Edie checked her zipper, died a little, and zipped it up the last three inches. “You didn’t say you were coming back from your sister’s!”
Morag crossed her arms. “And why would I have to? This is my inn, isn’t it? Better question is what the two of you are doing here when you should be on a plane to Barcelona already. You take a lot of tea breaks clearing out a single room? Were you too busy making my inn look like a boot sale with the furniture spread out under a tent in the front garden?”
The heat of Edie’s lust transformed into anger at this string of uncalled-for criticism. “What is your deal? Ever since we’ve come back from France, you’ve grown more spikes than a hedgehog.Youwanted me to redo the lounge.Yougave me free rein. We told you we hit a snag in France. Do you want us to find the treasure or not? Do you want to update this inn or not?” Her ears were hot. Never a good sign.
“I’m just looking for a bit of follow-through! Who’s young with all their wits about them, rich”—she tossed her head in Cosima’s direction—“and at least partly clever”—she flicked her wrist at Edie—“and gives up a treasure hunt across Europe because of an old letter? I thought Americans were supposed to be tough, but you’re both soft as trifle. Come back here pitching and mooning over each other and not talking, knowing there’s more in Spain, and instead Cosima’s making a mess of the garden and you’re throwing away quality furniture!”
Morag’s voice didn’t shake, but there was more than anger in it. What was going on here? What didn’t Edie know?
They stared at each other, and the tension meant Edie couldn’t decide if she should offer Morag a chair and a cup of tea or if she should scream.
Her inclination was to scream. She felt like it might get them somewhere faster.
“Ma’am.” The giant who’d come in with Morag cleared his throat. “If you could just point me to the lounge, I’ll get on.”
“Who are you?” Edie demanded.
Morag hooked her thumb over her shoulder. “He’s come for the plaster. Did you even phone around? Everyone knows the Whippledurn brothers charge a king’s ransom for a slap of patch.”
The man looked at the ceiling. “If I should go on, then—”
“No,” Edie said. St. John Whippledurn was who she’d called to fix the plaster. Morag’s list didn’t have a name for plaster repair on it. “Follow me to the lounge, and I’ll get you started.”
She shot Morag one last look that made her scowl, and then the man followed Edie into the lounge, where he seemed relieved to be surrounded by cracked plaster and relative silence.
“You know my granddad plastered this place. Back in the sixties, it would’ve been. Since he did the job, I doubt there’s anything needed more than a few repairs and a smoothin’ out to get ready for paint.” He looked around appreciatively. “He always said it would be satisfying to see this inn back to bones. Never understood why Morag put in wallpaper and wall-to-wall. Shame, that. Looks a treat now.”
“Morag was the one who made the shrine to mauve?”
“That’s right.”
Edie considered the room—now so much brighter, objectively more beautiful, and, what’s more, definitely more to Morag’s taste, given her preference for sturdy linen aprons, good leather boots, and her walnut rocker.
Morag had spent a lot of money to make this room pink, so she must have thought it would bring in many more modern guests. Based on the guest book, she hadn’t been wrong. What was strange was how long it had taken her to remodel once the look became tired.
“Listen, I know you came in today to do an estimate and give me your opinion,” Edie said. “But since you’re familiar, if you’re able, I think you could get started.”
St. John rubbed his hands together. “Right. Good. I’ll just prop open the lounge door then and load in my gear.”
He disappeared as Morag came in.
“You hired the Whippledurn boy?”
“That man is at least fifty.”
“Hmpf.” Morag stepped around Edie and looked at the lounge for a long time. It was golden hour, and spring had been racing into this part of England all week. The “bones” did look good. The light showed it off, while a breeze kicked up the smell of beeswax and cleanser. “Seems you got on fine here.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
Morag turned around. “I can supervise one Whippledurn. I’d have expected you away by now.”
Edie couldn’t figure out Morag’s urgency around the treasure hunt after so many years. Her eyes were still all laser, without even a trace of fondness in them. Her posture was straight, but she held her shoulders tight. Something was wrong.
“After the letter in France, it didn’t feel like our business,” Edie said, trying once more to pick her way through this conversational minefield. “It seemed like this may be not so muchof a treasure hunt as a trail of breadcrumbs left behind after a bad breakup between Agatha and somebody else. But I have to believe you would know more about that than I would.”
“Who knows anything about any of that?” Morag huffed. “I keep well and away from the business of my guests.”
“Lies!” Now Edie could feel lasers coming out of her own eyes. So much for careful. “I haven’t had even one moment in this inn without you bossing me.”
