The Deep End (A Saints & Strangers Cozy Mystery Book 2) (9 page)

Romeo gave her shoulder a compassionate squeeze. “I’m afraid so.”

“Why kill her now, though?” Kit asked. “With Mr. Tilton gone, he finally would’ve had full access to the Tilton’s money. With Jasmine dead, the access disappears.”

“One of Jasmine’s friends said that Jasmine had decided not to continue the relationship once Mr. Tilton died,” Romeo explained. “Maybe he was angry that he was being cast aside now that she was a wealthy widow.”

Charlotte didn’t believe it for a second. It wasn’t possible that the Brendan she knew would have been so infatuated with Jasmine that he’d kill her in a jealous rage. Then again, the Brendan she knew wouldn’t have had an affair with Jasmine in the first place. It seemed that she really didn’t know him at all.

“Maybe she promised him money and changed her mind once she had it,” Rebecca speculated. “So he killed her over money.”

“Brendan has his own money,” Charlotte argued. “He doesn’t need Daddy’s. And he didn’t love Jasmine. There’s no way.” She crossed her arms over her chest in a rare show of defiance.

“Charlotte, you can’t possibly be defending him,” Rebecca said, alarmed. “Brendan lied to you.”

“So did you,” Charlotte snapped. “You told me to accept things as they were and then went behind my back and consulted a lawyer.”

Rebecca looked as though she’d been slapped. She and Charlotte rarely exchanged harsh words.

“Charlotte,” Romeo said softly, “we’ve done some digging on Brendan. It seems that he doesn’t have money of his own. He did, at one time, but his trust fund is long gone.”

No money. A secret affair. Despite her best efforts, Charlotte dissolved into a puddle of tears.

Chapter Five

Rebecca knocked on Charlotte’s door. It had been days since Romeo confirmed Brendan’s deceit and Charlotte had confined herself to her room, refusing to leave the house for any reason.

“Charlotte, you need to go to school today,” Rebecca said firmly. “Enough moping. You don’t want to let Father down.”

Rebecca disguised her shock when Charlotte emerged from the bedroom, showered and dressed.

“You mean the way Daddy let us down by leaving us practically penniless?” Charlotte asked.

Rebecca ignored her comment. “Kit left already, but I’m sure if you hurry, you can catch her.”

Charlotte didn’t respond. She grabbed her bag from the corner of the room. “I’ll see you for dinner, okay?”

Rebecca nodded. “Sure. Try to focus on school. Nothing else.” She followed her sister downstairs. “Don’t forget to eat.”

She went to the window and watched her sister walk down the sidewalk. Charlotte seemed stronger today, no rounded shoulders or glum expression. From the window, Rebecca breathed a sigh of relief.

As Charlotte walked through town, tears streamed down her face. When she reached the Westdale College campus, she continued toward the Lenapehoking River, crossing the footbridge into Eastdale. The train station was easy to get to. Charlotte bought a ticket with her credit card and waited patiently for the next train. There would be no classes for her again today. She couldn’t bear the thought of being stuck in a classroom, listening to a lecture on the power of human emotion. Thanks to Brendan, she was intimately familiar with the subject.

She took the train into Philadelphia and got off at 30th Street Station where she proceeded to walk to the art museum. With each step she took, she recalled another moment with Brendan. She hadn’t known him very long, yet every minute they spent together was etched in her memory. She remembered every single word that had been spoken between them. Of course, it was the words that weren’t spoken that mattered the most. The nauseating truth about his relationship with Jasmine.

Twenty minutes later, Charlotte climbed the seventy-two stone steps to reach the museum entrance. She hated to torture herself like this, but she couldn’t help it. She
missed
Brendan. Since the dull ache refused to go away, she decided to stuff it full of her brief memories of him. Gorge herself until it made her too sick to continue. Maybe that would cure her.

She moved through the museum on autopilot, imagining him beside her as she admired the artwork and sculptures. When she reached the room that housed Prometheus Bound, she took a steadying breath and stepped inside. Her entire body jolted when she caught sight of a familiar head and broad shoulders in front of the painting.

“Brendan,” she called, the sound of her voice echoing in the quiet room.

He jerked his head toward her and she saw the flash of fear in his eyes. As she rushed toward the bench, he bolted from the room and out another doorway, ignoring her pleas to stop. She felt a tightening around her heart as he disappeared around a corner.

Charlotte halted, knowing that she could not catch up to him. He was too quick and she was too clumsy. She dropped onto a nearby bench, numb from shock. She’d come to reminisce, never dreaming that she’d actually see him again. Why would he run from her unless he was well and truly guilty? What other reason could there be?

She took out her phone, wondering whether she should call and tell someone. Rebecca? The police? In the end, Charlotte tucked her phone away and continued to sit on the bench until her stomach ached from hunger. Only then did she rise and leave the museum. The sun was low and so were her spirits as she made her way back to Westdale.

Kit didn’t mention to Rebecca that Charlotte had failed to make an appearance on campus again. Instead, she and Francie bribed Charlotte into attending the next morning’s classes in exchange for a visit in the afternoon with Kit’s horse, Peppermint. Charlotte was an enthusiastic rider but hadn’t been given much opportunity to partake because of her dyspraxia. As it turned out, horseback riding was an excellent form of exercise for someone like Charlotte because it strengthened the core and improved balance.

Kit’s other good deed for the day was her agreement to stay for dinner at Greyabbey in order to placate her mother, who’d been complaining to anyone within earshot about her daughter’s infrequent visits. Phyllis told her that Heloise was at the country club pitching a fit because she hadn’t known about the recent developments with the Tiltons. She’d been briefly deprived of her position as the most knowledgeable Westdale resident and heads were going to roll.

By the time the trio finished at the paddock, their stomachs were rumbling from hunger. They made the long walk back to Greyabbey, chatting about nothing in particular. Although Charlotte was quiet, she seemed more like her normal self again, Kit thought. She knew the fresh air would be good for all of them, especially now that they were spending so many hours indoors. It seemed to do the trick.

They were greeted at the door by Huntley James, her mother’s trusty personal assistant and overseer of Greyabbey. He was flanked by Heloise’s two Giant Schnauzers, Hermès and Valentino. Hermès leaped onto Francie, the front paws reaching her shoulders. Francie squealed and recoiled.

“Hermès, get down,” Kit scolded the large dog. “He only does that to people he likes.”

Francie brushed a few spots of dirt from her top. “Well, he has good taste.”

Huntley ushered them to the garden room where Diane, the cook and housekeeper, had set out a silver platter of crudités.

“Why wouldn’t you want to be spoiled like this every day?” Charlotte asked, nibbling on a carrot.

Kit gave her a meaningful look. “The benefits do not outweigh the…”

“Katherine, darling,” her mother sang, sweeping into the room. Heloise was always willing to make a dramatic entrance. And exit. And everything in between.

Kit kissed her mother’s prominent cheekbone. “Thank you for having us, Mother.”

Heloise smiled at Francie. “I just had lunch with your dear mother yesterday.” She took Charlotte’s hand in both of hers. “Charlotte, you precious child. How are you holding up?”

Charlotte raised her chin a fraction. “Rebecca and I are well, thank you.”

Heloise patted her cheek. “Spoken like a true Pilgrim. Why your father ever married that harlot is beyond me. I think he must have died of sheer embarrassment, not cancer.” She turned around, as though expecting someone to be there. “Now where is my gin?”

As if by magic, Diane appeared behind her with a tray of drinks. “Never fear, gin is here.”

“Not for Charlotte and me,” Francie said, reminding them that they were not yet twenty-one.

Heloise laughed dismissively. “Oh Francie, all of the Musgroves are gin drinkers. Your mother told me they used to slip some into your bottle to help you get to sleep.”

Francie rolled her eyes. “That explains a lot.”

“So enlighten me. What is happening about the murder of that horrid creature?” Heloise said, stopping to test the gin and tonic. It seemed to meet her approval since she continued talking. “What have the police said?”

“We prefer ‘victim’ to ‘horrid creature,’” Kit remarked.

“Potato, pot-ah-to.” Heloise zeroed in on Charlotte, who appeared to be the weak link in the chain. “Do they have any leads? Is your saintly sister still being unjustly accused? I’m happy to call my lawyer for her.”

Charlotte squirmed. She didn’t want to talk about her sister, Jake or Brendan. It was all too raw.

“They’re still investigating, Mother.” Kit swallowed half her gin and tonic, hoping to make it through dinner without another murder.

“And who is ‘they’?” her mother asked, shifting her attention to Kit. “The detective who handled the last Westdale murder?” She snapped her fingers. “Something Italian. Sonny? Vito?”

Kit crossed her arms. “You’re just naming characters from
The Godfather
.”

“Am I?” Heloise asked innocently.

“Detective Moretti is leading the investigation,” Francie confirmed.

Kit shot dagger eyes at her friend. “Suck up,” she whispered.

“Moretti,” Heloise repeated. “I understand that he’s a particular friend of yours now.” Her reptilian gaze rested on Kit.

“I’ve made a number of particular friends since I’ve been back in Westdale,” Kit said. She smiled at Francie and Charlotte. “And you’re looking at two of them.”

“I see.” Heloise knew when she wasn’t making progress. “Did you ever hear from that Breedlove boy? It was my understanding that he was anxious to make your acquaintance.”

“I told Crispin that I wasn’t interested,” Kit replied.

At the mention of Crispin, Francie’s heart began to pound. She glanced around furtively, hoping that no one else could hear it. Although he was several years older, Francie had developed a huge crush on him.

“The Breedloves are exactly the sort of family you should be considering,” Heloise said.

Kit sighed. Once more unto the breach. “Right now the only thing I am considering is whether to bother staying past the main course.”

Heloise ignored her remark. “Perhaps you should look into freezing your eggs,” her mother mused, “in case your toddler phase stretches into your thirties.”

Kit resisted the urge to stomp her foot on the floor. No need to illustrate her mother’s point. She hated that her mother brought out the worst in her. Kit never felt like a child during her years in Los Angeles. There she made grown up decisions every day and was known for her work ethic, until she became better known for rocking the boat. The producers called it diva behavior; her friends called it sticking up for the common man. She liked her friends’ version better.

Staring across the table at her mother’s haughty expression, Kit realized that she’d do it again in a heartbeat. As much as she wished she still had her career, she would endure Westdale and the heavy mantle of her family name for the sake of crew members and their families. She was, as her mother would say, a left-wing commie pinko encased in White Anglo-Saxon Protestant packaging.

When the dinner bell rang, they made their way to the dining room where Kit noticed a familiar furry face in her seat. Miss Moneypenny. She shook her head and moved to lift the white cat from the chair.

“Oh, Katherine, you can sit there,” her mother said, pointing to the chair next to Miss Moneypenny.

Kit blinked. “The cat is joining us for dinner? In my chair?”

“Well, she’s certainly not eating the lamb,” Heloise said. “She prefers tuna tartare, but she’s become fond of that chair at mealtimes so I let her sit in it. She keeps me company. Unlike some people.”

It took all of Kit’s strength not to object. Her place had been usurped by a stray cat found roaming the grounds of the country club golf course. That was
her
chair. She’d been sitting in that chair at this very table since she was a child.

Francie and Charlotte sat down quietly and stared at their place settings, not wanting to interfere in family business.

“I keep you company as well,” Huntley interjected from his seat beside her.

“Of course you do,” Heloise said and Kit half expected her to pat him on the head. “But Miss Moneypenny is more entertaining. I’ve never seen you dangling from the curtains.”

Kit thought that was probably for the best since Huntley was well over six feet tall.

“We received the invitation today for the Monte Carlo event,” Huntley said, drawing Charlotte into the conversation. “It looks like you’ve cooked up a wonderful evening.”

“I can’t take credit, Mr. James. Rebecca did most of the work,” Charlotte said.

“Your sister is a credit to your family,” Heloise said and Kit raised her eyebrows. High praise indeed. “I cannot fathom why the police would even glance her way. Such incompetence but then I’ve come to expect it. She no more murdered that cheerleader than I would buy my own furniture.”

To less informed ears, it sounded as though Heloise sent someone else to purchase her furniture, someone like an interior designer. Kit knew better, though. Heloise meant that she was not the kind of person who needed to buy furniture because she’d inherited it.

“Thank you,” Charlotte said. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

“Has your Italian friend interviewed Brendan Williams?” Heloise asked. “I heard from someone at the club that he was involved with that woman.”