Holly and Homicide (28 page)

“Yeah, I know. I was trying to write a love song for Henry as a Christmas present, but the pancakes weren’t even enough to build three or four stanzas around. Let alone a lasting relationship. Men always seem to dump me,” she whined. “It’s the story of my life.”

“Chiffon, you’re only twenty-two. Your life story has barely begun to be written.”

She widened her eyes and muttered, “I can use
that
in a lyric.”

Hoping she would focus on songwriting and I could safely put down the pitcher, I glanced at the counter. I’d sloshed quite a bit of my coffee, which I no longer wanted. “I really need to go get some work done. Steve and I are starting to get down to the wire as far as decorating for Christmas.” The inn’s opening was less than a week away.

Chiffon’s eyes were starting to overflow again. “For an old guy, Henry was great in the sack.”

“Again, not really the stuff of a love ballad.” I gingerly set down the pitcher, calculating that I’d clean up the coffee
spill from the granite countertop later, but I didn’t want to continue this conversation for another moment.

“What’s wrong with me, Erin? I realize that I’m too emotional, but that’s the place where I get my art from! I can’t be all stiff and professional and yet—”

Blessedly, my cell phone started to ring. I snatched it up. The screen indicated it was Steve—and I was already undyingly grateful. I feigned grave concern and announced: “Oh, jeez. I’m sorry, Chiffon, but this is a client, and it could be an emergency. Take care.” I strode purposefully through the double doors, saying into the phone, “Yes, this is Erin Gilbert.”

“I had a sudden idea to have breakfast out this morning,” Steve said with a smile in his voice. “Care to join me?”

“Absolutely.” Aware that Chiffon could still hear me, I added, “I’ll leave right away. I’ll bring my partner, and we’ll look into that immediately. I’m so glad you called.”

“Yeah. Me, too. We’ll have to go someplace that serves pancakes. They’re good for relationships, I hear.”

I managed to stifle a laugh as I started to climb the stairs. Mikara was heading out of her bedroom and gave me a friendly wave, which I returned. She turned toward the kitchen. I felt a pang of guilt and said, “Okay, bye,” into the phone. Mikara’s sister had been killed, and here I was, leaving her to face Chiffon’s sob story alone. Not to mention my spilled coffee. I was only marginally better than Henry; he’d done a dump-and-run, but I’d done a spill-and-run. Neither of us had the decency to clean up our own messes.

I doubled back. Already, Mikara’s voice had risen to a shout. “Well, of
course
he dumped you!” she cried.
“What?! You didn’t have enough evidence that he’s a serial dater? You never heard how he gave me the heave-ho the week before our wedding?!”

“I wasn’t looking for marriage, though,” Chiffon replied. “Besides, I’m
fun!”

“Not right now, you’re not. I’m sure you stopped being fun for Henry just as soon as you started expecting him to behave like you were his significant other. Any idiot could see he was only dating you to keep you from selling out to Wendell.”

“So what? I was only dating him till something better came along. And then you went and distracted me.”

“Excuse me,” I muttered and walked directly between them toward the sink. I grabbed my coffee cup, plus the pitcher for good measure.

“I did?” Mikara asked. “How did
I
distract you?”

“You’re
the one who brought Alfonso here for the interview. That was my dream come true! I was so close!”

“You wanted to hook up with
Alfonso?”
Mikara asked in dismay. “But you aren’t even sure if the man’s straight or
gay.”

I wrung out the sponge and headed toward the coffee spill, keeping a grip on my pitcher, all the while.

“No, I didn’t want to hook up with him! I wanted him to name a dessert after me!”

“The Lemon Chiffon Walters Pie?” I couldn’t help but interject.

She shrugged, at least having the humility to blush a little. “I know it’s shallow of me, okay? But I didn’t choose my name. My parents did that. And so, yes, I wanted a world-famous pastry chef to name a dessert after me, at
the inn that I own. And I can’t bake for beans, so it’s not like I can manage a recipe on my own.”

“That’s pathetic,” Mikara said. She lifted her chin in greeting as Audrey and Steve both appeared in the doorway.

“So?” Chiffon whined. “Plenty of much smaller celebrities than me have hamburgers and sandwiches named after them. And it’s not like any of
their
first names is ‘Cheese.’ Or ‘Turkey.’”

Audrey looked puzzled and said, “I missed the first half of this conversation. But is there anything I can do to help?”

“Henry broke up with Chiffon,” Mikara said gruffly, “and it turns out she wanted Chef Alfonso, who has already decided
not
to relocate to Snowcap, by the way, to name a lemon chiffon pie after her.”

“It’s been my dream as long as I can remember.” Chiffon sniffled.

“Good heavens, Chiffon,” Audrey said with a smile. “That’s something I actually
can
help you with. I make a wonderful chiffon pie. I’ll teach the recipe to our new cook, whoever Mikara hires, and we’ll put it on the menu.”

Steve and I grabbed a bagel downtown for breakfast
, but we ate on the run. The inspector was scheduled to arrive between the hours of nine and noon to examine the handicapped-access ramp, and I was determined not to
leave Ben alone with him this time. Both Chiffon’s and Henry’s vehicles were gone by the time we got back, and Steve had to meet with a metalworker for his eleven pipers design.

It was chilly outside. Making a Thermos of cocoa for myself, I put on my ski clothes, with mukluks replacing the ski boots, and took a seat on the wrought-iron bench by the back door.

Ben gave me a bemused smile as he walked past me. “You know what they say about a watched pot never boiling, don’t you?”

“Pardon?”

“You’re waiting on the inspector. Probably, he won’t come till you give up and go back inside.”

“True. But it’s nice and brisk outside, at least. I enjoy the feeling of a slight chill on my face, as long as I’m wearing warm clothing.”

He gave me a half smile. “I’m kind of that way, too.” His breath formed little cloud puffs of condensation.

“I brought along a second mug, in case you’d like to share my hot chocolate.” I lifted the large Thermos to show him that I had plenty.

He hesitated. “Well, okay. Guess that won’t harm my schedule too much.”

I poured him a cup, which he accepted with a quick “Thanks.”

“What’s on the agenda for today? The ramp looks to me like it’ll sail through.” (Plus, Sullivan told me that he’d gotten a separate copy of the guidelines straight from the inspection office yesterday and had determined that the
inn’s ramp was within specifications.) I patted the seat beside me, and he grudgingly obliged me.

Ben glanced at the access ramp. “It does look nice. I like the wood a lot better than the concrete.”

“So do I. It shows your excellent craftsmanship, as always.”

He gave me a small smile, then stared straight ahead. “Tasty hot chocolate,” he muttered after the tiniest of sips.

Snippets of my previous conversation concerning Ben returned to me; if what the gallery owners had said about him was true, he was probably lonely. “Do you ever think about leaving Snowcap Village? Of getting a fresh start someplace new?”

“It crosses my mind from time to time.” He shrugged. “But I want to keep the Orlin Builders business going. I owe my dad’s memory that much.”

“Are you hoping to pass the business down to another family member when you retire, then? Do you have any siblings?”

“I see you’ve already ruled out that I’ll ever have a kid of my own.” He snorted and gave his head a rueful shake. “You’ve obviously heard the rumors about me.”

“You’re right, and I apologize.” He gave me no reply, and I added gently, “Some gay couples adopt.”

“Yeah. But I’m not half of a couple, now am I?” he snapped.

“That doesn’t mean you won’t
ever
be.”

He mustered a smile. “I guess that’s true. Now that my parents have passed away, I don’t have anybody else’s reputation to worry about but my own. Have
you
met any gay men up here you can fix me up with, by any chance?”

“No. But I know several in Crestview, if you ever change your mind and decide to leave.”

He glanced behind him at the back door. “I just don’t think I could ever stand to leave this place.”

“Meaning Snowcap, or the Goodwin estate itself?”

“Goodwin,” he said sadly.

Meaning
Goodwin
himself? I put some things together—Ben’s behavior when Henry was reminiscing about their old times, the father’s determination to separate his son from Henry, and Ben’s odd slip of the tongue a few days ago, saying: “Tell that to Henry,” about his being indispensible, when he’d meant to say Cameron.

“Forgive me for bringing up such a personal subject, but I’ve gotten the impression that you care truly deeply for Henry.”

He winced, and our gazes met for just a moment. There was anguish in his eyes, and I knew at once that I’d hit upon a truth that he’d kept hidden for years. Ben was in love with a straight man. Talk about the hopeless situation.

“Henry’s leaving town himself next year,” I said.

“Maybe he’ll change his mind,” Ben said sadly. He snorted. “And his sexual orientation.” He took a gulp of chocolate that had to still be uncomfortably hot, then set his mug down. “Thanks for the cocoa, but the handrails still need sanding.”

For some reason, it dawned on me then that Wendell’s accusations about Ben tipping off the inspectors were true, even though the contents of Cameron’s briefcase had already revealed that Cam’s fury toward Ben had
been an act; both men had wanted to delay the inn from opening. “I guess Henry is more likely to stay in town if the inn never manages to open under its new ownership.”

Ben pivoted and stared at me in surprise. “I put my heart and soul into this place, Erin! I always have. I never would have let so much as a loose nail get by me.”

“No, but you’ve made certain that the inspectors were fully up on their codes …and aware of minute violations.”

He held my gaze for a moment, then averted his eyes in a taciturn admission of guilt. “Have you told Henry about this?”

“No. Did you kill Cameron? Or Angie?”

“No. I’d swear to that on a stack of Bibles.”

“Do you know who did?”

He said, “No,” but his hesitation spoke volumes.

“But you’re afraid that Henry’s guilty.”

“I’m scared he is, yeah.”

I waited out his silence.

“Angie was taking bribes from Cameron. Henry had a big grudge against her. He has a bad temper. I figured maybe Cameron saw Angie’s murder, or claimed he did, and Henry got desperate and killed again. But I could be way off base.”

“Okay, so …why were you staring up at my window the other night?”

He spread his arms. “I wasn’t paying attention to whose window it was. I couldn’t sleep and went for a walk. I live just a mile and a half from here.”

“Why didn’t you wave, then, when you saw me at the window? Why run off, like you had something to hide?”

“I don’t know, Erin. I guess I didn’t want to be seen, staring at the house. All right?!” The muscles in his jaw were working, and he was once again glaring at me. “But the way you keep poking into things, you’d better watch yourself, or you could be the next victim.”

I
watched through the kitchen window as Ben shook the inspector’s hand. The wheelchair access ramp had passed. Barring an explosion of the septic system, which was about the only thing yet to fail on us, the town could no longer block us from opening on Christmas Eve.

A floorboard creaked behind me, and I turned around. It was Steve, who asked, “How’s the inspection going?”

“Finished. The ramp passed with flying colors.”

“Why do you look so down, then?”

I clicked my tongue, now wishing I’d feigned a bit of
cheerfulness. “Ben said some things to me that bothered me. It turns out, he’s been carrying a torch for Henry for thirty years or so, and he told me I should watch myself or I could wind up the next victim.”

“Ben threatened you?”

“It was either a threat or a warning. I couldn’t tell. I don’t trust anyone in this town anymore.”

“Neither do I.” He paused. “Let’s go home to Crestview,” Steve said gently as he walked up to me. “We can come up for the day a couple of times later on in the week. We’re just twenty or so man-hours from being finished.”

“Which means ten to twelve woman-hours, tops.”

Steve chuckled and caressed my cheek. I kissed the palm of his hand. He gazed into my eyes. “Erin, all I know is—”

The door to the mudroom opened, and Ben interrupted our romantic moment. “Great news. We passed the inspection.”

“I’m glad,” I said.

“As far as the town’s concerned,” Ben continued, “we’ll be ready to open next week as scheduled.”

“Excellent for all of us,” Steve said, glowering at Ben. “Tempers are getting short from stress.”

Before Ben could reply, there was a noise in the mudroom, and we all stared at the door. A moment later, Henry staggered through the door, gasping for air. His face was red and damp with perspiration. He kicked the door shut with his heel, then bent down and grasped his knees, physically exhausted to the point of collapse.

“Henry,” Ben cried. “What’s wrong?”

Henry was still struggling to get his breath too much to speak. He held up a hand and, a few seconds later, managed to say, “I’m fine. Just not used to running.”

“Why were you running?” Steve asked.

“I hid my pickup truck in a buddy’s garage,” he said in staccato bursts through his gasps for air. “Nearly bumped into Chiffon downtown. Ran all the way back here.”

“Why?” Ben asked.

Henry made a “duh” face at Ben, but I’d been about to ask why myself. “So that Chiffon can’t take a sledgehammer to my truck. Obviously.” He caught his breath enough to make his way to the kitchen table. He slumped into one of the slat-back chairs and shook his head. “I’m getting too old for this kind of stuff.”