Chapter Six
I stared at Scott, my mouth working while no sound emerged from my lips. “I have ice in the trunk,” I finally said, as if that ordinary statement could erase what had happened.
Scott shook his head. “I should stay here. I’ve already called 911, so someone will be here soon.”
“Sure, okay.” I drew in a shuddery breath. “You stay, and don’t let anyone else get too close. I’ll take these bags inside.”
Scott’s stare was unfocused, as if he was seeing something other than the scene in front of him. “I was out at another engagement. Just got back. Door was open when I got here.”
I thought about Alicia’s missing key. “Of course.” I grabbed the two remaining bags of ice, slamming down the trunk lid with my other hand. “I can come back if you want.”
Scott leaned against the wood siding of the carriage house. “No, I’m fine. You go on inside.”
Clutching the ice bags in one hand and several folds of my gown in the other, I ran to the back door, the damp plastic soaking one side of my raised skirts.
Alicia took the dripping bags from my hands as soon as I entered the kitchen. “What in the world? Looks like you just saw a ghost.”
A bubble of nervous laughter burst from my trembling lips. “Not exactly,” I said when I got my voice under control. “But prepare yourself for a visit from the police.”
Alicia tossed the bags of ice in the sink. “Why, in heaven’s name?”
“It’s Lincoln Delamont.”
“Is he fighting with his wife again?” As Alicia turned away to dry her hands on a tea towel, I realized she had removed the full apron she typically wore over her plain black work dress. “I saw him making eyes at your friend Julie over dinner. Wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. Delamont noticed that too.”
“Uh, no. He’s not doing anything,” I said, echoing Scott. “He’s dead.”
Alicia kept her back turned, her hands twisting the towel into a fabric rope. “Heart attack?”
“No, stabbed.” My gaze flitted to the wooden knife holder on a nearby counter. The empty slot for one of the larger kitchen knives gaped like a wound.
Alicia’s gaze followed. “You aren’t thinking our knife was used …” She looked back at me, lines furrowing her brow. “Do we have to tell the police about that?”
“I think so,” I said, yanking my drooping sleeve back up over my shoulder. “Don’t you?”
Alicia looked away again. “It might get Damian in trouble, that’s all.”
I narrowed my eyes. That was odd. Alicia was not Damian Carr’s biggest fan. There was no reason for her to protect him, unless …
Unless she’s actually protecting herself.Alicia had been devoted to Isabella Harrington. She might’ve decided to silence Lincoln Delamont before he could besmirch the good name of her former boss and friend.
Then there’s all the guests …I had no way of knowing where they’d all been while I was off getting ice. I shivered—any one of them, including Scott, could’ve stabbed Lincoln Delamont while I was gone. Not to mention Damian, who’d stormed off earlier but lived in a converted garage apartment nearby.
Close enough to walk back again, I thought.And then there’s still Alicia. Who knows where that key is kept and could’ve easily snatched a knife from the kitchen.I stared at the housekeeper’s broad back.She might’ve mentioned the missing knife and key simply to establish an alibi.
I shook my head, reminding myself that this wasn’t one of my favorite mystery novels. I wasn’t Miss Marple, or Inspector Gamache, or even Nancy Drew. I couldn’t try to solve this mystery—I needed to clear my head and calmly inform my guests that there was an emergency that required them to come inside.
“Alicia,” I said, fighting the urge to laugh hysterically as my brain conjured scenes fromClueorThe Mousetrap. “Could you please wait in the parlor? I’ll get the others and join you in a few minutes.”
Alicia cast me a sharp glance. “All right, although I’ve got a lot of cleanup to do. But if you think it’s necessary …”
“I do.” I waited until Alicia exited the room before heading out the back door to collect the others.
Including Lincoln’s wife and daughter.I stiffened my spine as I marched onto the patio, determined to deal with the situation without breaking into tears.
I could do it. I’d handled worse news before.
I managed to herd the guests into the parlor, despite their protests and several demands that they be allowed to change out of their costumes. Ignoring my request to remain as they were, Pete Nelson had already whipped off his monk’s robe, revealing a plain T-shirt and shorts. After briefly explaining to the entire group that there had been a suspicious death in the carriage house, I told Pete to be prepared to hand over the costume to the authorities, while assuring Kelly Rowley, who’d obviously shed her cloak, that anything left on the patio would be collected in due time.
