When six thirty came, Liz was exhausted. Pops was in the back, resting. He’d been quite the trouper, but Liz was happy she could be there to help. Liz and Ryan had worked nonstop, with little time for chitchat.
Ryan asked Liz to help him return the marble table to the back wall. She went opposite him, and as she was about to lift her side, Fenton walked in.
“Lizzy, stop. Let me get that.”
Thinking about his heart, Liz said, “It looks pretty heavy, Dad. I can do it.”
“Nonsense.”
Kate passed in front of Deli-casies, carrying one of the collapsed folding tables from outside. “Kate! Can you help?” Liz shouted.
Kate leaned the folding table against the outside half wall, came inside, and helped them put the table back against the wall.
“Thanks. Now I’m going to bring back the bistro tables and chairs from the entranceway,” Ryan said.
“You guys go find Aunt Amelia, I’ll help Ryan,” Kate said to Liz and Fenton.
On Ryan’s way out, Liz saw him give her father a knowing nod. Suddenly it all came together: Her father must have talked to Ryan about what really went down the night of the scar. She doubted he’d revealed too much. Fenton Holt was known for his ability to keep a confidence; he’d staked his reputation on it. No doubt, he’d pointed Ryan in the right direction, and would let Ryan do his own research into Liz’s guilt or innocence.
The emporium lights dimmed, and Liz and her father went in search of the colorful butterfly called Aunt Amelia. Liz hoped she was resting her wings.
They found her with Betty and Pierre sitting at a table in Home Arts by the Sea. Liz and Fenton went inside and sat across from them. The consensus was that the Spring Fling by the Sea had been a rousing success.
A short time later, Kate and Ryan walked by, each carrying a chair in their hands. Ryan stopped at the half wall to the shop and said, “Everyone’s invited to Deli-casies to finish the cheese samples and open bottles of wine.” Liz noted the effect that this new-and-improved Ryan had on everyone, including herself.
Aunt Amelia spoke for the group. “Be right there, Ryan. I think you’re right, our hard work warrants a well-deserved respite.”
“Hear, hear,” Kate said, in a celebratory tone.
Aunt Amelia stood and they filed out of the shop, following Ryan and Kate to Deli-casies.
Ryan instructed everyone to have a seat in the café section. Pops was at the cash register closing out the day’s receipts. Aunt Amelia called out, “Good day, Pops?”
“A very good day. Thank you, Amelia, and thank you, Liz. We couldn’t have done it without you. Right, Ryan?”
“Yes, Grampa. It was a good day. Hang up your apron and come join us. We need to celebrate.”
Everyone chose a seat. Ryan turned the sound system up, then passed out small, clear-plastic plates and cups. Five minutes later, he came toward them with a huge tray of assorted cheese squares spiked with toothpicks, his biceps bulging in all their glory.
Liz grabbed the last wedge of Parmesan reggiano infused with flecks of black truffles that she’d been eyeing all day. She put it in her mouth and moaned in ecstasy.
Ryan returned to the kitchen and came back with an open bottle in each hand: rosé in his right, pinot noir in his left. He skipped Liz, but then returned with sparkling water, even adding a slice of lime to her glass before he poured. Then he pulled a chair up next to Pierre and his grandfather and introduced himself to Pierre, praising him for the fabulous baked goods he’d contributed to Deli-casies.
Pierre’s eyes were bright, and Liz wondered if maybe he should also forgo the wine and stick to the cheese. “You’re welcome, and this wine is a perfect pairing with the smoked Gouda,” he said, lifting his cup in the air. Pierre had once told Liz that he’d been raised on wine. His mother had even added it to his bottle as a baby to help him sleep—or more likely she’d added it so she could sleep. Liz doubted that story was true, but you never knew with the French.
Liz asked Pierre, “How is everything next door? All quiet on the Harrington-Worth front?”
“There was a little problem.”
“I bet Regina was involved,” Liz retorted.
Pierre swirled the wine in his cup, then took a sip, smiling approvingly at Pops. “Indirectly, Mrs. Worth was involved. Sometime in the afternoon, when Mr. Worth was going out on an errand, he found the windshield of his Bentley shattered from a rock that was tied with a note.”
Kate chimed in. “Let me guess, the note said something to the effect of ‘Leave Castlemara alone’?”
“I didn’t see the note,” Pierre said. “Iris was in the lobby when Mr. Worth stormed in. He told Iris that his wife wouldn’t be too happy when she heard about it. Then he instructed Iris to order a limo to take them to the ball. Later, when I brought up their dinner of seared sea scallops, truffle risotto, and haricots verts, Mrs. Worth screeched that they would be eating dinner at a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-a-plate affair catered by one of those young Top Chef TV stars. I wanted to throw the whole meal at her.”
Liz had been with Aunt Amelia when she’d told Pierre that the Worths would be eating at the ball. “Yum,” she said, looking toward her great-aunt, who nodded and looked toward Pierre with concern in her eyes. “All the more for moi, Grand-Pierre.”
Betty
