If she had, why didn’t she tell Lieutenant Flynn at the time?

  Of course, no one knew for sure if Sheila had been having an affair. But if that wasn’t the case, what hold did this person have over her that had driven her to the West Coast and kept her from talking until now?

  Dylan, John, and Aunt Harriet all took it upon themselves to remind me not to bring up the subject of the murders. As if I would. I knew how high-strung Sheila was, and the last thing I wanted to do was upset her. My role was to be a good hostess and make her comfortable—as comfortable as a person could feel in this situation. If she wanted to discuss it, that was her prerogative. And if she didn’t bring up the subject, I was certain John would invite her to “talk about things” in his office. Eventually we would find out what had taken place the night Chet Harper was stabbed to death. I had to be patient, though patience wasn’t one of my virtues.

  Dylan arrived at ten after six as I was heating up some of the appetizers and placing others on platters. Since there were so many of us, I’d decided to serve mini quiches and stuffed mushrooms along with cheese and crackers and hummus and guacamole while we gathered in the living room.

  “Hi, babe.” He kissed me quickly, then put a few bottles of wine in the fridge. “Excited about tonight?” he asked.

  “I am. I hope we’re not disappointed.”

  “Just don’t push,” he said, stuffing his mouth with a hummus-laden cracker.

  I frowned. “I wouldn’t dream of it, especially after the many warnings I’ve received.”

  “Mmm, this is good.” He cut off a piece of cheese and gobbled it up.

  “Leave some for the company,” I said.

  The doorbell rang, and I rushed to the front door. My aunt and uncle were carrying so many bags, I couldn’t even hug them.

  “What have you brought?” I asked as I followed them into the kitchen.

  “When you told me we were now eight, I decided to make cookies and two fruit pies. And we stopped for some ice cream on the way here.”

  “And?” I asked, pointing at Uncle Bosco’s bag.

  “You can always use another bottle of wine,” he said, “and some fresh fruit for after dinner.”

  After they set down their bags of food and drink on the counter, I hugged my aunt and uncle. They were my compass, the family I’d never had growing up, and I loved them dearly.

  “Mmm, guacamole,” Uncle Bosco said, dipping a cracker into the green spread.

  “Bosco, can’t you wait?” Aunt Harriet asked. She was putting the ice cream in the freezer.

  “No, I can’t. I’m hungry.”

  “What can I do?” my aunt asked me.

  “I’ll bring out the hot appetizers as soon as everyone’s here, but I still have to dress the salad.”

  “In that case, I’ll get out the serving platters,” she said, and opened the drawer where she knew I kept them.

  “I’m heating up the chickens and veggies on a low temp,” I said. “I figure we’ll have the main course half an hour from now.”

  Dylan and my uncle stood at the kitchen table, chatting as they opened bottles of red and white wine. Dylan removed wineglasses from the cabinet above the sink, poured some Chardonnay into a glass, and handed me my drink.

  “Thanks, hon,” I said, and sipped.

  The doorbell rang again. My heart rate went into overdrive when I saw Billy and his mother standing at the front door.

  “Come in, come in!” I said, perhaps a bit too heartily.

  Billy kissed my cheek. Sheila offered me a smile. I hesitated, wondering what to do when she moved closer to embrace me.

  “It’s so nice to see you again, Carrie,” she said.

  Dylan appeared at my side and kissed Sheila’s cheek. “We’re glad you’re here with us tonight.”

  “Thank you both for having me. And for coming to see me on Long Island. I’m sorry I was less than welcoming.”

  I waved away her apology. “There’s someone here who’s been waiting to see you.”

  Sheila blinked at the sight of my aunt as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. “Harriet Singleton, is that you? Oh, my dear! What a pleasant surprise.”

  My aunt, who was considerably larger than Sheila in both height and girth, all but crushed her in her arms.

  “Harriet, dear, let the poor woman breathe.”

  Aunt Harriet pursed her lips at Uncle Bosco, then turned back to Sheila. “Pattie—I mean, Sheila—this is my husband, Bosco. I don’t think you two have ever met.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Uncle Bosco said with a bow. “May I offer you a glass of wine?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Red or white?”

  “I think red.”

  I signaled to Dylan to lead our guests into the living room, then motioned to Aunt Harriet to follow me into the kitchen, where I removed the warming hors d’oeuvres just in time to prevent them from burning. We set them on platters, which Aunt Harriet carried out to the living room. I followed a few minutes later with trays of cold appetizers, crackers, and cheese.

  I was pleased to see that Sheila had not retreated into her shell but seemed to be enjoying the company of the three males present. Of course, Billy was her son and she’d met Dylan before. And Uncle Bosco could charm anyone age nine to ninety. Sheila sat on my sofa, munching on a mini quiche as my uncle regaled them with a story I’d heard at least four times before. When Sheila smiled, I saw what a beautiful woman she must have been twenty years ago.

  The doorbell rang, and the room fell silent.

  “That must be Sylvia and John,” Dylan said. “I’ll get the door.”

  Sheila gazed down at her lap, suddenly shy because Clover Ridge’s police chief was about to join us. Aunt Harriet, who was sitting beside her, put an arm around her. “You’ll see, John is really very sweet.”

  But he can also be intimidating. I remembered John’s cold, unbending demeanor when I’d first met him and asked questions about an ongoing homicide and related cold-case investigation I’d helped solve. He hadn’t welcomed my involvement, but over time we’d become friends, even though he occasionally got exasperated with what he considered my interference in his cases. Still, I knew John had grown as fond of me as I had of him, and not just because of his close relationship with Uncle Bosco and his deepening friendship with Dylan.

  Now he and Sylvia entered the hall—a handsome couple in their midfifties: John, tall and spare, looking every bit the lawman; Sylvia’s red hair and grin reflecting her friendly, open personality. I embraced them both and relieved John of the casserole he was carrying.

  “I’ll pop this in the oven,” I said. “Go say hello to everyone and have a drink.”

  I heard Dylan introduce them to Sheila. When I returned to the living room, Sylvia had joined Sheila and Aunt Harriet on the sofa, while the four men stood near the bay window facing the river, talking and laughing as they sipped their drinks.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later we were gathered around the dining table spooning portions of salad, chicken, veggies, and Sylvia’s casserole onto our plates. I’d placed Sheila between Billy and John and across from me. Dylan sat to my right, at the head of the table. Aunt Harriet sat next to me, Sylvia sat beside her, and Uncle Bosco sat across from Dylan. Not exactly girl, boy, girl, boy, but it suited me, as I needed to get up a few times to serve, and I figured Aunt Harriet and Sylvia would want to be able to reach the kitchen easily too if I needed assistance.

  At first the only conversation was about the food. As soon as everyone was busy eating and imbibing, I said, “Sheila, have you noticed many changes in Clover Ridge since you left?”

  Sheila looked up from the chicken she’d been cutting and paused to think. “Billy drove me round the village and the neighborhood where we used to live. The shops and buildings around the Green look pretty much the same, but there are so many new condos and stores in the area. And a new town hall.”

  “We try to keep up with the times,” Uncle Bosco said, “while preserving the old buildings that have landmark status.”

  “I’d say the population has almost doubled in the past twenty years,” John said.

  “We have two new schools,” Sylvia said. “The high school is old and sure could use a facelift.”

  “I don’t see that happening anytime soon,” said Aunt Harriet darkly.

  “The library’s being expanded in the fall,” I said. “I’m looking forward to holding events in our new stadium-seating auditorium, though I dread the construction period.”

  “Billy said you have a movie crew making a movie here in town,” Sheila said. “That sounds exciting.”

  “It is,” I agreed. “Especially since my mother’s husband has a feature role in the movie. The actors have kindly offered to do a play reading Saturday night.”

  Sheila smiled. “Thank you for inviting us.”

  From her comments, I realized Billy hadn’t told her that one of the cast members had been murdered a day after Daphne. Which reminded me of the artwork on Hattie Fein’s barrette.

  “Sheila, where did you work when you lived in Clover Ridge?”

  Silence reigned as Sheila took a bite of her chicken and chewed. Just when I thought she wasn’t going to answer, she said, “I had a few jobs over the years in Clover Ridge and nearby towns. For a while I worked in an insurance office, then in a clothing shop, and in a bank.”

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed by her answers but determined to learn if there was a link. “Where did you learn to do the artwork decorating the frames in your living room? It’s so unique.”

  I knew I was taking a chance—giving her the opening to tell an outright lie—but Sheila opted to tell the truth.

  “The most interesting job I held when I lived in Clover Ridge was in a craft workshop a few miles outside of town. It didn’t pay much, so I couldn’t give it many hours, but working there I learned the rudiments of certain craft techniques.” She smiled. “Including the rope and beadwork you admired. It sure was helpful when I moved to Oregon. I found a sales job in an arts-and-crafts store and took a few courses in making jewelry. Soon I was making earrings, pendants, and bracelets. I was thrilled when a nearby gallery took a few pieces on consignment and sold all of them in a month.”

  “How fascinating!” Sylvia exclaimed. “I often thought of doing something crafty but couldn’t decide on what I’d be good at. I can’t draw to save myself. And my knitting is awful.” She turned to Aunt Harriet. “Remember the time you tried to teach me to knit?”

  Aunt Harriet laughed. “I don’t know how you did it, but the yarn tangled up into knots.”

  The conversation was drifting away from where I wanted it to go.

  “But who taught you to do the rope and beadwork when you were still living here in Clover Ridge?” I asked Sheila.

  “Why does it matter, Carrie? What difference does it make?”

  “I’m simply curious,” I said. “A woman in the movie crew was wearing a barrette with the exact same type of work.”

  Sheila shrugged. “I’m sure many crafts people make similar pieces.”

  “Her name is Hattie Fein,” I said.

  “Please, Carrie. I don’t know anyone named Hattie Fein!”

  “What was the name of the woman who taught you how to do that kind of work all those years ago?”

  Frantically, Sheila turned to Billy. He glared at me. “Stop torturing her, Carrie.”

  “No, I want to tell her.” Sheila looked at John. “I want you to know. Then perhaps you can stop the murders, once and for all.”

  John patted her arm. “We can do this privately, if you like.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s time the whole world knows, regardless of the consequences. The woman’s name is Helen. Helen Stravos. And I wish to God I’d never met her!”

  Dylan and I exchanged glances.

  Who the hell is Helen Stravos?

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “I met Helen the day I started working at Crawley’s Crafts. Bob, the manager, was in a hurry when he showed me around the shop. He pointed to different drawers, saying where the various supplies were kept: beads, hooks, dried flowers, yarns, craft-making tools. There were hundreds of items. Thousands! ‘Everything’s labeled, along with their prices,’ Bob told me as he slid open drawers and cabinets. ‘When a customer comes in, give her what she wants.’

  “He looked at me fiercely. ‘Under no circumstance are you to let them touch these drawers or what’s inside them. Got it?’ I said I did. ‘Good!’ He led me to the cash register, made sure I knew how to handle charges, figure out tax. Then he said he had to run out for a few minutes.

  “Well, Bob was gone for more like half an hour. A customer came in wanting some rope and beads for a macramé project. She pointed to the cabinet where they were kept. I brought out several samples of beads, and she picked out what she wanted. So that was easy. But the next customer was a different situation entirely.” Sheila paused to finish off her wine.

  I sat back, marveling how she’d remembered every detail of that day. A glance around the table told me everyone had stopped eating and was waiting for her to continue.

  “This customer was a large woman at least ten years older than I was. She wanted to start a new jewelry project but wasn’t quite sure what. First, she asked to see some chains. I brought out a tray of them. She examined each in turn, but nothing was just what she wanted. She asked to see more. Soon she had chains scattered all over the counter. I suggested putting some of them away. Instead, she told me to bring out trays of blue and green beads. She felt certain that finding the right beads would give her a sense of what her next project should be.

  “I was beginning to panic. There was something off-putting about this woman. Actually, she frightened me. What if she started grabbing whatever she liked and ran out of the store? I’d lose my job or worse.”

  “How awful!” Aunt Harriet exclaimed. “What did you do?”

  “The customer started walking toward the drawers,” Sheila said. “‘You’re wasting my time,’ she said. ‘This will go faster if I search for what I want.’ I chased after her. ‘No! You can’t do that! Customers can’t rummage through the inventory.’ She drew back and told me she wasn’t rummaging. She didn’t rummage.

  “‘What’s going on here?’ We both spun around to stare at the newcomer we hadn’t heard enter the shop. She was tall and statuesque, with long auburn hair. And beautiful. For some reason she reminded me of Wonder Woman.

  “‘I’m trying to choose supplies for a new project and this saleswoman isn’t very helpful. Not that it’s any of your business, miss.’

  “‘I’m Helen Stravos, and it happens to be my business because I work here too.’ Her glance took in the array of chains and beads spread over the counter. ‘From what I can see, you were shown a variety of items, many more than our manager allows to be shown at one time.’ And with that, she started putting the inventory back in their respective trays and packed them away.”

  Sheila smiled. “The woman huffed with indignation. ‘Well, I never! You can tell your manager he’s lost a good customer.’ She made a quick getaway, slamming the door behind her.

  “I was terrified. I’d been working there less than an hour, and I’d already chased away a customer. But when I turned to Helen, I saw she was laughing. Soon I was laughing, too. When I could speak again, Helen told me that Bob often took off for hours at a time and that she’d meant to come in earlier, knowing someone new was starting.”

  Sheila glanced around the table at each of us. “And that was how my relationship with Helen Stravos began.”

  In the silence that followed, I considered what Sheila was really telling us. The person she’d been romantically involved with twenty years ago was a woman! A woman named Helen Stravos. A woman none of us had ever heard of before today. My mind was churning with questions. Before I could open my mouth to ask Sheila if she’d seen Helen Stravos kill her husband, Aunt Harriet stood. In her warm but practical way, she said, “As curious as we are to hear the rest of her story, I’m sure Sheila could use a well-deserved recess. Carrie and I will clear the table, bring out the desserts, and get the coffee and tea started. How many for coffee?”

  Everyone but Sylvia and Sheila raised their hands.

  “Tea, Sheila and Sylvia?”

  They both nodded as Sylvia and I helped my aunt gather up plates and cutlery. In the kitchen, Aunt Harriet drew me aside. “I hope you aren’t angry at me for taking over like that, but the poor woman needed a break.”

  I hugged her. “Don’t think that for a minute. Sheila’s been through hell. And reporting it to all of us has to be very difficult.”

  I filled the twelve-cup coffeemaker, knowing some people would want refills. Sylvia boiled water for tea, then got out the desserts, while Aunt Harriet covered the platters of uneaten food and put them in the refrigerator. By the time we brought out the dessert plates, cups, spoons, and forks, the mood in the dining room had changed. Sheila, along with the others, was listening avidly as Dylan recounted the story of one of his stolen art recoveries. I was filled with love and admiration for the people I’d chosen to invite here tonight to spend the evening with Sheila Rossetti.

  When we were all seated once again, filling our mouths with sweets, John turned to Sheila. “Do you feel up to answering a few questions?”

  Sheila suddenly looked nervous. Billy put his arm around her shoulders. “Only if you want to, Mom.”

  “I know,” she answered softly. “I do want to. I’ve wanted to all these years, but I was afraid. I still am.”

  “Afraid of what exactly?” John asked softly.

  Sheila looked at him. “Everything. Of discovering I was falling in love with a woman. Of Chet finding out. Of anyone finding out. I was so ashamed, but I couldn’t help myself. Helen made me laugh. She listened to me. She cared.” She drew a deep breath. “At least, it felt like she cared about me.”

  “You don’t think her feelings for you were genuine?” John asked.

  I stared at him, marveling at his questions. They were much—kinder was the best word I could think of—than I’d expected. John Mathers was proving to be more sensitive than I’d ever imagined.