A Dead End (A Saints & Strangers Cozy Mystery Book 1) (7 page)

Romeo inclined his head. “They do gossip at these meetings, don’t they?”

“Of course. It’s in the by-laws.”

“Are you allowed to bring a guest?” he asked, his dark brown eyes glimmering in the subdued light.

“Is this your way of angling for a date?” Kit asked.

“It’s my way of angling for inside information,” he replied.

Kit felt like a complete idiot. Of course that was the reason. As usual, his interest in her had nothing to do with the pleasure of her company.

“Well, I’m sorry to tell you that attendance is by invitation only and you need to be a bonafide descendant.”

“So even if I had proof of a Pilgrim ancestor, I’d still need a special invitation?”

Kit shrugged. “It’s a selective group, what can I tell you?”

He leaned closer, his soft breath warming the curve of her neck. “You can tell me if anyone discusses the bones found in your house. Anyone who sounds like they know more than they should.”

Kit’s eyes widened. “I was kidding. No way am I going to one of these meetings. I hate all of that. I left here to get away from it.”

“But now you’re back,” Romeo said pointedly. “And I assume you want to move back into your new house as quickly as possible, right?”

Kit’s hands flew to her hips. “Are you blackmailing me, Officer Moretti?”

“It’s Detective,” he corrected her. “And it’s not blackmail. I’m simply suggesting that the sooner we close this case, the sooner you get to put a few beautifully manicured lawns between you and your Mayflower Mama.”

Kit crossed her arms like a petulant child. One meeting. What harm could it do?

“Fine, I’ll go,” she huffed.

“Great,” he said. “Call me when it finishes and I’ll meet you at Provincetown Pancakes for a debrief.”

Kit raised her eyebrows. “Your usual hangout?”

He winked. “Who doesn’t love a good short stack?”

Kit tried not to think about the amount of carbs and sugar involved in any dish at Provincetown Pancakes. She’d order a peppermint tea and then be on her way.

“Oh and Kit,” he called as she turned to leave. “Turn off the location feature on your Instagram and Twitter accounts. It’s fine to offer a running commentary at the nail salon, but we don’t need the world knowing about our rendezvous.”

Kit’s cheeks flamed and she stalked off, embarrassed on multiple fronts. Romeo Moretti was checking her out on Twitter and Instagram. Maybe his interest was more personal than professional. It was hard to tell at this point, but she had to admit that no matter what his agenda was — she really liked hearing him say the word ‘rendezvous.’

Kit went to the meeting separately from her mother so that she could sneak off to Provincetown Pancakes afterward without arousing suspicion. Besides, Heloise never walked anywhere. Why walk when you had a driver at your disposal?

By the time Kit arrived at the historic Weston Inn in Liberty Square, her mother was already holding court. Easy to do when you were the leader of the pack.

“Katherine, darling, you found us,” her mother called, extending the hand unburdened by a cocktail.

“It’s the Weston Inn, not the lost city of Atlantis.”

Heloise laughed, a deep, throaty laugh that was infectious to the two people flanking her. Kit recognized one of the women, but couldn’t remember her name.

“Katherine, you remember Cecilia Musgrove,” Heloise said, nodding to her left, “and this exquisite young woman on my right is Rebecca Tilton. Her father, John, usually attends but the poor dear has been unwell.” She cast a sympathetic look in Rebecca’s direction.

“Musgrove,” Kit repeated. “Is your daughter Francie?”

Cecelia’s thin lips stretched into a smile that showed off her pearl white, perfectly rectangular teeth.

“Why, yes. Francie is my youngest. Have you met her?”

“She’s in my class at Westdale.”

“Indeed,” Cecelia replied and made no further comment.

Kit wondered how often Cecelia engaged in meaningful conversation with her daughter. She suspected not very often at all. Kit sensed that Cecelia Musgrove was the type of woman too busy with charity events and a social calendar to pay any attention to a menial distraction like a spare child. Looking at her now, the only part of Cecelia that reminded Kit of Francie was the blond hair, and Kit suspected that only Francie’s was authentic.

“Then you must know my sister, too,” Rebecca interjected. “Charlotte and Francie are inseparable.”

Kit’s face lit up. “Of course, Charlotte Tilton. I didn’t realize they were both members here.”

“Francie is not a member,” Cecelia scoffed. “You’ve been away too long, Katherine. Membership is only offered to the eldest.”

Rebecca’s gaze dropped to her black Stuart Weitzman heels, clearly uncomfortable with the old-fashioned prejudice. With that attitude, it was surprising that they’d found it prudent to open membership to women. It seemed to Kit that descendants should just be grateful that they made it this far, rather than erecting barriers within their own group.

“Rebecca, would you be so kind as to show my daughter where the drinks are located?” Heloise asked sweetly. “Her hand looks sad and lonely.”

“A hand is not a hand without a drink to hold,” Kit quoted. One of her mother’s many nonsensical expressions.

Rebecca looped her arm through Kit’s and guided her to the back of the room where the bar was located. “We heard about your unfortunate discovery,” Rebecca said in a low voice.

“The police seem to be keeping it pretty quiet,” Kit remarked. “How did you find out?”

Rebecca glanced nervously behind them. “Francie overheard Cecilia Musgrove speaking to Chief Riley and told Charlotte. Charlotte told Father and me.”

“I wondered how they knew,” Kit said. “Why was Chief Riley speaking to Cecelia about it?”

Rebecca shrugged. “I couldn’t say. Cecelia is awfully powerful, you know. Not quite your mother’s level, mind you, but not much escapes her notice.”

“I got your vodka tonic right here,” a shrill voice said.

Kit spun around to find herself face-to-face with the male version of herself. “Crispin,” she said happily, throwing her arms his neck. Even though they were first cousins, people had often mistaken them for brother and sister as children. They both had the same blue eyes with gold flecks and chestnut-colored hair. His younger sister, Arabella, favored her mother whereas Crispin and Kit shared Winthrop physical traits.

He handed her the vodka tonic. “Your mother said you might show. I bet Huntley twenty dollars that you wouldn’t.”

“It was a last minute decision,” Kit admitted, not wanting to say anything else on the subject.

Crispin owned the local newspaper, the Westdale Gazette. As a general rule, he was the last person she’d confide in. Not to mention he’d been a first class tattletale from the time he could talk. He’d gotten Kit into trouble on many occasions, especially during their teen years. They hadn’t even attended the same high school — she’d gone to the Shiphay School, an all girls’ school, and he’d gone the neighboring all boys’ school — yet he’d still managed to sink her sneaky ship whenever the opportunity had presented itself. Crispin Winthrop was a world-class snitch. Still, she loved him like a brother.

“Shall I get you another drink?” Crispin asked Rebecca, nodding toward her empty glass.

“Just lemonade for me,” she said. “I’m driving and I need to be on my toes for my father.”

They joined Crispin at the bar so he could order the lemonade. “My mother said that your father is ill,” Kit remarked.

Rebecca nodded. “Cancer. It hit him hard and fast. I’ve taken a semester off from medical school to spend time with him.”

“What about your mother?” Kit asked.

“Mother?” Rebecca blinked. “She died when I was ten. Father remarried last year, but, with my medical training, we felt that I was better suited to look after him.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Kit could tell there was more to the story than Rebecca was admitting, but she didn’t push the issue. Rebecca was obviously a devoted and loving daughter, just what her father needed.

Kit surveyed the room, trying to decide how to dig for information without offering too much of her own. This would prove more difficult than she’d anticipated. In that moment, she realized that she never had to think as Ellie Gold, her thoughts and actions had been dictated for her, not unlike her childhood.

Her gaze wandered back to Cecilia Musgrove. She’d had a private conversation with Chief Riley on the subject. Maybe there was a reason for that.

“Shall we rejoin Cecelia and my mother?” Kit proposed.

Crispin eyed her curiously. “You are voluntarily returning to your mother’s side?” He grabbed her drink and took a sip. “Nope, no drugs in there.”

“Hey, that reminds me. Why haven’t you reported on the skeleton in my house? I would think that’s big news in Westdale.”

Crispin swilled his own drink. “And tip people off that you’re living alone on Thornhill Road?” he queried. “I love you too much to do that to you. You’d have paparazzi and weirdos pitching tents on your front lawn in no time. The neighbors will hate you.”

Despite the sweetness of the sentiment, Kit didn’t buy it for a second. For one thing, the Crispin she knew would rat her out in a heartbeat if it meant a good story. The real tipoff, however, was Crispin’s demeanor. His eyes were focused anywhere except on her. In her experience with the Winthrop branch of her family, that meant he was lying. But why?

Kit immediately spotted Romeo in a booth at the back of the room. He didn’t glance up from the menu until she slid into the seat across from him. He was dressed in what she assumed was part of his summer casual collection — neatly pressed khakis and a red shirt.

“Where’s your suit?” she asked. “I hardly recognized you in costume.”

“I’m trying to blend,” he said.

“People in Westdale wear suits,” Kit objected.

“Not in the pancake joint at ten o’clock at night,” he replied. He handed her a menu. “So what’d you find out?”

“My mother can drink anybody under the table. Cranberry is the new raspberry. I have a high tolerance for alcohol but a low tolerance for entitled snobs.”

Romeo didn’t bother to hide his amusement. “And what did you find out that is relevant to the investigation?”

A server appeared beside Kit, ready to take their order. She did a double take when she looked at Kit. “Omigod, you’re her.”

“I am often accused of being her,” Kit said.

“Can I have your autograph?”

Kit smiled. “For a short stack with a side of blueberries, sure.” She hadn’t intended to splurge on calories tonight, but three vodka tonics at the Weston Inn had kickstarted her appetite.

“And you, sir?” the server asked Romeo.

“The Divine Sampler,” he said, handing her both menus.

“Anything to drink?” the server asked.

“A large water for me,” Kit said. Her mouth already felt full of cotton.

“Coffee, please,” Romeo added.

The server practically skipped back to the kitchen. Kit found it strange that people wanted her autograph. She hadn’t become an actress in order to be famous. That was simply an unwelcome by-product. After a few years, though, she’d gotten used to the attention.

“Coffee at ten o’clock?” Kit chided him. “You’ll never get to sleep.”

“Who said I’m going to sleep soon?” he asked.

Kit cleared her throat. Maybe Romeo had a girlfriend. A girlfriend who liked him in summer casualwear and didn’t mind him sharing pancakes with a former television star.

“Okay, so I’ll tell you what I learned tonight,” she said. “I’m not sure if any of it is helpful, but I won’t prejudge.”

“Unlike your people.”

“Unlike my people.” She drew in a breath. “My cousin said he hasn’t run the story about the murder because he doesn’t want crazy stalkers at my house.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“He’s lying. I love Crispin, but he cheats at tennis and gin rummy and I have no doubt that there’s another reason.”

Romeo absorbed this nugget of information. “Anything else?”

“Cecilia Musgrove has been chatting with our beloved Chief Riley about the case.”

“And?”

“And I don’t know. It’s sketchy.”

“Sketchy? Did she know Ernie?”

Kit shook her head. “Don’t think so. She’s way too high in the pecking order to tolerate someone like him. She’s a taller, icier version of my mother.” She shivered at the thought.

“Okay, I’ll drop in on Cecilia tomorrow afternoon. See what I can find out.”

“You should do morning or afternoon,” Kit advised. “She mentioned attending a fundraiser in Bryn Mawr tomorrow afternoon.”

“I can’t do morning,” Romeo said.

“Sleeping in after your all-nighter?” Kit teased.

Romeo glanced at her quizzically. “No, I’m doing Adopt-a-Cop at a school in Philly.”

Kit’s eyes widened. “Do tell.”

“You don’t know about Adopt-a-Cop?” he queried. When she shook her head, he explained, “It’s a program where we go into schools and talk to kids about self-esteem and how important it is to like yourself.”

She snorted. The image of Romeo in an elementary school talking to kids about liking himself delighted Kit to no end.

“Why is that funny?” Romeo asked, not amused.

“It’s not,” Kit said, suppressing a smile. “It’s adorable.”

Romeo scowled. “It’s not adorable. I talk about other things, too. I go to the same school every month during the school year. The first month is always self-esteem. Next month is drug safety.” He gave her a pointed look. “It’s serious police business. Definitely not adorable.”

The server brought their drinks and promptly returned to the kitchen for their plates.

Kit was fascinated by this. Her school had offered no interaction with the police department. Then again, if someone like Romeo had shown up at her school, he’d have had twenty smitten girls offering their rapt attention…and their phone numbers.

The server returned with their meals and set the plates down. “Enjoy,” she said before scuttling off.

“And you go every month?” Kit asked.

He nodded, sipping his coffee. “I talk about home safety, learning how to say no. Lots of stuff kids are exposed to. It’s important to help kids feel safe talking to cops. A lot of neighborhoods see cops as the enemy.” He glanced around the sleepy Provincetown Pancakes. “Even a place like Westdale.”