the rest of it long. She wore a wild black-and-white geometric-print ballerina-length dress and heels that added a good four inches to her normally tiny height. Mia had chosen one of her ubiquitous black skirts—a short circle cut—and a lavender top that matched the streaks in her hair.
As planned, Roma arrived last with her mother, Pearl, and Eddie’s daughter, Sydney. Roma swallowed a couple of times and then wrapped Maggie and me together in a hug.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she whispered.
“Just be happy with Eddie,” I said, blinking a couple of times so I wouldn’t cry. Maggie nodded in agreement, and I noticed her eyes were bright with unshed tears, too.
“We’re lucky to have her,” I said. I meant every word. Roma had been more than just a good friend. She’d bandaged me up more than once, teasing me that I wasn’t the type of animal she usually treated. Like Maggie, she’d nudged Marcus and me together, and she always took excellent care of Owen and Hercules, neither one of whom was a very good patient.
“I’m so happy my girl and Eddie are getting married,” Pearl said. “I’m getting a great son-in-law and another beautiful granddaughter.”
We both looked at Sydney, talking to Rebecca and gesturing with both hands the same way her father did when he was talking.
“She looks so much like Eddie,” Pearl commented.
She was right. Not only did Sydney have a lot of her dad’s mannerisms, she also had his eyes and his smile. I guessed that the child’s mass of golden curls had come from her mother.
“I’m in awe over how hard Eddie and Roma and Sydney’s mom have worked to make a loving family for her,” I said.
“It’s a parent’s job to put their child’s happiness and well-being first,” Pearl said. “You do whatever is necessary.” She turned back to me, and as our eyes met I got the feeling she was remembering the sacrifices she’d made to keep Roma safe when she was barely more than a baby.
I thought about the period of time when my mom and dad were divorced, before Ethan and Sara were born. They had always put me first, even when I’d treated them—especially my mom—badly.
Vera caught my eye then, raising an eyebrow. I nodded and touched Maggie on the shoulder, our cue that it was time to get people seated. Vera came back with the tea, while a young man about Taylor and Mia’s age followed with the scones and sandwiches.
Maggie and I took our seats. Vera set a teapot in front of each of us, both of them in quilted green tea cozies. “Yours is Earl Grey,” she said to Maggie. “And yours is the rooibos,” she told me.
We ate and talked and laughed, and the scones and the tiny finger sandwiches just seemed to disappear like magic because it seemed like we were all so busy talking there couldn’t have been any time left to eat.
After everyone had had a slice of the cake, we gave Roma our gifts. I had shared my salmon roll recipe, which was one of Roma’s favorites. The photo I’d chosen was one of the three of us—Roma, Maggie and me—that Marcus had taken at Winterfest last year.
Roma looked at the recipe and the photo and then jumped up and hugged me. “Thank you for the gift, all of this, for today, for always being my friend.”
I nodded wordlessly and hugged her back, knowing if I tried to say anything, I’d lose it.
Maggie had chosen her pizza recipe for Roma. I thought about all the times the three of us had spent eating pizza and talking in Maggie’s apartment. Her photo was also from Winterfest, the first one I’d attended. It was Roma, posing with Faux Eddie, the full-size replica of the real Eddie that Maggie had created for a display during the festival, the same replica that had indirectly been responsible for Roma and Eddie getting together.
Roma pressed a hand to her mouth, and then she got up again and wrapped Maggie in a hug.
All of the recipes and photos were special. Rebecca had copied out her mother’s instructions for beef stew. Her photo was of Roma as a little girl. Abigail shared a recipe for apple turnovers. Pearl’s recipe was for blueberry pancakes. And Mary gave Roma the instructions for her cinnamon rolls.
I looked over Roma’s shoulder and read the ingredient list. I didn’t see anything that I hadn’t tried in all my attempts to replicate the recipe. “I don’t see the secret ingredient,” I said.
Mary raised an eyebrow, gave me a devilish smile and leaned over to whisper in Roma’s ear. A smile spread across Roma’s face. She put her right hand over her heart. “I swear,” she said solemnly. She looked at me, lips pressed together so she wouldn’t laugh.
I shook my finger at Mary and glared at her. “One of these days I’m going to figure out that recipe,” I said.
“Make an honest man out of that poor boy and maybe I’ll give it to you,” she countered.
Everyone laughed and I felt my cheeks get red.
After the gifts were all opened and everyone had had a chance to look at the photographs, we continued to mill around talking.
Mia and I were trying to decipher the name of the artist of one of the watercolors when Roma joined us. She smiled at Mia. “I’m honored that you shared the coffee cake recipe you used to make with your grandfather.”
“Grandpa liked happy endings,” Mia said. “I think he’d be happy I shared the recipe with you.”
Roma looked at me. “I’ve already said this to Maggie. Thank you for talking me into this. It was perfect; this place, the food, all the wonderful recipes, and don’t get me started on the photos or I’ll cry.”
Syd joined us then. She leaned against Roma, who put her arms around the child’s shoulders. “I like your hair,” she said to Mia.
“It’s not that hard to do,” Mia said. “I do it myself.”
“Could you teach me?” Syd asked.
“Sure,” Mia said. Then she made a face and looked at Roma. “I mean, if that’s okay.”
“You have to check with your mom,” Roma said.
Ruby joined us then. “Little hint,” she said. “Start with just one colored streak because it won’t freak out the grown-ups. Then before they know it your whole head is green.”
Syd grinned, and she and Ruby exchanged high fives.
“Ruby,” Roma said, an edge of warning in her voice.
Ruby raised her eyebrows and grinned. “What? You think I started out like this?” She patted her copper-colored hair.
“When I turn eighteen I’m going to have this stupid mole lasered off,” Sydney said, touching the beauty mark on the right side of her face near her lip.
“Why?” Ruby asked. “That’s a beauty mark and lots of beautiful women have them.”
The child rolled her eyes. “Yeah, my dad says the same thing, but all the women he named are about a hundred years old or dead. And the boys at school always say I have pen on my face.”
“The guys at school are a bunch of dweebs,” Mia said.
Syd nodded. “My dad said that, too.”
Ruby held up a finger. “Kate Upton,” she said. She continued with fingers and names. “Blake Lively. Scarlett Johansson. My friend Emme Finley. Ansel Elgort.”
“Ansel Elgort is a boy,” Syd said, an edge of disdain in her voice.
“That’s not his fault,” Ruby retorted. “You want me to keep going?”
Syd shook her head. “No, I get the point.”
“Don’t do stuff because of dumb boys,” Ruby said. The rest of us nodded. “When you get to be my age you’ll wonder why you ever cared what they think. I promise.”
* * *
That evening I filled the bathtub with hot water and bubbles and stretched out for a long, relaxing soak. A black-and-white paw poked around the bathroom door, which I’d forgotten to close all the way—not that closing the door would have stopped Hercules. The little cat jumped up onto the back of the toilet tank and began to wash his face.
“How was your afternoon?” I asked.
“Mrrr,” he said without missing a pass of his face. Translation: “Okay.”
I thought about Ruby mentioning Emme’s birthmark as I told Hercules about the party. Then I remembered that feeling I’d had that something was different about Emme in the Facebook photos. I’d put it down to thinking it was just that there were no clear shots of her face, but now it occurred to me that it migh
t be something else, something my eye had seen but my brain hadn’t quite registered.
I got out of the tub, dried off and put on my pajamas. I retrieved my laptop and, with Hercules looking on, brought up the photo of Emme and Derrick kissing. I centered the image and increased the magnification. Then I went to Emme’s website, found a headshot of her and did the same thing. I studied the two images side by side on the screen. “That’s it,” I said to Hercules.
I pointed at the photograph of Emme and Derrick. The cat leaned in for a closer look and then looked at me. It seemed to me that he got it.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” I said.
“Merow!” Hercules said with enthusiasm.
Emme’s mole was not in the right place. It was slightly higher than where it should have been, just above her lip. It wasn’t something anyone would probably notice with just a cursory look at the photo, because the misplacement was slight. But it was there. Maybe I’d noticed it because I’d spent so much time watching my mother and father change the way they looked with makeup. If Emme had taken more than a quick look at the pictures, she probably would have realized it wasn’t her in them.
“That was Miranda,” I said. She was the only person who could have been masquerading as Emme.
As crazy as it seemed, that was Miranda. But why?
chapter 14
Miranda had pretended to be Emme. It made no sense whatsoever. “Why would she do that?” I said to Hercules.
He didn’t seem to know, either.
“Okay, so what do we know so far?” I held up one hand, counting on my fingers the way Ruby had done earlier. “Alec took photos of Miranda, pretending to be Emme, making out with Derrick at that club. Those photos ended up on the club’s Facebook page and website and on Good Night Chicago’s site and some other places. A small scandal ensued.”
Hercules bobbed his head. He was with me so far.