Page 10 of Murder Will Out
She realized she liked Naomi.
She also realized that if Geralt Talbot inherited Cameron House, Geralt’s young wife would presumably inherit it as well; sooner or later, Geralt would die, and Naomi would get the mansion. But surely…
Naomi turned and gestured over a slim, dark-haired woman standing nearby. “Audra—Audra, this is Sue’s goddaughter, Willow.” She turned to Willow. “This is Audra DuBois. My personal assistant.”
Willow guessed Audra was a little older than Naomi, maybe in her late thirties, attractive and professional-looking without being glamorous—the image of the cool and impersonal employee. But the smile she gave Willow was real. “Pleasure to meet you,” she said in a clean British accent. “You played the organ, right?”
Willow nodded, and Naomi looked impressed. “That was you? You’re fantastic.”
Audra nodded. “You really are. It was lovely.”
Willow blushed. “Um… thanks.” She casually looked at her wrist; good God, had it only been ten minutes?
Breathe, she told herself.Breathe and smile. Ask questions, look interested. Breathe.
A paunchy man sporting the most unfortunate comb-over Willow had ever seen swaggered up to the trio, reeking of Old Spice and self-importance. “My goodness, if it isn’t all the loveliest women on the island, gathered in one place. And you would be Miss Stone—” He pumped Willow’s small hand with his giant one. “Welcome to Little North, my dear—the name is Henry D. Ramsey Jr., but everyone calls me Hank. So edifying to have our lady of honor’s dear niece back on the island at last—”
Willow tried to interject that she was not Sue’s niece exactly, but he pressed on, giving her no opening.
“I believe you’ve met my lovely bride, Patricia.”
Willow glimpsed the sour-faced organist at his elbow and winced inwardly, wishing she could disappear.
Naomi rescued Willow from having to reply. “You’re too kind, Mr. Ramsey,” she said sweetly. “And we all know your lovely wife outshines us all.” She shifted her false but brilliant smile to Patricia.
Patricia’s eye twitched ever so slightly. “Mrs. Talbot,” she said, “sucha flattering dress. Wherever did you find it?” she asked, her voice dripping with syrup.
Willow shared a lightning-quick look with Audra, which confirmed as clearly as if the other woman had spoken:Yes. They really do hate each other that much.Willow was certain the temperature had precipitously dropped about ten degrees in their area of the room.
The beefy man did not appear to notice or care. He shifted his attention to Willow. “You know, of course, Miss Stone, how vitally important the hospitality industry is to the economy of the coastal islands, and I’m proud to be able to do my part—the resort hotel over on Great North is one of mine, and the long-term parking over the bay where you no doubt have sheltered your car is one of mine too, so we can keep Little North pristine and unpolluted and automobile-free…”
Willow watched helplessly as Naomi and Audra melted into the crowd, slipping away from Hank’s monologue; Naomi mouthed a silentsorryin her direction as she slid away. Willow could hardly blame her for making good her escape.
Hank kept talking. His properties, how many, their price points. His collection of vintage cars. The write-up of his “hotel empire” in a midsize Boston paper. The stateroom upgrade he had finagled on the most recent of his and Patricia’s annual cruises. Boredom soon transformed into annoyance, and annoyance to desperation, but Hank had Willow well and truly trapped; all she could do was smile and nod, vainly eyeing the crowd aroundfor an opportunity to slip away. Willow sneaked a look at her watch—twenty-six minutes. Tuning Hank out, she surreptitiously surveyed the room and the other guests.
If she’d hoped for an inkling of who had argued with Geralt earlier in the church, she came up empty; she caught no obviously negative body language between Geralt and anyone else in the room, and Hank’s bloviating baritone made it impossible to listen for the voice she’d heard in the church. There were a lot of flasks slipping out of coat pockets and sly winks as men doctored one another’s lemonade. At least four different people slipped Geralt empanadas, which she was certain Naomi would have vetoed had she seen. She still felt the prickling of eyes on her in fleeting speculation, shifting guiltily away when she caught them at it, the sense of whispers being passed from one person to the next.
Another look at her wrist. Thirty-four minutes. Hank was still going and showed no sign of slowing down. “Here on Little North, you know,” Hank explained, “any whiff of a plan to build a resort along our lovely coastline brings out the preservationists and historians in full force—it’s a shame, really.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the Cameron mansion. “When I think of that giant old eyesore of a house, falling to disrepair, on such a beautiful and valuable piece of land…”
Willow’s ears pricked up, and she suddenly cursed herself for not paying closer attention.
Hank was interested in the Cameron family property? To tear it down and build a hotel?
Before Willow could ask Hank to elaborate, someone jostled her from the side. She turned, torn between a desire to hear more about his schemes for the old mansion and relief for any excuse to shift away from his endless, pointless pontification.
Diana, Mac’s mother, had somehow materialized, carrying two large sheet pans. She said brightly, “Oh, Mr. Ramsey, we’re bringing out the desserts now. I know tres leches cake is yourfavorite—oof!” She seemed to nearly lose balance for a second. “Here—Willow, is it?” She pressed one of the sheet pans into Willow’s hands. “Help me out? I’m afraid I’m going to send one of these flying across the floor.” Diana wove her way over to a table by the interior wall; Willow, frustrated but at a loss for what else to do, managed a look of feigned apology to Hank and Patricia and followed.
She put the dessert down on the table next to Diana’s tray. “Thank you for rescuing me,” she said a little shyly. Forty-one minutes; she was going to make it.
“That man will talk till the stars go cold, and keep talking,” Diana said with a shake of her head. “I’m Diana Reyes, by the way. This is my place.” She cut a square of the cake, moist and golden with a layer of fresh strawberries and cream atop the golden sponge, and put it onto a plate. She pressed it into Willow’s hands and handed her a fork. “You look like you need a minute. Go sit outside; I’m told my grandmother’s tres leches cake recipe is legendary, and who am I to argue? Then come back and talk to Rina. She’s hurting, and she needs you.”
“But—”
“She doesn’t know she does, and you might not know it either, but it’s true. More than that—you need each other. Best stop running away from it.”
Before Willow could respond, Diana slipped away.
Willow exited thecafé and took a seat on one of the broad granite boulders outside. The village green was blessedly calm after the buzz and movement in the little shop; Willow had indeed needed this quiet moment and wondered how Diana had pegged her so perfectly. Willow took a bite of the cake, then closed her eyes for a moment, lost in creamy berry-laden bliss. Diana had not been kidding about her grandmother’s recipe.
