Chapter 11
“I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.”
—Daisy Buchanan in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby
At the end of the day, Vanna begged off helping me bake.
She’d scored a gig preparing dinner for the mayor.
How could I tell her to pass it up? So rather than go to Dream Cuisine, I went home, preferring to be in a cozy environment while I made the goods for tomorrow’s deliveries and tested a couple of the recipes I wanted to serve at the Gatsby party.
I pocketed my cell phone and released Darcy from his carrier. He bounded across the living room. “Hold on, mister. I need to check your surroundings.”
I picked him up, set him in the alcove by the dining table to observe, ordered him to stay put, and strode to the fireplace.
He must’ve realized I was serious, because he sat as still as a statue.
I got down on my knees and ran my palms across the flooring and the stones of the hearth.
I didn’t find anything that might snag his toenails or pads.
I peered at him over my shoulder. “Where did you hurt yourself?”
He mewed, clueless, it seemed.
I bent lower to peer under the armchair. At the same time my cell phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket. Tegan was calling. I answered.
“Help me!” she pleaded.
I scrambled to my feet. “What’s wrong?”
“I have to do an intervention with Mom.”
“Oh, geez.” Relief swept over me. She wasn’t hurt. She hadn’t been mugged on the way home, not that she would be in Bramblewood. Purse snatchings weren’t common. “Is that all?”
“Is that all?” She sounded half hysterical.
“I have to bake.”
“Pretty please? Afterward, I’ll help you.”
I laughed out loud. “As if.” Like Chloe, Tegan wasn’t much of a cook. Too wrapped up in a book or a tech project, she’d lose track of time. “I’ll give you an hour.”
“Bless you. Would you bring cookies? Mom’s favorites are—”
“Double-chocolate chip. Yes, I’ll bring some.” I always kept a stash in the freezer. They defrosted well without losing any flavor or texture.
I fed Darcy, checked his water, told him to behave, and headed to the B&B.
Helga met me in the foyer and instantly wrinkled her nose when she saw I was carrying a white pastry box with my signature label. “We have had dessert already,” she said stiffly.
“Yes, but these are for Noeline. Tegan is worried about her.”
Helga folded her hands. “All right. I will allow it. She did not taste the chocolate cream pie I made.” She lowered her voice. “Between you and me, Noeline is losing weight. I am not sure if it is because of that man.”
That man was the one Noeline had been dating until things soured.
“I try to get her to eat more,” Helga said, “but she waves me off.”
Tegan could be right about her mother doing too much. The anxiety might be squelching her appetite. “I’ll make sure she eats at least one.”
“She is in the kitchen with Tegan. Also, if you will stop in the office first and tell Patrick to mute the noise. It bothers the guests.” She proceeded into the nearby parlor.
What noise? I wondered. I didn’t hear anything overt. And why was Patrick here so late? Was he falling behind, or had he hung around in hopes of seeing Tegan?
I swung by the office and paused at the doorway. Patrick was buffing the wall with a flat piece of sandpaper, whistling “American Idiot,” another Green Day song. Clearly, he had a favorite band. The whistling wasn’t loud. Helga was being a curmudgeon.
“Hi, Patrick. Sorry to bother you.”
He glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes narrowed. Had dust flown into them? He wasn’t wearing goggles.
“Helga requested you whistle softer.” I pinched two fingers together to signify the words Mute it.
His glower morphed into a grin, and he gestured as if locking his lips.
I continued on to the kitchen. Tegan and her mother were standing on the far side of the center island. Noeline’s arms were folded. Tegan’s were spread wide.
“All I’m saying, Mom—” She caught sight of me. “You talk to her, Allie.” She huffed and mirrored her mother’s posture.
“Hi, Noeline. Is Tegan being bossy?”
“You might call it that.” The right side of Noeline’s mouth quirked up with humor.
“Some wingman you are,” Tegan groused at me.
“I didn’t promise to take your side.” I popped open the box of cookies. “Double-chocolate chip.”
Noeline snatched one and hummed as she bit into it. “Yum.”
“All I’m saying,” Tegan continued, “while your mouth is full and you can’t respond, is owning and operating two bed-andbreakfasts seems like a major undertaking.”
“I heard you the first time,” Noeline said around a second bite of cookie.
“Will you hire another manager? Who will you hire as the housekeeper and cook? Helga can’t be in two places at once. You’re not being reasonable, Mother.”
Noeline swallowed and brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth. “And you’re not listening to my explanation, Daughter. I told you before, Helga has a friend who is equally efficient and talented, and she will be available. As for an additional manager, I can oversee both.”
“All the extra registrations? All the additional requests for tour suggestions?”
Noeline blew a raspberry. “I can do it in my sleep.”
“What if something breaks? Like a water heater or the stoves or—”
“The place is in mint condition.”
“Or the roof falls in?”
“Patrick or one of his crew is perfectly capable of reroofing it. End of discussion.” She took another cookie and left the room.
Tegan sank onto a stool by the island. “Well, that went well. Not.”
I sat on the other stool, our knees nearly touching. “Can you imagine if I told Fern what to do? You have to honor your mom’s wishes. She’s a grown woman. She’s capable. She’s made this place into a destination spot. And she’s been a tad despondent ever since …” I paused.
“Ever since he-who-shall-not-be-named left the picture. Yeah, don’t remind me.” She grunted.
Not long ago Noeline dated a financial consultant and hoped he would become the next love of her life.
She hadn’t fallen for anyone since Tegan’s father died.
The consultant raised money for the hospital and seemed nice enough, but he turned out to be a rotter.
He had never loved Noeline. He’d used her.
Since their breakup, she had devoted herself to work and had vowed she would never date again.
As a result, Tegan and Vanna had been highly protective of her.
“Too much idle time can mess with one’s mind,” I went on.
“‘Idle hands are the devil’s playground,’ Helga says.”
“So did Benjamin Franklin.” I peeked over my shoulder. “By the way, why is Patrick here so late?”
“He promised Mom he’d make his completion date come hell or high water.”
“A sense of responsibility. Good to hear.”
“Helga doesn’t like him.”
I grinned. “I know. She asked me to tell him to keep the noise to a minimum.”
“He is quite the whistler.”
“And ruggedly handsome.”
“Ahem.” She cleared her throat. “Might I remind you he and Jason went at it at the shop? Patrick worried Jason would trash up the place. Jason shot back with his own snipe, something about Patrick having a sketchy past. If Patrick is the kind of person to hold a grudge, he could be a killer.”
I gasped. She’d thought the same thing I had? “Yes, they fought, but they reconciled, and Jason hired Patrick to repair the back porch at the estate.”
“Says who?”
“Patrick. They bumped into each other at town hall and worked out their grievances.”
She raised an eyebrow skeptically. “And you believed him?”
“Well …” Did I? I hadn’t swung by town hall to investigate whether anyone had witnessed their ceasefire.
“Yeah, I knew it. You’re as curious as I am.” She squinted one eye. “He should definitely be on Zach’s suspect list.”
“But he couldn’t have killed Jason. This morning, when I brought him and his crew muffins, with no prompting, he told me he went caving last night.”
“Yeah?” Tegan sniggered. “He just happened to tell you his alibi?”
She was right. He could have been covering his tracks. “I noticed his shoes were muddy, and mentioned it. He said the caverns are always wet.”
“Hold on! You saw mud on his shoes? Meaning he might have been the one to track mud into Jason’s foyer?” She leaped off her stool. “Let’s ask him about it.” She purposefully strode down the hall.
I raced to catch up. “Don’t attack him.”
“Moi? Je ne l’accuserai pas.” She swatted the air.
My French was nearly nonexistent—I’d taken Spanish in high school—but I recognized the word accuse in her sentence and knew that Je ne meant “I won’t,” so I breathed easier.
“I’ll be charm personified,” she added and shimmied her shoulders.
“Hello, Patrick,” she crooned as she entered the room.
He was stretching. The hem of his work shirt had risen above the waistband of his jeans, revealing a firm set of abs. Quickly, he lowered his arms. “Hi, ladies.” He shifted the gum he was chewing to the inside of his cheek. “I stopped whistling.”
“Not on our account, I hope.” Tegan used a lusty come-hither voice. “I like when you whistle.”
Patrick’s cheeks flushed pink.
“Actually,” she continued, “I wanted to talk to you about your specialty diet. You’re a raw-food omnivore, I hear.”
Phew. She didn’t lead with mud.
“Meaning you eat raw eggs and raw meat and raw vegetables, but cooked foods and processed grains are a no-no, right?”
He nodded.
“And yet you eat muffins.” She winked at him, and I had to marvel at how perfectly she was acting, having never taken to the stage.
“I have a weakness.” He chuckled shyly.
“Allie tells me you went caving last night,” she said.
Sheesh. Too direct.I held my breath.
“What’s it like?” she continued. “I’ve never been caving.”
His nervousness eased, and he became animated. “It’s, like, so cool. I could take you sometime.” His hands soared through the air. “The bats are amazing.”
“Bats? I love bats.”