Nor, she noticed, was there a kettle on the enormous black six-hob Aga, although a coffeemaker and an espresso machine were among the few things to mar the pristine work tops.
“I don’t drink tea,” said Nita, confirming Gemma’s guess. “But there’s an electric kettle and”—she paused as she opened a cupboard near the garden windows and reached inside—“this.” When she turned back, Gemma saw that she held a chipped red teapot. “It was Reagan’s,” Nita continued. “She missed having a teapot so she picked this one up at the market. I have her tea, too.” Nita opened a drawer as if to look inside, but stopped and pressed the teapot against her chest. “I—I don’t know if it would be right to use it. Her mother—would she recognize it? I wouldn’t want to cause her more distress.”
“Here.” Gemma went to her and gently took the pot and placed it near the kettle. “I’m sure it will be fine. Let’s see that tea.” Looking in the drawer, Gemma found a box of Tetley’s English Breakfast tea bags tucked neatly in beside coffeemaking oddments. She debated over three bags or four for the pot, then went for strong. They all needed it.
Nita stepped aside as Gemma put the bags in the pot, then filled the kettle from one of the two sinks in the center island. “What about mugs?” she asked when the kettle had begun to heat, but Nita again had the dazed expression she’d worn upstairs. Gemma touched her arm. “Nita?”
“Oh, sorry.” Nita seemed to make an effort to smile, but when she began to take white mugs from an upper cupboard, Gemma saw that her hand was shaking.
“Nita, maybe you should sit down for a bit.” Looking round, Gemma saw nothing that might offer a little support—the bar stools were metal and backless.
“No. I’m fine. Really,” Nita said, but she turned her back to Gemma and leaned on the work top with both hands. “I’m used to dealing with crises, for heaven’s sake. My clients count on me to handle any sort of emergency. But this”—she shook her head—“I just can’t seem to focus. I keep thinking I’ll ask Reagan to do this or that, and then I remember . . .”
“It must be a terrible shock.” The kettle came to the boil and Gemma poured the hot water into the teapot. “Were you close? How long was she with you?”
“Two years.” Seeming to recover some of her composure, Nita straightened and moved to fetch a tray for the tea things. “MacKenzie will tell you—Reagan was . . . Reagan was a lovely girl. I just can’t believe . . .”
Gemma waited for the words she was sure would follow, but Nita didn’t say the expected. Instead, Nita went on, haltingly, “The police said . . . they said they had to check to see if alcohol or drugs were involved. I can’t believe that.” Nita shook her head. “Not Reagan. I don’t know what they’ve told Gwen. But Reagan was living in my house, so I feel . . . responsible . . .” For the first time, there were tears in Nita’s eyes, and Gemma thought she could understand why Nita had been so awkward and scattered upstairs with Gwen.
MacKenzie hadn’t told her this, but then MacKenzie wouldn’t have known unless Nita had shared it with her. “If it’s a suspicious death, of course they will want to—” Gemma began, but stopped when it occurred to her that it also seemed that MacKenzie hadn’t told Nita her friend was a police officer. It wouldn’t do to blurt it out suddenly, or to know more than a civilian. “I’m sure the police will have been very gentle with Gwen,” she amended. “Under the circumstances. And as for being responsible, Reagan may have been living under your roof, but she was how old?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Then she was a grown woman and responsible for her own behavior.”
“Well, yes, I suppose, but . . .” Nita stopped and gave Gemma a tremulous smile. “I can see that you’re right. I saw her. Did MacKenzie tell you?”
“Yes, MacKenzie did tell me. It must have been terrible for you.”
“I’m glad Gwen was spared that. But she said, when she came in, that she’d been to the mortuary straightaway. To see the . . . the body. And I wasn’t sure what would be worse . . .”
“That’s not a choice anyone should have to make.” There was much that Gemma would have liked to ask, about Reagan, and about what Nita had seen. But the tea was getting cold and MacKenzie would be wondering what had happened to them. She saw that Nita had only put out three mugs. Moving them to the tray, she asked, “Are you not having any?”
Nita made a face. “I’ve had too much caffeine today.”
“We’d better go up, then. Here, let me,” Gemma added, taking the tray. As she turned towards the stairs, she noticed a big basket, tucked away between the bottom of the staircase and the cupboards. Out of it poked a pair of muddy trainers and a football. She realized what had been bothering her since she’d first entered this house—there had been no sign that a boy lived here.
She thought of her own sitting room and kitchen, scattered with an ever-changing array of toys and junk. And usually Toby’s muddy trainers as well, which were the same brand as these but a few sizes smaller.
Did Jess live with his father, then, and only visit here? But then why the nanny, Reagan? Or had she somehow got everything all wrong?
Turning to Nita, she said, “I met your son yesterday. Jess. At ballet. I think that’s why MacKenzie asked me to come today. How is he doing with this?”
Nita frowned and rubbed a hand across her eyes. “I don’t know. He won’t come out of his room. He won’t talk to me. He seems to think that this is somehow my fault.”
“So you’ve decided you don’t like my whitefish?” asked Ivan Talbot, watching Melody put a little of the spread on a cracker, then set the cracker down again.
“It’s not that, Dad.” Melody forced a smile. She had managed a bit of the cucumber and a bit of the cold potatoes, but she couldn’t bear even the thought of the ham, and the whitefish was running a close second. She pushed the food around on her plate, hoping to disguise her lack of appetite. Her mother, she knew, had missed nothing, but so far hadn’t commented. “It’s the heat, I think,” she said. “And I have a bit of a headache.”
“We could go inside,” suggested Addie.
“No, no. This is lovely.” Melody shook her head, a bit too violently, and winced.
Now her mother was frowning at her. “Perhaps you should go have a lie down.”
“No, really, Mummy. I’d rather be out here.” That much, at least, was true. They were sitting at the table on the flagstone patio just outside the kitchen. The house shaded this part of the garden from the afternoon sun and there was a little breeze. She just couldn’t seem to get food down, and she couldn’t sit still, which was made worse by the fact that she knew how much her mother hated fidgeting. The champagne she had managed to drink, however, and she didn’t stop her father when he topped up her glass.