The Secret Ingredient Murders: A Eugenia Potter Mystery (5 page)

She was the Realtor who had found Genia the house to rent.

“And to David Graham—”

“David Graham? That’s generous of you, Stanley.”

“Why, just because he married my ex-wife? That only proves that he and I have something in common, namely excellent taste in women.”

“All right.” Genia smiled at him. “Anybody else?”

“Yes, the mayor, Larry Averill. Get your niece and nephew to help out in the kitchen, and I’ll come over early, to boss everybody around.”

She smiled at him again. “Your best talent.”

He nodded, looking sage. “And one I have nurtured over a lifetime.”

“Why those particular people, Stanley?”

“You don’t like them, Genia?”

“I like them fine, Stanley, although I can hardly say I know them well, except for Donna and Kevin.”

“Well, I know them very well.” From underneath his thick white eyebrows he gave her a look she couldn’t decipher. “Better than they think I do.”

“Are you up to something, Stanley?”

“Who, me?” He’d pulled back in a patently false show of wounded innocence. “Why Eugenia Potter, what a thing to say to a poor, feeble old man.”

“If you’re feeble, I’m Betty Grable,” she’d retorted.

“Much prettier,” said the old man, gallantly.

Genia blew him a kiss. “For that, you get your guest list.”

“You won’t be sorry, my dear.”

The old man started to get up from the chair where he was sitting in her kitchen, but then he sank back down again, after a wince crossed his face.

“Stanley, forgive my asking, but are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine,” he snapped. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“All right, if you say so.”

“And who better?”

“You’d tell me if you weren’t?”

“Probably not. Why should I tell anybody but my doctor?”

“
Is
there something wrong, Stanley?”

He glared at her like an old buffalo. “There’s a saying that’s popular with the younger generation these days, Genia Potter, and it goes like this: ‘What is there about the word “no” that you don’t understand?’ ”

She held her tongue and reserved her opinion.

That same day, she wrote out and mailed six invitations to seven people:
Donna Eden, Kevin Eden, Celeste Hutchinson, David Graham, Lawrence Averill, Lindsay and Harrison Wright
.

      4
T
HE
M
AIN
C
OURSE

One after another her guests came, bearing hostess gifts and the secret ingredient recipes she had asked them to bring. And still no Stanley, and even Janie had not returned yet with Genia’s car and a report on him.

She took off her apron and forced a smile to her face.

“David, how lovely!”

Genia accepted a bouquet of coral roses from David Graham and held them carefully in front of her. Behind him, raindrops still lightly sprinkled the driveway, and the sky looked darker than mere twilight should have made it. She hoped her other guests would beat the storm.

“It is you who looks lovely,” was her guest’s gallant reply.

Her smile felt suddenly less forced. He was a handsome, courtly man with an expression of sadness in his gray eyes and an air of brave bonhomie about him. She knew from her niece Donna that the women in town were already after this man, even though his wife had been dead less than a year. Genia smiled kindly at him and hoped he realized he had nothing to fear from her in that regard. She already had a beau, and not all that far away, either, in Boston.

David Graham wore a boutonniere, a coral rose to match those he had given her. It was an affectation Genia had rarely seen in Arizona; it amused her to think of any of her cowboys appearing for dinner with a rose in his lapel. Here it seemed appropriate, however. She appreciated the obvious care with which David had prepared himself for her dinner. It was almost a lost art, Genia thought nostalgically, the business of making oneself an ornament whom a hostess could display with pride at her dinner table.

“All this and a secret ingredient, too?” she asked him.

He swept a typed card from the pocket of his beautiful dinner jacket and stuffed it down among the roses.

“This was a favorite of Lillian’s.”

“I will treasure it, David.”

A quick glance showed her it was for a dish called, “Pepper Cheese Soufflé.” The secret ingredient was listed as “ground white pepper.” In his own handwriting, apparently, David had noted, “Secret, because it disappears into the cheese.”

“Would you be so kind as to man the bar for me?”

“I’d be happy to have something to do, Genia.”

It was a gracious way to say yes, she thought. David Graham had the exquisite manners of a gentleman of another era, and she found it pleasant to be the object of them. And then he surprised her by turning back to say, “It’s really kind of you to include me, Genia. I get lonely, don’t you, living alone for so long? Or will I just get used to it after a while?”

Her heart went out to him, this sad-eyed man who had buried so recently the woman everyone said he had adored. Gently, she told him, “It’s hard at first. But one does adjust, David. It even becomes possible to be happy.”

“Difficult to believe.”

“I know it is.”

He smiled briefly, painfully, and went into her living room.

Thoughtfully, remembering her own slow healing after Lew died, Genia carried the roses back to the kitchen to trim their stems under water and place them in a vase. She got back to the front door just in time to greet Harrison and Lindsay Wright, who arrived bearing “Eye of the Storm” wine and a recipe for “Blue Suede Soup.”

“Suede certainly is a secret ingredient,” Genia joked with them. They looked young and prosperous and wrapped up in each other, she thought. Lindsay was tall and thin as a model, with long straight blond hair; Harrison was shorter, not conventionally handsome, but attractive in a nice, ordinary kind of way that inspired trust. With Lindsay so light of complexion, and he so much darker, they made a striking couple. They greeted her with light embraces.

“It’s really creamed blueberry soup,” Lindsay confided to her. “We used to have to go out and pick blueberries till our fingers bled. My mom fixed them every which way, from pancakes to jam. The only way she could get us to eat them like this was to tell us that Elvis Presley invented it and named it after the song ‘Blue Suede Shoes.’ ”

“You had a very wise and funny mother,” Genia observed.

Lindsay looked surprised. “I guess so.”

Upon reading the label on the bottle they had handed her Genia inquired, “Eye of the Storm?”

“It’s from the Sakonnet Vineyards over near Little Compton,” Harrison told her. She thought his voice could melt snow. “Some red and white grapes got accidentally mixed up during a hurricane, and they produced this blush wine. That’s how it got its name.”

“What a wonderful story, and perfect for a weatherman!” She glanced over his shoulder. “Did you order this rain?”

“Everybody blames me,” he replied, with good humor. “If you think this is something, wait until later this week.”

“Are you saying I should batten down my hatches?”

“What
are
hatches, anyway?” his wife asked.

“In nautical terms, it’s the cover over a deck opening,” her husband explained, as promptly as if he had opened a dictionary and read the definition there. “That’s where we get the saying, ‘batten down the hatches.’ ”

Lindsay beamed at her hostess. “Isn’t he something? Can’t you just see him on the
Today
show, saying things like that?”

Genia smiled. “Is that where you’d like to be, Harrison, on national television?”

“That’s where Lindsay thinks I should go,” he said, “but I kind of like living right here where I can look out a window and actually see the weather. In New York, how would I know which way the wind was blowing?”

Lindsay gave him an affectionate shove. “Oh, you. Who needs weather, when you’ve got all those instruments?”

Harrison burst out laughing. “Who needs me, if we don’t have weather?”

Lindsay grabbed his arm and leaned into him lovingly, while looking at Genia. “Isn’t he sweet? I’m telling you, he’s bound for big things.”

Harrison only smiled and rolled his eyes up to indicate forbearance.

“Is Stanley here yet?” Lindsay asked casually.

Genia told her, “No. I am hoping somebody has seen him. You didn’t?”

They told her they had not seen Stanley Parker all that day.

They were followed by Celeste Hutchinson, looking glamorous in a floral silk dress and matching shoes. Genia had seen the outfit on her before. She thought it was wonderful when a woman found a style and a particular dress that looked so good on her that she could confidently wear it as often as she liked. Thank goodness the days were gone when a woman could not be seen twice wearing the same dress at social functions with the same people. Those old-fashioned dictums were hard on pocketbooks, though they had once kept legions of seamstresses in jobs.

“Listen, Genia, I’m no cook,” the Realtor said, in a confiding tone that implied they were old friends by now. “I stole one of my mother’s old recipes for you.” She accompanied the recipe card with a quick hug of greeting. “It’s not much, but it’s the best I could do. I’ve just been swamped with open houses and new customers. Forgive me?”

“Of course, Celeste. I’m glad that business is so good.”

“You ought to buy
this
house, Genia.”

“I didn’t know the owners even wanted to sell it.”

“Well, if they don’t, I know a dozen other houses you’d love.”

“I’m sure I would, but the last thing I need is another house to take care of.”

“Oh, bosh. Do think about it, Genia. You fit in here like a native. We’ll do a house tour one day soon, and I’ll show you some gorgeous places. Is David Graham here yet?”

Told he was at the bar, she made a beeline in that direction. Genia had smelled liquor quite strongly on Celeste’s breath. She made a mental note to make sure that when the Realtor left that evening she was sober enough to drive herself home.

Genia was next caught in a bear hug by the mayor.

“I’ve brought you something,” Larry Averill said, placing a white box in her hands.

She drew off the lid and exclaimed in delight at what she saw inside.

“It’s a key to our fine city,” the mayor announced.

The key, six inches long and made of brass, had inscribed on it “Devon, Rhode Island.”

“Should I give a speech?” Genia smiled at him, delighted with the gift. “Nobody’s ever given me a key to a city before, Mayor. I’ll hang it in a place of honor.”

He beamed down at her like a proud, portly father.

“Celeste here yet?”

“She’s in the family room with the others.”

While putting the key on the hall table for safekeeping, Genia couldn’t help but think of the mayor’s rumpled, rather sweaty appearance as compared to that of the well-groomed men who had preceded him into the house. And yet, she thought there was something innately
nice
about Lawrence Averill. She had a feeling he was always running late, not quite put together because he was too busy doing favors for other people to stop and think about himself. She was willing to bet that he kept a box full of brass keys in his car to pass out like candy, but that didn’t dilute at all the sweetness of the gesture, nor her pleasure in accepting it.

As guests arrived, she asked if they had passed Stanley on the way. Each time she was told no. None of them appeared to be as fretful as she about his absence. That comforted her, because several of them had known Stanley longer and better than she knew him. If they weren’t concerned about him, she would try not to be, either.

Genia glanced in the hall mirror to undo the damage all the hugging had done. A dab of gray eye shadow and a light brush of lipstick were all she ever wore as makeup, and she saw immediately that the lipstick needed replenishing. That, plus a nice silk blouse and long skirt, a pair of earrings, a hint of good perfume, and a polished pair of shoes were what she generally called “dressing up for dinner” these days. She smoothed back a stray strand of her silver-blond hair, which she wore pulled into a bun at the base of her neck. Only then did she notice a dark smudge on her silky white blouse. Where had that come from? From the roses?

Oh, dear
, she thought.
I’ve greeted my guests looking like I’ve been up to my shoulders in gardening!

She brushed the spot with the flat of her hand and winced when a slender pine needle, hidden in the smudge of dirt, pricked her palm.

“How in heaven’s name did that get there?” she asked aloud.

She hadn’t been out of the house since changing into her dinner clothes. This blouse had come right from the dry cleaner’s bag. She brushed more vigorously, and discovered too late that the prick was bleeding, and now she had a spot of blood on her blouse! Darn it, now she would have to change clothes or pin on a brooch to cover it.

Before going upstairs to do that, Genia glanced into the family room to see how her guests were managing on their own. Janie wasn’t there yet to start the hors d’oeuvres going around, but all appeared normal. David Graham was pouring drinks at the bar, with Celeste Hutchinson at his elbow, putting napkins under wet glasses.

To Genia’s eyes it all presented a pretty sight of people and setting. She loved the decorating taste of the owners of this house, especially the living/dining room with its oversized white couches and chairs, its floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace, and windows everywhere, framing the sea beyond. The owners had positioned an oval dining table right in front of the fireplace, near the wide French doors. Someone had ingeniously transformed the antique wooden table at one end of the room by painting it white and stenciling starfish around its edge. Matching small starfish appliqués added a fanciful touch to cream-colored slipcovers on tall dining chairs. Altogether, it was an informal setting, but elegant just the same.

Jason had earlier filled the fireplace with pine logs—so different in fragrance from her Arizona mesquite—in case the evening turned cool, as it was now doing. Genia saw that Janie had done a lovely job of setting the table, and she herself had added simple garden flowers in pottery bowls. They matched the delicate yellow color of the table linens she had found in a chest of drawers. As the Realtor, Celeste had assured her that the owners meant her to make herself literally at home, and anything they didn’t want her to use, they had locked up.

Conversation seemed to be humming along nicely.

“Lindsay! Beautiful suit. Is that a Chanel?”

“Hey, Larry, I’ve been thinking that if you can get the art festival going, it might attract enough regional attention to get you elected to the state house. Your problem is, you’ve always been too local. Nobody outside of Devon knows you as well as we do. But a big project like that, bringing more jobs than Devon can handle on our own, that could get you grateful voters from far and wide. You ever think of that?”

“Stanley says—”

“Oh, don’t mention that man’s name to me!”

“Not mention his name? He’s going to be here, you know.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to speak to him.”

“Did you bring a recipe with a secret ingredient?”

“We don’t need more rain, Harrison. Can you please stop it?”

These people were old friends and acquaintances, most of them, and they didn’t need Genia to break any ice for them. As she walked upstairs to the bedroom she had selected for her own use, she thought,
It’s strange, about that pine needle. I wonder where it came from?

When she glanced out her bedroom windows at Block Island Sound, she saw how fast the clouds were moving now. Rain was beginning to thump against the screens. Suddenly, there was no hiding from herself anymore how concerned she felt. Maybe nobody else was worried about Stanley Parker, but she was. He should have arrived long before this. Nobody had seen him. He didn’t answer the phone at his house. He was seventy-nine years old and probably not in the best of health, and he rode a motorbike with his mind on other things.

“He could have fallen,” she fretted out loud, “or had an accident, even a heart attack.”

From the jewelry she had brought with her from Arizona, Genia picked out her grandmother Andrews’ pearl and diamond brooch. Even it reminded her of Stanley because it was big and old-fashioned, emblematic of a wealthy, privileged era: a three-inch starburst of diamonds emerging from a cluster of pearls at the center. Genia loved it, not because it was beautiful—it wasn’t, particularly—or valuable, but because her grandfather had given it to her grandmother, who had given it to her mother, who had passed it on to her. Everytime she pinned it onto her own clothing, she felt as if she were reattaching herself to her family. She was thinking of having the brooch dismantled and its stones and pearls mounted in smaller pieces, so that each of her children could have part of it. Now she pinned it to her silk blouse, figuring the blouse was already ruined by the blood.