Yule Be Dead Page 8

  She decided to try again to make dinner plans with Andy and Margo tomorrow night. Andy was too upset to converse with right now, but if, at the tree-lighting ceremony, she casually said to the two of them, “Hey, let’s all go to Del’s and grab a bite to eat,” that just might work.

  Feeling a teensy bit better, Katie attacked the stack of bills with renewed vigor. It had been a while since she’d taken off from work for a frivolous reason. She deserved the occasional break from the routine. But which Margo would accompany her? The friendly HR chief or the persnickety mother-in-law?

  Katie crossed her proverbial fingers and hoped for the former.

  * * *

  • • •

  As Katie rounded the stairs just around the corner from Chad’s Pad, she heard Godfrey’s booming voice echoing from the rafters and cringed.

  “. . . fine painter. Did he get his artistic ability from you?”

  From the doorway, Katie heard Margo’s reply. “I’m afraid not. I’m doing well to draw stick figures.”

  “Oh, now, I’m sure you’re being modest. A lovely woman like you—”

  “Hey, Margo!” Katie interrupted. “If we’re going to make it to that antique shop before they close, we’d better be going.”

  “Let me grab my coat and purse,” Margo said. “Godfrey, thank you for keeping me company.”

  Godfrey beamed. “Anytime. I’ll be around later if you’d like to talk some more.”

  The two women escaped Artisans Alley as quickly as they could.

  “Thanks for the rescue,” Margo said. “Good heavens, where does he get all that dryer lint? And why does he think I’d want to hang dryer lint art in my home?”

  “I can’t begin to fathom an answer to either of those questions, so let’s concentrate on lunch. There’s a new French place just outside town. Would you like to try it?”

  “I’d love to.”

  The day was bright, the local soft rock station played holiday music, and it was only a ten-minute drive to the restaurant. They strolled into the lobby of the beautiful brick building where a lovely, understated Christmas tree adorned with red and gold balls and twinkling white lights welcomed them. A garland festooned with lights framed the archway. A hostess in a tight black cocktail dress greeted Katie and Margo and showed them to a table for two by a window, placing menus down before them. Katie took in the surroundings. All the linen-covered tables were round, and the bistro chairs were made of black wrought iron with ivory padded seats and as charming as all get-out.

  “Your server, Albert,” she said, pronouncing it Albear, “will be with you momentarily.”

  The hostess had barely returned to the lobby when Albert materialized by their table. He had a charming accent, but cynical Katie had to wonder if his name was really Jake and if his accent was affected for their benefit. Either way, Albert was a handsome young man who loved to talk.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselles. How are you this lovely Friday afternoon? C’est bien, aujord’hui?”

  “Nous sommes très bien, merci. Et vous?”

  But, of course, Margo could speak French.

  “Mieux vaut maintenant que vous êtes là.”

  Margo laughed. “He says he’s better now that we’re here. Oh, Albert, you are trop charmant.”

  Katie gritted her teeth, irritated that Margo knew that Katie would need her to translate the waiter’s words. The fact that she did need Margo to translate was even more aggravating.

  “Merci, cherie,” Albert said to Margo. “Do you know what you’d like to drink?”

  “I’ll have a glass of your finest cabernet. And I’d like to order the steak Diane, please.”

  “Très bien, mademoiselle. You’ll be delighted with the chef’s use of brandy sauce set aflame to produce just the perfect touch of caramel to the dish.” He turned to Katie. “And for you?”

  Katie ordered a glass of water and the chicken Basquaise.

  “Another excellent choice. The chef uses the Espelette pepper so popular in the region of Basque for this particular dish. I’ll bring your drinks out to you à moment.”

  Margo grinned at Katie after the waiter collected their menus and retreated. “You should hire Albert if you decide to buy the tea shop. That man can make anything sound like the most exquisite thing you’ve ever put in your mouth.”

  “Yeah. Let’s hope we won’t be disappointed now that he’s raised our expectations so high.”

  They weren’t. The food was delicious. And Albert was continually solicitous, especially toward Margo.

  As the women dined, their conversation naturally turned to Chad. Katie looked around at the rustic plastered walls, the Provençal prints, and sighed. “Chad would have loved this place.”

  “He would have,” Margo agreed, and gave Katie an appraising look. “You know, I have other family . . . a sister I’m especially close to.”

  “Yes, I met Aunt Sylvia at the wedding. Chad told me some great stories about the things you and she would get into.”

  Margo managed a weak laugh. “Yes. We still have our adventures now and then. But the point I’m trying to make is that I’m okay. What about you, Katie? Have you dated anyone since Chad’s passing?”

  “Um . . . I’ve . . . dated . . . some.”

  “Are you telling me you haven’t been out with that sexy pizza guy yet? Because if you haven’t, why not? He obviously likes you.”

  Katie’s eyes widened. “As a matter of fact, I . . . we . . . have dated.” How much should she tell Margo? Should she confess that she and Andy had been seriously dating for quite some time? No. Not yet. “We’re both too busy with work to devote a lot of time to a relationship.” That was good. It was true enough.

  “That’s a shame. You’re still young. Chad wouldn’t want you to let life pass you by. You know that, don’t you?”

  She dropped her eyes to her plate and avoided answering Margo’s question.

  “He’d want you to be happy.”

  Katie swallowed down a sudden pang of emotion. “Yes, he would—as I would have if the situation were reversed.”

  Margo’s smile was warm. “I, too, lost my husband at a young age. But I had a child to take care of, to nurture. You have cats. It can’t be nearly as fulfilling.”

  Katie’s thoughts drifted to the lyrics of a song that often played on the oldies station broadcast through Artisans Alley. Any love is good love, and her cats had certainly blessed her with their total devotion. They’d never lied to her. They’d never gone behind her back, taking the money she’d scrimped and saved to invest in a losing proposition. Chad was no saint, even if Margo wanted to believe that of her son. But Katie knew differently.

  Still, she said nothing on that account.

  Albert returned and, seeing that they were almost finished with their meals, said, “The crème brûlée here is divine. Are you up for dessert?”

  Margo positively grinned. “Mais oui!”

  * * *

  • • •

  The Rusty Key, Katie’s favorite shop filled with antiques and vintage items on consignment, had always cheered her even though it seemed her dream of ever opening an inn of her own would never happen. She always felt at peace when studying the shelves filled with crockery, boxes of old cutlery, and cedar trunks filled with hand-embroidered linens. But as they browsed the antique shop, Katie’s warm, fuzzy feelings about the new Margo were diminished by the reinforced realization that old Margo was still very much around.

  The first thing that caught Katie’s eye in the shop was a cream-and-taupe-striped Louis XIV–style sofa. “Isn’t this lovely?” She ran her hand across the back and then took a seat. It wasn’t the most comfy sofa she’d ever sat on, but a plump pillow at either end would help with that.

  Margo scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. That thing is absurdly tiny. And it certainly wouldn’t keep that pristine appearance for long—especially not with those cats of yours.” She shuddered. “It would be clawed all to pieces.”

  Katie bit her tongue, got up, and wandered over to a French farm scene painting. “This would be nice in a kitchen.”

  “A painting of chickens? Really?” Margo looked at the price tag. “Five hundred dollars? You could get something similar at a home goods store for under a hundred . . . if you wanted.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted it. I merely pointed out that it would look nice in a kitchen.”

  “Not my kitchen.”

  And so it went for the next hour. It seemed to Katie that every item she liked Margo deemed as tacky, cheap, ugly, or worthless. Katie begrudgingly admitted to herself that Margo was knowledgeable about antiques. But, then, so was she. And sometimes she liked things merely for their aesthetic value.

  On the way back to McKinlay Mill, Margo mentioned the old Webster Mansion.

  “Chad sent me photos of it back when you and he were considering turning it into a bed-and-breakfast. I’d love to see it in person.”

  “Nick Ferrell and Don Parsons bought the mansion and turned it into a B and B called Sassy Sally’s,” Katie said. “It’s gorgeous. I’m sure they’d be happy to show you around.”

  They were happy to show Margo around. Actually, Don took the grand dame on a tour of the property while Katie hung out with Nick in the kitchen.

  Nick smiled. “You look tired. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Katie said quietly. “Just hanging out with Margo this afternoon reminded me of how critical she can be.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “No . . . actually, she’s been nicer to me than she’s ever been. I thought we were turning over a new leaf.”

  “You can, darling. But you know very well that people’s personalities don’t change. You just need to learn to take the bad with the good. At least, until she leaves.” Nick poured them both a cup of coffee and they sat on the stools at the island.

  As he stirred cream into his coffee, Nick said, “The grapevine is buzzing with news about your taking over the tea shop.”

  “The grapevine is getting ahead of itself.” Katie ran her hand over the smooth marble countertop.

  “So you aren’t interested in the shop?”

  She sipped her coffee. “I didn’t say that.”

  He grinned. “You know you want it.”

  “I do . . . and I don’t. I’m conflicted, Nick. Could I take on a project of that magnitude? I mean, I’m dealing with the day-to-day tasks of running Artisans Alley. How can I possibly do the marketing and promotion it would take to turn Afternoon Tea around—that is, provided I could get the funding to assume ownership?”

  “You could make it work. I know you could.” He sighed. “I have to say, though, Vonne did a number on the place—taking financial risks, making people so uncomfortable they didn’t want to stop in, leaving poor Francine to take care of everything.”

  “How much do you know about Francine and Vonne?” Katie asked.

  “No more than anyone else. Just that they came here from Batavia and that everything seemed great at first . . . until Vonne seemed to lose her mind.”

  “She did, didn’t she? Do you think it was because the man she loved married someone else?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose that could do it. But I still feel there must be more to the story.”

  “I agree. It’s bothering me that Francine doesn’t seem to be terribly upset by Vonne’s death. And then she said something earlier today that made me think that maybe Vonne wasn’t her biological child.”

  “You think she was adopted?”

  “Possibly. Or a stepchild. I wish there was a way to find out.” Katie drummed her fingertips on the countertop.

  “Do you know where the funeral service is being held?” Nick asked.

  “No. Francine intimated that it would be a small, private affair.”

  Nick pulled his tablet over from the edge of the island and turned it on. “I’m guessing the service would be in their hometown.” He typed Batavia Funeral Homes into the search engine. He then investigated each one until he found one with Vonne Barnett’s obituary. He turned the tablet toward Katie. “Here it is. Thomason Funeral Home.”

  Katie read the brief paragraph, which didn’t at all convey who Vonne had been. “Do you think I should attend the service as head of the Merchants Association?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  She shook her head slowly. “I’d feel unwelcome. I mean, Francine made it pretty clear that—”

  “Then order flowers. When you call, you tell the receptionist that you want to send flowers for Vonne’s viewing—and then you say, Is Francine her mom or her stepmom?”

  Katie laughed. “Nick, you’re impossible!”

  “Maybe. But I bet it’ll work.”

  “I might as well give it a shot.”

  “Might as well.”

  “I hope it’s not me you’re shooting,” Margo said as she and Don returned to the kitchen. “This place is lovely. And the furniture is exquisite! The paintings and vintage photos are just perfect for the walls, and the Oriental carpets are gorgeous as well. Everything is just perfect.”

  “Did you know that Katie picked out ninety percent of it?” Nick asked.

  Margo’s smile faded. “You don’t say.”

  “I do. It was all stuff she’d picked out to furnish this place when she thought it might be hers—and Chad’s,” he amended quickly.

  “Buying it lock, stock, and barrel sure made our lives easier,” Don agreed. “And she offered it to us at just over cost—to pay the cost of her storage fees.”

  “Which was still a bargain,” Nick agreed.

  A bit of a sneer curled Margo’s upper lip. “Judging by your current apartment, I had no idea you had such decorating style, dear.”

  Katie forced a smile and her gaze traveled to Nick, who merely shrugged. She’d had a long day, and she had a feeling the evening ahead might prove even longer.

  Eight

  As Katie and Margo were pulling out of the parking lot on their way to the Davenports’ house for dinner, Katie looked toward Angelo’s Pizzeria and noticed Andy and Erikka standing behind the sales counter. They were laughing, and Andy was pushing back a lock of Erikka’s jet-black hair that had fallen across her cheek.

  “They seem awfully chummy,” Margo said.

  “Yeah . . . they do.” Katie tried to catch Andy’s eye to wave to him, but either he didn’t see her or else he was ignoring her.

  “Who is she?” Margo asked.

  “Erikka, Andy’s assistant manager.”

  “I don’t want to overstep, but if you’re interested in that man at all, my advice would be to move quickly.” She clucked her tongue. “It might be too late already. Oh, do you mind if we stop at a floral shop? I’d love to get the Davenports some flowers. Of course, I’d normally bring wine to a dinner party, but I have no idea what they’re serving.”

  They stopped at the local grocery store, where Margo snagged a mixed bouquet of carnations, daisies, and baby’s breath.

  Once they were on the road again, Margo prattled on about the dinner party. Katie’s mind was still on Andy and Erikka and their intimate behavior. In fact, Katie dwelt on Andy and Erikka until she and Margo arrived at the Davenports’ house.

  It was a small rental house with brick on the first floor and vinyl siding on top. The windows had black shutters, but there wasn’t much to distinguish it from other homes on the street except the colorful, twinkling lights that flanked the door and porch railing. Electric candles had been placed in all the windows at the front of the house. Katie wondered which of the girls was the decorator. She seriously doubted it was Ray.

  She knocked on the door, and Ray opened it to admit her and Margo. Inside, he introduced Margo to Sadie, Sasha, and Sophie. Sadie thanked Margo for the flowers and took them into the kitchen to find a vase.

  In the living room, the beautiful Christmas tree gleamed in a corner where Katie recalled an overstuffed brown recliner chair normally sat. The chair had been pushed a bit too close to the tan sofa, but Katie could easily imagine the four Davenports cozily sitting on the sofa and chair watching a movie or listening to some music . . . or maybe simply reminiscing as they admired their decorations.

  She wandered over to the tree. As she’d expected, many of the ornaments had been carved and painted by Ray, and others had been made by the girls. She spotted a tiny gingerbread cottage that had obviously been crafted by Ray. She couldn’t tell if he or one of the girls had painted it, but whoever had, did a wonderful job. White “icing” covered the roof and framed the door and windows. Round red-and-white peppermint “candies” served as shutters to the house, and there was a red heart on the door.

  Katie started when a hand was placed on her shoulder. She turned to see Ray standing beside her with a bemused grin on his face.

  “Like that one, do you?”

  “It’s lovely,” she said. “Did you paint it, or did one of the girls?”

  “Actually, Rachel did. She was a gifted artist.”

  Katie merely nodded.

  “What’s got you down?” he asked softly.

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  He arched a bushy gray brow. “Can’t fool me, you know.”

  She shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

  Before Ray could press her further, Sasha nearly knocked Katie off her feet when she surprised her with a hug.

  “Sasha, not so rough,” Ray scolded.

  “She’s fine,” Katie said, embracing the girl . . . glad to find an ally somewhere in this world of wonderful, talented women that apparently included Margo, Erikka, and Rachel, but not her. She immediately felt guilty. It wasn’t like her to compare herself to anyone else or to be self-pitying.