Cheryl laughed. Marybeth unloaded the dishwasher.

  Shortbread in the oven, I turned my attention to preparing the pastry for fruit tarts. As I measured flour and sugar, weighed butter, and judged the correct amount of ice water, I thought about Rachel and her alibi. If her alibi, this charter boat captain she supposedly met in a bar, was good enough for the police, it had to be good enough for me.

  Meaning, Rachel Morrison had not murdered her half sister.

  Is that the end of that? Perhaps not. Considering the animosity between the sisters and the ongoing fight over the inheritance, Rachel had to know she’d be the prime suspect in Kimberly’s death. Killers can be hired. Friends convinced to do the deed in exchange for favors. I tried to remember what I’d overheard of the argument outside my window Monday night. Kimberly had said she wasn’t going to agree to . . . something.

  Had Rachel asked, or paid, someone to approach Kimberly on her behalf, to suggest they come to an agreement about the will, and had things escalated until they were out of control? Or had the conversation about . . . whatever it was . . . merely been a ruse to get her out of the house? A nice walk, a private chat, and then . . .

  Chapter 16

  I pushed aside all thoughts of feuding families, lost wills, and murder most foul for the remainder of the day and got on with trying to make a living. I stayed late to catch up on my baking and prepare for another busy day tomorrow, and the sun was dipping into the bay when I locked up and headed home. I hadn’t heard from the police today, and that was definitely a good thing. Redmond must have been able to convince Williams that Wesley’s accusations against me had no merit.

  I’d like to learn more about what had been going on. I’d like to keep digging. But I did have a restaurant to run and no time to open a detective agency as a side business.

  A car passed me as I strolled up the driveway, enjoying the quiet of the evening. It was a Cadillac Escalade, black paint gleaming. A silver-haired man gave me a casual glance as he drove by. I didn’t recognize him, and I assumed he was a B & B guest, arriving late. He parked the car, climbed out, and headed directly for the house. He was alone, dressed in a dark suit, carrying only a briefcase. Unlikely to be a guest, then.

  I didn’t turn off toward my cottage but followed him onto the veranda. No one was sitting out tonight, having a drink after dinner and relaxing from a busy day before turning in, so he’d rung the bell.

  “Good evening,” I said. “Can I help you? Are you looking for a room for the night?”

  He turned. He was around seventy. Short gray hair above a high forehead, light tan, thick glasses, teeth so white and straight they had to be dentures, manicured hands. “Do you work here?”

  “I’m the granddaughter of the owner.”

  At that moment the door opened to reveal Wesley Schumann. “Hi, Martin, thanks for coming. Lily, what’s up?”

  “I was asking this gentleman if he needed anything.”

  “I’ve got this, thanks. He’s here to talk to me.”

  “If you have business to discuss,” I said helpfully, “you’d be more comfortable in the drawing room, if it’s not in use. Do you want me to check?”

  “Good idea,” Martin said. “I hate doing business in hotel rooms.” I led him inside, and he looked around. “Nice house, this. How long has your grandmother owned it?”

  “About three years.”

  “She do okay out of it?”

  “Well enough.”

  He passed me a square of thick paper. “My card. If you need any legal advice, happy to help.”

  “We don’t, but . . . thank you.”

  The drawing room serves as a common room for guests. A place where people can gather if it’s a rainy day or if they don’t want to read alone in their room. We stock it with board games and well-thumbed paperbacks. Tonight, it was empty, and I gestured to Wesley and his visitor to come in.

  Wesley gave me a sideways glance as he passed. “Thanks, Lily.”

  I began to shut the door. I assumed this was one of the people Wesley was trying to interest in his new restaurant venture, and I was going to leave them to it, when Martin said, “As the Smithfield family’s longtime lawyer, I—”

  I shut the door and took stock of my surroundings. No one was in the hallway, no footsteps sounded on the stairs or drifted down from the second-floor landing. No voices out on the veranda. I opened the door to the linen closet and stepped quickly inside, pulling the door shut after me.

  What can I say? Wesley had involved me in his business by telling the police I might have killed his wife. In return, I had no qualms about eavesdropping on his conversation with his lawyer.

  I piled linens on the floor and pulled the lever concealed beneath the second from the bottom shelf. The shelves slid silently aside, revealing a person-sized gap low to the floor. I crouched down and waddled into the secret room. The wall separating this space and the drawing room was not only exceedingly thin, but small holes had been drilled through them and covered with an oil painting in a heavy, ornate frame.

  My grandmother and I don’t make a habit of hiding in the secret room behind the linen cupboard eavesdropping on our guests, but we have found it handy when the police have commandeered the drawing room to interrogate suspects.

  “. . . lack of a will complicates things, but not unduly,” Martin was saying. “Under the laws of Massachusetts a spouse is automatically entitled to the entirely of the estate if the husband or wife dies intestate, providing there are no other potential heirs, such as children or grandchildren.”

  “But . . .” Wesley said. “It’s because of the but in this case I wanted to talk it over with you personally. I apologize for the late hour, but I had business meetings all day. Very promising meetings, I might add.”

  “Glad to hear it. I trust you’re aware your late wife’s sister maintains their mother had written another will, and she has witnesses to confirm it.”

  “Kimmy told me all about it. She also told me their mother changed her mind, once again, and destroyed the will. Rachel’s chasing shadows. Sorry, I can’t offer you a drink. I’d call the staff and ask what they have, but . . . let’s say the lady you met earlier is not inclined to do me any favors these days.”

  Got that one right, Wessie.

  “Why are you staying here, then?”

  “Why not? It’s a nice place.”

  “If you have personal complications with the owners, I’d advise you not to draw them out.”

  “Complications is the word. Let it go. Back to the will. Wills. Tell me what you know about all that.”

  “Rachel Morrison claims her mother’s last will specified that her estate was to be divided equally between the two sisters, following provisions made for their brother, Stephen, and various household staff. That will cannot be located. If it is located, Mr. Schumann, it will take precedence over the one Mrs. Smithfield filed with me, the one leaving the entirety of the estate, minus minor provisions, to Kimberly alone. Do you understand?”

  “How long does Rachel have to locate the new will and turn it over to the court?”

  “She has forever. As long as she lives.”

  Wesley swore. I heard footsteps as he paced up and down. “Meaning it will hang over my head as long as she lives.”

  “Her and any heirs she herself might have.”

  More swearing.

  “If the new will is found, it will have to pass legal scrutiny, and there’s no guarantee of success. A handwritten will is perfectly legal, but strict conditions have to be met. Properly witnessed, signed, and dated, for example. The signer must have been in full possession of her wits and fully aware of what she was doing, without being unduly influenced.”

  “You can testify Mrs. Smithfield wasn’t of sound mind. If the will shows up, that is.”

  “I cannot say that, Mr. Schumann. Because it is not true.”

  “I’d . . . ensure you were properly renumerated.”

  “I’ll ignore that suggestion, but even if I was inclined to accept, Mrs. Smithfield’s doctor and her private nurse would contradict me. As would her housekeeper, Mrs. Chambers.”

  “Just a thought.”

  “My advice to you, young man, is to let things fall where they may. The will is lost. Almost certainly Mrs. Smithfield had another change of heart and threw out the handwritten will. There would be no reason for her to write yet another will superseding it, as her earlier will was filed with my office and remains valid in the lack of a later one. Her husband was a close friend of mine, and through that relationship I knew her well. My wife and I dined often at their house and they at ours, although I’ve seen little of Mrs. Smithfield, and nothing outside of business, since Julian’s death. My wife wanted to continue the friendship, but Rosemary cut her off. Rosemary was a woman of strong opinions, particularly about people, and quick to express them. I might have admired that, except she changed those strong opinions for the slightest of reasons and sometimes for no reason at all. No reason I could see at any rate. In my opinion, she threw away the handwritten will, probably before the ink was dry.”

  “I can count on that?”

  “No, you cannot. You should not. Rachel is looking for it. It might yet be found and be determined to be valid. I trust you’re aware that the fortunes of the Smithfield family have declined steadily over the past years. Julian Smithfield was my good friend, and I advised him strongly against some of his more perilous investments, when I could. But he was not one to take advice, no matter how sincerely meant.”

  Rachel told me the lawyer had given that poor financial advice to her stepfather. Interesting, but probably irrelevant. The man wouldn’t confess to it, and Rachel wouldn’t have had insights into her stepfather’s financial affairs.

  “What are you saying?” Wesley asked.

  “The majority of the inheritance is in the house. There isn’t much in the way of cash, and little of value in stocks and mutual funds. Julian sold most of his stock in Smithfield Industries to make the aforementioned bad investments.”

  “Is the house mortgaged?”

  “No.”

  “It’s got to be worth a lot.”

  “It is.”

  There was a long silence as Wesley digested the news. “Can I sell it?” he said at last.

  “If Rachel continues to contest the will, the matter will be drawn out. Eventually, if the other will fails to materialize, yes. It will be yours to sell.”

  “I can’t wait for a long, drawn-out legal matter to be resolved. I need . . . funds now.”

  Martin said nothing.

  “Okay,” Wesley said. “I guess that sounds bad, put like that. Let’s be honest here. Kimberly told me the fight with her sister concerning a new will was over, and she planned to sell the house. She intended to invest much of the proceeds in my restaurant venture. She figured she’d get upwards of twenty million for the house.”

  I whistled under my breath. Twenty million bucks would build a lot of restaurants.

  “Even if the inheritance is quickly settled in your favor with no further complications, my advice would be to not rush things. Houses of that size and cost can take considerable time to find the right buyer, one who is prepared to pay full value. In order to get that full value . . . The house has, shall we say, been in need of structural improvements for a while. Extensive structural improvements.”

  “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

  “You could come to an agreement with Rachel,” Martin said. “It’s to discuss that possibility I’ve come all this way to talk to you. As I said, Rosemary was a woman of changing opinions. She removed Rachel from her will because Rachel went to Europe. She then decided to put her back. If you agree to divide Kimberly’s inheritance with Rachel, you can put all the uncertainty behind you.”

  If Wesley did have to share the estate with Rachel, and they sold the house, he’d get something slightly under ten million dollars. Less if it was a rushed sale without doing the “structural improvements” needed. Whatever he ended up with, it would provide him with a nice lifestyle. I didn’t think he had much to complain about. But, I remembered, Wesley could always find something to complain about.

  “What about Stephen, the black sheep brother? Suppose he wants a cut, too?”

  “He is entitled to, as you put it, a cut, under both—all—of Rosemary’s wills. That’s a set amount.”

  “Not to mention a pack of servants.” Wesley continued to pace.

  Martin cleared his throat. “My advice to you is to talk this over with Rachel. And with Stephen. Lay all the cards on the table. Rachel might agree to a smaller share in order avoid the trouble of continuing to dispute the will. However . . .” His voice faded away.

  “What now?” Wesley snapped.

  “Rachel might not agree to sell the house.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What I said.”

  “This whole thing gets worse and worse. Look, I don’t want anything I’m not entitled to.”

  Liar.

  “But my wife has died and her property is now mine.” Wesley’s voice got stronger as he approached the wall behind which I sat. He spoke directly to the painting in a voice so low, Martin might not have been able to hear. But I could. “She told me she’d inherited her mother’s entire estate; we’d sell the house and put the money into my restaurants. And now I find out all I’m likely to get is years of legal bills and a half share in an old house I don’t want.” He swore again.

  He turned and spoke to Martin. “I have a lot of irons in the fire right now. I’ve got plans to open two restaurants and possibly a third. I told my potential partners I’ve got enough cash on hand to settle the debts in my Manhattan place plus fund the initial investment. What am I going to say now?”

  “What you tell them,” Martin said, “is entirely up to you.”

  Chapter 17

  Every time I decided I didn’t need to be involved in this case, something happened to draw me back in.

  After what I’d overheard in the drawing room, I had to consider that Wesley himself might have killed Kimberly. If he married her expecting her to give him the money he needed for his restaurants, had he decided he didn’t need her anymore? Had she been getting cold feet and starting to balk at the idea of handing over a substantial chunk of her inheritance?

  If Wesley had killed his wife, all the more reason for him to try to pin the crime on someone else. That someone else might still be me.

  What about Rachel? If Wesley killed Kimberly for the Smithfield estate, would he decide he now had to get rid of Rachel, so as not to have to share with her if the new will ever did come to light?

  Martin said it was time he was on his way, and Wesley showed him to the door. I waited until I heard Wesley climbing the stairs before slipping out of the linen closet.

  A line of light shone from beneath the door to Rose’s suite. I knocked and announced myself, and she called for me to come in.

  She was dressed in her long white cotton nightgown, a cup of tea on the table beside her. One part of Rose’s sitting room serves as the B & B office—desk, ergonomic chair, computer, corkboard covered in notes, filing cabinet—the rest is her own living room. The table next to her was covered with silver frames containing family portraits dating all the way from Rose’s own wedding to her latest great-grandchild. Bookcases were stuffed to overflowing with the English mysteries she loved, and a big-screen TV hung on the far wall. Robbie was curled up in her lap, and the TV was showing a costume drama. The cat opened one eye, saw it was only me, and closed it again.

  “Cuppa, love?” Rose said. “The pot’s still warm.”

  “No, thanks.”

  She picked up the remote and pressed a button. The TV went dark. “Something wrong?”

  “Wesley had a visit from the Smithfield family lawyer. Essentially what he said is that Wes will inherit everything that had been Kimberly’s, but if Rachel can find the third will and it’s legally valid, he’ll have to share with her. Wesley doesn’t like to share. He wants to sell the house as fast as he can. In the meantime, Rachel’s likely to throw up legal roadblocks, insisting she needs time to find the missing will.”

  “Families.” Rose stroked Robbie. “Aren’t you glad your grandfather and I weren’t rich, love? Your mother and her brothers have nothing to fight over.”

  I decided not to think about what would happen to Victoria-on-Sea, and thus Tea by the Sea, which sat on the property, when Rose went to her reward. “Wesley has never been a patient man, and he’s juggling lots of balls trying to work out negotiations for these restaurant plans of his. He’s got to be getting desperate. I’m worried—”

  “That he might decide to eliminate Rachel’s potential complications.”

  “The thought did cross my mind. That’s if he killed Kimberly, and we have absolutely no reason to believe he was responsible for that.”

  My grandmother studied my face. “I regret to say I failed in my assigned mission.”

  “Mission? What mission?”

  “Of allowing Wesley to charm me and thus spilling all his secrets. I invited him to join me on the veranda, with the aim of engaging him in an intimate chat, but he brushed me off. You know this man, Lily. What do you think? Is he capable of murder? Of killing a wife on their honeymoon?”

  I thought for a long time before answering. “I suppose anyone’s capable of killing given the right circumstances. Wesley has a temper, as I well know, and he likes to have his own way, no matter the cost to someone else. He acts without thinking through the consequences. Yes, he might have lashed out and killed Kimberly, but I don’t think he’d have the self-control to stay here playing the innocent. He’d run for the hills, which in his case is Manhattan. But that’s only my opinion, and I might be wrong. Wesley’s full of storm and thunder. High drama. He likes to play the bad-boy chef in all his glorious rage. Some people still think temper’s the sign of a good chef. I think it’s the sign of a spoiled brat, but never mind that now. I find it entirely possible to believe Wesley could get into an argument, a serious argument, with his wife, and for things to get way out of hand. But the voices I heard outside my window Monday night were not of a serious argument between two people. Kimberly was angry, and she was yelling. The person she had been with had not been yelling. It wasn’t Wesley. Again, I could be wrong. He didn’t kill her in a sudden flash of temper, but if he’d planned ahead of time to get rid of her, he might have suggested a walk, let her rant and rave and blow off steam, and then . . .”