“I never claimed that I was separated.” Lincoln’s voice was slick as oil on wet pavement.
“Liar. You did too. On the phone as well as by text. I wouldn’t have attended this party otherwise, and you know it. I thought we were going to meet here for a fun evening, and what do I find? Why, just your wife, who’s obviously not divorcing you anytime soon. Not to mention your teenage daughter, who you somehow neglected to mention at all.” The fury in Julie’s voice was as obvious as the total lack of concern in Lincoln Delamont’s.
I backed away, shocked by this discovery. Even though I was aware that Lincoln had visited Beaufort on many other occasions—when he’d registered, he’d admitted being familiar with the area from previous book-buying trips—I’d never heard Julie mention him.
So Lincoln is her mystery man? That’s certainly not what I ever imagined.I took a deep breath and marched back across the patio, ignoring a question from one of the Sandberg sisters.“Sorry, need to check something in the kitchen,” I called over my shoulder.
What I really needed was a moment to collect my thoughts. Unfortunately, as soon as I stepped into the kitchen, I realized I’d be thwarted in that goal. Pete Nelson and Damian were embroiled in an argument—one that had reduced them both to shouting and forced Alicia to demand that they take their issues outside.
“Enough!” I strode to the center of the kitchen, stepping between the two men. Peter swore and stomped out of the room, while Damian ripped off his chef’s hat and turned and kicked the ice maker with such force that the machine rattled and fell silent.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Alicia said. “Broken that thing just when we need more ice.”
Damian spat out a string of expletives that would’ve done a merchant sailor proud. “I’m done,” he said, rolling up his knives in a canvas pouch. “The meal is over, so you no longer need me. Have fun dealing with this bunch for the rest of the evening.” He tied off the pouch with a vicious knot before grabbing his hat and storming past me. “Dock my pay if you want.”
“I will,” I said, although I knew I probably wouldn’t do any such thing.
Alicia, fiddling with the controls on the ice maker, glanced over at me. “Dead as a doornail. What do we do now? That crew outside is going through ice like tourists lost in the Sahara.”
I sighed and whipped the coif off my head, exposing my not-ready-for-the-fifteenth-century hair. “I’ll run out and pick up a bag or two at the local food mart. You stay here and man the barricades.”
“All right.” Alicia looked me up and down. “But that getup might cause a bit of confusion with the slushy-and-malt-liquor crowd.”
“They’ll have to deal. Back in thirty minutes or less,” I added as I grabbed my purse from the storeroom. “Check on the bar and replace any empty wine bottles, okay?”
“Sure, sure.” Alicia waved me off. “I’ve handled worse. Remember the Roaring Twenties weekend and that bunch that tried to outdo Fitzgerald’s boozing? If I could deal with that, I’m pretty sure I can manage this crowd.”
I cast her a grin and headed out the door.
Twenty-five minutes and several curious stares and comments later, I pulled my car up in front of the carriage house. I often parked there, as it was an out-of-the-way spot that kept the main lot free for the guests. Popping open my trunk, I grabbed two bags of ice and headed for Chapters’ back door.
“Here, can you deal with these? I have to go back out for a couple more,” I said as I entered the kitchen. When Alicia took the bags, I noticed deep lines crinkling the corners of her dark eyes. “Anything wrong?”
“No, just missing a knife. I think Damian must’ve taken it when he stormed out of here. Mixed it up with his own, I guess.”
I turned to head back outside for the other bags of ice. “Well, we can ask him about that easily enough.”
“Sure, but then there’s the key.”
“What key?” I paused, holding the back door ajar.
“To the carriage house. The extra one I keep in the drawer here with all the other duplicates.” Alicia pointed toward an open cabinet drawer, which held an insert that organized keys. “I can’t imagine who would’ve taken that. Mr. Kepler has his own.”
I frowned, but the thought of ice melting in my trunk made me shrug off this anomaly. “I’ll ask around in a minute. Let me grab the rest of the ice first.”
Looking up when I reached my car, I recognized the tall, lanky figure standing in the open doorway of the carriage house. It was Scott.
I waved. “Oh hi. Mind helping? It’ll only take a minute.”
When he stepped forward into the light spilling from a nearby streetlight, I noticed that his skin seemed stretched too tightly over the angular bones of his face. He was pale, too, which threw his freckles into sharp relief and created a vivid contrast with his auburn hair. “Sorry, I … but I think you’d better forget that,” he said, his voice eerily devoid of emotion.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s Lincoln Delamont.” Scott blinked rapidly, and his hands, which were hanging loosely at his sides, twitched like beached fish. “He’s inside.”
“Doing what?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid.” Scott pressed one shaking hand to his temple. “He’s been stabbed. There’s blood everywhere, and I think”—his lips trembled so violently he had to take an audible breath before speaking again—“I’m afraid he’s quite dead.”
