Olive and Let Die (13 page)

I served up the dinner family style, salad and entrée on the same plate, and set the dishes before my guests. Melanie helped herself to the wine, then deigned to pour each of us a glass. I sat down and dug in.

“I'm really sorry about Doreen,” Paloma said. “She was a good friend to me. I'm going to miss her.” She forked up some salad.

“Thanks. I wish I could say I knew her, but the family's been . . . spread apart and I wasn't aware of our relationship till now.” I shot my mother a frosty look, which she ignored. “It'll be in the paper tomorrow, but maybe you could give me a list of people to call? It would be a shame if anyone got left out.”

Paloma nodded. “If you'll give me the details, I can let people know. I'm sure you have enough to deal with right now.”

That was an understatement. “Thanks. We're so grateful. Right, Melanie?” I gave her leg a tap with my foot under the table. Not too hard. Honest.

Melanie flashed a lot of teeth in our direction, a smile that probably would have played well in front of the cameras but was lost on the two of us. “Yes. Very grateful.” She pulled her napkin from her lap and dabbed at her lips. “So, Paloma, you worked with Doreen at the school.”

Melanie, making chitchat. Interesting.

“Yes. She came off as abrasive, but once she warmed up to you, she was friendly enough.”

Melanie gave the napkin another twist. It looked tight enough to tie off a boat.
Or strangle someone
. The thought rose unbidden to my mind, and I did my best to squelch it. But I couldn't take my eyes off that twisted piece of fabric she was working either.

“I wish I'd known her. And what an awful way to die,” I said.

Paloma's big brown eyes welled up. “I can't believe someone would kill her. I mean, don't get me wrong. She could be pretty cranky, and when she got riled up, she cussed like a sailor. But lately she seemed different. Happier.” Paloma took a bite of her pastitsio, and a look of pleasure crossed her face. “Wow, this is so good.”

“Thanks,” I said. Meat and pasta bathed in a velvety cheese béchamel—what wasn't to love? “There's a piece left in the kitchen. I'll wrap it up for you when you leave. Any idea what made Doreen happier?” Melanie had left off twisting the napkin and had moved on to picking her noodles apart with a fork. She kept glancing up at the portrait of Napoleon that hung over the fireplace, as though the Little Corporal had something to do with our conversation.

Paloma ripped off a hunk of bread and soaked up some of the sauce from the casserole. “Well,” she said between dips, “as you can probably guess, cafeteria workers don't get paid crap, pardon my French. Doreen was lucky she had that farmhouse left to her, so she had fewer expenses than most of us.”

I glanced over at Melanie. She was still staring at her plate, and she was twirling a tube of pasta around and around on it.

“She must have inherited it free and clear, then, no mortgage?”

“Yeah,” Paloma said. “Her aunt and uncle cut their own daughter out of the will and left it to Doreen. Anyway, she came in to school one day and said she was getting a
windfall. I figured some other relative had died and she was just waiting for the estate to be settled.”

With my limited knowledge of the family history, I had no idea who that might be. But what if it wasn't an inheritance? What if she'd been blackmailing someone? And what if that someone was a relative who'd made it big? How far would that relative go to keep Doreen and her big mouth shut?

“Did she say when she was getting the money?” I forked up a chunk of tangy feta from my salad. I never got tired of the stuff.

“Well,” Paloma said. “All she said was, ‘The time is almost up.' Then she laughed, and showed us a picture of the new tattoo she was going to get—which came out great, by the way—and then she said she was going to retire at the end of the school year.”

The time is almost up.
Could mean a lot of things. But it fit pretty neatly into the ugly theory that was developing in my mind. Doreen had something on Melanie. I was sure there were plenty of potentially embarrassing incidents in Melanie's life, but would they be bad enough to kill for? Or had Doreen been going to expose Melanie's real identity? Somehow, I doubted Melanie wanted that part of her past hidden enough to succumb to blackmail. Plenty of people created new identities for themselves with no more sinister motive than wanting a fresh start. No, it had to be more than that.

Yet there was one piece of this puzzle that didn't fit. Why would Doreen leave everything to Melanie in her will? Why would someone blackmail her own heir?

By this time Paloma had cleared her plate—the woman had an impressive appetite, which belied her slim figure.

“Baklava and coffee?” I offered.

Paloma's eyes lit up. “That sounds great, if it's not too much trouble.”

I rose. “Come on, Melanie. You can help me clear the plates.”

She looked at me as if I'd suddenly sprouted a fully fruited olive tree from the top of my head. Her gaze turned to a glare. She threw her napkin down on top of her plate of mangled but uneaten food, then rose. “I don't suppose there's anywhere to get a decent manicure in this town. I'm going to need one after this little waitressing gig.”

Paloma waved a set of long gel nails, done in a rich shade of burgundy with adorable little pumpkins painted on each one. “Of course you can get your nails done here. My friend runs Nail Me, the shop over by the tattoo place? Let Suzanne know I sent you—she gives referral discounts.”

Melanie picked up her own plate and set it on the tray along with the rest of the dishes I'd cleared, then stormed off toward the kitchen. I lifted the tray to my shoulder and followed, checking my floors as I walked. If she wrecked my beautiful hardwoods with those stupid spiky heels of hers, I was going to be ripped.

In the kitchen she whirled around as I set down the tray. “What are you doing? You're asking for trouble,” she fumed. Her face was unmoving, but bright red spots of color stained her cheeks, as if she'd inexpertly applied a particularly virulent shade of blusher.

I did my best to keep my cool and keep my voice down. “Why don't you tell me what's really going on here, Melanie?
Why did you show up after twenty years, just in time to find your only cousin dead? You had a nice story about wanting to get to know me, but forgive me if that's just a little too tough to swallow. You're lucky I haven't called my friend Detective Hawthorne and told him who you really are.” It was a bluff. He must already know. It wasn't that well kept a secret.

She blanched. “Are you staying with Jack tonight?”

She was bringing up my love life? I turned on the coffeemaker with a vicious flip of the switch. “Seriously? That's all you've got to say to me? How is that any of your business?” I pulled a tray of baklava out of the cooler and dug out several squares, plating them on autopilot.

“What about Sophie?” she demanded. “Where's she?”

Oh, for Pete's sake.
“Sophie is staying at her cousin's to help her pack and then they're going out of town on a seniors' bus trip to Niagara Falls and the casino. Jack's got other plans. Satisfied? We've got company, so I'm not going to press you right now. But after she leaves, you're going to come clean with me.”

I filled up a cream pitcher and added it to a fresh tray, along with coffee cups, saucers, and the desserts.

The back door opened, its hinge grating in a noise that made my teeth hurt. Caitlyn bustled in. Oh, goodie. The other person I wanted to see. She shoved her phone into her pocket and looked from Melanie to me and back again. “Uh, I need to talk to Melanie,” she finally said.

“Just give us a minute,” Melanie said. “Then we'll join you.”

I quickly added another cup and serving of baklava to the tray, then headed for the dining room. “You do that,” I said over my shoulder.

I served up the dessert and coffee. Paloma's face took on a rapturous look. “Delicious,” she declared. I was just swirling some cream into my coffee cup when I heard the familiar grating of the back door hinges again. Now who was here?

Except no one entered the dining room. No sound filtered up from the kitchen. My eyebrows drew together. “Excuse me just a moment, will you? I'll be right back.” I raced out to the kitchen. Empty. Damn! They'd given me the slip. I looked out the back door to see a little black car peeling out of the driveway.

Fifteen minutes later, after promising her a job next summer if she didn't want to go back to the T-Shirt Emporium, I'd managed to get rid of Paloma. She said she'd take care of calling everyone about Doreen's services and thanked me profusely for the dinner. Despite my agitation with my mother, I was able to respond politely enough. Paloma had grown on me.

When she'd gone, I punched Melanie's number into my cell. It went straight to voice mail.

My cell rang. Aha! She'd decided to call me back. But when I checked the number, I frowned. It wasn't my mother. It was Spiro. Just the person I didn't have time for right now, but it was better to get this over with; otherwise he'd just keep calling. I answered.

“Why didn't you pick up?” he demanded. My hackles rose.

“What do you want?” I said, none too nicely.

“It's important, okay? Inky's been arrested.”

THIRTEEN

I shook my head. Had I heard that right? “Arrested? When? Why?”

Spiro was agitated, and with good reason. “The cops came and took away the roll of plastic wrap and confiscated our computers. Then they questioned both of us, and arrested him! Shoved him in the back of the cop car and took him away.”

I felt some sympathy. I'd been in the back of a police car myself not that long ago, and it hadn't been pleasant. “What evidence do they have? Anything other than the plastic wrap?” And why arrest Inky and not Spiro?

“Well, I was in Watertown at the time of death, shopping at the restaurant supply house. I had a dentist appointment early the next morning, so I stayed over at the Holiday Inn. I guess they checked the security cameras and I was able to account for my whereabouts. But Inky was home that day—alone—and he has no alibi. What do I do?”

I'd always been the one to fix things, to take action when something went wrong. Not even our impending divorce seemed to change the dynamics of our relationship. I blew out a breath. No matter what else I had on my plate, I couldn't refuse to help him.

“Does he have a lawyer yet?”

“No, I don't think so.”

I glanced out the window. The sun was low on the horizon. Too late to call anybody, so poor Inky was stuck in jail overnight. “First thing in the morning call Jim MacNamara. Ask for him, not the son. You want somebody with experience. If he's not in, ask Lydia to get him an immediate message.”

“Okay. He didn't do it, Georgie.”

“Yeah, I know.” But who did? I was more determined than ever to find out what role the Prodigal Mommy was playing. “Spiro? It's going to be okay. Inky will beat this once the authorities see that he has no possible motive for wanting Doreen dead.”

He didn't have a motive, did he? If he did, he'd stumped me.

“Georgie, I know I've never said it to you in all the years we've been married. So I'll say it now before the divorce is final so at least you'll hear it once. Thank you. For everything. And no, my mother did not tell me to say that.”

He rang off, leaving me speechless.

I made quick work of loading and running the dishwasher and putting a fresh cloth and table settings on the table we'd used. I called Sophie to make sure she was settled at Marina's for the night, sent a quick e-mail to Cal in Greece just to say hi. Then I dialed my mother. Who didn't answer.

What should I do? I checked my watch. There was just
time for me to catch the last water taxi of the night if I hurried down to the docks. I debated for only a moment, then sent a text to Liza at the Spa.

Coming over in a few minutes. If you don't have a room, will stay on couch.

She texted back:

Mi couch es su couch. See you when you get here.

I raced up to my room, threw some underwear and an oversized T-shirt into a bag, and ran out the door.

Liza met me herself at the dock when the taxi pulled up. I tossed the captain a ten-dollar bill and climbed out. “Come on,” Liza said. “I haven't seen you in ages and we've got lots to talk about.”

As we walked up the incline to the castle, I felt a little surge of relief. It had been a very eventful few days, and it would feel wonderful to relax and unburden myself. And who better to do that with than my best friend, Liza Grant.

Liza and I met years ago, when Cal was in elementary school. She had just come back to town after living in New York City for a few years when she inherited the behemoth known as Castle Valentine from her parents' estate. Like me, she was an only child, and also like me, she was estranged from her parents, so we immediately had our quasi-orphan state in common. We met up over coffee one day at the Bean, and became fast friends.

The castle took enormous amounts of money to run and
maintain, money that Liza did not have or inherit. In fact, her parents, too stubborn to sell the place, rent it out, or close it up, had deferred almost all the maintenance on the limestone mansion, and it was in a state of minor decay when Liza got there. But Liza was not one to waste an opportunity. She came up with the idea of opening the castle up as an exclusive spa, catering to the uber rich. She learned everything she could about spa therapies, found a spa manager willing to work on percentage for a year and to train Liza to run the place herself, cleaned up the grounds and did some landscaping, and refurbished half a dozen rooms in the building.

As her reputation and finances grew, she finished more rooms, and added bathrooms and treatment rooms until she had a world-class luxury facility right off the shore of Bonaparte Bay. With careful financial management, she'd become a tycoon to rival any of the turn-of-the-century millionaires who built the extravagant homes that populated the islands and shores of the St. Lawrence. She was also my friend and had offered to lend me the money to try to buy Sophie and Spiro out of the Bonaparte House. The offer was tempting—oh, so tempting—but her friendship meant more to me than money, and I wasn't willing to put that friendship at risk for anything.

I followed Liza through the maze of paneled hallways lined with old-fashioned gas lamps that had been converted to electricity. We ended up in her private sitting room, and I parked myself in my favorite squishy chair, upholstered in pink velvet. Liza handed me a glass of wine and sat in a matching chair, kicking off her sandals and tucking her long toned legs up underneath her.

“So,” she said. “How's Cal? Breaking hearts over in Greece?”

I smiled. My beautiful daughter was probably doing just that. “Well, Sophie's sister is keeping an eye on her, so I don't imagine she's getting into too much trouble, but she loves it there.” The thought was bittersweet. I wanted nothing more than for my daughter to be happy. I just wished she could be happy a little closer to me.

“And the dishy Captain Jack?” She picked up a tray of crab puffs and offered me one. I picked it up and popped it into my mouth, enjoying the savory morsel before I answered.

“He is rather dishy.” I grinned. “He's out getting to know the guys at the Coast Guard Station tonight.”

“Ah, at the Lighthouse Lounge, no doubt.”

“Probably.” I sipped my wine, letting the rich fruity tang roll around my mouth. Despite my years in the restaurant business, I was not a wine expert and didn't know a note of oaky blackberries from a clean, crisp finish of citrus. Spiro was the one with the talent for choosing wines for the Bonaparte House, and I hoped he would continue to do that for us. But I did know what I liked when I tasted it, and this was delicious.

Fortified by food and drink, I broached the subject I'd come here to . . . broach. “Liza, you've got a couple of people staying here. An actress and her assistant.”

A tiny cloud passed over Liza's beautiful face. “You know I have a vow of secrecy about who's staying here and what they're having done, right?” She reached up and
adjusted the headband she wore, smoothing down her Titian locks as she did so.

Good old Liza. The soul of discretion. “Well, Jack and I didn't just deliver her here the other day out of the goodness of our hearts.”

One of Liza's eyebrows rose, just a hair. “And?”

I paused. “Melanie Ashley is my mother.”

Liza's normally serene countenance flickered. I wondered for a moment if she already knew. Liza tended to know pretty much everything that went on in Bonaparte Bay, but she was priest-like in her ability to keep a secret.

“I thought your mother's name was Shirley,” she said.

“She's changed it, along with her face, boobs, and voice. But it's true.”

Liza tapped her fingernail on her top lip. “What's she doing back here now?”

“Exactly what I'd like to know.” I framed my next question carefully, knowing I was stepping over the line. Well, she'd either answer or she wouldn't. “Has she paid you for her stay here?”

My friend looked at me, as if trying to decide how much she could say. “I require up-front payment from every guest for the number of days booked. Then we settle up any extra charges when the guest leaves. No exceptions.”

“So her credit card cleared?”

Liza's eyes probed my face. “Yes. Nobody stays here until their payment clears. What's this all about?”

“The tabloids are reporting that Melanie's broke. I just wondered if maybe that's why she chose now to come back to Bonaparte Bay.”

Light dawned on Liza's face. “Ah, she's heard about the items you found in the Bonaparte House. And you think she's here to see if she can get her hands on some of the proceeds.”

“Well, it's crossed my mind. But she's in for a rude awakening when she finds out none of that money will be mine. Liza, I hate to ask this . . .”

She waved her long, graceful fingers in the air. “But you want me to keep an eye on her. Done.”

“Thanks. So what's new with you?”

“Oh, I'm having an affair.” Her voice was casual as she ran her fingers up and down the stem of her glass.

“Really? Is it serious? Spill.” I thought about my own budding affair with Jack Conway and felt warm inside.

“No, not serious. Unless you call having a lot of divine sex serious.”

I laughed. Jack and I had not progressed to the divine sex part of our relationship—more like the divine extended foreplay part—but it was just a matter of time. I was looking forward to the winter, when I'd have the Bonaparte House to myself and we could take our relationship to the next level. “So who's the lucky guy?” I asked.

“Channing Young. It's nothing emotional.”

“The pool guy?”

“Yes, though his talents go well beyond skimming and shocking,” she said, laughing. Her smile melted into a frown and she cocked her head. A faint noise came from the direction of the next room. “Did you hear that?”

I listened. “Not sure what that was. Maybe the castle is settling?” I was well familiar with old stone houses. There were always plenty of unexplained noises.

She got up and walked quietly to the connecting door, placing a finger to her lips. If I wasn't mistaken, Liza's private office was on the other side of that pocket door.

I tiptoed over to join her.

Liza threw open the door. Caitlyn stood frozen on the other side.