The hardest person to contemplate as a killer was Julie, of course. I really couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea of my friend harming anyone, but I was worried that the authorities would view her motive as more compelling than most. Which just made me more determined to discover the actual murderer, sooner rather than later. Or, barring that, I hoped to at least clear Julie’s name before her relationship with Lincoln became public knowledge.
When I’d arranged the chairs in a wide circle, I checked my watch again. With an hour to spare before the book discussion, Idecided to retreat to my room. I wanted some time alone before facing my guests again.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I absently picked up the framed picture of Isabella I’d placed on the nightstand. It was a black-and-white photo, showing a young Isabella arm in arm with her older sister, my Grandma Ruth.
“What exactly did you get up to?” I examined Isabella’s face, with its classic features, arresting eyes, and well-shaped brows. She’d been a lovely young woman. Not as tall as her lanky sister but more voluptuous, she’d been blessed with masses of wavy brown hair and deep-set dark eyes. In the photo, her hair was swept back from her broad forehead by a pale velvet headband, giving her the look of an older Alice Liddell. “So, Isabella, what rabbit hole or mirror did you fall into after you left that estate? And what treasure did you find, or steal, there?”
Of course, I received no reply. I placed the photo back on the nightstand with a sigh. Having known my great-aunt only when she was older, I’d never given much thought to Isabella’s younger years. I drummed my fingers against the nightstand. Perhaps because they’d never been a topic of conversation at family gatherings. Any discussions involving Isabella had focused solely on her life in Beaufort.
Almost as if she didn’t exist before then, I thought, rising and crossing to my dresser. I picked up a silver-plated hairbrush that had once belonged to Isabella and ran its soft bristles through my own hair.Or maybe the older members of my family did know about some scandal in her past and were careful to avoid conversations that touched on that subject.
Knowing my Grandma Ruth’s outlook on life, I could imagine her refusing to entertain any notion that her sister might’vehad a lover, especially if the man had been married. While Grandma was tolerant enough not to cut Isabella out of her life over such a thing, she wouldn’t have publicly acknowledged the possibility. Definitely not to anyone else in the family, much less strangers.
Which doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I tapped the back of the brush against my palm and considered the alternative, which was much less pleasant. If Isabella had actually been a con artist or thief …
No, I decided,I definitely prefer the sugar-daddy option.I laid down the brush and resolved to search the attic again. Digging through some of the papers and photographs stored there might reveal the truth.
But not today. As I peered into the mirror hanging above the dresser, I realized I looked almost as pinched and drained as Kelly Rowley.
Dashing into my attached bathroom, I slapped on another coat of lipstick and a swipe of blush before heading out to join Alicia in the kitchen.
If I have to face a murderer, I thought grimly,I’d better look less like death.
Todd and Kelly were waiting in the library when I carried in the first tray of hors d’oeuvres. They were both clutching empty wineglasses, so I hurried back to the kitchen to grab some chardonnay.
“Is this okay, or do you prefer the red?” I asked when I returned with a bottle.
“No, white is fine,” Todd said, and Kelly nodded her agreement. “Better for this warm weather.”
I refilled their glasses before making several trips to the kitchen to collect more snacks and additional bottles of wine, along with the requisite glasses and a few nonalcoholic drink options.
The Sandberg sisters were the next to arrive. They bustled into the library like pigeons flocking toward a pile of bread crumbs, greeting the Rowleys in tones that held friendliness and suspicion in equal measure. They were followed by Pete and Sandy Nelson, who both clutched white paper bags.
“Thought you might appreciate some extra food.” Pete held up the bag. “I’ve got lettuce wraps, and Sandy’s toting some homemade veggie chips.”
“Thanks, but you didn’t have to do that.” In their matching Dancing Dolphin logo T-shirts and khaki shorts, the café owners looked both ordinary and innocent. I couldn’t imagine either one of them plunging a knife into Lincoln Delamont, but … someone had.
“Just leftovers from the lunch rush,” Sandy said. “You want these in the kitchen?”
“Yes, thanks. Ask Alicia to find a serving platter for you.”
“No problem.” Sandy grabbed the other bag from Pete’s hand and headed into the hall.
“How about our real murder mystery? It’s the wildest thing I’ve been involved in, I must say.” Ophelia Sandberg sank down into one of the room’s leather armchairs, fanning her face with a sheaf of handwritten notes.
“Not me.” Bernadette slumped into the library’s other armchair. “I was a nurse in ’Nam. Nothing was, or ever will be,crazier than that. Or more tragic,” she added, staring down at her broad, blunt-nailed hands.
Pete sat in one the hard-backed dining room chairs. “I guess after that, nothing shocks you anymore.” He patted the chair next to him as Sandy reentered the room. “Sit here, dear.”
“Yes, very little surprises me.” Bernadette looked up. “Hello, Julie. Ready to discuss murder?”
I turned toward the hall, where Julie had paused, one hand braced against the door frame. “Hi, Jules. Glad you could join us.”
“I thought I’d better, or you guys would probably label me as the killer.” Despite her bright smile, tension edged Julie’s voice. She stepped into the room but stopped short beside the desk, which had been converted into a serving table by the addition of a white linen tablecloth.
I noticed that Julie had also chosen to wear more blush and lipstick than normal, and that her long black hair was twisted into a messy ponytail. This was unusual. Julie was typically very particular about her appearance.
Of course, if she’s only recently stabbed her lying lover to death …I shook my head as my friend poured herself a full glass of wine. No, that wasn’t any way to think. The haunted expression in Julie’s chestnut-brown eyes could just as easily be due to the one-two punch of discovering that her boyfriend was still quite married right before he was also suddenly found quite dead.
