A Bitter Feast(37)

“No idea.”

“Okay, thanks.” Kit wondered why everyone connected with Beck House seemed to be cross. The food had been super, and from what he’d seen, the luncheon had been a big success.

Leaving them, he’d wandered in the direction of the glasshouse and the storage shed—although shed seemed the wrong word for the sturdy, stone-walled building. He peeked inside, seeing nothing but stacked tables and chairs, mowers and gardening equipment.

Next, he poked his head into the muggy warmth of the glasshouse. It smelled like the potting soil Gemma used for the geraniums on their patio. Long tables covered with pots and plants and plastic trays stretched down either side of the building. The floor held bags of soil and fertilizer and wooden crates filled with more gardening tools. He was about to move on when he heard a sound.

“Grace?” he called, then stood still to listen.

There it was again, a little snuffle. He walked down the center aisle, peering behind things, until he came to some crates that were double stacked a few feet from the end. There was a space between the crates and the back of the building, and in it was Grace, sitting on the dirt floor with her arms wrapped round her bony knees. “Grace? What are you doing in here? Everyone is looking for you.”

“Go away.” Her face was tear-streaked and her nose red as a Christmas bulb.

Kit brushed away a few cobwebs and sat down beside her. “Melody wants to take you back to the pub.”

“I don’t want to go home.” Grace wiped her nose on the sleeve of her jumper. “I don’t want to talk to you, either.” She turned her face away.

“Why? I thought we were friends, earlier.”

Grace gave a little hiccup and the tears started sliding down her face again. “That was . . . before.”

“Did I do something?”

Shaking her head, she wailed, “Nooo.” She swiped at her eyes, knocking off her glasses. Kit picked them up and polished them on the hem of his T-shirt, then handed them back without looking at her. “Thanks,” Grace mumbled. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

Kit thought for a moment. Grace had seemed fine until her mum had spoken to her in the scullery. “Are you worried about your mum having to go to the police, then?”

“No.” Grace gave him an offended scowl, as if it were ridiculous to think she’d be worried about her mother. Kit had to bite his tongue. This was clearly not the time to tell her that her mum was nice and that she was lucky to have her.

If it wasn’t about her mum, then, was Grace upset about the car crash? He frowned. They had talked about the lady, Nell, and Grace had seemed to be okay with that. But she hadn’t known about the man, then, had she? Was that what Chef Viv had told her in the scullery?

“Grace, is this about the bloke who died in the crash?”

This time she sobbed in earnest and hugged her knees tighter. “I can’t believe he’s dead. He was—he was nice to me.”

“You knew him?”

She nodded, gulping. “He— He was— He said he—”

“Kit?” came Gemma’s voice. “Are you in here?”

“Coming,” he called. Standing, he brushed off the seat of his jeans and held out a hand to Grace. “We’d better go. But I’ll try to come down the pub,” he whispered. “If you want to talk.”



Booth watched Viv Holland as she stood at the mortuary viewing window, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. On the other side of the glass, the attendant pulled back the sheet. Viv gave a little gasp, then stood motionless for a long moment.

“Is it Fergus O’Reilly?” Booth asked. The crush injury at the top of the man’s forehead had not marred his profile, and there had been no blood to wash out of his long, curling hair. O’Reilly’s other injuries had been minor, surprisingly.

Her shoulders slumping, Viv nodded, then reached out and touched the glass, very gently. “I know it sounds trite, but he looks so . . . peaceful. Fergus was always moving. If he wasn’t cooking, he was talking, or pacing, or fiddling with something. That . . . injury”—she nodded towards O’Reilly’s head—“did it— I don’t like to think of him being in pain.”

Booth wasn’t ready to tell her O’Reilly hadn’t died in the crash. “I doubt he suffered,” he said, which was neutral enough. “Did Mr. O’Reilly have any distinguishing marks?”

“A tattoo. On his left forearm. Fergus didn’t approve of tattoos, but we talked him into it one night.”

“We?”

“The cooks.” Viv pushed up the left sleeve of her chef’s tunic. “Like this.” On her forearm, a small chef’s knife and a honing rod were crossed beneath a stylized toque. Above the toque floated a tiny rosette.

Booth spoke to the mortuary attendant through the speaker, and the woman lifted the sheet to reveal O’Reilly’s left forearm. The tattoo matched.

Viv turned away, her eyes swimming with tears, as if that small thing had hurt her more than the sight of O’Reilly’s face. “Can we go now?” she said abruptly. “I’ve got to get back to the pub.”

When they reached the car park, Booth saw that the earlier shower had stopped while they were inside. The sky still looked threatening to the west, however, so there might be more rain to come. “You had a lot of faith in the weather forecast, planning an outside luncheon today,” Booth said as he unlocked the car, hoping to relax the atmosphere between them.