Page 3 of The Dead Come to Stay
Ronan took a closer look, tugging up his ill-fitting second trousers. From the side she could see his jaw was more pronounced, and he ran a thumb down its stubble, briefly lost in thought. Jo had often seen James MacAdams do that.
Which reminded her to text him with a reminder of thedetails of the ceremony opening. Again. For good measure. Storybook detectives solved murders with wits, extraordinary attention to detail and the reflective power of eidetic memory. MacAdams relied on wits alone.
“Something about the eyes,” Foley remarked, still staring at the portrait. “They don’t quite square with the angle that her body is facing.”
“Yes! I thought the same when I first saw it. The painting was damaged badly. Likely by acid. But I found out my uncle Aiden had it repaired when he lived here, and that’s why the eyes look a bit ‘off’ from the rest.”
“The artist’s style is quite distinct,” Foley was saying.
“It’s an Augustus John painting,” Jo said proudly. “You have a good eye. Are you into the arts at all?”
“No. Not in the least. I actually work in real estate development for an architecture firm. Boring stuff. You can call me Ronan, by the way.”
“Ronan. Is that an Irish name?”
“I’m Irish originally. Live up in Newcastle now.”
“I thought you might be,” Jo admitted.
“We all look alike?” he laughed, a sort of bubbling chuckle in his throat.
“I don’t know about that,” Jo assured him. “But you dosoundlike my friend Tula Byrne. She owns the Red Lion.”
“Tula?” He raised his eyebrows, mulling it over. “Irish indeed. How interesting. All the people in Abington seem quite... cozy.”
Jo wasn’t sure what to say to this. She watched him drink the rest of his tea while standing, then he pocketed some of biscuits.
“I’ll be along tomorrow. Easy to spot—I’m on my last clean shirt and it’s blazing red silk.”
“Oh?” Jo wondered if this was his attempt at humor, and whether she should laugh.
He checked his watch with darting eyes. “It’s very late. I’m sure you’ll need to get up early.”
Itwaslate, about eleven. And she did have to get up early, because she promised Tula she would. And given how stressed she’d been about meeting Mr. Late-coming Foley, Jo now needed another shower.
“Right. Good night, Mr.—” she replied, but he’d already disappeared up the narrow stair.
Chapter 2
Jo liked to think of herself as a morning person, awake in the space between dark and daylight, when the world was dew soaked and silent and new. But thinking didn’t make it so. Her alarm had gone off twice already. It was six thirty-five and she’d promised to help load catering. At seven.Dammit.She’d been looking forward to the opening of the Jekyll Gardens for months, but she would have given her left arm to wriggle out of it now. That was the way of public engagements. Like mornings, they were better in theory than practice.
Perfunctory clean-up, hair in a short knot of ponytail. She was about to face a bunch of strangers, so the outfit of safety included her black jeans and a gray T-shirt. Jo tugged her Doc Martens on in the kitchen. So far, the skies looked clear but it was going to be squishy. She filled the electric kettle and set an assortment of teas on the counter with more biscuits. It looked a bit sad—like airline fare. She was going to have to up her game in future, but then again, her lodger hadn’t even thought she’d be there. Technically she already exceeded expectations.
Jo peeked up the stairs: door still shut, no noises. Probably dead asleep. She crept quietly out the door. Jo wasalmostnot late.
***
“Will wonders never cease!” Tula said, tossing Jo an apron as she walked into the Red Lion. “It’s as early as I’ve seen you since the jet lag wore off. Be a dear, take the sausage tray out of the oven, would you? Ben’s servicing the coffee rig.”
Espresso machine, Jo translated. It was Ben’s pride and joy, and Jo very much encouraged its use. But so far, it seemed best suited for creative malfunction.
Jo followed orders and retrieved an enormous tray overladen with varieties of rolls and pasties. Tula had already prepped breakfast for a dozen lodgers and half filled the travel cart with meat pies. Normally a welcome sight—but a bit much pork grease on an empty stomach.
“How many people are you expecting to turn up?” Jo asked, handing it over with pot-holders.
“The whole town had better, or I’ll go after ’em with a switch and broom,” Tula said, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. “Best thing to happen in Abington since I don’t know when—we’ll be booked all through the summer!”
That was the general sentiment: the discovery that the Gertrude Jekyll Gardens held historic significance meant a boost to tourism. Jo had achieved semicelebrity status among the town, particularly the small business owners.
