Season Of Glory. Ron/Janet Benrey

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СКАЧАТЬ Sharon said, “I arrived at the Captain at one o’clock and began making the Strathbogie Mist. I also worked with Calvin Constable, the Captain’s breakfast chef, to prepare the scones and tea cakes.”

      “In other words, you spent the afternoon in the kitchen?”

      She thought about this. “Except for two ten-minute breaks when I helped Emma greet arriving guests, starting with the Dickensons—a couple from Pennsylvania. She’s a dentist, he’s a lawyer.”

      Sharon wondered if she should share her other routine observations—that Samuel and Theodora Dickenson were a well-tanned, healthy-looking duo: she a lean woman with caramel-colored hair; he somewhat chubbier with ashen hair and a trim brown goatee.

      No need. Agent Keefe undoubtedly spoke to them this morning, too.

      “Next, I met the Carrolls, from Wilson, North Carolina,” she said. Haley Carroll—an anesthesiologist—was a round-faced redhead, while Michael Carroll—an accountant—was a rangy, mostly nondescript man with an unusually large nose.

      Agent Keefe flipped a page in his notebook. “One other guest arrived on Sunday afternoon. A Mrs. Amanda Turner.”

      “She checked in while I was cooking. Emma showed her through the kitchen when I was putting away the mixing bowls I’d used.” Sharon recalled that Emma hadn’t looked especially happy when she led the fortyish, full-figured woman with brassy blond hair through the kitchen’s swinging door.

      “This is Amanda Turner,” Emma had said with a noticeably strained smile. “Amanda hails from Birmingham, Alabama. She recently purchased The Robert Burns Inn, the B and B on Campbell Street. She’s staying with us until the painters and carpet layers finish redecorating the guest rooms.”

      “They promised to be done by Wednesday,” Amanda drawled, “but I almost don’t care, because I know I’m going to enjoy my stay here. The Captain is so lovely, and now I have a chance to see every last inch of the building.”

      Sharon had instantly understood Emma’s hesitation. She wasn’t thrilled to give a future competitor a comprehensive tour of The Scottish Captain, but she could hardly refuse, because Amanda was a legitimate paying customer.

      Agent Keefe clicked his ballpoint pen then jotted a few words. “How many portions of Strathbogie Mist did you make for the tea party?”

      “Twenty-four.”

      “All identical?”

      “Completely. I filled two dozen six-ounce ceramic ramekins.”

      “When did you finish?”

      “About three o’clock.”

      Keefe made a noncommittal grunt. “What were you wearing when you prepared the dessert?”

      The sudden shift in topic startled Sharon. “I beg your pardon. What difference does my clothing make?”

      “You wore some sort of pants suit to the tea party. I doubt you worked in the kitchen dressed like that. Where did you leave the puddings when you went home to change?”

      She fought back a snicker. “Some sort of pants suit” was made of dark green Dupioni silk, had cost the better part of a month’s salary, and accentuated the best aspects of her figure. It was her Christmas gift to herself this year. She’d seen it at the Glorious Boutique on Main Street and had straight away given in to temptation. Well, why even try to resist? She had no one in her life to buy expensive presents for—and no one to buy them for her.

      And no one to tell me blatant lies about business meetings that take all evening…

      “Actually, Agent Keefe, I dressed for the tea party in Emma and Rafe Neilson’s bedroom—but I see where you’re going. In fact, the ramekins were never left alone during the afternoon. You can check with Calvin Constable, but I believe he kept working in the kitchen when I went upstairs to change.”

      “I did check with Mr. Constable,” Keefe confirmed. “When did you move the desserts to the gazebo?”

      “About a quarter to four. Calvin and I used a kitchen cart to wheel all the goodies from the kitchen through the garden. We took turns carrying dishes up the gazebo’s front steps. We were ready for guests a few minutes before four.”

      “Just in time for you to meet Andrew Ballantine.”

      Sharon hoped that her face didn’t reveal her confused emotions. Everything had happened so quickly and she had spent most of the night in the emergency room doing what was necessary to keep him alive. She and Ken Lehman had worked together in an E.R. resuscitation bay, equipped with patient monitors and a defibrillator in the event they had to restart Andrew’s heart.

      Sometime during the evening her own heart had restarted. She realized that she no longer saw him as a “consultant” or even as a “patient.” And to her great surprise she’d stopped worrying about Andrew’s trustworthiness. He’d made a wondrous first impression on her, although she wasn’t sure how he managed to do it. She had prayed during every step of the treatment they’d administered, surprised at the depth of her affection for Andrew that had intensified as she worked to maintain his steady heartbeat. She’d reminded herself over and over again that she’d met him the previous afternoon, that they’d spoken for only an hour, that she knew almost nothing about his personal life—other than he’d grown up in Knoxville, Tennessee, traveled far and wide to do his job, and saw himself as a confirmed bachelor. But biographic details seemed less important than the chief thing she didn’t know—how Andrew felt about her.

      Stop acting like a harebrained sixteen-year-old. You’re on the verge of making a fool of yourself.

      But logic was ineffective against those pesky feelings she felt—feelings that countered her long-held belief that she was much too sensible a person to fall in love at first sight.

      At the party, she’d had to remind herself to stop gaping at the man—and to stop thinking of Andrew Ballantine as perfect. Even now, the memories of that opening hour with Andrew made it difficult to concentrate on Agent Keefe’s ardent questions.

      Keefe went on. “So, once you began talking with Mr. Ballantine, you lost track of time and the Strathbogie Mist.”

      “I suppose so.”

      “Consequently, anyone in the gazebo that afternoon could have tampered with the desserts.”

      “True enough.” Sharon thought back to the tea party. The gazebo had appeared crowded, what with the Dickensons, the Carrolls and Amanda Turner talking together and various members of the church coming and going. Sharon supposed that there must have been a dozen people milling about, greeting Rafe and Emma Neilson, and saying hello to Andrew.

      She and Andrew eventually moved to a quiet spot two steps down the wide staircase. She’d been so engrossed in their conversation that she wouldn’t have noticed if a flying saucer had beamed up the ceramic ramekins—at least not until Andrew had decided to try one of her homemade treats. He had declared it “one of the most incredible dishes of Strathbogie Mist I’ve ever eaten. Better than my grandmother’s. A dessert to die for.”

      He doesn’t know yet how close he came.

      “Unfortunately,” Keefe said, СКАЧАТЬ