“Oh, Auntie, please don’t get riled up. We’ll figure something out. By the way, Regina’s pet is a cat—a hairless sphynx, to be exact.”
“Lovely creatures.”
A clap of thunder made them both jump. Liz looked out the kitchen window and saw black clouds rolling in from the ocean. “Looks like a storm. I just got a lightning strike warning on my phone. You look like you need some chai tea, an orange scone, and a hot bath.”
Her great-aunt stood. “That sounds wonderful.”
She walked to the pantry and set Aunt Amelia’s favorite teacup and saucer onto a sterling tray. The cup was trimmed in gold and had butterflies and cherry blossoms on the outside. The cup and saucer were one of a set of forty that had been Liz’s great-grandmother’s. The other thirty-nine and matching dinner service had been destroyed in the hotel fire, years ago. Liz opened the tea canister, took out a packet of tea, opened it, and poured it into the cup. She reached into the cookie jar, took out another orange scone, and set it on a cake plate.
On her way out of the pantry, Liz said to Barnacle Bob, “Hush, BB. Don’t upset Aunt Amelia or I’ll tell her what you did to my finger, you brute.”
The parrot must really have had a soft spot for her great-aunt, because for once, he kept his big beak closed.
Liz went into the kitchen, placed the tray in front of the electric kettle on the sideboard, and filled the cup with hot water, while Aunt Amelia got out a napkin, spoon, and tea bag strainer.
Aunt Amelia picked up the tray. “I’ll be in my suite for a little R-and-R. Is everything all set for tomorrow?”
“Yes, everything’s taken care of. No worries. Go take a nice restorative bath.”
“I’ll let Calgon take me away… from the memory of my recent boat ride with Mrs. Harrington-Worth. Wish Calgon still made those bath oil beads today. I got a year’s worth after I did that commercial.”
“Ha, in this day and age, they would probably have something carcinogenic in the ingredients.”
“Things were better before sell-by dates and ingredient lists,” Aunt Amelia said. “GMOs, HMOs, and all the other stuff they make you worry about now. We never had expiration dates when I was growing up. My mother even left the butter out on the counter.”
Craack!
Aunt Amelia’s teacup shook, and tea filled the saucer. “That one sounded close. Hope we don’t lose power. The generator is only good for the first floor of the hotel. Thanks for cleaning the Worths’ suite. Iris should be here any minute.”
“You hired her with references, I hope? She doesn’t seem too dedicated. Always disappearing.”
“She told me she has an ailing mother. And you have to admit, she does a great job cleaning.”
“Yes, she does.” Liz put her hand on her great-aunt’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze, then held open one of the swinging doors to the dining room for her to pass through.
Halfway across the room, Aunt Amelia turned and said, “I don’t want anything you’re doing here at the Indialantic to take away from your writing, and I do appreciate all the time you’ve taken to plan the Spring Fling. I’ll only ask one more time. Are you sure you don’t want to do a book signing of Let the Wind Roar tomorrow?”
“No, that ship has sailed. But thanks. Sales are still brisk, anyway. Nothing like a good scandal to revive sales figures.”
“It was a beautiful book. And your next one will be, too.”
Aunt Amelia was under the impression that Liz was writing in the evenings. Liz did have a contract with the publisher of Let the Wind Roar. She had to produce a 90,000-word manuscript by February, only eleven months away, and all she had was an outline that she hated. She was on her third extension from her publisher, and her agent had told her there wouldn’t be another. Apparently, three strikes and she’d be out. “I can put my writing on hold, if need be. I don’t want you to worry about anything. Oh, I left clean sheets and towels for Captain Netherton.”
“That poor captain. What he had to endure on our trip from hell. Thank you for all your help, my love.”
“You’re welcome. I think you’re the saint for going on a boat ride with that woman.”
Aunt Amelia turned and walked out of the dining room toward the lobby. She never used the service elevator, saying that climbing the spiral staircase helped to keep her young and spry.
It was only four thirty, but it was as dark as night. Liz ran out through the kitchen door with a basket on her arm to harvest some of Pierre’s herbs. A raindrop hit Liz on the nose. She hurried and snipped some dill, parsley, and arugula, then sprinted to one of the four lemon trees, plucked two lemons, and made it inside before the sky let loose its fury.
She finished laying out the last ingredient on the marble counter just as Pierre walked in.
“Mon cherie,” he said, kissing Liz on the cheek. “You are too good to me, my little sous-chef.”
“My pleasure, Grand-Pierre.”
He laughed, then took off his chef’s hat, pulled out a paperback, and handed it to her.
Liz looked at the cover. It was the next Christie on her reading list. If he could remember what her next book was, then that said something for his memory.
She left the kitchen, confident that Pierre was
