“What?”

  “Ever meet Emmeline, Grandma Iris’s niece?”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me,” the man in the suit and tie said, “we’re here to do business. Time’s money.”

  “Not in Muddle Harbor,” a man called from across the room.

  I popped the last piece of sausage into my mouth. That had been sooooo good. Vicky was eying my bacon. I pretended not to notice. I’d learned what I’d come here for. Emmeline had no relatives in Muddle Harbor who might think they had rights to her property.

  “Do you know a woman named Patricia Dawson?” Vicky asked.

  “I know the Dawsons,” Janice said. “I think they had a girl name of Patty, played softball, far as I remember. Haven’t heard of her in years. Jack, do you remember what happened to the Dawson girl?”

  “Little Flora? No. What’s happened?”

  “Not Flora. Patty, from school. Girl around our age.”

  “Are we doing business here or not?” the man in the suit asked. “If not, I have other places I could be.”

  “Haven’t heard of Patty in years,” Jack said.

  “Didn’t she want to be a movie star or something?” Randy said. “Left town and never came back, far as I remember.”

  “Guess we’re done here.” The golf-shirted man slammed his iPad shut.

  “Hold on a sec,” suit-and-tie-man said. “I’m thinking your offer’s not quite good enough yet, gentlemen. We need some further concessions on the rights to that creek running behind the property.” He raised his voice, clearly intending Vicky and me to overhear. “I hear there are some good investment opportunities over in Rudolph.”

  “Let’s not be too hasty,” Jack said. “Not everything in Rudolph is on the up-and-up, if you get my meaning.”

  “You can have that last rasher of bacon if you want,” I said to Vicky. “I’m stuffed.”

  “For research purposes only.” Vicky snatched it up as if afraid I’d change my mind.

  I’d had a delicious breakfast, although I would later come to regret eating so much of it, and I’d learned what I needed to know. It was highly unlikely anyone in Muddle Harbor was expecting an inheritance from Emmeline Cole, and if Janice Benedict hadn’t seen Trish (aka Patty) Dawson in years, I could be confident Trish Dawson hadn’t been in Muddle Harbor in years.

  I crumpled up my napkin and placed it next to my plate, empty but for a smear of ketchup and egg yolk. Before I could climb off my stool, the kitchen doors swung open, and Brittany Pettigrew emerged, carrying a tray with two pies on it. She wore a gray dress with a white collar and a black belt, and sneakers. The dress was similar to Janice’s, presumably the standard waitress uniform, but Brittany had rolled her skirt up several times before tucking it into the belt, and she wasn’t wearing the frilly pink apron. Her heavy hair was pinned at the back of her head; a few loose tendrils caressed her cheeks. She stopped short when she saw us. Her eyes widened in surprise, and then she broke into a huge grin. “Gosh, hi. Vicky, I didn’t know you were here. Welcome.”

  “Yup, here I am,” Vicky said around a mouthful of bacon.

  “Hi, Merry.”

  “Brittany, hello. I didn’t realize you worked here.” I’d forgotten that Vicky had told me that.

  “I sure do. I’m the pastry chef.”

  Janice rolled her eyes.

  Brittany indicated the tray she was holding. “I tried making blueberry this morning, like you said.”

  “Like I said?” I asked.

  “Sure. You told me blueberry’s your favorite pie. It’s not blueberry season yet, but I got these at the supermarket. They were on sale. Would you like a piece? I’d love to know what you think.”

  “Sorry. I just had the most gigantic breakfast.”

  “Vicky, would you like—”

  “No,” Vicky said. “No, thank you. Too early for pie for me.”

  “Can someone get rid of these plates,” the suit-and-tie man called. “They’re in the way. I’ll have another coffee while you’re at it.”

  Janice nodded to Brittany.

  “What?” Brittany said.

  “Get the man a coffee, and then clear the tables.”

  “But I made pie. I’m going to do a cake next. I have this great new recipe—”

  “I said, clear the tables.”

  Brittany dropped the tray on the counter, gave Janice a look that could curdle the cream in my coffee, and went to do as she was told. Janice put the pies onto serving dishes and placed glass domes on top. They looked good, I thought. The pastry was nicely browned, the edges carefully fluted, although the blueberry filling was likely too runny. Some of it was leaking through a crack in the crust.

  Brittany came back with a tray loaded with dirty dishes, and marched into the kitchen. The floorboards shook under the force of her indignation. Janice gave Vicky a knowing look and said, “I hear you hire family at your place sometimes. How’s that work out?”

  “Usually, it works out fine. On occasion, not so good. I hear what you’re saying.”

  “She’s my sister’s girl.” Janice lowered her voice. “Too darn pretty for her own good, I always said. Her daddy spoils her rotten, and her mother pretends not to notice. Makes her think she can get whatever she wants out of life without so much as trying. I figured a season here would put some work ethic into her, but so far that’s not working out like I might have hoped. She figures she’s too good to be washing dishes and waiting tables. She wants to be a chef. Like she sees on those TV cooking shows.”

  “She came to my place, looking for a job, not long ago,” Vicky said. “She told me she worked here. Made it sound as though she’s been such a success here, she wanted something … different.” I thought Vicky showed enormous restraint by not saying “better.”

  Janice’s face scrunched up. “I didn’t know that. You didn’t hire her, obviously.”

  “I thought the same as you: she isn’t prepared to put in the work. No restaurant, from family diner or hometown bakery to a Michelin-starred joint in Manhattan or Las Vegas, is a place for slacking off. And the only person allowed to have any sort of ego is the head chef. At my place, that’s me,” said the most un-ego-driven person I know.

  “Being the prettiest and most popular girl in a small-town high school never did anyone any good,” Janice said. “They grow up thinking they’re something special. Hard when they find out they’re not so special in the bigger world.” She lowered her voice. “Didn’t do her any good when her long-time boyfriend, captain of the football team, got a scholarship to Cornell. Brittany didn’t have the marks to get into the sort of college she thought good enough for her. Then, first month he was away, he told Brittany not to bother visiting him. Have a nice day, ladies.” She started walking away and then hesitated and turned back. “I might pay a call on Rudolph some time. I hear the soup’s good at your place.”

  “You’d be welcome,” Vicky said, meaning it.

  Janice went through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

  Behind us, the two businessmen were telling Randy and Jack they might consider building their hotel in Muddle Harbor if something could be done about loosening those waterfront regulations.

  I swung around on my stool, but before I could hop down, I heard angry voices coming from the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?” Janice said. “I need those pots and pans washed.”

  “I’m not a dishwasher, Aunt Janice.”

  “You’re a dishwasher if I say you’re a dishwasher. You’re a busboy, if I say you are, and if Norm asks you to make the toast for him, you’re the toast maker.”

  “Hey! Leave me out of this,” a man said.

  “I didn’t come here to make toast,” Brittany replied. “Any fool can make toast. You said I could practice being a pastry chef.”

  “You’ll learn to wash dishes first, my girl.”

  “I made that blueberry pie, didn’t I? At home on my own time. You didn’t even say thank you.”

  Janice let out a long breath. “Thank you for the pie, Brittany. It looks good, I will admit. But this is not a pastry shop. Other things need doing around here. Such as the making of toast.”

  “I quit!”

  “That’s entirely up to you.”

  The kitchen doors swung open one more time, and Janice came out. She saw us watching, along with the rest of the occupants of the diner. “Employee difficulties,” she said calmly.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “If Brittany is Janice’s sister’s daughter, then Brittany is a relation of Emmeline Cole,” I said. “We know for an absolute certainty Brittany has been in Rudolph recently. And we know that because we saw her. I think we might be onto something.”

  “I’m having trouble seeing it, Merry. The family relationship wasn’t exactly close, and according to Janice, who quite likely knows everything that goes on in that town, Emmeline’s mother—never mind Emmeline herself—never so much as dropped in for a visit with her family in Muddle Harbor. Why would Brittany think she’d be in line to inherit? If her own aunt and uncle, and presumably her mother also, don’t?”

  “It doesn’t have to make sense to us, Vicky. Just to her. You heard what Janice said about Brittany. She thinks she’s entitled to whatever she wants. Duck! Here she comes.”

  “I’m not ducking, and she’s not looking at us anyway.”

  We were sitting in Vicky’s van, still parked outside the Muddle Harbor Café. I’d just given the last slice of bacon to an overjoyed Mattie when Brittany came around the corner, presumably having left the café by the back entrance. She looked positively furious as she stormed past us. She’d put a waist-length red leather jacket over her café uniform and pulled high-heeled ankle boots onto her feet. Her long black hair swung loose behind her. We watched her walk away until she turned the next corner and disappeared. Mattie nuzzled my hand, searching for more edible delights.

  “She didn’t do it,” Vicky said. “Brittany wants to be a celebrity pastry chef. She has dreams of starring in a reality TV show. Owning a run-down mansion in Rudolph, New York, doesn’t fit into those dreams.”

  ”She might think she could sell the house and use the money to start her baking empire,” I said.

  “I can’t see her thinking that far ahead,” Vicky said.

  We drove out of Muddle Harbor. The sun came out as we crossed the town line.

  * * *

  “Did you call your mom last night?” I asked.

  “Yes, I did. She gave up waiting for me to arrange something and went shopping by herself to get a mother-of-the-bride dress. She says she got something really nice. Merry …” Vicky’s voice trailed off.

  “What?”

  “Do you think I’m being too hasty?”

  “Hasty? You’ve known Mark for a couple of years now. That’s not hasty, but if you think it is … then it probably is.”

  “I was thinking it over last night. I forgot that my wedding’s next week. How crazy is that? It’s like my subconscious is pushing it out of the way.”

  “If you want my opinion …”

  “You know I do.”

  “If your subconscious had doubts, it would keep those doubts front and center at all times. What I’d ask isn’t if you want to be with Mark, because I think you do and I know for sure he wants to be with you, but are you really okay with having such a small, casual wedding?”

  She turned and smiled at me.

  “Watch the road,” I said.

  Fortunately there wasn’t a car to be seen on the road between Rudolph and Muddle Harbor, and Vicky swerved back into her lane. “I am totally okay with the wedding we’ve planned. Even if I wanted a big splashy affair, which I don’t, when on earth would I get around to organizing it? We have the house. I have the book. We both have busy jobs, and the full summer tourist season will be here before we know it, and then the holiday season itself.”

  “How’s the book coming?”

  “Not as well as I’d hoped. You told me what you need for the proposal, and I have started on that, but …”

  “But?”

  “First, house buying and moving got in the way, and then all this about Jim Cole dying on our property hasn’t helped focus my mind. I’m thinking of asking Kyle Lambert to do the photographs.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Absolutely and completely not. Are you doing a cookbook to be displayed at the hospital charity shop, for your mom to show to her friends, or one you want published by a real New York publisher for not only your mother but people all over the country to buy and use? If the latter, you need a professional photographer, even for the sample recipes. The publisher will arrange the final photography for the book itself.”

  “That costs a lot.”

  “So it does. I hope Mark’s not suggesting you cut corners to save money.”

  “Gosh no. Mark’s as keen on the book as I am.”

  “Good. You’re right that so much has been happening lately, but I wouldn’t want you to lose momentum on this. It has bestseller written all over it. I told you I’d make some calls when you were ready. I’ll start on that this afternoon.”

  “But the proposal’s not finished yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The concept is what you’re selling right now. The concept and your reputation as a baker will get your foot in the door. But once I’ve done that, you have to get that proposal done soon. Doors don’t stay open in the publishing business for long.”

  * * *

  Jim Cole’s daughter, Cindy, came into Mrs. Claus’s Treasures in mid-afternoon. She greeted me effusively and gushed over the goods we had for sale. She may have gushed, but she didn’t show any indication of buying. She admired the jewelry and the table settings and asked Jackie questions about where the locally made items came from.

  I waited patiently for Cindy to get to the point. Which, eventually, she did. She finally chose a Christmas tree ornament on sale for $4.99 and brought it to the counter for me to ring up. “It was so nice meeting you and your mother at the luncheon on Saturday, Merry.”

  “It was a lovely afternoon.” I hesitated before adding, “Apart from that one incident.” Might as well get it out in the open.

  “I am truly sorry about that,” Cindy said. “I was totally humiliated, and you can be sure I gave that husband of mine a good talking-to when I got home.”

  “How did he take that?” I asked.

  “About as well as you’d expect.” Embarrassed giggle. “Kevin apologized for creating a scene, but—it’s been difficult you know. My dad being murdered, no one arrested. The police constantly poking around, asking about Dad, asking questions about us. I can’t help but feel as though I’m under suspicion for something I didn’t do. We were even asked to provide alibis!”

  “Did you have one?” I kept my tone casual. Nonchalant. Just a couple of acquaintances chatting.

  “My dad died late at night. Kevin and I had work the next morning. We were home all evening. Our alibis are each other. The detective didn’t seem to think that was good enough. Well, too bad for her. Like I said, it’s been a difficult time. On Saturday at the lunch, the pressure got the better of Kevin, and he lashed out. That’s all.”

  “No excuses, please. Mark Grosse had nothing to do with your father’s death other than being the one who found him and called for help.”

  “I know that. I told Kevin that. But”—she shrugged—“we were trying so hard to build a relationship with my dad. It wasn’t easy, but he was my dad, right? Speaking of parents, I’d love to get that lunch date with your mother settled. We started to arrange it on Saturday, but she got called away before she could give me her number. Do you have it?”

  “My mother’s phone number? It’s not a secret. Her voice studio has a landline and the listing is on 411.”

  Cindy had the grace to look embarrassed. “I called that number, and I got voicemail. I left a message, but she hasn’t called me back. I tried a couple of times but … I thought maybe she’s not checking it if she’s between classes. I was hoping you’d have her personal number.”

  “I can’t give that out,” I said. “I hope you understand.”

  “Oh yes, I totally get it. She wouldn’t want random fans calling her up at all hours of the day or night. It’ll be okay for me. You heard us talking about that lunch, right?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “She’ll return your call when she gets a chance.” Which, I suspected, would be never.

  My mother was no longer a star, with an agent and a personal assistant and a publicity team. She taught voice to uninterested children and adults who’d always wanted to sing for fun. She still had some fame in our town because she had been a star, and she could and did play that up when it suited her. These days, she answered the phone in her studio herself. If she wasn’t returning Cindy’s calls, it would be because she didn’t want to. I popped Cindy’s ornament into a small brown shopping bag. I was about to hand it to her, when I had a thought.

  “You mentioned you and Kevin moved to Rudolph when he started his own business. That must be so interesting. What sort of business is it? Something I might be interested in knowing about? I have the store.” I waved my right arm to indicate the premises. “And some small savings from when I worked in Manhattan.” That was a lie. I’d cashed in everything I had to start up Mrs. Claus’s. So far, it was working out, but retail is a risky business. Like the town of Rudolph as a whole, I’d barely survived the pandemic, although we were now roaring back, stronger than ever. People were eager to get out and travel again. And to shop.

  “It wouldn’t be right for you, Merry, but your parents would be good candidates for what Kevin can offer.” I could almost see the lightbulb appearing above her head as an idea burst into Cindy’s mind. “Your mom’s got to be more than financially comfortable after the enormous success of her career. Your father’s semiretired, people say. My husband owns an investment company. He deals with high-net-worth clients and promises excellent returns.” She leaned over the counter. I leaned toward her. “By high net worth, he means a very exclusive clientele. Returns are proportionate to risk, and he’s prepared to take that risk.”