Olive and Let Die (12 page)

I sat down and scanned the document. Because I had been taking a salary to manage the restaurant all these years and had lived well within my means, I had a fair amount of savings and a retirement account. Those I'd get to keep. I wasn't getting much else, but the fact was that Spiro didn't technically own anything but his clothes and his Mercedes. Sophie owned the restaurant and all its contents. She also owned the business itself, as well as all the property in Greece. I could have fought for a share of everything upon Sophie's death, but that could take years to sort out. And it seemed wrong. Sophie could do what she liked with her money and possessions. She had told me that her will provided amply for Spiro, but that the bulk of her estate would go into trust for Callista. And that suited me just fine. Still, I felt like I was signing away a piece of myself as I scribbled my signature on the line Lydia indicated. The end of one era and the beginning of another.

“That's that,” Lydia said sympathetically.

“Thanks for all your help.” I picked up my purse and prepared to leave.

At that moment, the inner door opened. An arm wearing a dark sleeve held open the door while an older woman passed in front of him.

“Gladys?” I blurted out.

She looked startled, then her face broke out into a broad smile. “Georgie! What a coincidence. I'm just here to take care of a few items before I leave for Florida.”

“We have to stop meeting like this,” I joked.

“Well, I'll be off. Benjamin, thank you. I know the trust is in good hands.”

James Benjamin MacNamara Jr. helped Gladys put on her light jacket. He was clean-cut and good-looking in a preppy way. Only a year or so out of law school, he might have made a good catch for Callista. But there was something about him that rubbed me the wrong way—just a little. Not that I could put my finger on it.

He gave me a boyish grin. “Did Lydia give you the paperwork, Ms. Nikolopatos—or will you be going back to your maiden name?”

“Uh, yes. All signed.” There was another decision that needed to be made. It had been a long time since I'd been Georgiana Bartlett. Would it bother Cal if I took back my name? I'd have to broach the subject with her.

“Good, good.” His voice held a slightly smarmy edge, as though he thought he was just a little bit better than I was. Well, he wasn't above coming into my restaurant and sucking down ouzo-tinis with his flavor-of-the-week girlfriends. Yet more reason to keep him away from my daughter.

TWELVE

I hustled back to the Bonaparte House. Melanie was sitting at the employee picnic table out back, drumming the long gel nails of one hand on the wood. The other hand was inside her Fendi purse and she kept glancing around as though she were looking for someone. And she didn't look happy at being kept waiting.
Ha!
I thought.
Try being kept waiting for twenty years when your mother abandons you.

“Hey, Melanie. I suppose you want to drive to the funeral home? I can't see you walking three blocks in those heels.”

“Yes, I do want to drive,” she huffed. “Why can't you do this? I was just starting to relax at your friend's spa.” “Starting” being the operative word here. She didn't seem to have gotten very far. She removed her hand from her bag and picked it up by only one strap, spilling some of the contents. A can of pepper spray fell out. She hurriedly grabbed at it and shoved it back in the bag.

“Uh, do you have a permit for that?” Did she need one?

“Isn't this the boondocks? Is a permit really necessary here for anything?” She zipped up the bag and teetered toward my car.

“This is New York State, not the Wild West.”

“Then it's a good thing I bought this legally. Now get in the car and let's get this over with,” she snapped.

Ooh, someone was cranky. And armed. Potentially not a good combination. I frowned. No, Doreen had been strangled, and I was pretty sure pepper spray wouldn't kill you, just hurt a lot. Somehow, that didn't make me feel any better.

We drove the few blocks to the funeral home. “So, Mel, where's Caitlyn?”

“Caitlyn? We're not joined at the hip, you know. I left her back on the island. I had a few tasks I needed her to finish.”

“Did you actually see her before you left?” I could feel Melanie's eyes boring into the side of my face as I drove.

“What kind of question is that? Of course I saw her. She must have been outside in the sun because her face was red. I keep reminding her she needs to wear sunscreen every time she goes outside if she wants to have a good complexion like mine. Why?” she demanded.

“Oh, no reason.” Liza didn't just lend out boats to her guests, so unless Caitlyn was an Olympic-caliber swimmer, somebody on that island ferried her back and forth. The likely suspect, of course, was Channing, the pool guy I'd seen her talking to at Gladys's house. But Channing was still working on Gladys's pool when Jack and I had left and Caitlyn was nowhere to be seen. It was possible she'd gotten herself back to the Spa in time to see Melanie before she
left for her meeting with me, but it would have been tight. It was also possible she'd rented herself a small boat.

A few minutes later we were seated in Clive's office, tastefully and simply decorated in shades of pale green and white. A creamy-colored sculpture of a pair of praying hands sat on the credenza behind him, next to a bouquet of flowers in autumn colors.

Melanie just sat there, so I began. “Clive, this is Melanie Ashley. She and I are apparently Doreen's only next of kin. Do you have the body from the coroner yet?” A sick lump formed in the pit of my stomach. I hoped she hadn't suffered.

“Yes, she's here.” Clive offered Melanie a piece of paper with a gold seal that glinted as it came toward her. She just sat there with her lips set in a hard line, so I took the paper.

Clive shrugged. “Death certificate. You'll need that to handle her affairs, pay her bills, collect on any life insurance policy she may have had, etc.”

I glanced at Melanie to see if she had any reaction to the mention of an insurance policy, but it didn't appear to faze her. Well, she was an actress.

“So what do we need to do, Clive? I've never gone through this process before.”

He nodded sympathetically. “The first thing is to schedule the calling hours and the funeral. I assume you'll want those on separate days? People usually have the calling hours one night and the funeral and committal the next. Unless it's winter and the ground is frozen, of course, then the committal would be in the spring. But we don't have to worry about that. Are there family coming in from out of town that need to be accommodated?”

I shook my head. “What about an obituary? We should put something in the
Bay Blurb
and the
Watertown Daily Times
, right?”

“Yes,” Clive said. “We usually write that up here and send it in to the papers. I'll get some information from you before you leave.”

Good luck
, I thought. I knew nothing about poor Doreen. Melanie was just going to have to step up to the plate here.

We decided to hold the calling hours tomorrow evening, with the funeral the next morning. I'd have to call Dolly in early to prep the luncheon, and a couple of local servers to man the buffet line, but I was pretty sure none of them would mind the extra hours and I would pay them well for the short notice. Sophie would probably pitch in. My baklava was passable, but hers was perfection.

Within the hour we'd chosen a casket—who knew those were so expensive?—given Clive enough information to write the obituary, and determined that there was room for Doreen to be buried in her parents' plot at the Bayview Cemetery. Melanie handed Clive a credit card for the deposit. He jotted down the numbers and expiration date, presumably to run it later. I hoped the transaction would go through, considering the potential state of Melanie's financial affairs. Well, I was sure Clive would let me know if there was a problem, and I'd cover it if I had to.

I checked my watch as we headed to the car. It was too late to go to the bank now. It had been a long and busy day, and I was beginning to get tired. But there was still a lot of work to be done.

Someone was in the car parked behind mine. He got out and came toward us, camera in hand.

Oh, heck. Spencer Kane.

“Quick, Melanie. Get in the car if you don't want your picture taken.”

She went wolverine on him. “I told you I'd give you an interview when I'm ready. Well, I'm not ready. Go away,” she said through the half-opened window.

He grinned. “Pictures are worth more than an interview, you know. And I've already gotten some.”

Her eyes narrowed as far as they could go. Which was not that far considering the eye lifts. “Maybe you'd like to take a picture of me and my lawyer. Because he's going to be very familiar to you if you don't leave me alone. Trust me when I say I'm not in the mood.”

“Aw, Mel—or should I say Shirley? Don't be that way. You're breaking my fragile heart.” He flipped open his notebook and poised a mechanical pencil over it. “So what brings you back into town just when your cousin gets killed? There's a story there.”

“No. Comment.” Her teeth were clamped tight. “Back up, reporter. We're leaving.” She rolled up the window and turned to me. “Drive.”

Spencer backed away from the car, but not before giving me a serious look that didn't quite match the lighthearted tone he'd taken with Melanie.

Hmmm. I pulled out.

“Melanie.” She didn't respond and appeared to be deep in thought. I reached out and gave her a gentle poke. “Melanie.”

“What?” she snapped.

“We need to find out who Doreen's friends were so we can tell them about the arrangements. And don't you think we should go to her house so we can figure out what to do about her stuff?” A sick feeling washed over me. “Oh, no! What if she's got a pet that needs to be taken care of?” I hadn't even thought about that and I'd never forgive myself if an animal died because of my inattention.

The corners of Melanie's lips turned down slightly. “I don't think she had any animals, unless it was barn cats to keep the mice down, and they can take care of themselves.” She pulled down the vanity mirror on the visor and applied a fresh coat of bright red color to her lips. “And besides, haven't the police been out there already? They would have let one of us know if there were pets or livestock.”

Right. The police wouldn't allow animals to be neglected. But how would Melanie know Doreen didn't have pets after so many years of being in California? Unless she'd been in touch with Doreen recently. But why?

“What about clothes? We need to get Clive an outfit for her to be buried in. So we'll need to go to her house for that.”

Melanie dropped her lipstick back into her purse. “She was a lunch lady, for heaven's sake. And not a very fashionable one. As I recall,” she added quickly. “I'll send Caitlyn to the mall in Watertown in the morning to get her something new. We should get our money's worth on that rental car anyway.”

“Where did Doreen live?” I have to admit I was curious about the home where my mother had grown up. The little house I'd shared with Melanie—Shirley, at that time—on
School Street was now owned by the family of one of my servers and was being used as a vacation rental. Not that it would command a high rental price, since it wasn't located on the water, but there seemed to be cars parked there when I occasionally drove past, so they must have been doing all right.

“The farm is out on the Blue Lake Road in Rossie. And fine. If I have to choose an activity—and mind you I'd much rather be at your friend's spa at the Bikram yoga class right now—let's go talk to Doreen's friend.”

The Blue Lake Road was out by the Rainbow Acres Farm, where we got our produce and fresh dairy. Now that I thought about it, I should talk to the detective in charge of the investigation. Doreen had been murdered, so it stood to reason that her home would be investigated for clues. They might not have finished yet, so Paloma it was.

Melanie and I entered the Bonaparte House through the kitchen. I sat her down at one of the counters with a glass of ice water with a slice of lemon, then pulled out my cell and dialed the number Midge had given me.

“Paloma?” I said when she picked up. “This is Georgie, from the Bonaparte House restaurant. Could you come over for a few minutes? I'll make you dinner and we can talk. It's about Doreen.”

There was a silence, then the sound of a nose being gently blown. I held the phone away from my ear slightly. “Sorry,” Paloma said. “She was my friend. But why would you want to talk to me about her?”

“It turns out I'm a relative, though I just found out about that.” I cut my eyes to Melanie, who was sipping her water through the straw. “And I'm making the funeral arrangements.
I was hoping you could help me come up with a list of people I should notify?”

“Oh. I'd like to help if I can. What time should I come?”

“If you're free, now would be perfect.”

“I just live around the corner. I'll be there in ten minutes.”

I pulled out the makings for a Greek salad—romaine lettuce, Kalamata olives, crisp cucumbers, and end-of-the-season ripe tomatoes. I dressed it with a splash of vinegar, a few swirls of olive oil, then crumbled a generous portion of fresh salty feta over the whole thing, finishing it off with a few grinds of black pepper. I heated up the last few pieces of the pastitsio, found a loaf of crusty bread and a bottle of New York State red wine, and loaded everything up on a serving tray.

A knock sounded at the kitchen door. The door opened partway and a head poked in. “I figured I should come to the back, since the restaurant isn't open,” the woman said. “I'm Paloma.”

“Come on in,” I said. “Dinner's ready. Follow me.”

I hefted the serving tray up onto my shoulder and headed for the bottom dining room, Melanie and Paloma following me dutifully. Not that I could blame them. Dinner smelled delicious, if I did say so myself, and my stomach was growling. It had been hours since I'd eaten at Gladys's.

“Melanie, could you grab that tray stand so I'll have a place to set this down?” She looked around and shrugged.

“Here, I've got it,” Paloma said. She brought the stand over from its place by the wall and opened it up efficiently, then smiled at me, one food server to another. I liked Paloma already.