“Yes.”
He explained, anyway. “It’s only ten minutes away.”
I glanced toward the kitchen again. All three of us were scheduled to work the next day. “We can do that,” I said.
“Here’s what I also have in mind, in addition to my Boston tea party.” His lips twitched in a fleeting grin. “I have a cottage that I occasionally let renters use. The interior’s outdated, and last week’s tenants damaged it. I need to patch the walls and repaint, and I’d like to renovate the kitchen so that the ladies would love to cook in it. I’m not much for cooking. My late wife did all that, and here it is twenty years later, and I’m still not into cooking. Thank goodness for you folks and your restaurants and takeout.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’ll get contractors in to do the work, but I’d like you to give me some ideas about the latest trends in colors and kitchen design. I do have a few ideas, so you wouldn’t be starting from scratch. For renters to feel at home, I should remove the pictures of my late wife. Also, I’d like to give the whole place an updated New England vibe, make people feel like they’re at a seaside cottage. Meet me there this evening, if you can. Bring Chief Westhill along if it makes you feel safer.”
“This evening’s fine.” I did not want to go alone to a strange man’s cottage, but Tom worked long hours and enjoyed spending at least some time at home with Cindy. I asked, “How about if our assistant, Nina Lapeer, comes along instead of Tom? She’s an artist.”
“The young lady who served me when I first came in? Did she help you paint these donut tables? They’re very well executed.”
“Thank you. We did that before we met her.”
“That’s okay, anyway. Bring Nina along. An artist, you say?” He didn’t seem to require an answer. “I’ve heard from my banking clients how that goes. It doesn’t pay, and she has to do jobs like waitressing to buy supplies and make ends meet. But I can tell by the way she uses makeup to show off those cheekbones and the planes of her face that she has artistic talent. After all my years as an executive, I can spot the ones who might expend enough effort to succeed.”
I pointed to the largest painting in the room, a jumble of sailboats, rowboats, and canoes in an impressionistic style, seen from above, all in moody tones of indigo and blue. “She painted that one.”
Sipping coffee, he gazed at it. “Is she represented by a gallery?”
“The Craft Croft.”
“I know the place.” He pointed south. “It’s a few blocks that way, down Wisconsin Street. Tell Nina she needs to aim higher than artisans’ co-ops. She should try for galleries in larger cities.”
Pleased at his compliments for Nina, I ignored the slight to The Craft Croft and to Fallingbrook, which was big compared to nearby towns and villages. “I think that’s what she hopes to do. She’s good, isn’t she?”
“Very. And I know a little bit about art. She shouldn’t be wasting her time here.”
Fortunately, I didn’t need to find a diplomatic answer to that. The Knitpickers were outside the front door, surrounding a woman as if persuading her to come inside.
At first, I didn’t recognize Cheryl. Last I knew, her curls had been white. Now they were shades of sun-kissed sand. One of Cheryl’s friends opened the door. “Cheryl’s coming in,” I told the Boston Screamer. “I’ll introduce her to you.”
He stood up. “I’ll move to another table. Excuse me, gentlemen. I enjoyed our talk.”
That was no wonder.
Taking his mug and plate, he moved farther back to a table for two. I went to the front door and welcomed the Knitpickers.
Although never having had children, let alone grandchildren, Cheryl reminded me of a grandmother. She had a way of beaming when she smiled, even though her biggest smiles often caused her round, rosy cheeks to nearly hide her eyes. Today, not only had she dyed her curls light brown with blond highlights, she was wearing a new outfit—gray slacks, a floral blouse, and a purple cardigan that matched the flowers on the blouse and the frames of her glasses, which I’d also never seen before.
She seemed to be trying to appear brave. However, looking into her blue eyes, I was certain that she was nervous. The entire effect—hair color, new outfit, apprehensive expression—made her look younger than usual.
I extended a hand toward her. “Cheryl, come with me. There’s someone here who wants to meet you.”
Cheryl’s friends settled themselves at their usual table near the retired men. The Knitpickers weren’t paying a lot of attention to the retired men or to the knitting they were pulling out of bags and baskets. They were watching Cheryl.
I led her to the table where the Boston Screamer was standing behind the chair across from his. He pulled out the chair.
“This is Cheryl,” I told him. Not knowing his name, and not about to introduce him as the Boston Screamer, I let him introduce himself.
“I’m Richmond P. Royalson the Third,” he informed her. “Call me Rich.” Emphasizing the shortened form of his first name, he flashed an expensive-looking gold wristwatch. “Have a seat, Cheryl. I’ve ordered for you.”
Chapter 3
I gave Cheryl a reassuring smile. “I’ll get your coffee and donut.”
In the kitchen, Tom and Nina were watching old-fashioned unraised donuts dancing among golden bubbles. Although Rich was conventionally handsome, I preferred Tom’s sturdy good looks. I said just loudly enough for him and Nina to hear, “The Boston Screamer’s name is Richmond P. Royalson the Third, call me Rich. Does that ring a bell?”
Nina shook her head.
Tom lifted the basket of donuts out of the oil and spoke quietly. “About twenty years ago, his wife drowned in Lake Fleekom.”
Nina and I moved closer to Tom.
He hung the basket on the side of the fryer to drain. “I was a patrol cop and not involved with the investigation, but I remember it.” He lowered another basket into the oil. “That fall was colder than this one, and the lake was slushy. She overturned her canoe. There were no witnesses. She was supposedly a good swimmer, but she was wearing heavy clothing and boots. Between hypothermia and waterlogged clothing, she didn’t make it to shore. The last I knew, Royalson was the manager of the Fallingbrook Mercantile Bank. I never met the man.”
Nina tilted her head. “I would have thought that bank managers and police chiefs would, I don’t know, hang out together or join the same men’s clubs.”
“Not this police chief,” Tom stated emphatically. “I prefer being home with my wife and my woodworking toys. I mean tools.”
Near the front of the dining area, Cheryl smiled stonily at the widower waving his arms and shouting words like “Boston,” “New England,” and “lobster.” I told Tom and Nina, “He wants a Boston cream donut for Cheryl, not a Boston scream donut, and he wants us to double the fudge frosting. He ordered today’s special coffee for her.”
Nina turned toward the coffee makers. “I’ll get the coffee.”
I sliced a round raised donut without a hole in it and slathered a double load of frosting on the top half. It was impossible to eat these extravagant treats neatly, and the cream filling I dolloped on the lower half wasn’t going to help. I carefully balanced the top of the donut on the cream filling. Nina took the coffee and donut to Cheryl while I spread extra fudge frosting on the top halves of donuts. They did look and smell even better than the ones with less frosting.
Nina returned from Cheryl and Rich’s table. She carved screaming faces into the thicker fudge frosting. She and Tom agreed that we could easily make the extra