“Oren made the sun?” Roma asked. She was picking at the nail of her left ring finger. I wondered if she was more worried about the injured cat than she’d let on.
I nodded.
“I had no idea. It’s absolutely beautiful.”
“He also made the new wrought-iron railing for the steps.”
“All that skill, that talent, it’s in his blood,” Rebecca said. “Karl Senior and Anna’s father was a blacksmith.”
“Anna?” I said. “Everett’s mother?”
“Yes.” Rebecca nodded. “Everett’s mother and Oren’s grandfather were brother and sister.”
At that point Violet appeared in the doorway. “Dinner’s ready,” she said. “Please bring your glasses.”
The dining room overlooked the backyard. I’d been expecting a formal room, but it was actually very relaxed and welcoming. The table was set with a cream tablecloth and matching cream napkins with blue flowers, and flanked by six black leather Parsons chairs. Very comfortable chairs, I discovered when I sat down. Violet was at the head of the table, with Rebecca to her left and Roma and me to the right.
Dinner was sole with spiced vegetable stuffing, rice pilaf, tiny carrots and salad with mustard vinaigrette. Violet was an excellent cook. As she refilled our wineglasses I wondered how she’d ended up with a bottle of Ruby’s wine. They both loved music, but I didn’t know they were friends. Roma had apparently been thinking the same thing.
“Violet, why do you have a bottle of Ruby’s homemade wine?” she asked.
Violet set down her fork. “That’s right. I didn’t tell you,” she said. “Ruby’s going to move into the apartment over the carriage house.” She turned to me. “You probably noticed the carriage house at the end of the driveway.”
“I did,” I said.
“There’s an apartment on the second level. I haven’t had a tenant there for a long time, but I decided having a little more life around here would be a good idea.”
“When is she moving in?” Roma asked.
“End of the month. Unless the festival is canceled, in which case she may move in a bit sooner.”
Roma speared a carrot with her fork. “What do you think happened to Gregor Easton?” she asked. It seemed like a casual question; then I noticed how tightly she was clutching her fork.
“I think he was a debauched old goat who had most likely been engaged in something he shouldn’t have been doing with someone far too young for him,” Violet said.
“You think he had a heart attack or a stroke, then?”
“Don’t you?” Violet asked.
“It makes the most sense,” Roma said slowly. “From what I’d heard he was a man of large appetites. But if it was just a heart attack why are the police still investigating?”
I didn’t say that Easton’s death hadn’t been a heart attack—or most likely not even an accident. I wanted to see where the conversation was going.
“Because Gregor Easton was a celebrity of sorts. He died here, in Mayville Heights. To a lot of people that’s Nowhereville.” Violet poured a little more wine into her glass. “Why wouldn’t the police be extra thorough? As it is, there’s probably going to be some comments made about our ‘hick’ police department.” She looked at me. “Kathleen, you used to live in Boston. There is a big-city perception that a small town can be a little slow, isn’t there?”
“With some people, yes,” I admitted.
“What about you?” Rebecca said teasingly. “Did you think we were all a bunch of lumberjacks running around the woods in plaid flannel shirts?”
She popped a bite of fish and stuffing in her mouth.
“Not in the beginning, I didn’t,” I said. “Then my first week here Susan came to work one morning wearing a pair of fur-trimmed Sorels, a hat with earflaps and a red-and-black plaid jacket.”
Violet and Rebecca both laughed. “I think Susan feels the cold,” Rebecca said. “She’s a tiny person.”
“And plaid was in last winter,” Violet added.
“So, Susan didn’t leave you with the impression we were all a bunch of hicks?” Rebecca asked, setting her knife and fork side by side on her plate.
I took the last bite of fish and did the same. “No, she didn’t,” I said. “I’ve lived in a few small towns myself, so I’m aware of the stereotypes.”
“I thought you grew up in Boston,” Violet said. She stood to clear our plates.
“No,” I said. “I’ve lived all up and down the East Coast. My parents are actors.”
“Theater?” Violet asked.
“For the most part. My father has been in a number of commercials over the years. But most of the time they’ve been onstage.” I realized Violet had very skillfully turned the subject away from Gregor Easton and his death. Why? Was it just that she didn’t think that was suitable dinner conversation? Or did she have another reason? Beside me Roma sat silently playing with her fork.
“And you didn’t want to act?” Rebecca asked, finishing the last of her wine.
“No,” I said emphatically. “First of all, I didn’t inherit a drop of my parents’ talent. I can memorize lines, but I’m a big block of wood onstage.”
“You couldn’t be that bad,” she said.
“I could and I am. And sometimes I think acting held no interest for me because there was no lure to the exotic, the unknown.”
“What do you mean?” Violet asked, turning from the sideboard with a blueberry tart in a clear glass pie plate.
“I know how hard being an actor can be. I’ve seen the work, the rejection, the uncertainty. There’s nothing glamorous about it. Not to me.”
Violet cut a slice of the tart and handed it to Rebecca.
“What about the rest of your family?” Rebecca said, taking the plate. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“I have a younger brother and sister. Twins.” Violet passed plates to both Roma and me.
“Do they act?”
I shook my head. “No. Sara is a screenwriter and filmmaker. She’s made several short films. She’s working as a makeup artist, as well. There have been enough movies made in and around Boston to keep her working pretty steadily.” I took a forkful of pie—juicy blueberries, a light custard filling and flaky pastry. “Mmmm, Violet, this is delicious,” I said.
“Thank you,” Violet said. “It’s Rebecca’s recipe.”
I raised my fork to Rebecca across the table. “Then thank you, too,” I said.
“It’s my mother’s recipe, actually,” she said. “Although I think you added a little nutmeg to the berries, didn’t you?” She looked at Violet, who was pouring coffee.
“Yes, I did,” Violet said. She handed me a cup. “You were telling us about your family. What does your brother do?”
“He’s a musician,” I said. “A drummer. He teaches jazz drumming and he’s in a band called The Flaming Gerbils.”
That pulled Roma back into the conversation. She almost choked on her coffee. “The Flaming Gerbils?”
“Uh-huh. Ethan has been in one band or another since he was a little kid. He put his first band together when he was in kindergarten. He called it Up Your Nose.”
They all laughed.
“What about you, Violet?” I asked. “Were you in a group when you were younger?”
“Not unless you count rhythm band in grade two. I played a mean triangle.”
“She did,” Rebecca said, solemnly. “Violet was a triangle virtuoso.”
“I did play rehearsal piano for pretty much anybody and everybody when I was getting my first degree,” Violet said.
“Where did you go to college?” I asked. Was it possible she’d known Gregor Easton at university?
“Oberlin College. It’s in Ohio. What about you?”
Easton had gone to the University of Cincinnati. “I went to Husson in Maine.” I smiled, remembering. “I may not have had any stereotypical ideas about Minnesota, but I definitely had them about Maine. I showed up with a suitcase full of sweaters, and they were in the middle of a late-summer heat wave.”