“I know. I know. Rose doesn’t want the expense, and she considers it an invasion of the privacy of her guests.”

  “I’d say breaking down a bedroom door constitutes an invasion of privacy, but never mind that now. We’ll shelve that conversation for another time. As for now, what’s your plan?”

  “Rachel mentioned that the housekeeper at her mother’s home has been with the family for many years. Rachel’s is the only side of their family saga I’ve heard. I want to meet this housekeeper and see if she can give me any insights into the family and the relationship between the sisters.”

  “I’m in. When?”

  “I hate to take the time off work, but we’re most likely to find a housekeeper at work in the morning. If you can give me a hand with the B & B breakfasts, we might be able to get away at nine. It’s about forty-five minutes to Chatham.”

  “I’ll be here. In the meantime, I can do more than that. Wesley’s mixed up in this, one way or another. He has plans to open two new restaurants with the possibility of a third. That takes money and, without money, investors. Even with money it takes investors and business partners. I’ll see what I can dig up on him.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You can always count on me, Lily.”

  And the wonderful thing was, I knew it.

  Chapter 13

  I can always count on my grandmother, too, but sometimes that’s not so wonderful. She came into the B & B kitchen at eight thirty, made-up and dressed and ready for an outing.

  “Where are you going?” I said suspiciously.

  “Wherever you are, love. Investigating the events surrounding the death of our recent guest, I presume.”

  I threw Bernie a questioning look.

  “I never said a word,” she protested.

  “You didn’t have to,” Rose said. “I saw you two exchanging secret glances last night when the men weren’t looking. And then Bernie drives up this morning at six thirty? I’ll have my tea now, Edna.”

  “Kettle’s over there.” Edna grabbed four pieces of toast as they popped out of the toaster, laid them on a plate, and carried a tray with two full breakfasts into the dining room. As soon as she’d arrived, I asked her if the paper had any updates on Kimberly’s death, hoping there’d been an arrest and I could stop worrying about it. To my disappointment, she said no. The chief of police had given a press conference yesterday evening at which he said they were pursuing all leads. “That means,” Edna said, “they haven’t got a clue.”

  “You’ll not be pleased to hear that your . . . friend . . . is staying on,” Rose said.

  “My friend?” I said. “You don’t mean Wesley? Staying on where? Hopefully not here.”

  “He called me very early this morning to ask if he could stay for two more days. We had a last-minute cancelation last night, so I do have a room free.”

  I shook my head. “Yesterday he was threatening to sue us.”

  “He was very polite. Apologized for the fuss and bother and thanked me for replacing the door to his room so quickly and efficiently. He was chatty, and although I didn’t ask, he informed me that his business affairs require him to stay in the area longer than he’d initially expected. He then hastened to also ensure I understood that he wants to remain in North Augusta until the police release his, and I quote, ‘beloved wife’s body.’ ”

  “You could have said no.”

  “That would not have been a wise business decision, love. We do have an available room, although the cancelation was so last minute, we can keep the deposit. I deduce this is not a man to be inconvenienced or antagonized. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, don’t they say? Stay out of his way, love, and all will be fine.”

  “I agree with Rose,” Bernie said.

  “As you usually do,” I muttered.

  I’m Rose’s granddaughter and I look very much like her, but we’re opposite in personality, whereas Bernie and Rose have identical characters, which is probably why they’ve always gotten on so well. They’re both impulsive, adventurous, overconfident, and can be counted on to throw caution to the wind and to boldly go where the timid dare not tread. Whereas I, one of the timid, have to consider every angle before I take action. And even then, I’ve been known to hesitate.

  Sometimes I found the two of them more than annoying. But sometimes, like now, I knew I was lucky to have them on my side.

  “Rose is right in that it’s better to have Wesley here, on-site,” Bernie said, “than at another place in North Augusta where we can’t keep a watchful eye on him. If he tries to bother you, I’ll run interference.”

  While we were talking, Edna returned to the kitchen. She put a tray of dirty dishes on the counter. “He was in just now. Grabbed a coffee in a take-out cup and a muffin. Told me he has a business breakfast meeting in town. One order of the egg-white omelet and one who’s just having cereal and yoghurt, and we’re done. You do that omelet, and I’ll finish up so you can be on your way.”

  “Thanks, Edna.” I reached for the eggs.

  * * *

  We were on the road at ten after nine. I drove, Rose was in the passenger seat, and Bernie in the back, leaning forward between us. “Ready for my report?”

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  “I have nothing.”

  “That’s your report?”

  “Early days yet. No one was in their office last night, but I started putting out some feelers and found what I could online. The Smithfield family is wealthy, compared to you and me, but nowhere near as rich and influential as they were in their heyday. The decline began in the late 1990s, mostly caused by bad business and investment decisions on the part of the late Julian Smithfield, grandson of the company’s founder and thus founder of the family fortune.”

  Rose tut-tutted. “You know what they say, rags to riches to rags in three generations. The Frockmorton family, mind—”

  “Julian was Kimberly’s father and Rachel’s stepfather,” I said before we could get into a discussion of the business practices and genealogy of the owners of Thornecroft Castle.

  “The family no longer controls Smithfield Industries,” Bernie said, “most of which was broken up and sold off years ago. The son, Stephen, lives in California, where he appears to have settled down after a wild youth. He has a police record around the Lower and Mid Cape for things like public drunkenness, possession, minor vandalism. Nothing more serious than that, and he never spent any time in jail. No doubt it helped that his family had money and influence. Rachel, as we know, is a big name in the restaurant world. Kimberly didn’t seem to do much of anything other than go to movie premiers and parties. She was well known in the New York and Boston social scenes. She tried her hand at modeling, but other than a few bra ads for the likes of Wal-Mart flyers, nothing. She’s had no work, that I could find, in the last two or three years and is no longer associated with her former modeling agency. She’s not been married previously.”

  “Wesley?”

  “As I said, early days yet. From what I can tell his restaurant in Manhattan is doing okay, but no more than okay. Maybe a bit less than okay. I’ll try to find out more. That reality TV show he starred in was canceled after one season because of poor ratings, and nothing new came up. He doesn’t appear to have any other source of income than his restaurant, so I’d say if he wants to open two, possibly three, new places, he’s dependent on finding well-heeled investors. Or a well-heeled wife. Even better, an inheritance from the well-heeled wife.”

  “How well-heeled was Kimberly herself?” I asked.

  “I don’t know for certain, but I’d say far less than you’d expect. Most of the money the family has left is in the house.”

  “Rachel told me Kimberly liked to act as though she had money, although she didn’t.”

  “Rachel is not an impartial observer when it comes to her sister, but in this case I believe she’s correct. As for the house itself, it doesn’t appear there’s a mortgage on it, and it’s gotta be in the ten to fifteen million range, maybe a bit more, judging by what I could see of it and its surroundings on Google Earth.”

  “That’s a heck of a lot,” I said.

  “It is. The house is on a huge piece of oceanfront property, with a private beach, patches of woodland, nice gardens. Big old house, triple garage, pool, outdoor hot tub, the works. But as I said, that seems to be about all the family still has to their name. Their mother required round-the-clock private nursing care over the last year of her life, and that doesn’t come cheap.”

  “You found out a lot more than nothing,” Rose said.

  “I was hoping to find direct links between Wesley and organized crime.” Bernie settled back in her seat and pulled out her phone. “As I said, I have feelers out. Let’s see if anything pops up today.”

  Chapter 14

  I had no trouble believing the Smithfield home fell into the monetary range Bernie estimated. The directions on Bernie’s phone led us to an oceanfront property just outside the town of Chatham, surrounded by a high wall and closed gates. Over the wall, I could see the tops of tall trees, black and white oaks mostly, with a few red cedars and native pitch pine.

  I turned into the long driveway and stopped at the communication panel next to the gates. “This might have been a totally wasted trip.”

  “I enjoyed the drive,” Rose said. “I need to get out more. The Cape’s so lovely in summer.”

  I pressed buttons, and soon a crackly voice said, “Hello?”

  Last night, I’d debated how to approach the housekeeper with my questions. I considered pretending to be with the North Augusta police. I considered pretending to be a newspaper reporter wanting to do a puff piece on Kimberly. I considered pretending be a friend of Kimberly not aware of her death. I considered pretending to be a potential investor in Wesley’s restaurant venture. In the end, I remembered that I’m not a very good liar, and I decided to simply stick to the truth.

  “Good morning. I hope I’m not disturbing you. I was hoping to have a chance to chat to Mrs. Chambers. Is that you?”

  “It is. What’s this about?”

  “My name’s Lily Roberts, and I’d like to talk to you about Kimberly Smithfield. She was a guest at my grandmother’s B & B, and I’m the person who found her, after her death I mean, and I’m bothered by that . . . I guess I’m hoping knowing more about her will help me.”

  Silently, the gates swung open.

  “Good one,” Bernie said from the back. “I was afraid you were going to tell her you were with the police.”

  “Lily’s a terrible liar,” Rose said. “Unlike her own mother. Now she is a world-class liar.”

  I ignored them and drove down the long driveway lined with stately oaks. The lawn was freshly cut, affording a fabulous view of the deep blue sea shimmering in the distance. The flower beds overflowed with lush blooms, and more flowers spilled from urns lining the front steps and the path to the detached three-car garage. Neat gravel paths wound their way through the lawns and along the waterfront. The house itself was made of red brick on a stone foundation with a gray roof. It was multilevel, with a wraparound ground-floor veranda and upper-floor balconies. I counted four chimneys and numerous staircases and entrances. A smaller version of the main house sat to our left: smaller only in comparison to the big house. It was larger than many suburban homes.

  “Place looks nicely kept up,” I said. “I’d have thought Kimberly’d be the sort to cut corners.”

  “If the will is still in dispute,” Rose said, “the lawyers would likely have instructed that no staffing changes be made until it’s resolved.”

  I parked at the bottom of the main steps, and by the time we got out of the car, the front door had opened and a woman emerged from the house to greet us. She was in her early sixties, with a thin face and strong features, dressed in black yoga pants under a long turquoise shirt. Ballet flats were on her feet, and her gray hair was bound up in a knot at the back of her head. She didn’t smile as she watched us approach.

  “Thank you for seeing us,” I said. “I’m Lily and this is my friend Bernadette and my grandmother, Rose.”

  “My condolences on your loss,” Rose said in her best working-class Yorkshire accent.

  The edges of the housekeeper’s mouth turned up and she said, “Thank you.”

  “Have you worked for the family for a long time?” Rose asked.

  “More years than I care to remember. I’m Helen Chambers. Please come in.”

  She stepped back and we walked into the house. The entrance was large and designed to impress: black and white marble tiles on the floor, a sparkling six-point chandelier overhead, huge mirror on one wall, portrait of a lady in a midtwentieth-century evening dress on the other, small glass sculptures in all shades of blue and green arranged on a glass display table. A wide staircase with deep red and gold runners and thick oak banisters curled toward the second floor. There wasn’t a speck of dust on anything.

  “I don’t know that I can help you, Ms. Roberts, ladies,” Helen said. “I have to confess that although I’m the housekeeper here, I always felt as though I was more like family. I watched my poor Kimmy grow up.” She pulled a tissue out of her bra and blew her nose. “Such a darling little thing she was.”

  Darling wasn’t the word I’d have chosen to describe Kimberly Smithfield, but I hadn’t known her as a child, and so I smiled in sympathy. I was pleased to hear Helen considered herself to be almost one of the family. She’d know far more about them than if she’d been recently hired and kept her distance.

  “I understand,” Rose said. “I myself spent time in what in England we call ‘service.’ The line between employer and staff can become blurry in this more casual day and age.”

  “So you understand, then. Kimmy married recently, and she and her new husband were vacationing in North Augusta. She called it a pre-honeymoon. He had business in the Outer Cape. They were planning a proper honeymoon in Paris later in the year. You . . . said you found her?”

  “My grandmother and I own the B & B where they were staying. How did you hear what happened?”

  “Wesley called me to break the news. That’s Kimberly’s new husband. Wesley Schumann’s his name. Such a nice man.” She smiled and a slight twinkle came into her eye. “And a celebrity chef at that. The police came by later, with questions about Kimberly. I . . . I can’t believe they think someone might have deliberately done her harm. Were you . . . with her when . . . ?” Her voice trailed off.

  “I was close by,” I said. “I tried to help, but . . . I’m sorry.”

  She made no move to invite us to step farther inside, or to offer us refreshments. It wasn’t her house, of course, so not her place to welcome visitors. Rose and Bernie took care of that minor inconvenience before I had to decide whether or not to simply come right out and ask what I wanted to know.

  “That’s a lovely portrait.” Rose indicated the one dominating the foyer. “What a beautiful woman. Is the lady a family member?”

  “That is Mrs. Karen Smithfield. Mr. Julian’s first wife. She died far too young. Such a tragedy. Mr. Julian was bereft, the poor man. I hadn’t been working here for long when she passed. He married again shortly after, too hastily in my opinion, but that’s what men do sometimes, isn’t it?”

  “It can be.” My grandmother took a step forward, as though she wanted a closer look at the painting. Her left leg wobbled; she gasped in pain and fear. Bernie’s arm shot out and grabbed Rose’s. “Careful there, Rose. Are you okay?”

  Rose breathed heavily. “One of my dizzy spells. They come over me so suddenly these days. Give me a minute, and I’ll be fine.” She swayed and let out a restrained, and extremely polite, groan.

  Bernie threw me a panicked look.

  “May I bother you, Helen,” Rose’s voice trembled, “for a glass of water? If it isn’t too much trouble.”

  “Of course,” the housekeeper said. “Please come in. You need to sit down.” She led the way down the hallway. Bernie followed, supporting Rose, and I brought up the rear. Helen showed us into the living room: beige paint, white furniture, glass-topped tables, good landscape paintings, subdued lighting. The French doors looked over the clear waters of a swimming pool surrounded by lush greenery. A gardener was bent over a flower bed, trowel in hand, while another deadheaded geraniums. Lounge chairs were arranged around the pool, but the cushions had been taken in and the sun umbrellas were furled. The sea, dotted by white sails, sparkled in the distance. Rose sank into a plush armchair with a grateful sigh and adjusted the cushions behind her.

  “I’ll be right back.” Helen slipped out of the room, and before Bernie and I could do any more than get our bearings, the housekeeper returned with a glass of water, which she handed to Rose.

  Rose gave her a grateful smile and sipped.

  “Nice house,” Bernie said. “Do Kimberly’s parents live here?”

  “Mr. Julian Smithfield died some years ago. Such a wonderful man, he was. Kind, loving, generous.” Her face filled with sadness. “His second wife, Kimmy’s mother, followed very recently,” she added, and the trace of sorrow disappeared.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Bernie said.

  “What do you suppose will happen to this gorgeous house now?” Rose asked. “I hope you won’t be out of a job, love. New owners can be . . . careless in their regard for longtime staff. Do you live in?”

  “Live in? No, I don’t. As for the house, that’s still to be determined. Kimmy left a brother and a half-sister, as well as her new husband.”

  “That’s good, then. So much better to keep it in the family.” Only Rose had taken a seat. Bernie wandered around the room, admiring the art. I stood at Rose’s shoulder, smiling inanely. Helen wasn’t going to stand here chatting for much longer. I needed to find out what I’d come for, but I was rather at a loss as to how to continue.

  “I’m sorry but—” she began.

  “Kimberly’s siblings must be a great comfort to you,” Rose said.

  Helen’s expression changed abruptly and she snorted. “Hardly. Her brother’s a salesclerk.” The word dripped with scorn. “Of all things. Stephen. He lives in California.” More scorn. “A dreadful disappointment to his father, Stephen was. Mr. Julian counted on Stephen, as the only son, to follow in his footsteps and eventually take charge of the family business, as he did for his father and his father did before him. But the boy was weak of mind and personality. He preferred to take drugs and strum tunelessly on his guitar. I blame her. Giving in to his demands for music lessons, nothing good ever came of that. She spoiled him rotten.”