Tea and Primroses

by Tess Thompson

  On shaky legs, she greeted Peter. He was dressed in a black suit and was as handsome as ever, with wavy blond hair and light green eyes and those full lips all the girls used to dream of kissing when they were in high school. It was no surprise he was a detective, and not because his father was a cop, although that would be the obvious assumption, but because he was always the type who listened more than he talked and seemed to always be searching for the root of everything, the cause and effect. Declan had told her once how Peter was the best in their high school Honors English class at figuring out what would happen next in any given novel. Maybe it was the same skill one needed to be a detective.

  Peter hugged her tightly. “Your mother smelled of tea and primroses and I loved her.”

  “Thank you, Peter.”

  “And you still smell of cinnamon and green apples.”

  “You’re such a nut with this two-scent thing,” she teased, putting her hands on both sides of his face.

  “It’s a gift.”

  “I’ve missed you and the old times.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for coming.”

  “As much as I hate the reason, it’s good to see you,” said Peter, holding out a chair for her to sit. “What’s it been now? Since my mom’s wedding?”

  “I think so,” said Sutton, scooting the chair a few inches closer to Declan. “And before that your wedding. Weddings and funerals, I guess is what it takes to get together.” She fought the lump in her throat. “How’s your beautiful bride?”

  He sat. “Cleo’s well. I suppose my mother told you she has a starring role in a movie filming down in southern Oregon?”

  “She did. I think Louise told everyone in town,” said Sutton. All three laughed, and for a moment, for four ticks of the second hand round a clock, Sutton forgot her mother was dead, forgot that Declan had been away, or that Jack’s young wife had been murdered. And they were all still young and her mother and Roma and Louise were in the kitchen having wine in coffee cups so the children weren’t badly influenced, gossiping and laughing as the sun slowly descended into the blue sea. It was just the center of that laughter that mattered; nothing could touch them, not grief or shock or disappointment. But then, as quickly as it came, it went, bursting like a child’s bubble blown from a plastic wand, which for the briefest moment had floated perfectly in the sunshine, a rainbow of colors on its shiny surface, hovering so that she wanted to reach out and touch it but knowing that to do so would ruin it and so she simply watched. And when it was gone, she wondered if it had existed at all.

  The men sobered; they exchanged glances between them, as if Sutton couldn’t see. She knew the look. It was the expression of men who didn’t want to say something. “Guys, what is it?”

  Declan shifted in his chair, gazing at the surface of the table.

  Peter leaned forward, folding his hands together. “I’ve just come from seeing my dad at the station. He believes without a doubt your mother was murdered.”

  She couldn’t speak. She held her breath for what was to come next.

  “A witness came forward today, an older man that sits every morning looking out the window from his upstairs bedroom. He sees your mother ride into town every morning at the same time. He says he saw a parked car pull away from the curb and plow into your mother from behind, then speed away.”

  The shock tingled through her body. She imagined it in tiny electrical currents starting in her stomach and spreading up and out to every nerve ending. In the house, the crowd was loud. She could hear them now, like the roar of a stadium. There were birds circling over the lawn, just off the deck, and she remembered, suddenly, how during one week of an unusually warm September the birds outside their high school became drunk on sun-drenched, fermented berries and flew into the glass windows of the lunchroom and fell to their deaths. She and Gigi watched helplessly from inside, waving their arms, but the birds saw only the sky reflected in the glass and perhaps their own image. They’re flying to a friend, said Gigi. There’s no stopping them. Sutton imagined the birds here now—might they drink some fermented nectar and fly free and clumsy and headstrong into her mother’s windows, their bloody corpses falling upon the deck at their feet?

  Declan was saying something. What was it? She turned toward him. His mouth moved but she heard nothing but the roar from the house. He reached for her, his lips moving. “Are you all right?” This came through now.

  She still couldn’t speak; she moved her eyes to Peter.

  “My dad’s doing a full investigation.”

  “But Peter’s going to help, Sutton,” said Declan. “He’s the best around.”

  How would you know? she thought. You left us. We’ve all been here without you.

  “What else do you know?” she asked, finding her voice.

  Peter reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a pad, flipping to somewhere near the middle. “It was a black SUV of some kind.”

  “Why would anyone want to murder Mom?”

  “That’s what I need you to think about,” said Peter. “Rack your brain for possibilities—old feuds, jealousies, perhaps an obsessed fan? Can you go through your mother’s desk as soon as possible, see if there’s anything in her notes or journals or emails that might give us a clue?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll start tomorrow.”

  “Another thing that struck me as odd,” said Peter. “The old man says it was the first day in two months he’d seen your mother riding her bicycle. He said for almost thirty years, as reliable as his Waters clock, she came by at the same time.”

  “Right,” said Sutton.

  “She always left the house at eight,” said Declan. “Unless she was sick or something.”

  “Even when the weather’s terrible.” In recent years Sutton had asked her mother to stay home if the weather was blustery or raining hard, but it was no use. Her mother insisted on the morning ride, no matter what.

  “Is it possible she was away somewhere?” asked Peter.

  Sutton shook her head. “No. I was away, in Paris for the last two months.”

  “So you don’t know for sure?” Peter leaned forward, his eyes keen and sharp. He was a detective now, thought Sutton. A grown-up. No longer the intense athlete he was in high school, a girl magnet and golden boy.

  “She was here, writing, just like always. She wouldn’t have gone somewhere without telling me.”

  “Sometimes people we know well do surprising things,” said Peter.

  “Not my mother. She was the most predictable person in the world. Same thing every day.”

  “Tell me her routine. Pretend like I’m just a cop and not someone who knew her. I’m going to ask some questions I already know the answers to so don’t spare details. Tell me every detail you can remember.”

  “Up at six a.m. A cup of tea and a boiled egg and dry toast. Wrote until 7:45, at which time she went upstairs, put on her exercise clothes, and rode her bike into town. In town, she bought the New York Times from our local smoke and newspaper shop, flowers or some small item at the grocery or the hardware store or the local fruit stand, perhaps returned a library book and picked out a new one.” Sutton glanced at Declan. “She tried to shop at all the local merchants for whatever she needed; there wasn’t a time she ever ordered anything online. She would go up to Cannon Beach if she ever wanted to buy clothes or a gift of some kind. She was vehement that she should shop locally. Everyone around here knew that.”

  “And did she still put everything in her bicycle basket?” asked Peter. “I remember that from when we were young.”

  “Yes, always. If it didn’t fit in there, she asked local shopkeepers to deliver it to her, which they were always happy to do.”

  “Did she drive? I can’t remember.”

  “Almost never. She never said why exactly but I believe it was because of my father’s death. You know he had a terrible accident—lost control of the car and drove off a cliff.”

  Peter glanced at his notes. “Okay, so after she gets ba
ck from town, what happens on a typical day?”

  “By the time she gets home it’s usually 10:30. After a snack of some kind of fruit, usually an apple or banana, blueberries in the summer, those were her favorite, she showered, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and whatever writing sweater she was in the process of wearing out, and went back to work.”

  Declan interrupted. “She buys a new sweater at the beginning of October every year and wears it every day while she writes.”

  “It’s a superstition thing,” added Sutton.

  “Go on,” said Peter, jotting something in his notebook.

  “Then she writes until four, breaking at some point before then for lunch, usually one of those diet, pre-packaged things.” Sutton looked over at Declan. “Ever since your mom died she eats like crap.”

  “What happens at four?” asked Peter.

  “She takes a walk on the beach. Says it’s her ruminating time. Then, back at five, she gets in the hot tub on the deck, usually with a glass of red wine, and looks at the view. After which time she gets dressed in something soft and forages in the pantry for something to eat, oftentimes choosing another frozen dinner or a can of tuna and crackers. She’s rich but ate like a starving, unpublished author. Bothers me no end, but anyway, that’s her routine, except for Tuesdays and Thursdays when I come over and make dinner for the two of us.”

  “Why Tuesdays and Thursdays?”

  Sutton shook her head. “She liked routine and those are the best nights for me.”

  “And after dinner?”

  “She either reads, curled up in her reading chair.” Sutton turned and pointed toward the front room. “Or watches television or a movie in her bedroom. She’s usually asleep by nine, sometimes ten if she’s reading a book she can’t put down.”

  Peter didn’t say anything, his head bent over his notepad, scribbling further notes.

  Sutton glanced at Declan. He stared out to the ocean, a look on his face Sutton remembered from Roma’s death. Her heart twisted.

  “Do you think your mother was lonely?” asked Peter.

  “No, of course not. She was perfectly content. All she ever cared about was writing and Declan and me.”

  “Who was in her inner circle? Was there an assistant or anything?”

  “No, she said she didn’t want one. There was a girl who came in twice a week to clean and do laundry, and a gardening company that took care of the yard, and her editor Janie, who has been with her from the beginning. But Janie lives in New York.”

  “What about book tours and such?” Peter looked up from his pad. “Don’t all authors have to do those?”

  “They’re unusual now anyway but she refused to do them when we were children because she never wanted to be away that long.” Sutton folded her hands on her lap. “I never understood why she didn’t want to do tours and travel after Dec and I had moved away and Roma was gone. But she became even more of a recluse except for the trips she took overseas to visit Declan.”

  “How often were those?”

  “Once a year.” Declan’s eyes were dull and flat. “Every October. That’s when she’d buy her annual sweater. I moved every year, sometimes twice a year, but she joined me wherever I was in October and then traveled to wherever else she wanted to go either before or after our visit. She always joked that sheep all over the world had sacrificed their wool in the effort toward a good read.” He paused. “Strangely, given how little she left Legley Bay, she was a savvy traveler, never intimidated by other languages and cultures, just extremely curious about everything and everyone. I never understood why she didn’t travel more.”

  “She always came home rejuvenated,” said Sutton. “And inspired, which you can see in her work of the last six years—international settings and unique characters.” She looked over at Declan. “I tried to get her to travel more but she wouldn’t. ‘Oh, no, I have to have my butt in the seat,’ she always told me.” Sutton gripped the arms of the chair. “I’m ashamed to say, it annoyed me. She was so eccentric and uninterested in what other people naturally are drawn to.”

  “Like what?” asked Peter.

  “Like the movie thing. Declan and I would have loved to attend a movie premiere or something—she was always invited but refused to go. She’d say stuff like, ‘Too much fuss. And I hate all those Hollywood assholes.’ She acquiesced a couple of times and did an interview, but it was almost always for print articles, hardly ever for television, usually before one of the movies came out, and she hated every minute of it. She had a great mistrust of the press, except for our local newspaper.”

  “Why so few interviews, do you think?” Peter flipped a page of his notebook.

  “She didn’t like people looking at her. She was always more comfortable expressing herself on paper rather than in public appearances or even social engagements.”

  “Then who are all the people in there? She clearly has a lot of friends.” Peter pointed toward the front room.

  “Those are people from this town. She was beloved here. You have no idea how much she’s donated to the schools, the library, families of lost fishermen. She had no enemies in this town but they were not really friends. She asked me to throw a party and let them all come and see the house, knowing how much it would mean to them to see it. I know that sounds arrogant of her but that wasn’t it. She grew up here, just like us, and she understood how bleak it can be, living in poverty and having nothing to look forward to, and that coming to a fancy house like this would be something that mattered to them.” Sutton’s throat ached once again. “There was something sad about her, Peter. Something guarded. Besides her relationship with your mother, Declan, and me, she was distant. Sometimes I wondered where her mind was because it didn’t seem in the here and now.” She looked over at Declan. “Would you agree?”

  “I would. But I never knew why.”

  Peter wrote something in his pad before looking up. “Were there any conflicts with her publisher? For example, did her refusal to do marketing activity irk them?”

  “No. She was a reliable bestseller, always meeting her deadlines and never causing any fuss, really.”

  “Did your mother have any lovers?”

  “No, absolutely not. She never even went on one date after my father died.”

  “And you were three years old when he passed, is that right?”

  “Yes. I don’t remember him at all.” She wished she had a drink in her hand. Where had she left her wine? “And your mother was really her only friend after Roma died. She lived simply, working as hard as she ever had even though she no longer needed to make money. She had more than she could possibly spend with the way she lived her life. I worried about how lonely she was, which is one of the reasons I moved back here. I couldn’t stand the thought of her growing older all by herself. Truly, Peter, I cannot imagine why anyone would have wanted her dead.”

  “Is there anything you can think of that would indicate what she’s been doing for the last two months?”

  “No, and I thought of something earlier. Mom always printed out her day’s work, never trusting it was safe on the computer and never really adjusting to moving from her old manual typewriter to the computer. But there’s nothing here. Yet I know she was working on something while I was in Europe. When I called she was always at her desk, the same as always and she’d tell me her word count for the day. My question is, where is that manuscript? If she wasn’t here, where was she? And why wouldn’t she have told me she was gone? If she was here, why was her routine broken, after all these years? None of it makes sense.”

  “I’ll do everything I can to figure out what happened, but I have to admit there isn’t much to go on.”

  Peter put his notepad in his jacket pocket and rose from the table. “I have to go. I told Dad I’d come back after I talked to you.” He looked over at Declan. “My dad’s the same bastard he always was but he loved Constance. My mother divorcing him didn’t change that.”

  “Peter, there’s one more thing I th
ought of,” said Sutton. “Do you remember the sapphire necklace my mother always wore?”

  Peter nodded. “Yes. Delicate stones. Hung just above her collarbones?”

  Despite the seriousness of the moment, Sutton had to laugh. “Jeez, Peter, you’re like my mother with your attention to detail. Anyway, she wasn’t wearing it when she died, which is weird because she wore it all the time. She only took it off at night. And I can’t find it in her room. I looked everywhere last night.”

  “It wasn’t worth much, though,” said Declan. “Surely she wasn’t killed for that?”

  “I’m not saying she was,” said Sutton. She hadn’t even thought of that, actually. “No, I mean that it was out of character. Just like the rest of the things we’ve described.”

  Peter ran his hand through his hair. “None of this makes sense. The most predictable woman in the world acting totally unpredictable.”

  None of them spoke for a moment. “Will you come back in an hour or two?” asked Sutton, breaking the silence. “In my mother’s last letter to me she asked if the gang could come after the memorial was over. You know, like old times. And bring Jack?”

  “You’ve got it.” Peter leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “See you in a bit.”

  After Peter left, she looked at Declan. “Is it possible my mother had secrets?”

  Declan covered her hand with his. It was warm and familiar. “Seems impossible, given what we know about her, but I don’t know what else to think.”

  Just then, Roger appeared, carrying his cell phone. Sutton extracted her hand from Declan’s. Declan scooted out his chair and rose to his feet, nodding at Roger. “I’ll get you a glass of wine, Sutton.”

  “Thanks, Dec.”

  Roger’s eyes followed Declan. “Probably not a good idea to drink today.”