Olive and Let Die (7 page)

Gladys looked pleased. “I love to cook. I throw potlucks and dinner parties for my neighbors at the condo complex in Florida all winter long. Keeps me in practice.”

“I'll bet you've got lots of friends and admirers,” I said. The woman was charming, attractive, and could cook, which probably made her a hot commodity in the senior community. Rather like my mother-in-law, Sophie, although I might sometimes debate the extent of her charm. She was more like a bulldog than a French poodle.

“Oh, well, I do all right,” Gladys said modestly. “I have an idea. I'll be going back to Florida next week. These old bones don't like the cold and snow anymore, and you know how quickly the snow comes here. Why don't you take these recipes with you and you can copy what you want over the winter? There are some old ones from my mother and grandmother in there too. You can just return the boxes next spring when you're done.”

“Really?” I was salivating. And an idea was starting to form. Now that Cal was gone, and I wouldn't be spending my winters in Greece with Sophie and Spiro anymore, I was going to need something to keep me busy when the snow came. Maybe I'd write a cookbook—a Thousand Islands cookbook. A thrill of excitement ran through me.

“Well, if you're sure you trust me with them, I'd love to take you up on the offer.”

She patted my hand. “I can tell they'll be in good hands. Jack is an excellent judge of character, and if he likes you, that's good enough for me.”

I could feel my cheeks heat up. Were we that obvious?

Gladys smiled at me, her eyes shining. “Take care of that boy. Herman and I never had children of our own, and so we took a special interest in Jack and his sisters. Which is why I wouldn't trust Herman's artifact collection to anyone else.”

“Are you giving it to Jack?” I said in surprise. He was renting an apartment over the Laundromat right now. Since it wasn't right on the water, he was getting a nice deal on it. I guessed he'd find room for the stuff somewhere.

“Not exactly. Jack's sister Trish works for the New York State Archaeology Department. Since I have no living relatives, and since I don't need the money, I decided it was time to make arrangements for the collection to go to where it can stay together and do the most educational good. Trish couldn't make it here from Albany before I leave for Florida next week, so Jack agreed to package up and deliver the items to her.”

Jack returned. “I've loaded all the paperwork into the boat—good thing it's all in covered plastic boxes. I suppose it would have been simpler to just bring a car, though it would be a tight fit in my Jeep.”

Gladys nodded. “Boat, Jeep, it's all the same to me. So when can you come back and pack up the actual collection for Trish?”

“I've bought containers, but it looks like I'll need to run to Watertown and pick up a few more based on the size of the collection. How about tomorrow afternoon?” Jack said.

“That'll be fine. Why don't you come for lunch, and bring Georgie too? We've had a nice chat and I'd like to get to know her better.” Gladys smiled.

“I'd like that too, Gladys. I've got some . . . friends in
town, so I'll have to see what their plans are.” My thoughts drifted back to Melanie and Caitlyn.

“Feel free to bring them along. I'll be leaving next week and I've got a refrigerator full of food to use up. Just call ahead of time and let me know how many plates to set.”

She was adorable. I wasn't sure if I wanted to expose her to Melanie just yet.

SEVEN

Jack and I had a late, leisurely lunch of thick, juicy burgers and crispy French fries at the Black Bear Café in the next town upriver from the Bay. We motored back to the Bay and he delivered me and my boxes of recipes to the door of the Bonaparte House. Its two-hundred-year-old solid stone walls weren't quite as fancy as Gladys's grand Victorian, but it was beautiful to me. Jack gave me a quick kiss, again not bothering to check if anyone was watching, and said he'd call me tomorrow to see if I wanted to go retrieve the rest of the arrowheads with him.

I unlocked the back door—Dolly, Marina, and Sophie apparently hadn't returned from their shopping trip yet—and went through the kitchen and down the short hallway to my office. I set the recipe boxes on the small table inside the door, hung up my jacket, and booted up my laptop. Although
it was tempting to rip into those recipes immediately, there was work to be done first.

What are you doing back in my life, Melanie? And why now?

A search box opened and I plugged in “Melanie Ashley.” I scrolled through the results. A whole gallery of photos popped up. She'd been linked romantically at one time with a much younger former Disney star, so there were numerous pictures of the two of them draped all over each other. He was cute, with dark hair and electric green eyes. Couldn't blame her for that. I found a picture of Melanie all glammed up alongside Caitlyn, who faded into the background with her mousy looks. Here she was at the Daytime Emmy Awards, wearing a gold lamé gown that was cut so low it might have been stolen from J-Lo's closet. The caption read,
Skunked Again
. The Emmy still eluded her, as far as I knew.

I backed out of the pictures and perused the gossip about her. Messy breakup with the grown-up Disney kid. Speculation about an affair with Jon Bon Jovi—she'd told me that wasn't true, which Mrs. Bon Jovi would be relieved to hear. No mention of any children or her family life. I guess that was a blessing.

My gut clenched as I read the next entry, dated two weeks ago.
Soap Star on the Verge of Bankruptcy.
Melanie had put her Bel Air mansion up for sale. I hit Print, then opened my bottom drawer. If this didn't call for dark chocolate, nothing did.

I leaned back in my chair, letting the candy melt on my tongue as the reality sank in. If the gossip sheets were to be believed, Melanie was in financial trouble. There'd been
some national news coverage of the discovery of the jewels here at the Bonaparte House a couple of months ago, which she could easily have heard about. And there was also the matter of the late-eighteenth-century table that had belonged to Joseph Bonaparte—a table that was being authenticated and was expected to bring in a half-million dollars at auction.

I sighed with some relief as I remembered what my mother didn't know. The proceeds from these treasures were never going to trickle down to me. The jewels were tied up in litigation with the Spanish government. A finder's fee might be awarded at some point, but that was probably years down the road. And the table belonged to Sophie, fair and square. So my mother-in-law, already well off, was going to be a very rich woman indeed. She'd already told me that she planned to leave a percentage of her wealth to Spiro, with the bulk going into trust for Callista until my daughter turned thirty.

Me? Well, I didn't have expensive tastes and I saved most of the salary I earned from my work managing the Bonaparte House. Not that that was exorbitant, but I'd be okay even if Sophie sold the restaurant out from under me. Sad, but okay. That thought called for another square of chocolate.

And what about Doreen? I wasn't exactly sure when Melanie had gotten into town, but it had to have been just about the time Doreen was killed. I felt sick to my stomach. Would Melanie stoop to murder? If it was true that Doreen had no family other than Melanie and me, Melanie would, ironically, stand to inherit her own parents' farm, even after they'd cut her out of the will. And yet the farm couldn't be worth that much. Farmland was cheap and abundant in the North Country. Drive down any country road in Jefferson
or St. Lawrence County and you'd see at least one or two abandoned farms, the buildings standing bravely against the frigid winters until eventually they caved in.

I shook my head. She might need money, but I had to believe my mother was not a murderer.

Doreen.
I had to make arrangements for her.

I dialed the BBPD.

“Bonaparte Bay Police Department. How may I direct your call?” Cindy. Of course.

“Cindy, this is Georgie. Can I talk to Rick or Tim?”

“Why, did you find another body?” She snickered.

“Did you miss your sensitivity training workshop, Cindy? Death isn't funny. Put the chief on, will you? I've got a casserole in the oven and it only has a few minutes to go.” Only a bit of a fib. More like a prediction. As soon as I got off the phone, I was going to put together a pastitsio for dinner.

She harrumphed but I heard a click on the line. “Moriarty, here. What can I do for you, Georgie?”

“Rick, I've just found out that I might be related to Doreen Webber, the dead woman. Have you found any family?”

“I've had people out at her house looking through her personal effects. We found a copy of a will that lists a—there was a sound of shuffling papers—Shirley Bartlett aka Melanie Ashley as her heir and executrix. Isn't that the actress from
The Desperate and the Defiant
? I heard she was in town.”

So it was true. “Yes, Melanie is in town, staying over at the Spa. I . . . know her, so I'll contact her to get the ball rolling on the arrangements.” I tapped at the wood of my desk with a fingernail. “Has there been an autopsy?”

“Preliminary results are in—I don't see any harm in telling you, since you found the body and it was a clear case of strangulation. We recovered a length of what appears to be restaurant plastic wrap braided into a rope, which you also saw.”

I wondered if the CSI team from the State Police or Sheriff's Department had found anything, but Rick was unlikely to tell me more than he already had and I didn't want to press my luck by seeming too nosy.

“Rick, I'm not sure what the protocol is here, but would you tell the coroner or whoever's in charge that when the body is released they should contact Clive Miller at the Miller Funeral Home?”

“Sure thing,” and he hung up.

I made a quick call to Clive, with whom I'd gone to high school, to let him know to expect Doreen. I told him to contact me when the body arrived and I'd come in to arrange the services. Then I headed to the kitchen. Nothing but doing some cooking for people I loved was going to help me sort through this muddle and make me feel better.

I washed up and donned an apron, then filled a big stainless steel stock pot with water and set it on the burner, which I turned all the way up. I added a generous sprinkle of salt, and gave the saline mixture a stir. While I waited for the water to boil, I chopped an onion and cooked it with some ground beef, drained it, then added plain tomato sauce, cinnamon, and nutmeg and set it to simmer while I whipped up a flavorful béchamel, loaded with cheese. In Greece I would have used a traditional cheese like mizithra, but since that was not available anywhere close to Bonaparte Bay, I substituted fresh-grated parmesan.

When the bucatini was still slightly underdone, I drained it and dumped half into a baking dish, then layered it with the meat sauce, the rest of the pasta, and then topped everything with the cheesy béchamel. The whole heavy pan went into the oven.

I whipped up a salad of romaine lettuce, cucumbers, and tomatoes, dished up some plump, briny olives, and pulled some homemade bread dough out of the freezer to bake just before serving. When they returned, I'd invite Dolly and Marina to stay for dinner. There would be plenty of delicious Greek comfort food—Spiro and Inky could come too, if they didn't have other plans. I felt a need to have my family—my real family, which was not necessarily my biological family—surrounding me.

I set the timer on the oven, put my apron on its hook by the back door, and returned to my office to see if I could find any more information on my mother. I'd barely sat down when the buzzer for the kitchen door rang. Probably Sophie, with her arms full of packages. She loved to shop—although, she also managed to keep her bedroom pretty much clutter-free, a skill I'd never mastered and probably never would.

“Coming,” I called out and hustled to the back door to help. I threw open the door, then felt as though I'd been gut-punched. It wasn't my mother-in-law standing in the doorway. It was my favorite cop—Lieutenant Edmond Hawthorne.