I felt better having a gift to give to Emily, but my stomach still clenched the closer I got to the Drummond property. I definitely wasn’t dressed for tea in my jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, but I hadn’t had time to change, not that Bart would care about my schedule. I was sure he’d see it as a sign of disrespect.
There was nothing I could do about it now. If I went home to change, I’d be late, and I’d barely make it in time as it was.
I turned onto the Drummond property and took the lane up to the circle drive in front of the large stone, two-story monstrosity the Drummonds called a house. The first time I’d seen it, I’d struggled to envision the men I knew growing up in this house. It looked like a grand estate, totally different from the way Wyatt and Max lived now. Hell, Max’s apartment over the tavern was a remodeling disaster. But I knew the Drummonds had hit hard times first when moonshine became legal, and then once and for all when their lumber business had gone belly-up over a decade ago. The Drummond Lodge and Spa was Bart’s wing and a prayer to turn it all around, which seemed like further confirmation that he’d never have put the resort in its current location if he’d known that his son’s ex-girlfriend was buried there. He couldn’t really afford the bad publicity at this point.
I parked in the drive and looked in my rearview mirror. My hair was longer than it had been on my last visit, slightly past my shoulders now, and it didn’t look too bad. I did a quick finger comb, and considered putting on some lipstick, but that was Caroline. Carly was usually makeup-free, or just mascara and a bit of concealer. I hadn’t taken the time to apply anything this morning, so Emily was getting me au naturel.
I pulled the recorder out of my purse, flipped the cassette over and pressed play, then set it back in my bag. I only had thirty minutes left. I would either need to get more tapes, or review what I’d recorded and start taping over it.
With my purse slung over my shoulder and a bundle of white and red tulips in my hand, I walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell next to the large double wooden doors. They opened about five seconds later. A woman in her late fifties—the same one who’d turned up her nose and pointed me to the servants’ entrance at the end of the house last December—answered, looking just as disgusted by the sight of me today as she had before. At least I’d worn a dress last time. Today I looked like a ranch hand.
“Mrs. Drummond was expecting you for tea,” she said, her gaze sweeping my attire. She looked extra revolted when she took in the bouquet of flowers dripping water on the front step.
“I hadn’t realized there was a dress code,” I said in a breezy tone I hoped would piss her off.
For a moment or two, I thought she was going to turn me away, but she backed up with a look of utter disgust and let me in.
The entry way was two stories tall with a massive wooden chandelier over our heads. If the Drummonds wanted to kill someone and make it look like an accident, they could pull it off with that light fixture. All they’d need to do was arrange for someone to cut the chains at the right moment. A curved marble staircase was off to the right, a pair of open French doors to the left.
The woman released a huff of disapproval—I wasn’t sure of what: my attire, the flowers, my existence?—and ushered me through the doors into a very fancy living room with twelve-foot ceilings and a large stone fireplace with an enormous hearth. Perpendicular red velvet couches formed a little conversation area near the fireplace, separated by a coffee table with a white marble top and a gold base. A black grand piano was to the left of the massive, nearly floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the drive. Multiple other seating arrangements filled the nearly thirty-foot-deep room, with windows on the opposite wall, which I presumed looked over the backyard.
A silver tray with a silver tea pot sat on the coffee table, and a three-tiered silver caddy filled with tiny cakes and cookies sat on a gold and marble cart next to the sofa, along with a stack of two blue and white china plates. Two blue and white china teacups were arranged on the silver tray next to the pot.
Emily sat at the end of one of the sofas wearing a black and white tweed blazer and skirt, a black-and-camel-colored scarf wrapped around her presumably bald head.
“Mrs. Drummond, Miss Moore has arrived,” the housekeeper said in a condescending tone.
“Now, now,” Emily said with a wave of her hand. “Be nice, Annie.”
Annie pierced me with a dark look, then shut the doors.
“Oh, Carly,” Emily said in delight. “I’m excited to host you today. You have no idea how happy I was when Bart said you asked if you could call for tea.”
An interesting way of putting it, given Bart had been the one to invite me. I hurried toward her when I saw she was struggling to get up.
I leaned over, extending my hand. “Thank you so much for having me. I’m sorry I’m not more dressed up. I had some errands to run earlier, and I never made it home to change.”
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” she said, dismissing the matter with a flick of her hand. “No need for formalities. We’re friends here.”
“I brought you these,” I said, holding them out. “Emmaline Haskell has the prettiest flowers, better than you’ll find
