Nutmeg spiced the air as Eulalie rushed over to me the minute I came inside, her purple heels tap-tapping on the hand-scraped dark wood floor. “You will never guess who showed up not five minutes ago and delayed Ms. Bryan’s imminent departure.”
I wanted to crack a joke about it being Virgil Keane, but I had the feeling the less Eulalie knew about the ghosts following me around the better. Plus, if my body aches could be trusted Virgil was somewhere behind me, and he probably wouldn’t find the joke as amusing as I did.
“Who?” I asked, glad someone had stopped her. I noted the set of luggage near the reception desk and wondered if the sheriff had even spoken with Avery yet. If Patricia had already been charged in Haywood’s death, it wasn’t likely he would ever follow up with that particular loose thread.
Not unless some new evidence came to light.
Like Haywood Dodd being the heir to the Ezekiel mansion.
Eulalie leaned toward me, her eyes big and round with excitement, and whispered, “Hyacinth Foster.” She let out a hushed squeal, happier than a pig in slop. “They’re in the conservatory staring at each other over mugs of coffee. This whole scenario is better than As the World Turns, and you know how I loved that show—may it rest in peace.”
I did know. She’d mourned a good four months when it went off the air.
Skirting a large sofa and a pair of armchairs, I peeked down the wide arched hallway that led to the glass room at the back of the house that was the true showpiece of Eulalie’s inn. Although she kept a small herb garden inside the octagonal glass room, it was primarily used as a dining space for her guests.
As I approached, my head began to hurt.
Apparently I found where Haywood had wandered off to.
There were six small square tables draped with white hand-embroidered tablecloths and each wooden chair had a deep-padded cushion upholstered with an elegant botanical-print fabric. Atop every table, a hollowed pumpkin served as a vase for white hypericum berries, yellow and orange tiger lilies, and crimson dahlias. A sideboard held a coffee and tea service, a stack of appetizer plates, silverware, mugs, and napkins. Several dessert pedestals with clear glass cloche tops showcased a selection of scones, cookies, and a coconut layer cake, which already had a few slices missing. That cake alone made me wish I were one of Eulalie’s guests.
Raindrops snaked down tall glass panes as Hyacinth and Avery sat sipping coffee in awkward silence. The room was empty but for the two of them . . . and Haywood sitting at an adjacent table dismally shaking his head at the pair.
Avery tipped her head side to side as though trying to work out some kinks. A graceful neck was accented by a strong square jawline. Brown hair with hints of red curled around her shoulders. Her long nose gave her a royal sort of air, but her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen.
I assumed Hyacinth’s were as well. It was impossible to tell as she had on an even bigger and darker pair of sunglasses than I’d been wearing around today. Her shoulder-length blond hair was pulled back off her face with a wide velvet headband, and a cashmere sweater hugged her toned body. Except for the sunglasses, she would have looked like she was just having a normal lunch meeting.
I backed up and surreptitiously shooed Virgil to retreat as well. He was getting a mite too close. I wasn’t sure what his official cause of death had been exactly, but beyond every muscle in my body aching, I had trouble breathing properly when he was within a few feet of me. Collapsed lungs was my best guess.
“Have they said anything to each other?” I asked Eulalie.
“Not especially. Hyacinth came in asked for a moment of Avery’s time. They’ve been back there ever since. Do you think there’s going to be a catfight?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Are you hoping or preparing for the worst?”
“Hoping, of course!”
Laughing, I said, “Have you ever known Hyacinth Foster to raise her voice?”
“That holds no bearing, Carly Bell. Supposedly she killed her previous husbands, remember?”
All had died of natural causes.
A heart attack, a stroke, a blood clot.
Supposedly.
Either Hyacinth Foster had the worst luck of anyone on the planet, or she was a psychopath.
Bless her heart.
“Shh, shh. Do you hear that?” Eulalie asked. She tiptoed back down the hallway and pressed her back to the wall.
Avery was saying, “I’m sorry, but I really need to get going.”
Hyacinth’s hand shook as she set her mug on the table. “Are you coming back for the funeral?”
Avery wrapped her long fingers around her mug. “I don’t know yet.”
“I don’t think you should.”
“It’s not your decision,” Avery said, her voice tight with anger.
“You shouldn’t have come in the first place,” Hyacinth added icily.
There might be a catfight yet.
Eulalie’s eyebrows wiggled. She was eating this up with a spoon.
Haywood was pacing, his face pinched with what looked like anger as he listened to the sparring.
Avery said, “I know you’re not implying I’m at fault for what . . . happened.”