Free Arsenic with Austen by Katherine Bolger Hyde Page B

feed half of Stony Beach.
    â€œGood heavens, Agnes! Surely my aunt didn’t eat this much every day?”
    Agnes drew herself up. “Not knowing your preferences, madam, I made a bit of everything.”
    â€œSo I see.” Fortunately, Emily’s peregrinations had left her with an appetite. “I’ll sample as much as I can and let you know. But all your cooking is so delicious, I suspect it’ll be hard to choose.”
    Agnes did not smile, but her features readjusted themselves to suggest gratification. “Will you have scallops or rack of lamb for supper?”
    Both were favorites and rare treats, but Emily’s stomach quailed at the thought of tackling lamb after this enormous tea. “I think scallops, thank you. Assuming the lamb can wait until tomorrow?”
    Agnes inclined her regal head and left the room.
    Emily nibbled at everything and savored it all. When Agnes came in to clear away, Emily said, “As I suspected, everything was delicious. I really can’t choose. Did Aunt Beatrice have any particular favorites?”
    Agnes’s mouth quirked. “Like you, madam, she liked most everything I made. But her favorite thing in the world was something I never would make. Turkish delight.”
    â€œGoodness, I can’t stand the stuff. Way too sweet. But why wouldn’t you make it?”
    â€œShe only liked the rosewater kind. I’m allergic to roses.”
    â€œReally!” Now that she thought about it, Emily hadn’t seen any roses near the house, which seemed odd in Oregon, where roses grew so well. “So did she buy it from somewhere or just do without?”
    Agnes snorted. “She’d sneak it into the house when she thought I wasn’t looking. Figured if I didn’t see it, I wouldn’t smell it. All it takes is the smell to set me off. One good whiff and I sneeze for a week.”
    â€œWell, no worries with me. Like I say, I can’t stand the stuff. Your strawberry shortcake is plenty sweet enough for me.”
    Agnes cleared the tea things, and Emily settled down, happily replete, to begin knitting her shawl.
    Knitting was an excellent aid to ordering her thoughts, or would be, once she got the project well underway. The preliminary steps of setting the gauge and learning the stitch pattern required all her concentration. She was just finishing her first gauge swatch when Agnes appeared in the doorway and announced, “Mr. Brock to see you, madam,” as if she were announcing the FBI, the IRS, and the KKK all embodied in one man.
    Brock swept past her into the room and bent over Emily as if to kiss her hand. His musky cologne nearly overpowered her. Pure pheromones. Good thing she was postmenopausal and less vulnerable to such things.
    She kept a firm grip on her needles. “Good evening, Brock. What can I do for you?”
    He straightened, covering his foiled attempt by using his outstretched hand to smooth his already perfectly smooth hair. “Ask not what you can do for me, dear lady, but what I can do for you. I came to invite you to dinner at Gifts from the Sea. Their salmon is to die for.”
    Agnes stood in the doorway, glowering at Brock’s back with such loathing, Emily expected to see red laser-light stream from her eyes and incinerate him on the spot.
    â€œThanks so much, Brock, but I’m sure Agnes already has my dinner well in hand. Her cooking’s to die for too—I couldn’t let it go to waste.” Agnes gave a curt nod, her glare abating slightly.
    Brock flashed his hundred-watt smile at Agnes. “Oh, well, in that case, we can talk over dinner here. Set another place, Agnes, there’s a dear.”
    Agnes’s glare ought to have been registered as a lethal weapon. “There is only one serving of the scallops, madam. They don’t keep.”
    Emily wouldn’t have crossed Agnes at that moment if her entire inheritance had depended on it. “Too bad,