didn’t answer because Captain Jack had appeared in the doorway with an apple pie, a flaky marvel with an aroma that suggested rum-soaked raisins had been liberally tucked in with the fruit slices. In his other hand, he carried a steaming blue enamel pot of boiled coffee. No namby-pamby latte for the captain!
The strong coffee was amazingly good. I was glad he left the pot when he departed to the “galley,” as he called it. Actually, since the back of Heather’s house had been rebuilt after the bombing, the new kitchen looked like an ad from Architectural Digest, all Mexican tiles and mahogany and restaurant appliances. Even Phillipa, no slouch in the pricey appliance department, was a wee bit jealous of the so-called galley and complained that it was totally wasted on the Devlins and their decrepit houseman. But she had to admit that his cooking skills were surprising.
“So, exactly how much of a bundle is Wyn inheriting?” I asked. “Did you wheedle that information out of Borer, Buckley, and Bangs as well?”
“Bangs is my guy. Youngest of the partners, only sixty-six, and still susceptible to feminine persuasion. The entire estate is worth over five million dollars, if you count the very marketable beachfront property she owned in Chatham. Two nephews and a niece are getting twenty-five thousand each, and the rest…ta da!”
“Lydia Craig!” I exclaimed. “She wore the same cloth coat and hand-knit hat for as long as I’ve known her. She lived in that overgrown mausoleum with the sagging porch and drove a ten-year-old Chevy. Once, when we bumped into each other at Angelo’s meat counter, she pointed out to me that the shoulder cuts were a much better buy than the baby lamb chops I was putting into my cart. And I noticed that her cart was filled with markdowns. You know, those dented cans, overripe tomatoes, and past-date baked goods they have on a rack near the back room.”
“I bet there were some chocolate goodies, past-date or no. It was her greatest passion.”
“Well-known passion?”
“My guess is it was known by the person who laced the church brownies with hemlock,” Heather said. “As to her being a millionaire, I think you’ll find there’s many an old Yankee in Plymouth with a fat bank account and a thin old coat. It’s the way we were brought up. ‘Use it up, wear it out, make it do.’”
“That Yankee economy didn’t rub off on you much.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I save money buying Veuve Clicquot by the case.”
“What do you think about Wyn Peacedale inheriting several mil from the old lady who got poisoned at my Halloween talk?” I asked Joe. It was nine o’clock Thursday morning, and we were still lying in bed, savoring his return home. I’d crawled out from under the quilt just long enough to push Scruffy onto the porch, where he could avail himself of the pet door Joe had installed. Then I brought two steaming mugs of coffee back into the bedroom. We’d declared the day a personal holiday for fooling around and catching up on ourselves.
“What’s to think? Have you considered that Reverend Peacedale may not even have known about the bequest until the will was read?”
“He did. He’s known since last Christmas. But he may not have understood that the millions would be his personally, as Heather said. She has a useful contact at the Craig law firm—Borer, Buckley, and Bangs. But to my mind, money isn’t that important to Wyn and Patty.”
“Oh? In my experience, money is important to everyone—although some people are loathe to admit it. But do I think the Peacedales would hasten the end of their benefactor? Probably not. So…can I get your mind off murder for a while?” Joe put down his coffee mug on the night table and took me into his arms, kissing my neck and shoulder. A melting sensation ran straight from his mouth to my second chakra. “Are you as hungry as I am?” he murmured, moving his mouth lower.
“For breakfast?”
“That, too—but later….”
Chapter Six
Deidre was in the upstairs sewing room of her brick-fronted garrison Colonial, making costumes for Jenny and Willie to wear at the school Thanksgiving pageant. Bobby was pedaling a red car up and down the hall. The toy poodles, Salty and Peppy, skidded along after him, yapping, while Baby Anne revved up her own little motor from the playpen nearby. The scene brought me back to when my own three, also close in age, had been a full-time concern. I sighed a grateful sigh. Getting older has its compensations.
“So I wondered if you might go with me to the pageant,” Deidre said. “I’d like to take these two to see their brother and sister on stage, but Will’s on duty and M&Ms is off to Atlantic City with her gambling pals.”
“Sure. There’s nothing I like better than a six-hour elementary school Thanksgiving pageant. It’s the thing I’ve missed most since my children grew up.”
Deidre stitched a fake-leather fringe onto a little brown cotton shirt. “Remember when you needed me and the kids to be your cover while you scouted around that serial murderer’s homestead in Carver? And his two crazed Dobermans attacked my station wagon?”
“Okay, okay. I owe, and I’ll go. I’d love to. Same old plot, is it? The Pilgrims invite the Indians to share a meal and sign over North America?”
“Yep, same lousy deal. Jenny’s a Pilgrim lass, and Willie’s an Indian brave. I’m making an Indian costume for Bobby, too. Even though he’s not in the pageant, he doesn’t want to feel left out.”
“And Anne?”
“Papoose. You wouldn’t mind carrying her on your back, would you? I’d like to be able to move around freely with the video camcorder, in case anything unexpectedly delightful occurs.”
“Sure. Good for the posture, I bet. How do you find time for all this?”
“No problem. Time stretches to fit the things you have to do, I always say.”
Deidre had the knack all right. Watching her busy hands, I marveled at the way the costumes seemed to appear out of nowhere and were remarkably well-made. When I used to whip up costumes, my stock-in-trade for fast effects had been safety pins and Scotch tape. “I think you must have those little brownies out of Grimm’s fairy tales coming in at night to help you. Made them tiny shoes and shirts, did you?”
“Funny you should say that, Cass.” Deidre reached into a copious workbag hanging on the back of her chair and fished out a stuffed elf wearing a cobbler’s apron with a tiny awl sticking out of its pocket. “It’s a new product I’m introducing into Deidre’s Faeryland. This one is Bobbikins the Brownie Shoemaker. Wait a minute…yes, here’s his wife, Bettikins.”
Bettikins wore a kerchief and an apron; she was holding a little sewing basket.. “Adorable. You’ll sell a million of ’em. And seeing it’s you, I believe those million orders will be filled on time. Who needs sleep?”
“I have you to thank, Cass, for getting me started selling on the Internet. I do sometimes miss the stimulation of running that vitamin place at Massasoit Mall, but when Baby Anne arrived, it was just too much.” She propped the two dolls on the windowsill and went back to her sewing machine. I couldn’t resist opening Bettikins’s miniature sewing basket. Tiny spools of thread, a strawberry pincushion, some postage stamp–sized scraps of cloth. While I was playing, Deidre continued dispensing folklore. “Those legends of the brownies may have been inspired by the history of the ancient Picts, you know—small,
