Scene of the Brine (12 page)

They finished up at Niki's and Scott told Zach to show up at his office with Sugar on Monday. He promised to do so and hitched up his backpack to walk glumly off. Piper was stepping into Scott's Volvo when her cell phone signaled a text message. It was from Will. She waited until Scott closed her door to read it.

“Work done. Bushed. Just saying hi + thinking of U. What R U up to?”

Scott got in on his side and she slipped the phone into her pocket. She buckled up and listened as Scott talked about Zach's statement, even discussed it with him at some length as he drove back to her place. Had Zach told the whole truth of the matter? They could only hope so.

But a large part of her mind lingered on Will's question and how she would answer it. He'd been great about the papier-mâché cat, saying all he cared about was that Piper was with him then. Now she was with Scott, had just shared a dinner with him. It was, of course, to talk to Zach. But here she sat with her ex-fiancé as Will waited to hear what she was up to. What could she say that wouldn't sound like excusing and overexplaining? How understanding could she expect the man to be?

16

P
iper checked herself in her bedroom mirror. She'd ruffled through her closet for half the morning, trying to decide what was appropriate to wear to Lydia Porter's tea.
Who goes to afternoon teas, anymore?
If it weren't for her efforts to clear Zach Heywood, Piper wouldn't. It was too nice a Sunday afternoon.

She didn't doubt Lydia would get a good turnout. Curiosity to see the inside of the Porters' redecorated mansion would draw many. A few, like Mrs. Tilley, might be impressed enough with Lydia to feel honored at the invitation. The rest, like Aunt Judy, would attend out of courtesy. Piper was showing up to learn what she could about Dirk Unger, though she expected to expend a pound of effort for any ounce of reward.

She adjusted the lacy shrug she'd slipped over a sleeveless, full-skirted cotton dress. Would that do for blending in properly while trying to dig up dirt—metaphorically speaking? Piper sighed and grabbed her purse to make her high-heeled-careful way down the stairs, hoping the food would at least be good. That brought thoughts of Sugar Heywood, who
should
have catered the event, causing Piper to double her determination to make the most of the afternoon.

Piper thought about Will during her drive to the tea. She'd tried to reach him the night before after Scott dropped her off. But apparently Will's claim of being bushed was accurate, as her call had gone to voice mail. She intended to try again after the tea, when she might have more to talk about besides what she'd been up to the previous evening.

Piper turned onto the Porters' street and saw she wasn't the first to arrive. Cars lined both sides of the wide, tree-lined avenue and women in their spring finery ambled in pairs or groups toward the mansion. Piper parked and joined the parade, admiring the Victorian-era house up ahead. A Queen Anne style, she guessed, with multiple turrets and dormers jutting from the upper floors. The wraparound veranda made Piper salivate, picturing herself sipping lemonade in one of its green-painted rocking chairs on a warm summer evening—preferably minus the current owners. Wide stairs led up to that veranda, and she climbed them to reach the double front doors, trimmed with beautiful stained glass.

A young woman dressed in a black uniform and white frilled apron and cap, looking as though she'd stepped straight out of a 1940s film, invited guests into the grand foyer. Piper entered and joined many others in gaping about shamelessly. The foyer's gleaming oak paneling, graceful staircase, and muraled ceiling offered much to swoon over, though a second uniformed maid did her best to move everyone along to the huge dining room at the left of the foyer, relieving guests of the few wraps that had been worn on that mild day.

Lydia Porter stood just inside the opened pocket doors of the dining room, draped in flowing lavender silk and pearls, her silver hair coiffed and sprayed into immobility. Mallory occupied the space beside her, and she towered several inches over her petite mother despite low-heeled shoes but possessed little of her mother's bearing and poise. Her expensive-looking cotton dress could have been draped on a headless mannequin for all the presence she projected. She was, however, dutifully greeting each guest passed on to her by Lydia, in between coughs and sniffs.

“Miss Lamb.” Lydia addressed Piper at her turn, smiling. “I'm delighted you could join us.”

“Piper, please,” Piper said politely, adding something about her pleasure over being there, which she hoped sounded sincere.

“I'm sure you and Mallory will have lots to talk about,” Lydia said, smoothly moving her along to her daughter, who gave Piper a weak smile and a limp handshake. What Lydia imagined they could have in common Piper had no idea, but she returned the smile, came up with more appropriate things to say, and got out of the way of the next guest.

Funneled toward a beautiful extended mahogany dining table, she was in turn handed a delicate china cup of tea by yet another uniformed woman, asked if she preferred sugar or lemon, and waved on to choose any of an amazing selection of cookies, pastries, and tea sandwiches. Properly and efficiently dealt with, she was then left to her own devices to wander about, sip, or visit.

She chose to explore for the moment, not having yet come across familiar faces and interested in investigating the rooms that had been made available. She crossed the hallway to a large living room, its walls painted a dusty red brightened with white trim. The room was filled with chatting women perched on new-looking Victorian-style sofas and chairs or standing about on the polished oak floor or oriental area rug. Piper wound her way through, admiring an occasional table or mirror that might have been genuine antiques, and came to a second, smaller sitting room, just as attractive and just as crowded.

She strolled back into the hall and, heels clicking on the wood floor, followed it down to a library, which reminded her of the unpleasant experience Ralph Strawbridge had with Dirk Unger when he'd been asked to refurbish the built-in shelves there. From the looks of them, Jeremy Porter hadn't found a replacement craftsman, as the shelves, though dotted with books and small statuary, looked dull and worn. That, and the darkness produced by too-heavy draperies, hadn't inspired any guests to linger despite the scattering of chairs, and Piper was about to leave when a voice out of the gloom startled her.

“Sad, isn't it?”

Piper peered more closely and saw a thin woman sitting in the shadows at the far end of the room. The woman stretched her hand toward a lamp beside her and switched it on. “Come, sit with me a moment.”

Curious, Piper moved forward, noting as she did that the woman appeared to be in her late seventies. Her navy blue dress with a white lacy collar looked more funeral-appropriate than tea party, as did her subdued, slightly sad manner.

“Frances Billings,” she said, holding out a thin, age-spotted hand.

“How do you do,” Piper said, taking the hand and introducing herself.

“I'm afraid I startled you, speaking out as I did,” Ms. Billings said. “It's just that your expression seemed to mirror my own thoughts. You see, I used to own this place.”

“Oh!” Piper scoured her memory but couldn't find
Frances Billings
anywhere in it. Wouldn't Aunt Judy have known and mentioned her?

“I haven't lived in it for many years,” Ms. Billings said, as though reading Piper's mind. “Warmer climates, I find, are better for my health. But the house was in my family for many years. It was built by my grandfather in 1880.”

“It's a beautiful house,” Piper said.

“Yes.” Frances Billings glanced around with wistful eyes. “And this was my favorite room when I was a child. But it requires much upkeep, as you can see. I had hoped to find these lovely shelves restored to their original glory, but the library seems to have been put on low priority. That, and the kitchen.”

“I haven't seen the kitchen but if this were my house, that would have been my first project.” Piper explained her love of pickling and preserving. “This library would have been a close second. The man who made a beautiful new door for my pickling shop was approached about refurbishing this room. Unfortunately for the Porters, they delegated Dirk Unger to oversee the project and Ralph couldn't see himself answering to the man.”

“Unger!” Ms. Billings shuddered. “Horrible man. If I'd known he would be as involved with the house as he was, I might have reconsidered selling, even with my limited choices.”

“He seems to have been universally disliked. Except,” Piper corrected herself, “by Jeremy Porter.”

“Yes, well, I noticed that Unger could be affable enough when it was to his advantage. And indispensable. Even Lydia, with her obvious distaste for the man, found him occasionally useful.” Ms. Billings waved toward the bookshelves. “Those books? They weren't collected by the Porters. Dirk Unger had them carted in to fill these shelves, to make the room more library-like.”

“So they didn't come with the house?”

“Oh, no. I had to sell my family's fine books long ago, along with most of the furniture, though I managed to keep a few things for the memories. No, Dirk Unger, I was told, snapped these up for a song at some estate sale. Whatever he paid was too much. A lot of rubbish, in my opinion. But then I doubt Lydia looked too closely.”

Piper got up to take a look. There were quite a few clothbound books that at first glance appeared old and impressive. Few of the titles or authors, however, were familiar. The newer ones appeared to be book club editions of celebrity tell-alls or flash-in-the-pan bestsellers. Sorting also seemed to have been according to size and color. Piper found
Airport
next to a book on photography, and several
National Geographics
lined up beside
Know Your Digestive System
. Her gaze stopped at a tome titled
Healing Plants
, and she slid the slim paperback out. A quick check of the index found no listing for bloodroot. She returned the book to its slot.

“Definitely an odd mix,” Piper said, “which looks a lot more interesting from a distance than close up.”

“Much like some people,” Ms. Billings said with a small smile. “Speaking of which, I suppose I should go back and do my duties as a guest.” The older woman struggled a bit to pull herself up, and Piper went over to lend a hand. “Thank you, dear. It was good talking to you. I'll be fine now.” To prove it, she walked steadily out into the hallway.

Piper watched from the doorway until the woman turned into the dining room, then headed back to the living room, where she ran into Mrs. Tilley.

“Piper!” Mrs. Tilley cried, setting her cup carefully back into its delicate saucer. “Isn't this the most elegant event you've ever been to?”

Piper could see that Mrs. Tilley, whose cheeks were glowing and eyes shining, thought so. “There's certainly a lot to admire,” she said.

Mrs. Tilley's head bobbed. “The house! The food! Although”—she lowered her voice—“I have to admit that Sugar Heywood's pastries are better. What a shame she wasn't available.”

Yes, wasn't it
, Piper thought.

Another woman, possibly late fifties and wearing a cream-colored silk suit, had strolled over to them, looking as pleased as Mrs. Tilley but in a more muted way. She took a sip of her tea and nodded approvingly. “Perfectly brewed,” she pronounced. “Leona Pennington,” she said to Piper, holding out a well-manicured hand. “I believe you're Judy Lamb's niece?”

“Yes, Piper Lamb,” Piper said, shaking the hand. “And you're the president of the Cloverdale Women's Club, aren't you?” She managed to smile as she said it, though her thoughts flew back to Leona's cold treatment of Denise Standley a few months ago when the Standley family needed all the support they could get.

“I didn't realize you two hadn't met,” Mrs. Tilley said. “You should come to one of our meetings, Piper. And Leona, you have to stop in at Piper's shop. She puts up the most wonderful pickles and preserves.”

“I have a very delicate stomach, I'm afraid,” Leona said. “But do come to our meetings with your aunt, Piper. We could use some young blood.” She laughed lightly, her gaze flicking toward Mrs. Tilley as though to indicate it was their companion and not herself who qualified as aged. Leona Pennington, in Piper's opinion, wasn't that far behind, and Piper didn't much like her condescension toward sweet Mrs. Tilley. She was thinking that her own stomach might be too delicate to join any club that Leona Pennington ran, when a voice rang out from Piper's left.

“Aha! Ms. Lamb. How's that article for the women's club coming?”

Piper turned to see Marguerite Lloyd, wearing a long-skirted outfit that afternoon, though she'd stayed with the no-fuss ponytail. Piper stifled a gulp.

“Oh? What's this about?” Leona immediately asked.

“Piper, here, was out to my place getting info for your newsletter. You didn't know about it?” Her eyes narrowed as she looked back at Piper.

“It was a last-minute idea,” Piper quickly explained. “I thought club members would enjoy learning more about Marguerite's gardening and landscaping business.”

“Excellent!” Leona said. “Send it to me by Wednesday so I can edit it in time for our next newsletter. I'm delighted you'll be joining us.”

“Well, I—”

“She should send it to
me
.” Emma Leahy came up behind Piper, startling her, and in more ways than one. “I'm in charge of the club's newsletter and I handle all the editing. I doubt Piper's stuff will need much but we'll see.”

Besides her interruption, seeing Emma in an actual dress had put Piper at a momentary loss for words. Did Emma Leahy have a life beyond gardening for which she possessed up-to-date, feminine clothing? The thought boggled Piper's mind.

“Of course,” Leona said, smiling smoothly at Emma, referring to her newsletter editorship.