Free A Familiar Tail by Delia James Page A

knowthe most dramatic conclusion was right. A murder had been committed. Somebody had stood at the top of those stairs and watched Dorothy die.
    â€œSo,” I said, with what I hoped was a tone of gossipy curiosity. “You think this house really is a solid investment?”
    â€œOh, yes. Real estate prices all around Portsmouth have rebounded nicely over the past couple of years.” Ellis Maitland was looking at me thoughtfully, but not in a maybe-we-could-be-friends way like Frank had. This was a maybe-she’s-useful kind of way. “If you’re a friend of Frank’s, maybe you can talk some sense into him. Everybody knows how hard it is to make a newspaper pay, even with a good business plan and a strong Web presence. If this house stays empty, it’ll turn into a real white elephant. Then he’ll either have to sell too fast or he’ll lose the paper, and he’s worked so damn hard.” Ellis shook his head again; then he saw the expression on my face and chuckled. “I know what you’re thinking.”
    I wouldn’t bet on it.
But I bit my tongue before I said that out loud. Not that Ellis was waiting for me to talk. “You’re thinking, ‘This guy, he’s in real estate. He’s only interested in the money.’ Am I right?”
    â€œI plead the Fifth.”
    â€œDon’t bother.” He waved his tanned hand again. He had a chunky gold ring on his pinkie, I noticed, but no wedding band. “I know our reputation. But I really do care about Frank, and about Portsmouth. This town is my home. All my roots are here, and I want to see it thrive. A good source of local news is part of that.” He fished in his pocket for a set of keys and hit the button on the fob. In answer, the BMW beeped and the driver’s side door popped open. “Maybe you could at least find the cat? If Frank knew Alistair was safe in a good home, it might give him what he needs to finally let go.”
    â€œI’ll do what I can.” This statement had the virtue of being both true and completely noncommittal.
    Ellis had that thoughtful look on his face again. I had the sense of being sized up, and my shoulders stiffened. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again, Miss . . . ?”
    â€œBritton,” I told him. For a second I debated whether to add the rest of it. Diplomacy and self-preservation said keep quiet. Diplomacy and self-preservation lost. “Annabelle Blessingsound Britton.”
    Ellis’s direct gaze went vague and distant. I could see him scrolling through associations in his mind like he was flicking through his phone’s contacts list. Finally, he had it. “Your family’s from here, too? A”—he looked at me, and this time I got to watch him estimate my age—“grandmother, maybe?”
    â€œThat’s right. Annabelle Mercy Blessingsound.”
    â€œWell.” A half dozen different emotions chased each other across Ellis Maitland’s face, momentarily overriding his professional pleasantness. “This is some coincidence. My mother will want to know you’re here.”
    â€œShe does. We met yesterday when she stopped by the Pale Ale.” I paused, looking for a properly vague yet leading untruth. “Actually, I was hoping to have a chance to look up some of Grandma B.B.’s old friends while I was in town. Maybe . . .”
    â€œWell, I don’t know if she and my mother were
friends
exactly . . . You know how women of that generation can be, especially in a small town. Lots of little rivalries and old grudges.”
    Nice try.
I gave Ellis the calmest smile I could manage. “Maybe we can see about making peace.”
    â€œIt’d be a worthwhile effort.” Ellis tapped the BMW’s roof a couple of times, like he was knocking on wood. “I’ll send out some feelers. See what comes back. Glad to have met you, Miss