She took the flowers and sniffed. “Ah, Emmaline. She’s still around? She’s been selling them for years. I’ll ring the bell and have Annie bring a vase.” She picked up the bell from the side table before I could stop her.
“I could have gotten you one,” I said, taking a seat opposite her.
“Nonsense. You’re my guest. It’s Annie’s job.”
The French doors opened, and Annie stood in the doorway. “You rang, ma’am?”
“I need a vase for Carly’s bouquet. She got the flowers from Emmaline Haskell. Can you believe she’s still selling flowers downtown?”
“No, ma’am,” Annie said in a dry voice. “I’ll get your vase right away.” Then she walked out and shut the door.
The tension in the room eased after Annie left, but I still resisted the urge to glance around the room for Bart. Hopefully, the fact that there were only two cups indicated we’d be alone. “I take it that it’s just the two of us today.”
“Bart so wanted to be here, but he was called back to the construction site. We’re all so relieved it’s been reopened.” She reached for the tea pot and poured some into a cup. “I’d have Annie serve our tea, but she’s on the grumpy side today.” She leaned closer and held the edge of her hand to her cheek as though hiding her mouth from the doors. “I think she’s going through the change.”
I suspected her attitude ran deeper than some errant hormones but held my tongue. “I can get you something from the cart.”
“Oh, that would be good. Go ahead and put the two plates on the coffee table, next to the teacups.”
I realized both cups had been poured and set before our respective seats. I passed out the two plates.
“Now grab the tray and bring it over. I suppose we’ll just serve ourselves,” she said with a sigh as though she’d been asked to climb Mount Everest. Personally, I’d much rather serve myself than have someone else do it. Especially Annie.
But as though she were Beetlejuice and could be summoned at the mere mention of her name—or, in this case, a manifestation of my thoughts—she walked into the room with a crystal vase with a small amount of water at the bottom. She snatched the flowers off the side table where Emily had placed them and dropped them into the vase as though touching them were offensive, and I knew it was partly because I’d bought them off the street.
It took everything in me not to snatch them back, not on my account but Emmaline’s.
Once Annie set the vase on the fireplace mantel, she practically bolted from the room.
Emily selected a cookie and a white petit four with pink frosting and put them on her plate. I took a petit four too before setting the tray back on the cart.
“Did you and your mother have tea?” Emily asked as she placed a lump of sugar in her cup.
“Uh… no.” I wondered what she knew about me, if anything. Did she know my real identity? I suspected not, but then a forgotten memory surfaced, one that caught me off guard. “But I remember having a tea party with my dolls.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “With my dad.”
“How lovely. I always wanted a daughter, but I’m not sure Bart would have lowered himself to having tea parties,” she said wistfully, stirring her tea. The spoon clanged daintily against the thin china. “I would like to think he would have treated his daughter different than he did his sons.”
I wasn’t prepared to hear her admit he’d treated his boys so poorly, and thankfully, she didn’t give me a chance to respond.
“I miss my boys. They rarely come around these days.” Her gaze lifted to mine. “I keep telling Wyatt to bring you to the house for lunch on a day when Bart’s not around, or arrange for us to meet at a restaurant in Ewing, but he insists your schedule is too busy, and when I pester Max to let you off, he always has an excuse.”
She clearly thought Wyatt and I were still dating, four months after we’d broken up. Why hadn’t they told her the truth? “Mrs. Drummond—”
“Call me Emily, dear. Mrs. Drummond is much too stuffy.”
“Emily, Wyatt and I…” But something held my tongue. If the lies or evasions had come only from Wyatt, I might have written it off as his usual mysterious behavior, but Max? Was the fact that Emily thought Wyatt and I were together keeping me safe? That made no sense, especially since Bart thought I was seeing Marco. “Max is right. It’s been especially busy lately with all the construction crews coming in. This is the first half day I’ve had off in weeks.”
“And you came here to see me?” She placed a frail hand on her chest. “That means more to me than you could possibly know.”
Now I was filled with guilt. Damn Bart Drummond. I wanted to ask her about Heather, but if I jumped right into the questions, I’d look like a jealous lover—a crazy jealous lover since Heather was dead. Which made me wonder if Emily knew the truth. Although the news was all over town, she didn’t get out frequently, and Bart clearly didn’t feel the need to keep her informed.
“Has Bart told you much about the bones they found?” I asked, picking up my teacup and taking a sip.
“Not much. He thinks they came from Floyd Bingham.” She curled her nose. “Nasty man.”
“I thought so too.” When she gave me a curious look, I added, “Marco told me how awful he was.”
“It’s a wonder that Todd survived living in that hell,” she said. “I couldn’t believe his stepmother didn’t take him or Rodney.”
She didn’t know about the rumors about Floyd’s wife? Or she didn’t believe them?
“Emily, do you have any idea about the identity of the person they found buried out there?”
“Bart says it
