Free Death and Honesty by Cynthia Riggs Page B

Oliver.
    Willoughby shrugged. “I’m not greedy. Leaves you with a nice piece of change.”
    “This is the first I’ve heard …”
    “Been five months, right?”
    “Right,” agreed Oliver.
    “Tax bills went out this week, right?”
    Oliver nodded.
    Willoughby laughed, exposing stained brown teeth and a small wad of pink chewing gum. “I don’t suppose we need to put anything in writing, do you?”
    Bubble gum. Oliver’s legs had begun to tremble.
    “Gentleman’s agreement, right?” Willoughby thrust out a meaty hand.
    Oliver heard the rooster crow. Bertie, who’d stopped barking, started up again.

    Willoughby frowned and shoved his hand closer. “Right?” he said louder.
    Oliver nodded and stuck out his own damp, limp hand.
    Willoughby squeezed, not hard, but firmly. “That’s my man.” He let go and Oliver’s chair wobbled. “Got to feed Chickee. Nice talkin’ to you. See you around.”
    With that, Willoughby strode to the door, opened it, and slammed it shut behind him.
    The rooster crowed again.
    Oliver scraped his bacon and eggs into the trash. His stomach churned. He staggered into the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat, knelt on the floor, and threw up the three cups of coffee he’d drunk a lifetime ago.
     
    That same morning, Delilah’s closed bedroom curtains blocked out the view of the Elizabeth Islands, Vineyard Sound, the beach, and the activity around her pond. She pushed the curtains aside to let in the morning light, and gave a startled cry.
    “Henry, wake up. It’s almost ten. Something horrible has happened! I should never have let you stay in my room.”
    “Hmmm?” The pink comforter on Delilah’s heart-shaped bed muffled Henry’s voice. “Did you sleep all right?”
    “I shouldn’t have taken those sleeping pills. I overslept and now look what’s happened.”
    “What has?”
    “Get up, Henry. Dozens of people are at the pond.”
    “Dozens of people?” Henry swung his stocky legs over the side of the bed, stretched his arms over his head, yawned hugely, and reached for the terry-cloth robe he’d dropped over the bedpost in his haste last night.
    “Did you hear me? Henry!”
    “Coming, Mother.”
    “Mrs. Trumbull and a lot of uniformed policemen.”
    “Police,” mumbled Henry, tying the belt of the robe. He padded over to the window and stood next to Delilah. He tilted his head and briefly rested his chin on her breast. She had clothed herself in a filmy peignoir that was printed with lavender cabbage roses.

    He peered distractedly at the activity around the pond far below them.
    “Where are your glasses, Henry?”
    “Would help, wouldn’t it?” murmured Henry, feeling around on the top of the dresser until he found them.
    “You’d better get back to the guesthouse before someone sees you here.”
    “Right. I’d better.” Henry stopped suddenly. “There’s no reason I should leave.”
    “I’m angry with you, remember?” She glared at him. “I should never have let you in last night. Never.”
    “Ah!” Henry said with a smirk. “Yes. I remember.”
    Delilah turned to the window. “Mrs. Trumbull and some woman in uniform are walking up from the pond. Get away from the window.”
    Henry smiled. “I suppose I’d better get dressed. You still make a fine choir girl.” He stood on tiptoe and kissed Delilah on her chin.
    “Use the door off the deck so you don’t wake up the pilot,” said Delilah, brushing his kiss away.
    Henry bundled up the trousers, shirt, jacket, and underclothes he’d shed last night and tucked them under one arm. He slipped his feet, sockless, into his wingtips and cinched the belt on the terry robe. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse,” he said. “Ta, ta, Mother.”
    “Stop that mother crap, and tie your shoelaces.”
    Henry smiled again. He tiptoed out of the bedroom, shoelaces trailing, and closed the door gently behind him.
     
    Darcy was waiting at the back entrance when Victoria and Casey reached the house. “I