her entering Violet’s Victoriana Inn at a clip.”
I thought of Oscar shaking his phone to me in the pub and his look back at Georgia. I could have sworn he had been the frightened one. Was Georgia afraid of Oscar because he could pin a murder on her? Had she hired him to do it?
I raced back to the crepe cart to invite Urso to join me for a chat with Georgia before she hightailed it out of town, but he wasn’t there. I cornered Delilah, whose nose was smudged with soot. She smelled like fire- extinguisher foam.
“Where’s Urso?” I said.
“On an urgent mission.” Delilah smirked. “Starts with a J and ends with a Y—Jacky,” she added, as if I hadn’t guessed. “She stopped by the cart, crooked a finger, and he was off in a flash. Why do you need him?”
I didn’t have time to explain.
CHAPTER
In her brochures, Violet called her Victoriana Inn a state-of-the-art bed-and-breakfast. In my humble opinion, the terms were mutually exclusive. While Lois had decked out the Lavender and Lace B&B in cushy couches, exquisite old carpets, and lace curtains, Violet had streamlined her inn using spartan furniture, no carpeting, and sleek blinds. Lois lured customers with home-cooked meals; Violet’s chef offered spa food that would make even a vegetable-loving rabbit lose weight. From the rear of Lavender and Lace, guests could take long walks into the hills. At the back of Violet’s Victoriana Inn, there was a gym filled with stair steppers, treadmills, and weight machines. If I were on vacation, I would opt for Lavender and Lace every time.
But Violet’s Victoriana Inn didn’t lack for clientele. The parking lot was filled with BMWs, Mercedes, Lexuses, and other high-end automobiles. The great room swarmed with well-dressed people talking about their days’ adventures.
Violet, wearing a white jogging suit that was one size too small for her chunky shape, danced behind the reception desk, keeping time with the jazzy music being piped through the overhead speakers. Her marshmallow- colored pigtails flopped in syncopated rhythm. “Hi, Charlotte. Can’t stop. On a diet.” Violet’s weight swung like a pendulum. Up thirty pounds, down thirty pounds.
“I’m looking for Georgia Plachette.”
“At this time of night?” She huffed and puffed.
“It’s not even nine yet.”
“That’s late in Providence.”
“Please, Violet.”
She grabbed a white towel from beneath the check-in counter and wiped the sheen of perspiration from above her fleshy lips. “It’s so sad what Georgia is going through. Did you know she’s Kaitlyn Clydesdale’s daughter?”
I nodded. I didn’t add that I suspected Georgia might have put a hit on her mother. Too much information. “Is she here?”
“Funny you should ask. I just called her room to say her guests had arrived.” She wiggled her fingers at the elderly woman and gentleman who had been at the pub with Georgia. They sat on a stiff-backed bench that was situated between two perfectly trimmed and potted ficus trees. “Georgia’s packing. She’s heading off with them soon.”
“Are they her grandparents?” I asked, to verify my assessment.
“Sure are. Sweet couple. I hear they’re going back to California to have a burial at sea.” She wrinkled her nose. “Me, I’m all about ritual. A person should have a real funeral service and be buried in a casket in a cemetery. This whole ashes-to-ashes thing gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
Cremation didn’t bother me. My parents had specified in their wills that they wanted whoever survived them to bury their remains at the top of Kindred Hill. My grandparents had asked that an oak be planted on top of their ashes. From the center of town, I could see the thirty-year-old oak tree, and I drew strength from it.
I said, “Do you think I could visit Georgia in her room?”
Violet reached for the telephone.
I tapped her wrist. “Please don’t call her. We’re friends. I simply want to make sure she’s got everything she needs before she leaves town. She’s in room …” I let my voice trail off.
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“I’ll help you get a date with the guy who runs Cafe au Lait.” Only last week, I had noticed Violet making eyes at the guy in The Cheese Shop. She usually liked soft-centered cheeses, but she had inched toward the brick cheese section where he was standing and had started chatting about
“Room two thirteen,” Violet whispered.
Easy as bringing a cheese to room temperature.
* * *
A minute later, I rapped on Georgia’s door and mumbled, “Peanut butter watermelon,” a trick I had learned from Grandmere when she directed crowd scenes on stage. The words slurred together and sounded like a whole slew of other words.
Georgia, clad in yet another revealing black sheath and clunky five-inch heels, opened the door. The instant she saw me, she slapped a hand on her narrow hip and frowned. “You’re not housekeeping.”
“Didn’t say I was.”
She grumbled. “What do you want at this time of night?”
“May I come in? I thought I would get a chance to chat with you at the pub, but you left so quickly.”
Her gaze darted to the sleek satin bed. A suitcase piled with black clothing lay on top. Pairs of platform shoes were lined up at the foot. Her red briefcase stood on the zebra-striped area rug beside one of the bed’s legs. Files poked from the opening. Something drew my gaze back to the suitcase. A toiletry kit sat on the back flap of the suitcase. An iPhone was perched on top of that. It looked like Chip’s. Had Georgia wrested it away from Oscar?
“Leaving town with your grandparents?” I asked.
“How’d you know who they were?”
“I’m psychic.” I winked, trying to keep things light.
She huffed. “That Violet. She can’t keep a secret.”
“You look like your grandmother. You have the same eyes, the same pretty chin.”
Reflexively, Georgia’s hand moved toward her face. She stopped short and sneezed. Clearly exasperated with me, she traipsed to the bureau, her five-inchers clip-clopping as she reached the hardwood floor, and grabbed a tissue from a box. “Dang cold.” She blew her nose.
Without invitation, I moseyed into the room. My fingers itched to get hold of the cell phone. “I hear you’re returning to California. Violet said you’re planning a burial at sea.”
Georgia muttered, “Violet,” and rasped a series of dry coughs.
“Brandy would soothe your throat.”
“Yeah, like Violet would have something as decadent as brandy in this place. There’s no wine, no beer. Nothing. I can order chamomile tea, but I’m tea’d out. What I need is a good cough syrup.”
I pulled an herbal cough drop from my purse and handed it to her. A peace pipe couldn’t have been more warmly received. She peeled off the paper, slipped the lozenge into her mouth, and murmured her relief.
Treading softly, I said, “I saw you sitting with Oscar Carson at the pub.”
“Oscar.” She sighed as she worked the lozenge to the inside of her cheek. “He didn’t really work for Ipo Ho. He—” She started coughing again.
I patted her back, but she waved me off, raced to the bathroom, and kicked the door closed. I heard the clatter of a glass, followed by water gushing into the sink. I glanced at the cell phone and didn’t hesitate. I needed to learn what Oscar had seen on it. As I reached for it, it rang.
“Drat.” Georgia opened the bathroom door a couple of inches and waved her arm. “Could you hand that to me?”
