Liz then looked at David and Regina’s prenup. It stated that David had assets of a million dollars, which included real estate and the Bentley. Regina’s assets were almost nonexistent: She received a monthly stipend of forty thousand dollars from her father’s estate, nothing to sneeze about, but not enough to rebuild on her father’s property after Castlemara was demolished. Nothing related to her father’s treasure haul was listed.
The Barrier Island Historical Society had a lot to gain from Regina’s death, but not David. Liz had a feeling that the knife wound wasn’t self-inflicted. If it had been, Agent Pearson would already have him in a locked cell. Another motive for Regina’s murder might simply be robbery. Pawn the pieces off, or find a collector from another country to buy them.
Later that night, when Liz got in bed, she picked up Evil Under the Sun. She was near the end of the book. Even though she’d already read it in her teens, she still felt the excitement at the fast approaching “aha” moment, when the loose ends would be neatly tied up with Agatha Christie’s usual flair.
If only Regina Harrington-Worth’s murder could be solved as easily.
Chapter 31
Tuesday morning, Liz pulled up a few doors down from Francie and Minna’s cottage. She waited until Minna’s BMW pulled out of the driveway. Betty’s Blue Bomber was easy to spot, and Liz was happy Minna didn’t glance Liz’s way as she drove north toward the emporium. Earlier, Liz had talked to Minna on the phone, and she’d said Francie had planned on staying home for another day of rest.
Liz got out of the Caddy. Before leaving the beach house, she’d toyed with the idea of putting the ancient convertible top down. Betty said the automatic switch to lower the top was broken, but she was sure it would work manually. Liz hadn’t wanted to take a chance, in case one of the island’s sudden storms broke. Yesterday’s storm had passed, but as usual in the tropics, another one looked to be approaching. She walked to the passenger’s door, opened it, and retrieved two items from a box on the seat—one was a carafe of Pierre’s French roast, the other a Bienenstich cake, or bee sting cake, made from brioche dough and filled with lemon custard, then topped with a crunchy honey-almond glaze. The aroma reminded Liz of early mornings in Paris when she’d walk by a boulangerie’s open doorway and get drawn inside by the tempting scents wafting out onto the cobblestone streets. Her thoughts segued to Travis, who was fond of long weekends on the Seine. As she headed toward Minna and Francie’s charming cottage, Liz realized that not all of her memories of Travis were bad.
Minna and Francie’s cottage was painted pale yellow, with vintage aqua shutters worn by the sun and sea spray. It sat on the west side of the highway and had a small second-floor balcony with an ocean view. The cottage reminded her of those in Key West. When Liz was a teen, she and her father would take road trips down to the Keys. She smiled at the thought and climbed the steps to the cottage’s front porch. One hand held the carafe, the other the cake plate, so she rang the doorbell with her elbow.
Francie opened the door, blinking from the sunlight. Her skin was sallow, and she had blue-black bags under her eyes. Her hair stuck out in all directions, and her fifties-style housecoat had a huge yellow stain on it. On Francie’s left foot, was a lavender bunny slipper, on her right, a pink piggy.
“Liz? Is everything okay? What’s happened? Come in.”
Liz stepped inside and set the carafe and cake on a table in the entranceway. “Everything’s fine. I wanted to check on you and bring you something hot out of Pierre’s oven.”
Francie slunk over to the sofa in the living room and collapsed. On the walls were huge canvases of Minna’s fabulous mixed-media art. The furniture in the room was vintage-modern with a Scandinavian flair. Liz took a seat on a leather and light wood recliner with matching ottoman. As she leaned back and put her feet up on the ottoman, she pictured herself in her therapist’s office in Manhattan. Dr. Browning was another fan of midcentury modern décor.
Liz thought about how to delicately put what she wanted to say, but before she had a chance, Francie said, “I did it. I confessed to Agent Pearson. Oh, Liz, are they going to arrest me? Do I need to hire your father?” Francie began to sob. She grabbed the box of tissues beside her and blew her nose. She crumpled the tissue and tossed it on top of an already towering pile on the coffee table, then pulled out another from the box. Liz got up and went to the sofa, pushed aside a stack of sewing magazines, and sat down. She put her arm around Francie, thinking that these couldn’t be the tears of a murderer. “Slow down, Francie. Deep breaths. Why don’t you tell me everything, then we can decide whether you need a lawyer?”
Francie sniffled. “I did it. I threw a rock at the Worths’ Bentley. I was so mad! I couldn’t believe that witch was going to tear down such a beautiful mansion. My parents were friends with the Harringtons. My father and Percival Harrington II started the Barrier Island Historical Society together.”
“Very understandable. I’m sure if you tell David Worth this, he won’t press charges, just perhaps have you pay for the damages. What does Agent Pearson say?”
“She’s not saying anything. Detective Pearson treats me like I’m a bug that’s carrying a communicable disease. And she’s right, too.”
“Do you have an alibi for the time of the murder, around seven thirty Saturday night?”
“Yes. I was on a blind date at the Sebastian Beach Inn.”
Liz removed her arm from Francie’s shoulder. “Can you prove it?” Liz remembered Minna saying that
