“Your brother would never quit his job or encourage your sister to learn such things.”
“Pete would rather dream up another boat design than speak to a woman. Including those in the family.”
“That may be, but I notice you have no comments regarding his commitment to the family business.”
He groaned. “I thought you came to have lunch, not to harangue me in Far’s stead.”
Her face softened, and she patted his cheek. “We’ll eat. And then we’ll discuss your future.”
“Can’t wait,” he muttered as he moved to the picnic basket and began removing covered containers. “Did you bring kardemummabullar?”
“Of course. It’s the price I will gladly pay to pry your mind.” She winked at him as she uncovered a plate of fragrant cardamom buns. “Speaking of—Astrid. Don’t you dare go up those stairs.”
Astrid froze, one foot on the ship ladder on the far side of the kitchen. “I was only going to?—”
“Cause trouble, that’s what. You know as well as I do that the upstairs rooms are covered in dust.” She pointed a finger at Astrid. “Heed me, child. Turning yourself into a walking dust mop in petticoats will not get you out of calling on Mrs. Harper this afternoon.”
“It’s not her I mind.”
“I very much doubt young Jim will be present. Mrs. Harper has assured me he’s busy training with the university rowing team.”
“As if I’m not!” Astrid’s eyes narrowed. “Mor, he’s the worst. He’s a flirt, a know-it-all?—”
“He’s my friend’s son and your brother’s apprentice. You might as well learn to get along.” She marched over and draped her coat across the topmost ladder rung. “The upstairs is closed to naughty girls.”
Emil smirked. “And you think I’m the troublemaker?”
“She’s young. I’m still training her.” She waggled a finger in his face. “You left my house long ago. And what do you have to show for it? Well-paying jobs discarded like last year’s socks, a strained relationship with your father, and?—”
“And a streetcar-size load of disappointed women,” Astrid said.
“Astrid.”
“What?” She gave him an innocent smile as she picked up a stack of blue ceramic plates and backed into the dining room. “It’s the truth.”
“Just because something is the truth doesn’t mean you should speak it aloud.” Beata pinched the bridge of her nose and clucked her tongue. “You’re the source of my newest gray hairs, as Emil is your father’s.”
“And he mine.” Emil grabbed the drinking glasses and followed Astrid before Beata could launch into another complaint, one of the many she seemed to have locked and loaded. “She’s in a rare state,” he muttered as he set the glasses in place.
“She and Far were up late, worrying over something.”
“You, most likely.”
“Posh,” Astrid huffed. “Say, did you finish my new sweater yet? I need it for the pre-season banquet.”
“I did.” He crossed to his basket of supplies in the corner of the room and lifted the red and white knit sweater resting atop his other projects. “It took me all month, so try not to poke holes in this one.”
“Tell that dratted Jim not to put metal oarlocks where anyone could walk into them. Pete thinks he’s perfect, but I know the truth. Oh! How pretty.” Her tirade forgotten, she lunged toward his basket and seized his latest project, an incomplete scarf. “Can I have it?”
“No.” He held out his hand until Astrid huffed and returned it. “I’ve spent far too many hours on the pattern. Not to mention the wool came all the way from Ireland. I’m not giving it up.” He double checked whether the knitting needles had slipped free before nestling the scarf atop the remaining hanks of fuzzy wool.
He expected Astrid to use her regular ploys—that he was her favorite brother, that she would tell Beata rumors she’d heard about him, that Pete would do it, so why couldn’t he?—when she darted behind the table with a snicker.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He knew that snicker. It was the calling card of his little sister, the one that preceded her most devious schemes, the one reserved for moments of imminent victory.
“I’ll trade you for this.”
He whirled around, and his eyes bulged. Dangling from Astrid’s hand was a bit of black cloth—a lacy stocking left over from the night before, abandoned by its curvaceous owner. A damning piece of evidence somehow overlooked by a detective whose wits were clouded by copious beer and a lack of sleep.
