Olive and Let Die (15 page)

Caitlyn flinched, ever so slightly. Maybe she knew about Liza and Channing, maybe she didn't. I hated to bust anyone's romantic bubble, but she'd be better off not getting too attached to Channing the Enchanter.

“‘Taken' is such a relative term,” Melanie said, spearing a juicy hunk of strawberry.

“Finish up, ladies,” I said, waving for a server to come and clear the table. “We have a lot to do today.”

“Fine,” Melanie huffed. “I rarely eat breakfast anyway. I'm not in the habit of getting up with the chickens. Come on, Caitlyn.”

She rose obediently, picked up the two small bags, and we made our way to the dock. I sent a quick thank-you text to Liza. Not very personal, but she'd understand.

A few minutes later we were motoring toward town. Melanie had tied a gray scarf over her blond coif and donned her enormous sunglasses. She hunkered down against the breeze that blew off the water. Caitlyn punched something into her omnipresent phone. Channing looked rather masterful at the helm of the boat. Conversation was pretty much impossible without shouting, so I just watched the scenery go by.

And scenery in September in northern New York is spectacular. The islands and the shores on both sides of the international border, which runs right through the middle of the river, were ablaze with reds, yellows, and oranges set against a backdrop of tall evergreens. With the bright blue sky and the clear water, I took a moment to enjoy the beauty around me. Because when we disembarked, I was going to confront Melanie and Caitlyn and things were going to get ugly.

Channing pulled up at the village dock and extended each
of us a hand in turn. Melanie pulled her scarf farther over her face and headed for the mainland, her stylish but impractical high heels clattering on the hard wooden surface. “Hurry up!” she said to Caitlyn, who hustled along behind her carrying the bags.

I thanked Channing as he tied off the boat. “When you see Liza, tell her I said thank you again, will you?”

A blush rose in his sculpted cheeks. Hot and adorable at the same time. Hotdorable. “I've got a few jobs to finish up around town before the weekend. But I might head back to the island tonight.”

I smiled. “I'll see you, Channing. If you want lunch, come around to the back door of the Bonaparte House. We're not officially open again until tomorrow night, but I'll be in the kitchen.”

“I might just take you up on that,” he said.

Melanie could move surprisingly quickly on those heels. She and Caitlyn were just stepping onto the sidewalk. I set off at a quick trot to catch up with them. I wasn't wearing the right bra for running. This body was made for walking. Even that I didn't do enough of.

I caught up with the two of them in the municipal parking lot. Caitlyn lifted the trunk lid and stowed their small bags in the back. “Hold up,” I said.

Melanie glanced around. “Keep your voice down, will you? That reporter is over by the Dumpsters and I don't want him taking my picture when I look like this.”

I glanced over. Sure enough, the tall, lanky frame of Spencer Kane was standing there, camera on a strap around
his neck, staring in our direction and making notes on a small pad. Melanie ducked into the car, slammed the door, and rolled down the window.

“Melanie. We need to talk. Now.”

She huffed. “Later, Georgie. We've got to get to Watertown and get our shopping done. Are there any decent stores at that mall? Probably not even a Lord & Taylor.”

No, no Lord & Taylor. The North Country was more of a Penney's kind of place.

I relented. “Fine. Go get yourself some clothes, and get something nice for Doreen. I'll call Clive at the funeral home and ask him to check the size on the clothes she was wearing when they brought her in and I'll text it to you. But you—both of you—come to the Bonaparte House this afternoon. You owe me some answers and I'm not waiting any longer.”

“That reporter is headed this way,” Caitlyn said.

“Drive,” Melanie ordered. “I'll see you later, Georgie.” She rolled up the tinted window of the rental car and they peeled out of the parking lot, fishtailing slightly on the gravel and leaving me in a cloud of dust.

Spencer snapped a few pictures of the car as he continued to walk toward me. I glanced around. I'd have to walk right past him to get back home unless I wanted to cut cross-lots behind the rest of the Theresa Street businesses. Oh well, it wasn't me he was interested in.

“Georgie,” he said.

Might as well get this over with. “Hey, Spencer. What's up?”

“I could ask you the same question, and probably get a more interesting answer. Look, you and I need to talk.”

“If this is about Melanie, I've got nothing for you.”

He turned his head in the direction they'd gone. “Yes and no. It's about Doreen.”

Had he heard about our relationship? It wasn't exactly secret. I'm sure plenty of people had figured out Melanie's real identity by now, once they learned that she and I were in charge of Doreen's arrangements. Everybody knew everybody in Bonaparte Bay and the environs.

“It's important,” he said.

“If you know something about Doreen's death, you should go to the police.”

He flipped his notebook shut and shoved it in the pocket of his rumpled khakis. “I have a little more research to do, then I will, I promise. But I want to talk to you first. Tomorrow? That will give me enough time to find the last bit of information I need.”

Tomorrow was going to be busy, with the funeral and the luncheon afterward. But I was intrigued. What information could he have that he needed to tell me before he went to the police? “All right. If you promise not to take pictures of the mourners, or bother them in any way, come to the funeral lunch at the Bonaparte House. Once the guests leave, we can talk.”

He nodded. “Pinky swear.” His eyes gazed squarely into mine. “And Georgie? Be careful.” He loped off in the direction of the three-story stone building that housed the
Bay Bl
urb
.

Be careful? There was a murderer loose in the Bay, so everyone had to be careful until he was caught. But I had the feeling he meant me specifically. Was I in danger? If I
was, it was kind of crappy of Spencer to leave me hanging until tomorrow. Maybe I'd ask Spiro to come and stay in his old room tonight. Inky too if he was out on bail.

I made my way to the Bonaparte House, entering through the kitchen door. Dolly was already there, prepping the salad ingredients. “Mornin', boss,” she said. “I saw your list, so I thought I'd get started.”

“Thanks.” I grabbed a clean apron from the neatly folded pile under one of the counters, then crossed to the sink. I squirted some antibacterial soap into my hands, then began to scrub. A fresh pair of gloves and I was ready to work.

Dolly handed me a bowl of finely chopped onions. “Snazzy earrings, by the way. But you know I already had my birthday this summer, right?”

The overhead lights sparkled on the silver hoops. Dolly had another birthday, the one listed on her driver's license and birth certificate, coming up in the winter. She usually had two per year. This year there were three.

“I saw them and thought you'd like them. How's things?” I pulled out packages of ground lamb and pork and dumped them into a large stainless mixing bowl. The chopped onions went on top, along with mint and oregano, fresh bread crumbs, milk, and a pinch of nutmeg. I plunged my hands into the mixture and began to blend gently. This could be done in the food processor or the stand mixer, but hands were still the best tools and it meant fewer dishes to wash. I began to scoop and roll the keftedes into golf-ball-sized spheres.

“Eh, can't complain. Harold finally got the RV running, so we're headed for Branson after Columbus Day.”

“That'll be fun.” Scoop and roll. The rhythm was hypnotic.
I'd made so many Greek meatballs over the years I could form them perfectly in my sleep. “Uh, Dolly? You're happy here, right?” I held my breath, waiting for her response. What would I do if she said no?

She laughed, a rattly sound that bubbled in her throat from years of smoking. She'd recently quit but she'd be feeling the effects for the rest of her life. Hopefully, it wouldn't kill her. “Ha! You worried Spiro is going to steal me away?” She placed the sliced onions, rough-chopped tomatoes, and sliced cucumbers into separate covered containers. Tomorrow we would mix them together with some olive oil, salt and pepper, and crumble feta over the top. She began to grate cucumber and garlic for the tzatziki sauce.

I grinned. “A little, I guess.” Scoop and roll.

“Well, I'm not going anywhere,” she said firmly. “I've known Spiro since he was a kid, but you're my friend
and
my boss. Besides, who'd drive Sophie around? We gotta keep her off the roads,” she added under her breath.

That was a load off my mind. “If he offers you more money, you let me know. I'll do better.”

I could almost hear the calculations running in her head, underneath that mountain of lacquered hair. “Yup,” was all she said as she loaded the prepped food into the walk-in cooler.

Dolly mixed up the dough for the desserts—simple chocolate chip cookies and classic lemon squares, which would be a perfect light finish to tomorrow's meal. The trays of meatballs went into a hot oven to brown. I checked my watch. Nearly noon. I was supposed to help Jack reorganize Monty's papers. But Melanie and Caitlyn should be back soon—they'd better be, or we'd have to wrap poor Doreen
in a blanket to put her on display tonight. I wondered briefly if a viewing and an open casket were what she would have wanted. No way to know.

My cell phone pinged. A text from Jack. My heart leapt a little.

Making a quick trip to Oswego to get some things out of my storage unit, then I'm heading over to Gladys's to see if I can help her pack. We'll mess with the files tomorrow. XXOOX, Jack.

The L-word hadn't passed between us yet, but we'd progressed to X's and O's, and that made me happy. It was just as well he'd postponed our paperwork date. It would give me more time with Melanie.

Where was she? I dialed her number, but neither she nor Caitlyn picked up. A little bubble of anger formed in my gut. She'd better not try to pull a disappearing act like she'd done yesterday, running off to hide out at the Spa.

There was plenty to keep me busy while I waited. I ascended the spiral staircase in the center of the building, up and around to our living quarters on the second floor. Funny, but my room was just as cluttered as the last time I'd been here, so clearly the cleaning fairies had not made an appearance. I rummaged through my closet for something suitable to wear tonight. What did one wear to the calling hours of a relative one didn't know? The navy blue jersey dress would be perfect. And tomorrow I could wear my black tailored suit. Miraculously, they were still in their dry cleaning bags, so I stripped off the plastic and hung both
outfits on the bathroom door. I rummaged around in the closet and found a pair of simple black pumps. My feet gave a throb in anticipation of wearing heels. Shoes needed to be practical and comfortable in the restaurant business, but I could hardly wear my white sneakers with a skirt. I even found a pair of nude hose, so I was in business.

Downstairs, I opened the door to my office, which had been the Bonaparte House's original library. Autumn sunlight streamed in through the tall, narrow windows, which once overlooked formal gardens but now presided over the employee parking lot.

The urge to slack off—to open up the romance novel I'd been reading, to take a nap—was strong within me. But there'd be plenty of time for slacking off once we closed on Columbus Day. I gazed wistfully at Gladys's box of recipes. I could almost—almost—justify looking through it for culinary treasures. In the end, I planned the specials through the end of the season, placed my orders with Rainbow Acres and the supplier in Watertown, processed payroll, and did the scheduling for the next couple of weeks.

Doodles and sketches filled the pad of paper in front of me, as I made notes for the off-season. The customer restrooms hadn't been upgraded in years and they were showing their age. I called the local contractor and scheduled him to come in for an estimate. It would be nice to redecorate my bedroom this winter. Maybe I'd do Cal's room as well.

*   *   *

Melanie and Caitlyn
pulled into the employee parking lot in their black rental car at five o'clock. I was livid. Turns out
they'd been back for hours, had dropped off the burial outfit for Doreen at the funeral home (good thing nobody else had died, so Clive had time to dress her), and then gone driving around the North Country. Or so they said. Without bothering to call me. I took them upstairs into Cal's room and instructed them to change and be ready to leave in twenty minutes.

They emerged more or less on time, and we all piled into the rental car for the three-block trip to the funeral home. Clive greeted us at the door, looking dignified and handsome in his dark suit, his silvery hair brushed back to reveal a widow's peak over a pair of pale eyes. He was probably fifty or so, with grown kids and an ex-wife.

“Come in,” he said. “She's in the front room, if you'd like a few moments with Doreen before people arrive.” He gestured to the right, where white letters on a black easel spelled out “Doreen Webber.” “The clothing fit perfectly, by the way.”

Melanie made no move to enter the room, so I led the way. Doreen lay in a coffin made of polished mahogany with brass handles. The casket flowers were lovely. I had no idea what colors she liked, so I had ordered pink roses and white carnations, figuring everyone liked pink. She looked peaceful on her white satin pillow, and her slightly frizzy dark hair had been tamed into an attractive cap. The high neck of her blouse covered the evidence of her manner of death.