A High-End Finish(9)
The first thing Daisy had done to honor her niece’s courageous decision was to suggest that she change her staid Amish name of Mary to the more quirky and pretty name of Marigold. Together they owned the beautiful Crafts and Quilts shop a few doors down on the square. Many of the exquisite goods in the shop were handmade by Marigold’s Amish family and friends back home in Pennsylvania. It was her way of staying in touch and supporting her people, even though she had eschewed their lifestyle.
Today she wore an artsy sweater made of chunky, colorful strands of different types of yarn and fabric. Her long, thick strawberry blond hair was woven into a braid straight down her back and tied with a bit of filmy blue ribbon. She sold the sweaters and fabrics and ribbons in her shop, along with other types of clothing and quilts, and all sorts of carved wooden toys, boxes, and knickknacks. Wearing her own inventory was the best advertisement she could make.
“Tell us what happened,” Marigold urged.
“All right, all right,” I said with a sigh, and rubbed my stomach. “I’ll tell you everything once I’ve had something to eat.”
“Perfect timing,” Emily said, carrying a heavily laden tray to our table. She unloaded a fresh pot of tea and a three-tiered tray of yummy-looking miniature pastries and sandwiches.
“Can you join us?” I asked.
She picked up the empty teapot and glanced toward the doorway that led to the main tearoom. “Julia’s working today, so I might manage to pop in and out.”
“Good.”
“Relax and enjoy,” she urged, patting my arm. “I’ll be back.”
“Thanks, Emily.” I smiled as she walked back into the main room. She was 100 percent Scotswoman, and yet to look around her shop, you would think she was a raving royalist. The shelves near the front of the store were filled with all sorts of interesting Scottish items, such as haggis in a can and spiced eggs. But scattered throughout the charming rooms were also plenty of English delicacies along with displays of English bone-china cups and dishes that sported pictures of the queen, Prince William and his duchess, and the royal grandbaby. A flat-screen TV monitor in the corner of the main room silently screened BBC News all day long.
Emily had arrived in Lighthouse Cove fifteen years ago with her boyfriend, an American fisherman who had gone into business with one of our local fishermen. Her boyfriend died in a tragic boating accident a few years later, just days before Emily was scheduled to open her tea shop.
Her friends were afraid that his untimely death would cause her to leave and go back to Scotland. But the tea shop had sustained her through her bereavement and now she had a thriving business and a good life here.
I had consumed three little triangular sandwiches, two tiny almond scones, and my fourth pastry (in my defense, they were all teensy) when Jane turned to me. “You’ve eaten enough, so take a breath and tell us what happened.”
“I can talk and eat,” I muttered, slightly miffed that she’d called me out for stuffing my face. With a sigh, I pushed my plate away and told them everything about my evening with Jerry. Starting with the friendly dinner, I described the nice walk afterward on the beach and ended with details of Jerry’s awkward assault. As an afterthought I mentioned the ridiculous applause coming from the looky-loos standing on the pier. When I was finished, the girls were silent.
I took the opportunity to pop another mini cheese Danish into my mouth.
Jane looked grief stricken. “He could’ve hurt you badly. You’re lucky you didn’t end up in the hospital.”
I agreed, but didn’t say it out loud for fear of alarming Lizzie any more than she already had been. “I’m fine now. I should’ve gone to the police last night and I still intend to, but—”
“You must,” Lizzie insisted. “I’ll go with you.”
I gazed around the table. “I really appreciate you all being here for me.”
“We love you,” Marigold said fervently, then frowned. “I would’ve hugged you earlier, but you’ve clearly been out jogging. So, you know, there’s sweat.”
“Yeah, that’s my excuse, too,” Jane said, laughing. “Lizzie had no choice. She was forced to hug you because she’s guilt ridden.”
“I am!” Lizzie wailed, then made a show of brushing off her clothing. “But she really does work up a sweat.”
Everyone laughed, including me. Emily came back to pour more tea and sit for a few minutes. I gave her a brief recap of what had happened the night before.
There was a break and Marigold spoke. “I know another woman who went out with that man.”
We all stared at her.
“Well?” I said. “What happened?”
She pressed her lips together. “I don’t believe it went smoothly.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lizzie said.
Marigold blinked at her. “You never asked.”
“Do we know her?” I asked.
“No. She visits twice a year to shop and go wine tasting.”
I leaned forward. “I would really like to talk to her.”
“I don’t know her too well,” Marigold explained, “but she’s a good customer. She comes in early autumn and late spring every year and always orders a new quilt. The last time she was in the store, she seemed more nervous than I’ve ever seen her. I asked if she was all right and she ignored the question, but then asked me if I knew someone named Jerry Saxton. I told her I’d never heard of him, so she didn’t go into much detail, and I didn’t want to pry.”