Antiques Fate (16 page)

I told them I'd be delighted to join them for brunch. Shortly, we were piling into Edwina's white four-door Impala, to make the short drive to Ye Olde Tearoom on Brighton Street. On the way, Edwina told me that the three belonged to a women's group called the Juliets (Just Us Ladies Into Eating Together), and while the majority of Juliets were widows, like Ivy and Melba, a few, including Edwina herself, were not.

Edwina found a parking place on the street, and soon we were entering the small, quaint tearoom, whose decor was as charmingly Victorian as the building it inhabited.

Every table was full, and I was wondering about the wait, my stomach already growling like Sushi watching me eat potato chips without sharing, when a young, fresh-faced girl (excuse me! woman) in a crisp white waitress uniform came up to greet us.

“Your table is ready, Mrs. Kent,” she addressed Edwina.

“Thank you, Hayley. Come, girls.”

I trailed the Juliets across the room, then down a side hallway to a back dining area, likely reserved for private parties, because no one else was brunching back here.

Hayley led us to a table with a white-lace-edged cloth, informing us she'd be back for our orders, then whisked herself away.

As we settled into chairs, Edwina, next to me, explained, “The Juliets have a special arrangement to take brunch back here every Sunday.”

Ivy, on the other side of me, giggled. “We enjoy our privacy. We prize it! Being able to speak openly, I mean.”

“If you get our drift,” added Melba.

“I believe I do,” I said with a smile. Once again I'd made a wise decision, trusting instincts well honed in the rumor mills of Serenity.

Menus were already on the table, along with filled water glasses, and two floral ceramic pots (one coffee, one tea). The silverware was not sterling, but high quality, the cups and saucers real china, the napkins linen. This simple elegance reminded me of Sunday dinners at my Aunt Olive's—before she died and was memorialized by way of having her ashes transformed into a paperweight. (That is, of course, another story.) (Available gratis at BarbaraAllan.com—such a deal!)

I seemed to be the only one studying the menu.

“What's good?” I asked, since it was clear everyone else was pre-decided.

“Oh, everything,” enthused Ivy. Since she was on the plump side, I figured she would know.

“Pancakes are the house specialty,” Edwina offered, with a smile that said she could already taste them. “They're so light, with fresh strawberries and a sprinkling of powdered sugar—ambrosia.”

Melba said, “But I recommend the corned beef hash—none of that canned stuff. Strictly homemade.”

Well, dear reader, as you might well imagine, I was all but drooling, so it was something of a relief to see Hayley reappear as quickly as she'd gone. Everyone (myself included) had the pancakes, except for Melba, who opted for the corned beef hash with poached eggs. And away Hayley went, our order in hand.

Edwina asked, “Tea or coffee, Mrs. Borne?”

“Tea . . . and please, call me Vivian.”

Pouring for me, she said, “Vivian, first of all, we simply
must
tell you how much we love the books you and your daughter write.”

“How very kind.”

“Yes,” said Ivy, little-girl breathy. “We've read every single one. The Juliets are something of a book club along with our other pursuits.”

“How nice, dear.”

“But we do have one complaint,” Melba put in.

I managed not to frown. Readers need to learn that authors only want to hear what's good about their books, not what's bad.

I cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Melba continued. “We feel that you should take a greater hand in the writing. There are simply not enough chapters written by you.”

“Don't get us wrong,” interjected Edwina. “Your daughter's writing is perfectly fine, if rather pedestrian.... But you, Vivian, bring such keen intelligence and joie de vivre to your narrative, the words simply jump off the page!”

(
Brandy to Mother:
Okay, now, she didn't
really
say that.)

(
Mother to Brandy:
Are you calling my veracity into question, dear?)

(
Brandy to Mother:
Actually, I was calling you a darn liar.)

(
Mother to Brandy
: “How sharper than a serpent's tooth. . . .”)

(
Brandy to Mother:
Tell you what . . . why don't I get this Ivy person on the phone and ask her if those were her exact words?)

(
Mother to Brandy:
Well, perhaps they weren't her
exact
words . . . but the gist of what she said is the same. If not the letter, the spirit!)

(
Brandy to Mother:
Bull hockey.)

(
Editor to Vivian and Brandy:
Ladies?)

(
Brandy to Editor:
We know, we know—knock it off.)

(
Mother to Editor:
But would you please consider Ivy's suggestion of more chapters by me? Hello? Are you there?)

Melba was pouring herself coffee. “I hate to admit this, Vivian, but I enjoy your books so much that I can't wait until there's another murder for you to solve. Is that terrible of me?”

I took a dainty sip from my china cup—good English tea. Perhaps we were a mite hasty in Boston back in 1773, throwing such good stuff overboard.

“Terrible or not,” I said, “you might not have to wait long.”

“You mean to say . . .” began Melba.

“. . . that these deaths . . .” continued Ivy.

“. . . weren't accidental?” finished Edwina.

“Isn't that what you already think?” I asked. “Isn't that why you really asked me to join you? In addition to requesting that I write more chapters in our books, of course.”

(
Brandy to Mother:
Mother . . .)

(
Mother to Brandy:
Dear girl, let's not squabble. We'll wake the slumbering editorial beast again.)

As with the Romeos (Retired Old Men Eating Out) back in Serenity, all I had to do was get the ball rolling. Prime the pump. Goose the gander (not sure that's really an expression).

Anyway, Ivy was about to speak when Hayley appeared with the tray of our food, and no one said anything until after she'd distributed the meals—can't have witnesses to such conversations. Then the efficient girl (woman) was gone.

At which point Ivy whispered, as if the walls had ears (and no ear wax), “I wasn't at all surprised by Millie's death, considering her ill health. And when Barclay died, I thought it was just a coincidence—odd, strange, but a coincidence. He had a bad heart, too, you know. But now for Fred Hackney to go?
Something
has to be going on.”

Edwina, also speaking sotto voce, said, “I'm not sure that this has anything to do with anything . . .” We all leaned in to hear better. “. . . but
I
think someone is blackmailing our esteemed trustees.”

Ivy and Melba made utterances of surprise, but I had already suspected such a possibility. All I lacked was a blackmail motive.

“Don't tease us,” Melba prodded Edwina. “Spill!”

“Well, Robert . . .” Edwina looked at me. “. . . he's my husband, and also the president of the branch bank here. Yesterday he told me in strictest confidence that Friday morning Digby Lancaster withdrew twenty thousand in one-hundred-dollar bills from his business account.”

Melba shrugged, dismissive of this supposed revelation. “So? As a land developer, Digby must surely deal in large amounts of cash from time to time.”

“But that's not all,” Edwina said, like an infomercial pitch woman. “That very same afternoon
Celia Falwell
wanted a loan on the inn . . . for an identical amount!”

“Did Robert give her the money?” Ivy asked in her little-girl voice.

Edwina shook her head. “My husband told her he couldn't approve the loan because there's
already
a second mortgage on the inn. She didn't appear to know that, either. According to him, she left pretty unhappy.”

Melba smirked. “And when Celia's unhappy, Seabert is going to be
really
unhappy.”

“Sometimes I feel sorry for him,” Ivy said softly.

“I feel sorry for Celia,” countered Melba. “That Seabert is so
weird
. You won't
believe
what I saw him doing.”

“What?” Edwina and Ivy asked.

Melba leaned closer, her eyes moving to each of our faces. “At about three in the morning . . . right outside the inn . . . he was changing the letters on that sidewalk sign of theirs.”

My fork, halfway to my mouth with a speared piece of pancake, paused midair. “What was that, dear?”

She said, “I'm something of an insomniac, Vivian, and occasionally I go for a brisk walk on the green in the wee hours—Why the startled look? I'm quite safe. I always bring along a mace spritzer, and anyway, with this face I don't get hit on all that much, even in the daylight.”

Especially in the daylight,
I thought.

“Anyway,” she was saying, “I was near the band shell when I glanced across at the inn, and what do I see? Seabert on his knees in front of that outside sign, changing the letters around!”

“You're positive it was him?” I asked.

“Who could miss
that
Ichabod Crane!” she snorted. “Anyway, it struck me as a strange time to be doing something like that. Strange time to be doing about anything.”

Edwina shrugged. “Well, you were out walking. Maybe Seabert had insomnia, too. People have different ways of dealing with that.”

I asked Melba, “Did you happen to see how he rearranged the letters?”

“No. Too far away. But he was doing it furtively.”

I changed the subject. “Have any of you noticed a car around town with only one headlight?”

Ivy shrugged, Edwina shook her head, but Melba spoke up again. She didn't miss much, bless her.

“I've seen a one-eyed car on my nocturnal jaunts plenty of times—a dark blue Mustang.”

“Do you know whom it belongs to, dear?”

“Sure. That sullen long-haired grandson of Millie's—Chad Marlowe.”

Thanks to my considerable theatrical training, I was able to conceal my excitement.

“Vivian,” Edwina asked, “are you leaving?”

Apparently I'd jumped to my feet. I sat back down.

“No, just a sudden gas pain. I'm fine.” Improvisational skills come in so handy in detective work.

“What's significant about Chad's car?” Edwina asked, her interest piqued.

Since I didn't care to have Nancy Drew and her gal pals Bess and George interloping into my investigation, I said with a shrug, “Just that he should get it fixed. One-eyed cars can be dangerous.”

Time to change the subject again.

“Edwina,” I said, daintily using a napkin to remove the powdered sugar and maple syrup from my lips, and my chin, and one cheek, “you say you suspect blackmail—but what might the motive be?”

“Oh,” the Liz lookalike said, “I have no idea.”

Rats.

I asked, “Could someone be trying to buy pro- or anti-incorporation votes on the board?”

“Possibly,” Edwina said. “Chad's vote might be for sale. I understand he announced at the impromptu board get-together Thursday night that he planned to vote no. But that could have been a sly way to attract offers.”

Hayley arrived with our checks, Edwina graciously picking up mine.

While we waited for change, I casually remarked, “Speaking of Chad, I imagine the young man will be inheriting his grandmother's theater.”

Edwina's eyebrows went up. “Yes, but that's about
all
he'll be getting.”

“Oh? I was under the impression Millie was rather well-off.”

“Not the case, anymore,” she said. “Robert told me Millie's been pouring her own resources into that theater for years.”

Melba said, “And I doubt Chad could get much for that building.”

“Yes,” Ivy agreed. “Who would buy a broken-down theater?”

But postincorporation that land would be valuable indeed.

I said, “I heard Millie left some money to the church in her will.”

“That's no great secret,” Edwina said with a nod.

“Do you know how much?”

She didn't, and neither did the others. And if this group didn't know, no one in Old York did, except maybe Millie's lawyer.

“Anyway,” Edwina said, “just because a will states that a certain party gets some money, that doesn't mean they'll get it.”

“You mean,” I said, “if there's no money to be had, you can't have any money.”

“Truer words,” Edwina said.

We left the table and made our way back through the hallway to the front, where business was slowing down.

Out on the sidewalk, Edwina announced, “Well, that was fun! Vivian, promise you'll join us any time you're visiting Old York.”

“That you can count on,” I said. Particularly if I was investigating a murder.

Edwina asked, “Can we give you a lift, Vivian?”

“No, thank you. After that sumptuous brunch, the walk will do me good.”

But I'd stick to the sidewalk—no jaywalking, even in the morning. Not with that one-eyed vehicle on the loose.

We said our good-byes and parted.

With my mind abuzz with information I'd gleaned from the Juliets, I returned to the inn to tell Brandy.