by Patti Larsen
I almost said no, that we were fine. But I was far more tired than I thought and when he stepped out of the truck and hoisted Petunia into his arms, I relented.
While the cab wasn’t warm, it was better than being out in the chill. The wind had begun to pick up, dropping the temperature rapidly. The walk to Mom and Dad’s had been heated with anger. The return trip, minus the fiery impetus of my need to fix my mother would have been rather miserable. I clicked on my seatbelt, the pug seated jauntily between us, her butt rounded under, hind legs poking out beneath her like a toddler while Crew fired up the truck and pulled out.
It was a short drive, made longer by the fact he had to circle the block, but not much. So weird, I actually felt nervous, a bit trembly, waiting for the other shoe to drop. All the bubbling anxiety I felt around him when I actually noticed he was a deliciously yumtastic chunk of manliness came back in a rush and I found I was overheated despite the winter weather.
Of course, he had to ruin it. Usually my job, so fair enough he got to take a turn.
“Fee, I know this is terrible timing, but I need to ask.” That private something he wanted to talk to me about? I waited and he went on in a rush. “Is your father up to something?”
Maybe he didn’t mean it to sound like an accusation and perhaps it was, indeed, an icebreaker rather than a confrontation starter. He’d prepared me with a caveat after all. But considering the expectation I had of a more intimate question and the relationship we had, he had to know the second it left his mouth what kind of reaction his question would get.
I refused to acknowledge his faint flinch, his knowing frown because it was clear he did understand he’d stuck his foot in it. Didn’t keep me from the sharp jab of anger, though.
“That’s why you offered me a ride, is it?” I hugged Petunia to me, the pug protesting softly but snuggling after a second. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Then again, I’d noticed it too. Where was Dad this morning when Mom needed him? And tonight? Why did I find her alone? Not to mention his connection to Malcolm. Crew knew about that connection because I’d asked him about Dad and the Irishman earlier. But if he thought I was going to throw Dad under the bus in favor of giving Crew information against my own father? Even if I had it. Which I didn’t.
I had to look up that woman’s name. Siobhan Doyle could give me the answers, I was sure of that. But did I really want to know? Part of my anger at Crew was anger with myself for being an idiot and not doing the research, for being a coward. Didn’t stop me from letting him bear the brunt of it the rest of the decidedly chilly drive to Petunia’s.
Good thing it was only a couple of blocks, because the tension in the truck was so heated by the time he pulled to a stop by my front door I was positive one more second of it would have led to spontaneous combustion. I fumbled with my seatbelt, hating that my anger always made me clumsy, jerking on Petunia’s leash and finally slamming my way out of the cab, the pug grumbling at my feet. Crew pulled away without another word as I stood on the sidewalk and glared after him, just barely resisting the urge to flash him my middle finger.
Might have hidden the act in my pocket.
I stomped up the steps and into the foyer, Petunia flinching from me to the point I had to pull myself together so she didn’t stare up at me like that with those big eyes full of hurt. I crouched and hugged her, wishing I could have had the chance to do the same to Mom, looking up to realize I wasn’t alone. Or the only source of angst in the world.
Daisy stood in the middle of the entry, a vaguely terrified smile on her face while on one side Joyce Young hovered, pinched and pale but unrelenting and Bonnie Williams glared on the other.
***
Chapter Fourteen
“Fee!” Daisy’s desperate blurting of my name told me everything I needed to know, even if I’d been blind to the animosity between the widow and the woman who hovered, nervous but angry, as if waiting for a hit that didn’t come.
I was actually grateful for the as yet unexplained source of the pending confrontation about to unfold in front of me, taking the opportunity to use it to help pull myself under some semblance of not a crazy lady. At least, in comparison to the pair of women who faced off in my foyer.
“Mrs. Williams.” I swept forward, taking Bonnie’s arm and guiding her into the kitchen, Petunia trailing behind me. I glanced over my shoulder to see Daisy doing the same for Joyce but in the other direction, leading her to the stairs with a grateful nod and smile. I didn’t stop moving until I had Bonnie seated at the kitchen counter with a cup and saucer in front of her and a pot of tea brewing, taking her coat and laying it over the back of a stool while Petunia sat at her feet in her cute harness and booties.
“I just couldn’t stand to stay in that place any longer.” Bonnie’s hands trembled as she clasped them in front of her on my counter, gaze haunted and lost. She hiccupped faintly, swaying on her stool, but caught herself before she spoke again. “Not in the same room Ron and I… I…” she sobbed once before looking away, lips a thin line, hugging herself.
I sat beside her, poured tea, all too familiar with this particular scene and, oddly, at ease because I’d handled grief in varying forms and degrees with a pot of my favorite blend before.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Williams,” I said. “You must be devastated.”
She leaned toward me then, took my hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, broken through her tears. Was that wine on her breath? Would explain the glaze in her eyes, her condition when she attacked Janet earlier. That meant she’d been drinking in the afternoon. Was that typical of her? “The way Ron treated your mother. She’s a darling, from what I know of her. So kind how she gushed over me when we met. No one else seems to notice me, but she knew who I was right off.” She had the faintest British accent and it came through in the way she spoke, though I could guess she hadn’t lived overseas in many years. “She spoke so highly of Ron and the show.”
That was my mom, making everyone else feel special and at ease. Who did that for her? Time for her daughter to step up, right?
“My mother is an amazing woman,” I said, “and I’m so lucky to have her.” There I went, choking up again. “She’s also an incredible baker. I was stunned when her work didn’t turn out.”
Bonnie flinched, shook her head, poking at her now red nose with a bit of used tissue. I fetched her a fresh one and she sparked a bit of a smile in response, tugging at the lines on her narrow face. “He was utterly wretched to her and I told him so. He’s such a beast. Was.” She exhaled. “I guess I’ll have to get used to the past tense.”
I nodded. “You were close, I take it? You’re on the set quite a bit?”
Bonnie didn’t hesitate, though she slurred enough in her speech I could tell she was still over the legal limit. “Not at all,” she said. “He was a cheating bastard who had affairs with all his favorites, including Janet.” She scowled then, like a switch had flipped inside her, from sorrow to rage as she glared over her shoulder at the kitchen door. “And that trollop, Joyce Young.”
Now I had the rest of the story. I gaped at her, unable to speak, certainly the last thing I expected to come out of her mouth despite knowing there was something between her and Joyce. She smiled again, patting my hand, sipping her tea as if nothing untoward happened just now. Like revealing she shared a roof presently with one of her husband’s mistresses.
“It’s all right, dear,” she said. “It’s old news. Anyone close to the show would tell you the same thing. I hated him sometimes, but he was my husband.” She shrugged. “I’m more sorry for how it happened, that it will hurt the show. Especially since his death could mean it will be cancelled now.”
“Why does that make you sad?” I barely registered I managed a question.
“Why,” she seemed surprised by my words, “because I have a lot of money invested in it, dear. I stand to lose a great deal of capital if it goes under.”
So she said. I had no compunctions, as
her grief seemed to fade in the light of the truth, about thinking of her as a murder suspect.
“What about Molly Abbott?” I didn’t fill in the blanks of the question, though I was sure Bonnie knew what I was asking. I hoped for the best. I couldn’t see the sweet young woman as one of Ron’s conquests. When Bonnie shook her head, lips twisting, I had my confirmation.
“That one has a head on her shoulders,” she assured me. “Delightful young woman, going places. When this is settled, I might talk to her about her own show.”
Blink and miss it, apparently. She was moving way too fast for me, or maybe it was the wine I could only assume still raced through her veins if the continuing smell on her breath was any indication. I was accustomed to grieving widows and mothers, hurt and aching battered wives, even heartbroken women who had the love of their life torn from them because they weren’t the right gender in the eyes of their family. But this?
I was not expecting this.
“Well, I suppose this saves me having to file for divorce.” Bonnie sighed into her cup. “My lawyer will be horribly disappointed he’s missing out on billable hours, but it does simplify things.”
“Wow,” I whispered.
She tilted her head to one side, tsking. “I know, right? So much drama resolved with a single death. Now, if only we can salvage the rest of the season. Perhaps a guest judge or two.” Her lower lip trembled again. “I just don’t know what I’ll do if I lose profit on this venture.” She sobbed into her tissue while I gaped at her and tried to find something to say.
Inappropriate? Check. Her first.
“Why didn’t you file for divorce ages ago?” If she was going to be all logical and practical, I figured a bit of inappropriate wasn’t too far off the path.
She sniffed into her tissue. “Money, of course. Honestly, dear, you don’t understand this business at all, do you?” She did not just condescend me. “The more he made, the more I could take him for when it was over, not to mention my profits from the show itself. Besides, he was prepping to launch that ridiculous new cookbook of his. It’s already poised for the New York Times bestseller list. Far too lucrative to pass over.”
“Right,” I said. “Of course. How silly and financially irresponsible of me.”
She waved the tissue at me, wrinkling her nose like she smelled something funny. Maybe the stench of alcohol was getting to her like it was to me. “He was going to launch on the show, end of season. It meant a chance at endorsements and even a bigger judging position, even a show of his own.” She sipped her tea, blowing on the steam rising from the delicate china of my grandmother’s cup. “I was just being practical.”
“Utterly,” I said, unable to muster much enthusiasm. She didn’t sense it, apparently, because she smiled like I understood her better than her own mother. “Sounds like you’re going to get everything now?”
Bonnie shrugged, simpered, then frowned. “So much potential wasted.”
Holy crap. That was cold, even for someone under the influence. “Has the sheriff spoken to you about your whereabouts tonight?” I assumed as much, and since the spouse was often a suspect, I had to guess Crew had her on his radar.
Turned out that was the wrong thing to say. She huffed at me, setting the cup down a bit too solidly, the tinkle of china making me wince she might have broken something.
“Honestly,” she said. “That young man and his questions. He’s part of the reason I left the hotel in the first place.” She stood then, wavered on her heels, turning as Daisy appeared at the kitchen door. “Perhaps your help could escort me to my room? I’m suddenly feeling peaked and need to lie down.”
I just bet she was feeling something and it had nothing to do with her husband’s murder and everything to do with how much she’d had to drink today. I didn’t respond with such insulting thoughts, though, letting Daisy lead her out, raising my eyebrows at my best friend who rolled hers back behind the woman’s arrogant and somewhat wobbling departure. A quick check of the
cup showed a tiny sliver of the base had chipped free. I sighed over the damage, hoping a bit of glue could salvage the break, wishing life was as easy to fix.
***
Chapter Fifteen
Daisy returned and joined me for a cup of tea herself, her huge, gray eyes wide when I filled her in on what happened all day. She shook her head in horror, hand over her mouth, when I told her about Mom and grasped my wrist when I was done, tears standing in her gaze.
“Fee, I’m so sorry.” Her voice trembled when she spoke. “I got a call from Rose late last night. I had to drive to Montpelier to help her.” She flushed as I frowned at her.
“Rose?” I had nothing. Who was Rose?
Daisy didn’t meet my eyes again, helping herself to another sugar cube which she popped directly in her mouth instead of her tea. “You might not remember her. She was Dad’s second wife’s daughter.”
Oh, right, Daisy’s step-sister. I thought back, tried to recall. Realized I’d never actually met her. “She moved away with your stepmom when your father divorced her, right?” We were, what, fifteen? I think the marriage lasted all of six months. Daisy hadn’t been in class much, I remembered that. And Rose was five years younger, went to a different school all together.
Come to think of it, Daisy only mentioned her occasionally. I forgot all about her in my own exodus from Reading and hadn’t heard anything about her in years. Not that Daisy needed to know that right now. “Is she okay?” I should have known better than to wonder where Daisy was all day. No way she’d have missed out on Mom’s taping unless it was important. Any blame I felt slipped away into shame I’d doubted her at all. Dad, on the other hand… which made me think about Malcolm and Siobhan Doyle and Crew’s question about what my father was up to.
I had to talk to Dad.
Daisy smiled in that brittle way that told me she was hiding something from me. “She’ll be fine,” she said. “Should I go see your mom tonight, do you think?”
I shook my head, letting her have her privacy. If Daisy needed me to know, needed my help, she’d tell me. Or I’d pry it out of her eventually. For now, if focusing on Mom was beneficial, then so be it.
“Just leave her for the night,” I said. “But I’m worried about her, Day.”
She nodded, beautiful face tight with worry. “She wants so much to make this work,” she said. “You know how hard she is on herself, Fee.”
Actually, I didn’t. “She is?” Well, I knew she was with this baking thing. Sort of. From what I figured out.
Daisy went on like she assumed I understood what she understood. “She’s been so frustrated since she retired. Feeling useless. I know it has to be hard for her.” She what? Since when? “When your father retired, well, she thought that would solve everything. But the two of them have been getting on each other’s last nerve.” She eye rolled again, laughed a little. How was it I knew nothing of this and my bestie knew everything? That faint resentment I’d felt in the fall about Mom confiding in Daisy resurfaced while she went on, oblivious. “Working for you, helping out here? I think it’s been great for both of them.” I’d been lucky to have them, that was for sure, and taking on the annex was possible, in part, knowing they’d be there to help me if I needed it. “But your mother wants this for herself. We all want something that’s ours. Especially now that John—” Daisy shut up so fast I watched horror cross her face before she carefully schooled her expression to pleasant pretend nothing happened, nothing to see here, carry on my wayward daughter.
Hell no to the nuh-uh.
She had to know I was going to ask questions. Had to. And took a blurty page from my book. “So his wife wanted a divorce?” Took me a second to realize she wasn’t talking about Mom and Dad, a shock of terror washing over me until I understood the distraction was leading back to the murder. Daisy must have overheard the conversation I’d been having with Bonnie.
I’d give her one thing, her distraction technique, while needing work, did wonders for
my heart health. I felt like I’d run about ten miles at top speed the way it pounded in my chest in reaction to my fear for my mother and father.
“Supposedly Joyce was having an affair with him last year,” I said. “And the winner from last season, too.” I thought about Janet and Mom’s mention of her history with possible sabotage of other contestants. She’d been in Mom’s kitchen with Vivian. Had she done the deed? Or showed Vivian what to do?
“Sounds like at least two women in his life wanted him dead,” Daisy said, “and they’re both under one roof.”
That could get messy.
“How about the others?” Daisy sipped her tea, all innocence. I could have prodded her further about my parents, wanted to. But my traitor brain wound around the mystery of Ron Williams’s murder and shunted me sideways away from the more brutal and terrifying possibility my parents weren’t okay. And that I was the last to know. Wasn’t going there. Not tonight.
“Janet,” I ticked the woman’s name off on my index finger. “Molly, though according to Bonnie she wasn’t having an affair with Ron.” Smart girl. “That leaves Clara.” The show creator could have had a history with him. “Olivia was there. Vivian.”
Daisy sighed over her cup. “As much as we’d both like to accuse Vivian, it’s likely this has nothing to do with her.”
“Not even Mom?” I shrugged that off. “Fine, okay. But according to Mom, Janet has a history of doing nasty things to get what she wants. At least to other contestants.”
“Were she and Ron still an item?” Daisy waggled her eyebrows at me. “Getting dumped is as good a reason for murder as any.”
True enough. “I don’t know,” I said. “But that does make sense.” So hard to care when Mom’s sad face resurfaced in my mind. “Day, for the first time? I don’t feel compelled to snoop. Mom’s more important.”