No Pity For the Dead by Nancy Herriman Page B

Nick asked, steering her back to what he wanted to know.
    â€œI am the sole beneficiary. There are no children. But if you think I’d kill my husband—”
    â€œIt’s been known to happen.”
    She stood as quickly as heavy bombazine and a stiff corset permitted. “Are we finished, Detective Greaves?”
    Taylor hastily stowed his pencil and notebook, but Nick took his time getting to his feet. “Sure, ma’am. But I might come back to ask more questions. If you don’t mind,” he threw in.
    â€œIf they are more questions like that, you can be certain I mind. Good day to you both.” With a huff, she spun on the heels of her expensive shoes and marched out of the room.
    *   *   *
    â€œL ook what I found on the front porch, Addie,” said Owen, strolling into the kitchen later that day. He held out a bouquet of daisies, a paper tag hanging from the twine tied around the stems. He squinted at the tag. “Says they’re for you.”
    Celia, who had been reviewing the household accounts in the warmth of the room, glanced at Addie. The housekeeper blushed furiously over the vegetables she was chopping.
    â€œOch, what nonsense are you blathering now, Owen Cassidy?” She snatched the flowers from him and read the tag herself. “No name again.”
    â€œAgain?” asked Celia. “Have you received flowers before?”
    Addie, who developed a sudden case of deafness, fetched a glass vase for the daisies and ignored Celia’s question.
    Owen chuckled. He plopped onto one of the kitchen chairs arranged around the oak table where Addie prepared meals. “I presume your being here means you have been released from employment,” said Celia.
    He grabbed the last pieces of shortbread sitting on a plate. “Wasn’t at work five minutes before Mr. Kelly marched me out the front door.”
    â€œI will speak to Mr. Hutchinson,” said Celia. “Hopefully I can convince him to give you another chance and tell Mr. Kelly to take you back.”
    â€œThanks, ma’am,” Owen mumbled, his mouth full of biscuits. Addie, the flowers properly arranged and finding a home on the windowsill, took the empty plate over to the wet sink. Owen mournfully watched its departure.
    He swallowed. “Got any more of those, Addie?”
    â€œYou’ve eaten the lot of them, Owen Cassidy. Do you think we’re made of sweets here?” Addie asked.
    â€œNope, but a body can dream, can’t he?”
    â€œWhisht. Get on with you.”
    Celia stacked the notices and bills into a neat pile and considered the boy. “Since you were forced to leave so quickly, I gather you did not have an opportunity to overhear what the other workers are saying about the murder.”
    â€œNothing more than nobody seemed to be staggered that Dan got in trouble,” said Owen. “This ain’t . . . isn’t gonna be good for Dan, though. He needs money to pay off some fella. That’s why we were digging in the cellar to begin with. Said he was gonna finally pay off his debt to some mean old cuss when we found that treasure. Only there weren’t any treasure, was there?”
    â€œNo, Owen,” said Celia. “Who told Dan about Mr. Martin having gold buried in the cellar? Do you know?”
    â€œRob Bartlett, I think, ma’am,” said Owen.
    â€œRob Bartlett.” The person Maryanne had mentioned as being “trouble.”
    â€œOch, ma’am,” said Addie, wiping her hands on the edge of her apron. “I canna say I like where this is going. You investigating and all again.”
    â€œPlease do not worry, Addie.”
    â€œâ€˜Do not worry’? I canna help but worry when it seems you’ve forgotten what happened last time,” Addie responded, grabbing the sack of potatoes waiting nearby along with an empty tin bowl. “If you need me, I’ll be on the back porch