Liz said, “Why don’t you take a quick shower, and I’ll get the coffee and cake ready. Pierre’s coffee and baked goods are the perfect balm for what ails you.”
Francie looked down at the center of her chest and laughed. “Do you think I should incorporate this mustard stain into one of my new fabric designs?”
“Only if you add ketchup. Ketchup and mustard: the condiment choices of midcentury housewives everywhere. When I was small, on Pierre’s day off, Aunt Amelia made me her version of spaghetti by adding ketchup and butter to the pasta.”
“Yuck,” Francie said with a smile. “Sounds like Chef Pierre was a good influence on your love of cooking, but Amelia, not so much. We’re all are products of our formative years, aren’t we?”
At the mention of her childhood, Francie then quieted, and her eyes lost their momentary sparkle.
“Okay, get!” Liz said. “Wait until you try Pierre’s Bienenstich cake.”
“His what?”
“Meet me in the kitchen and I’ll translate.”
Francie got up, then trudged down the hallway to her bedroom.
Liz collected the cake and coffee carafe and headed to the kitchen. Under a Felix the Cat wall clock whose tail ticked away the time, she placed the coffee and cake on the counter. She glanced around, feeling like she’d stepped into one of Aunt Amelia’s episodes of Leave It to Beaver or The Donna Reed Show. Perfect, 1960s-television homemakers June Cleaver and Donna Reed had nothing on Francie. She removed a couple of jade-colored mugs and two matching cake plates from the clear glass-fronted cupboards, then found spoons, forks, and a cake server and placed them on the white enamel table with a black-and-white checkerboard border. As she put the coffee carafe and cake in the center of the table, her mind reeled from the lie Francie had told of her purported alibi for the night of the murder. Didn’t she know Agent Pearson and the Brevard County Police Department could check her alibi and prove her wrong? She heard the door to the bathroom shut, and soon after, the sound of water running from the shower, then she crept down the hallway to Francie’s bedroom.
Her pulse quickened and her stomach did a little flip-flop when she walked inside. Sneaking around a new friend’s bedroom didn’t make for calm nerves. The room was neat and tidy, the bed made. It was covered in a chenille bedspread with matching shams. In the center of the bed was a sleeping feline. Francie’s sixteen-year-old tortoiseshell cat, named Turtle, for obvious reasons, was so content he didn’t even open his eyes. Liz was happy the cat wouldn’t witness her violation of Francie’s privacy.
Liz hurried and checked the dresser and nightstand drawers. She quickly glanced in Francie’s closet, finding only her vintage-style dresses, jumpers, blouses, and shoes, Sweaters were at the top, enclosed in clear plastic bins and organized by color. If something incriminating was hidden inside one of the bins, Liz wouldn’t have time to check. She then did a quick search under the bed. Turtle opened one eye, gave her a dirty look for disturbing his peace, then closed it. She couldn’t find anything that might prove or disprove Francie’s innocence.
As she moved toward the door, she observed a small trash can under the nightstand. Inside was a framed photo, the glass smashed into spiderweb fissures. She pulled it out and looked down at a framed photo of four people in front of Castlemara. They were surrounded by palm trees, and in the background was the glittering Atlantic. She recognized two of the people: Francie’s mother, who had come into the emporium a couple of weeks ago, and Regina’s father, Percival Harrington II. The other woman in the photo looked familiar; she had Regina’s eyes, hair color, and sour expression, and heavy gold and precious-stone jewelry hung from her neck and ears. On her right hand was the same ring Liz had seen Regina wearing on the day she’d first met her. Liz assumed the unidentified woman in the photo must be Regina’s mother, likely leaving the unidentified man to be Francie’s father, who had passed away a few years ago. She grabbed her phone from her pocket and snapped a couple quick pics. She put the photo back in the trash can, then stepped from the room just as Francie exited the bathroom.
Francie gave Liz a quizzical look and Liz stumbled with her words. “I uh, left my, uh, phone in the car.” She held it up for Francie to see. Unfortunately, she held up the side of the phone showing the photo she’d just taken. Quickly, she put the phone in her pocket, where it felt like it was burning a hole into her thigh.
“Come into the kitchen,” Liz said. “Everything’s ready.”
“I’ll be right there, but let me put on a pair of matching slippers. You’re right. A shower made me feel much better, along with your confidence that David Worth won’t prosecute me for throwing a rock at his car window.”
She almost corrected Francie that it wasn’t just the rock shattering the window, it was more the threat written on the note to someone who had been murdered just hours later. As they passed, Liz hoped she wouldn’t notice her no-doubt flushed, guilt-ridden face.
Five minutes later, Francie came into the kitchen, just as Liz was adding an extra “spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down” to her coffee. Mary Poppins had gotten that one right, and after a bite of bee sting cake, Liz might forget that sweet Francie was still a murder suspect.
“Thanks for
