“I think he sounds like the perfect man for you,” I said, smirking at her.
Liz dipped her head in the direction of her plate. “I would throw one of those at you if it weren’t a waste of a perfectly good lemon tart.”
I laughed. “You’re going to have dinner again with him, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Miss Smarty-pants, I am,” she said. “And this time I’ll be buying dinner.”
I got up, got the teapot and refilled our cups. “Was your meeting Emmerson Foundation business?” I asked.
Liz nodded, cut one of the tart halves on her plate into two pieces and ate one of them. “It took a little longer than I expected. Like I said, I meant to tell you that I’d told Channing he could call you, and it just slipped right out of my head.”
I sat back down, added milk and sugar to my tea and leaned back in my chair, hands wrapped around the cup. “Avery said you’ve had a lot of meetings lately.”
Liz wasn’t one to prevaricate. “So it was you Friday, sitting in the line of traffic behind that moving van. I thought it was, but I wasn’t sure.”
“Why were you and Michelle together? And why keep it a secret?”
Liz’s mouth twisted to one side for a moment, and then she sighed. “You know Michelle is convinced someone framed her father?”
I nodded. Like me, Michelle had been a summer kid in North Harbor. Then her dad had gotten a job as the director for the Sunshine Camp. The Emmerson Foundation, the charity started by Liz’s grandparents, had bought the camp for kids with seriously ill parents. Rob Andrews had had the job less than a year when a routine audit showed there was money missing. He’d died in prison, less than three months after he’d been sentenced, from a fast-moving form of cancer that no one had known he had.
“She’s been looking for any kind of evidence that might clear his name.”
Liz nodded. “She asked for my help. She wants to take a closer look at the people on the board of the Sunshine Camp at the time.”
I set my cup down. “So why the secrecy?”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She asked me not to tell you.”
For a moment I just stared at her. “She asked you not to tell me? I don’t understand.”
Liz reached over and laid a hand on my arm. “She asked me not to tell you because John was one of the board members at that time.”
My mouth actually fell open. “John? John Scott? Gram’s John?”
“Yes,” Liz said.
Gram’s husband of a year, John Scott, had been a history professor before he retired. “I didn’t know John had been on the board of the camp.”
“It was a long time ago. Almost twenty years now,” she said. “You know I introduced Isabel and John.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t think I ever told you that the reason I knew John was because he was one of Jack’s grad students.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t know that.” Jack Kiley was Liz’s first husband.
“All through his teens he’d been a camp counselor. When we took over the Sunshine Camp he was just the kind of new blood I wanted on the board.”
I leaned forward, one arm on the table. “There’s no way John had anything to do with stealing money from the camp. You know him.”
Liz nodded. “Yes, I do. Which is partly why I told Michelle I’d help her. There isn’t going to be anything to implicate John because I know he had nothing to do with that money disappearing.”
I studied her face for a moment. “Do you think Michelle could be right?” I asked. “Is it possible someone framed her father?”
“At this point, I don’t know,” Liz said. “And that’s the other reason I said I’d help her—because I damn well want to find out.”
I finished my tea and headed home. I told Liz that I’d talk to Michelle and tell her I knew what they were doing. I was hoping she’d let me help. I hadn’t been the best friend I could have been when her father was convicted. Maybe now I could make up—at least a little—for that.
Chapter 19
I was still hungry when I got home. I made grilled cheese for supper, did a little work on the Web site and finally settled in with Elvis to watch Gotta Dance.
Drew Carey started with a recap of the previous week’s show, and as I watched, it was as if all the little details from the past week finally slid into place in my mind.
“I’m stupid,” I said to Elvis. He climbed onto my lap, walked his front paws up my chest and put his face close to mine. I had no idea whether it was supposed to be agreement or consolation. I kissed the top of his head and reached for the remote to mute the TV. Then I explained what I’d just realized to Elvis. The cat tipped his head to one side and listened, green eyes fixed on my face just as though he was weighing my reasoning.
“Should we go tell Rose and Mr. P.?” I asked.
He jumped down from the sofa and went to stand in front of the door. Before I could get up, someone knocked. When I got to the door, Mr. P. was standing there.
“I know who killed Jeff Cameron,” he said.
“So do I,” I said, wondering how he’d figured it out.
He smiled and inclined his head. “Ladies first, my dear.”
“There were two episodes of Gotta Dance last Wednesday night. I think Leesa called the Vega house during the second one, after Michelle and I had been to see her. She wasn’t at the cottage when Rose was assaulted, just like she always claimed.”
Mr. P. nodded. “That makes sense.”
“How did you figure it out?” I asked.
“Remote-access app.”
“That doesn’t mean anything to me.”
He smiled. “That’s all right, my dear. I’ll explain.” And he did in just two sentences. Then he gestured toward Rose’s apartment. “Rosie’s waiting.”
I held up a finger. “Hang on a minute.” I hurried to the bedroom for a moment, then came back. “I’m ready,” I said. At my feet Elvis made a rumble of annoyance and squeezed past our legs.
Rose was waiting in the kitchen. I held out the glass jar of muscle rub I’d grabbed from the bedroom. “Smell this.”
She took the container from me, unscrewed the top and bent her head over it. Then she looked up, comprehension spreading across her face.
“Did that make you think of those tea chests?” I asked.
“Yes, it did,” she said.
“It’s anise,” I said. “The same thing you remember from those chests.” I took the jar from her. “I get this cream from a little place just around the corner from The Black Bear. I’ve been using it on my calf muscles after I run. It’s wonderful for sore muscles. You know what this means? We can prove who killed Jeff Cameron.”
Rose reached over to pat my cheek, a huge smile on her face. “Yes, we can,” she said. “And this calls for pie.”
I called Nicole Cameron in the morning. There were things she needed to know about her late sister-in-law before we did anything else. She said she’d be home all morning and I told her I’d stop by in about half an hour.
When I walked out to the SUV, Rose was in the front passenger seat and Mr. P. was sitting in the back. I opened the driver’s door, folded my arms over my chest and said, “No.”
Rose gave me a sweet and slightly condescending smile. “Sweetie, that didn’t work when you were four. It’s not going to work now.”
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea to go talk to Nicole with an audience,” I said.
“You’re not going without us,” Mr. P. said. “This is the last piece of the puzzle.”
I stood there wondering how I could get both of them out of the vehicle.
“You might be able to wrestle one of us out of the car, but you can’t take on both of us,” Rose said as though she’d read my mind, which I was starting to think might be a legitimate possibility. She smoothed the purple and silver scarf at her neck, the one she’d gotten from rocker Steven Tyler at a concert years ago. “I’m wearing my lucky scarf. Don’t fret, dear. Everything is going to be fine.”