“I don’t believe that,” said Lily.
“Well, maybe so,” said Pansy, “but they weren’t friends after that.”
“Gerald remarried right around then,” said Lily. “He said he thought that Polly was turning into a tomboy and needed a woman’s influence.”
“Well, he certainly married an influence,” said Pansy. “Pamela was a real witch. Gerald found out that she was stealing money from him or something like that. He got rid of her in short order.”
“And now there’s Lauren,” said Lily. Again the sisters exchanged knowing looks.
“What’s she like?” I asked.
Pansy leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “Well …”
I eagerly leaned in, but the bell above the door sounded, announcing customers. Pansy jumped up from the table and went to wait on them.
Peter popped the last piece of bread in his mouth and stared sadly at the empty plate. “We probably should get going,” he said.
“I’ll just go and wrap up your order,” said Lily.
Minutes later, we collected three large white boxes, each wrapped with a blue bow covered with small white teapots. Customers streamed into the shop now for their afternoon tea and Pansy whispered to me to come back later so we could finish our conversation. Peter and I said our goodbyes and thanks, and stepped out again into the freezing air.
“That was informative,” I said to Peter.
“Yeah. I didn’t know that Gerald had been married three times. Do you think his ex-wife could have something to do with his murder?”
“I don’t know. Really, there are so many people who might have wanted him dead. It’s a bit overwhelming.” The wind picked up. “What’s next?” I asked Peter, trying to shield my body from the wind with the box of pastries. Next door was a clothing shop, with several outfits on display in the window. I wistfully eyed them and the heated interior.
“Butcher,” he replied. I stared longingly in the window. He read the shop’s sign and then turned back at me. “You’re not going to make me go in there, are you?”
“Well, I do need to get a few things …”
Peter sighed and shook his head. “I’ve never met a woman who didn’t.”
“That’s not fair!” I said. “I only packed for one weekend. Who knows how long I’m going to be staying!”
“Uhh-uh,” Peter said to the sky.
“Whatever,” I said. “I’m going in. Are you coming?”
“No offense, but I’d rather go to the butcher.”
“Coward. Don’t you go shopping with Maggie?”
“Maggie isn’t into material goods,” Peter said loftily.
“Then Maggie doesn’t know what she’s missing,” I retorted, handing him the box. “I’ll meet you here in an hour.”
Inside the store was quiet—that serene, tranquil quiet that permeates shops with expensive clothes. The salesclerk smiled vaguely in my direction as I wandered around the store. Forcing myself to keep a casual face, I peeked at some of the price tags. Dear God! Did they mark up the prices while they were drunk? Still, there were several outfits that I would give my eyeteeth for—or at least the better part of the contents of my checking account. I made some quick mental calculations. It seemed unlikely that I would be taking that ski trip to Vermont with Mark next month, which meant that I had a fair chunk of change to play with.
Assuring myself that it was healthy to splurge on oneself occasionally, I gathered up several outfits and headed toward the dressing rooms. The salesclerk, seeing that I was a serious customer, abruptly changed her attitude and now fawned over me. Her name tag indicated her name was Brooke. She was a tall, leggy girl in her early twenties, with long, straight brown hair. While I was predisposed to dislike her based on those facts alone, she actually proved to be very helpful. While she put together several outfits for me, we chatted politely until she discovered that I was staying at Longbourn.
“Oh, my God!” she yelped. “But that was where Mr. Ramsey was killed!”
“Yes.” I paused. “Did you know him?”
“I did! His daughter, Polly, and I are friends. How is she? I’ve been trying to get in touch with her all day.”
Not knowing if Brooke was really a friend or a gossip, I merely said, “She’s holding up okay.”
“Well, if you see her, please let her know that I’m thinking of her. We’ve been friends for years.” She added, “This must be such a nightmare for her. I just wish she had come away with us like we originally planned.”
“You were going away?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Brooke as she handed me a bright pink cashmere sweater. “Every year a bunch of us go to my parents’ ski house for New Year’s. Polly usually can’t wait to go—her dad is … was unbelievably strict. She didn’t get out much. He wouldn’t even let her do that graduate program at Oxford. She was furious about that. I can’t remember ever seeing her so mad. I thought she would have been dying to get away from him, even if it was only for a weekend, but Polly backed out.”
She handed me a green brocade skirt. “These look nice together. Especially with your coloring.”
“Why did Polly back out?” I asked, taking the clothes.
“She didn’t say. She just said that something had come up and she wasn’t going to be able to make it after all.” Brooke added a pink silk scarf to the outfit and shook her head. “I bet she wishes she’d gone with us now.”
I wondered if that was true. I thought of what I knew of Polly—a determined young woman, by all accounts miserable living with her father. Now her father was gone and she was free to live her life without his interference. Brooke was dead-on with her fashion sense, but was she as perceptive about Polly?
One hour and several hundred dollars later, I left the store. Peter was just walking up the street toward me.
“I’m hungry,” he said by way of a greeting.
“I don’t see how you can possibly be hungry after eating all that bread.”
“Well, I am. Do you want to get something? I know a place that makes the best clam chowder on the Cape.”
“Is there anyplace on the Cape that doesn’t claim to make the best clam chowder?”
“You have a point,” he acknowledged with a tip of his head. “But this place actually does have the best. Are you interested?”
I was. I had only nibbled at my cranberry muffin at breakfast and Peter had eaten all the bread at the Teapot. It was now late afternoon and I was starving.
We put our bags in the Jeep and Peter drove us to the Captain’s Knot, a restaurant overlooking the harbor—a description that sounds much nicer than the reality. Since the temperature was well below freezing, we had no qualms about leaving the groceries in the car, as we hurried into the tavernlike restaurant. A few locals sat at the worn mahogany bar, sipping from large mugs of beer and watching football on the overhead television. To the right, several tables had a view of the water. The hostess waved to us to take our pick and we chose a table next to the large window.
As we sat down, an awkward silence descended between us. I busied myself by studying the laminated map that covered the tabletop. Peter stared out the window. Outside, a horn sounded and I turned in my chair. A large white ferry was slowly maneuvering its way out of the harbor. The wind slapped at the boat’s flags and at the few people who had decided to brave the cold and stand on the top deck. Proud of their hardiness, they waved manically to anyone who looked their way.
“There goes the ferry to Nantucket,” said Peter.
“Cool,” I said. Cool? What was I, twelve? Why did I turn into such an idiot when I was around him?
“Do you remember that time we went with Aunt Winnie?” he asked.
How could I forget? He had terrorized me during the entire journey with horrible tales of children being swept up by sudden gusts of wind and tossed overboard. I think he may even have swiped my chocolate doughnut, too.