Winston nodded, as if it were a legitimate business proposition. “I’d appreciate that, young man. It used to be a lot easier to get a good story. I remember once during the Ford administration, I?—”
Bea hip-checked him out of the way to peer into the basket. “Good heavens, Jack. These look like?—”
“Lolly’s recipe,” he finished softly.
The café went quiet, Lolly’s name hanging in the air like the comforting scent of those muffins. He could almost see her bustling behind the counter, flour smudged on her cheek, that mischievous twinkle in her eye.
Jack grabbed a mug and poured himself a cup of coffee strong enough to strip paint. He turned to the trio. “What, no small talk? No,How’s the weather, Jack?Or,Torched any buildings lately, Jack?”
“Now, now,” Bea said, stacking two muffins on a napkin. “We all know you Harlows save your felonies for special occasions.”
“Like Tuesdays,” Aggie added without missing a beat.
He raised his mug in a mock toast. “And federal holidays. Can’t forget those.”
Winston cleared his throat, thankfully steering the conversation back on track. He slid his glasses on with the seriousness of a man about to brief the Pentagon. “Right, then. If wecan focus, please. We’re here to discuss the Worthington situation.”
“Who wants to go first?” Aggie asked.
Jack leaned against the counter. “Ladies first. Age before beauty and all that.”
Aggie’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, Harlow. I may be old, but I can still kick your behind six ways to Sunday.”
“Only six? You’re slipping.”
Bea jumped in before Aggie could fire back. “My niece’s husband’s cousin heard that the youngest Worthington boy, you know, the one with the unfortunate nose ...”
“Reginald,” Winston supplied, like he was a walking encyclopedia of unfortunate noses.
“Right. Well, he’s been running an underground ferret-racing ring out of his mother’s garden shed.”
Jack blinked. “I’m sorry, did you say ferret racing?”
Bea nodded solemnly. “Oh, yes. They wear little jockey outfits and everything.”
He tried to picture it and immediately wished he hadn’t. “Okay, that’s disturbing. But unless we’re planning to blackmail Nathaniel by exposing his brother’s rodent fetish, I’m not sure how that helps.”
“It doesn’t help directly,” Winston mused, “but it speaks to certain eccentricities in the family. Things we might exploit.”
Aggie pursed her lips. “My turn. You’ll never guess what I dug up about Nathaniel’s stepsister, Cordelia.”
They all leaned in. If there was one thing Aggie excelled at, it was uncovering dirt that would make a saint sweat.
“Turns out,” Aggie stage-whispered, “she’s been taking pole-dancing classes in Littleton. Under an alias.”
Cordelia Worthington, the dowdiest of the whole clan, working a pole? She was the kind of woman who ironed her jeans, wore cardigans in July, and called her cat Mr. Whiskers. Her idea of living dangerously was adding a second splash ofcream to her watered-down chamomile tea because regular tea was too spicy.
“Stop, Aggie. I did not need that mental image,” Jack said.
“Oh, it gets better,” she cackled. “Her alias? Cinnamon Smith.”
The room exploded with laughter. Even Winston dabbed tears from his eyes with a handkerchief.
“Okay,” Jack managed between chuckles, “that’s hilarious, but again, not super helpful.”
“Maybe not,” Bea admitted, “but it does make you wonder what else they’re hiding, doesn’t it?”
He sobered at that. She had a point. If squeaky-clean Cordelia Worthington was secretly moonlighting as Cinnamon Smith, who knew what skeletons were rattling around in Nathaniel’s closet?
