Free Decorated to Death by Peg Page A

earful, but of what? The only thing I knew for sure was that the speaker was a man. The way things were going, it looked as though I would have more on my plate that morning than Sally Birdwell’s breakfast fare.
    Returning to Kettle Cottage, I decided to give Charlie a call while my clothes were in the dryer. I was pleasantly surprised when he picked up the phone on the first ring.
    “Hi, sweetheart, I figured you’d be calling me about now. How’s my girl?” he asked, his voice thick with concern.
    “Let’s just say that she’s doing a lot better today than yesterday, that’s for sure.” I didn’t elaborate, which was just as well since it turned out my husband’s inquiry pertained to Pesty and not yours truly. When I realized this, along with the fact that Charlie was unaware of what had taken place the previous morning out on Old Railway Road, I prudently ignored the faux pas.
    “Hang on a minute, sweetheart. My breakfast tray just arrived,” Charlie informed me. Judging from his less-than-stellar assessment of its contents, I knew then that my husband was on the road to recovery. As my Irish mother, Annie Kelly, would say, if you have the strength to complain, then you have the strength to endure. If nothing else, Charlie’s tray tirade marked him as a complainer who would live to fight another day. The deal I’d made with Martha Stevens was looking better by the minute.

Chapter
twelve
    I arrived at the kitchen door of the Birdwell residence a good twenty minutes early, thinking my hostess probably was in need of an extra pair of hands and hoping to run into the cell phone talker. While not known for my culinary skills, I figured I could flip a couple of pancakes or perform some other mundane chore while Sally bustled to and fro setting up a modest buffet for her paying guests. Wrong.
    After ushering me into the peach-, brown-, and cream-colored kitchen, complete with stainless-steel appliances, black granite countertops, buttery maple cabinetry, and terra-cotta tile floor, I was given a cup of freshly brewed, vanilla-flavored coffee, courtesy of Tammie, Billy Birdwell’s girlfriend and coworker at the country club.
    I watched in awe as Billy and Tammie quickly transferred pans of eggs Benedict, bacon-and-cheese omelets, fruit-laden crepes, and an assortment of homemade muffins from kitchen to dining room. While Sally set out her best china, the young couple went about arranging the various offerings on top of a highly polished console.
    The large cabinet was part of the Queen Anne–style dining room suite. A round, white-framed mirror sat directly above the console and was flanked by a pair of black wrought-iron wall sconces. The lilac-gray-painted walls called attention to the room’s white crown molding, and both were complemented by the pepper-and-salt chenille upholstered dining chairs.
    Charcoal-gray carpeting, pearl-gray plantation shutters, a smoke-gray glass-and-brass chandelier, and white-trimmed, lilac-gray-painted French doors leading to an outside redwood deck completed the room’s monochromatic color scheme.
    A fresh floral arrangement of purple cornflowers, yellow black-eyed Susans, and delicate lady fern added a splash of unexpected color to the white-lace-covered table. The floral centerpiece was the perfect finishing touch to the formal but inviting space. The homeowner’s good taste was reflected in the overall decor. I half expected to find Beaver’s father, Ward Cleaver, seated at the head of the table.
    “Isn’t it wonderful,” cooed Sally with a smile that spread across her pleasant face, causing her green eyes to crinkle. “Having a son who’s also a chef. Of course, Tammie being a top-notch waitress certainly makes things even easier. And to think that I’m their very first customer.”
    “Slow down, Sally. You lost me somewhere between chef and customer. What’s going on?”
    “Oh sorry, Mrs. Hastings. We thought for sure that you heard about my plans to start a