Read Online The Secret Ingredient Murders: A Eugenia Potter Mystery by Virginia Nancy; Rich Pickard - Free Book Online
Authors: Virginia Nancy; Rich Pickard
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery Fiction, Cookery, Rhode Island, Women Cooks, Potter, Eugenia (Fictitious Character)
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knew she had to serve them lobster bisque, instead.
Genia barely heard the conversation as it tilted around the table, lurching around the empty chair where Stanley was to sit, and another one where a place was set for Kevin Eden. The storm continued noisily, until it seemed to Genia’s distracted imagination like a living thing that was trying to get their attention by pinging at the windows and blowing at the doors. But except for Genia—and for Harrison Wright, who kept staring out at the rain with a pleased smile on his face—the rest of the guests were all talking—arguing was more like it—about the proposed art festival for their town, as if that’s all anybody had to worry about at the moment.
“We’re all for it,” Donna said, emphasizing the plural pronoun.
Genia tried to pay attention and did focus long enough to realize that her niece looked sweet tonight. She was short and plump, with a round face and curly short light brown hair, a complete physical opposite to her tall, thin children who favored their father. Donna’s wardrobe consisted mainly of sailor-suit jumpers in red, white, and blue; Genia thought that the one she wore this evening looked as crisp and colorful as a brand-new flag. For a woman who spent most of her days feeling upset about her children, her ex-husband, or money, Donna had an irrepressibly cheerful look about her.
“Well, who isn’t for it?” Celeste asked, in a derisive tone. Her voice had a rich, throaty quality that held people’s attention. Genia thought the Realtor had the high coloring, the buxom figure, and the dramatic flair of an actress or an opera singer. She knew how forceful Celeste had been during the process of renting this summer home, and she could easily imagine her sweeping young homebuyers along in her wake. Celeste repeated, “Who isn’t? Except for your ex-husband and a few backward businesspeople.”
“Aren’t you forgetting someone?” Lindsay said with a pointed edge to her voice. When Celeste look puzzled, the younger woman pointed to her own well-groomed chest. “The president of the arts council. Me. Surely I have some say in this, since it’s our council’s money that’s supposed to fund this thing.”
“What’s your objection to it, Lindsay?” Genia asked, making an effort to be an attentive hostess.
“Crafts,” was the reply, sounding more like a retort. “We’re an arts council, may I repeat: arts. Not arts and crafts. I don’t think our town wants to be known for all those ticky-tacky doodads.”
“Like Kevin’s work, you mean?” Donna inquired acidly. He might be her ex-husband but she was still his sales agent. Kevin Eden created witty seascape “pictures” of wood and paint and bits of this and that. They might not be fine art, but they were charming, and Genia had recently bought four of them and shipped them home to Arizona. She planned to hang one in her guest room and wrap the others as Christmas gifts for her children.
“Oh, she doesn’t mean Kevin’s,” Celeste assured her, with a blithe wave of the same hand that held her glass of wine. Genia held her breath for the tablecloth. “Kevin’s pieces may be craft, but they’re very … artistic … craft.” If it was meant to smooth Donna’s feelings, it didn’t succeed very well, Genia thought, observing her niece’s face.
Good-naturedly, the mayor said, “You can’t really blame Kevin and the business owners, Celeste.”
“Why can’t I?” she asked, and everybody but Genia laughed. Stanley claimed that Rhode Islanders were argumentative by nature. She wanted him to be here to enjoy this. “Kevin just doesn’t want to be disturbed out on that island that doesn’t even belong to him, right, Donna?”
Genia’s niece nodded her head vigorously and briefly wagged her soup spoon at them as if she were lecturing her artist husband. “I’ve told him, ‘You ought to be grateful, Kevin Eden, that Stanley lets you live and work out there
Genia barely heard the conversation as it tilted around the table, lurching around the empty chair where Stanley was to sit, and another one where a place was set for Kevin Eden. The storm continued noisily, until it seemed to Genia’s distracted imagination like a living thing that was trying to get their attention by pinging at the windows and blowing at the doors. But except for Genia—and for Harrison Wright, who kept staring out at the rain with a pleased smile on his face—the rest of the guests were all talking—arguing was more like it—about the proposed art festival for their town, as if that’s all anybody had to worry about at the moment.
“We’re all for it,” Donna said, emphasizing the plural pronoun.
Genia tried to pay attention and did focus long enough to realize that her niece looked sweet tonight. She was short and plump, with a round face and curly short light brown hair, a complete physical opposite to her tall, thin children who favored their father. Donna’s wardrobe consisted mainly of sailor-suit jumpers in red, white, and blue; Genia thought that the one she wore this evening looked as crisp and colorful as a brand-new flag. For a woman who spent most of her days feeling upset about her children, her ex-husband, or money, Donna had an irrepressibly cheerful look about her.
“Well, who isn’t for it?” Celeste asked, in a derisive tone. Her voice had a rich, throaty quality that held people’s attention. Genia thought the Realtor had the high coloring, the buxom figure, and the dramatic flair of an actress or an opera singer. She knew how forceful Celeste had been during the process of renting this summer home, and she could easily imagine her sweeping young homebuyers along in her wake. Celeste repeated, “Who isn’t? Except for your ex-husband and a few backward businesspeople.”
“Aren’t you forgetting someone?” Lindsay said with a pointed edge to her voice. When Celeste look puzzled, the younger woman pointed to her own well-groomed chest. “The president of the arts council. Me. Surely I have some say in this, since it’s our council’s money that’s supposed to fund this thing.”
“What’s your objection to it, Lindsay?” Genia asked, making an effort to be an attentive hostess.
“Crafts,” was the reply, sounding more like a retort. “We’re an arts council, may I repeat: arts. Not arts and crafts. I don’t think our town wants to be known for all those ticky-tacky doodads.”
“Like Kevin’s work, you mean?” Donna inquired acidly. He might be her ex-husband but she was still his sales agent. Kevin Eden created witty seascape “pictures” of wood and paint and bits of this and that. They might not be fine art, but they were charming, and Genia had recently bought four of them and shipped them home to Arizona. She planned to hang one in her guest room and wrap the others as Christmas gifts for her children.
“Oh, she doesn’t mean Kevin’s,” Celeste assured her, with a blithe wave of the same hand that held her glass of wine. Genia held her breath for the tablecloth. “Kevin’s pieces may be craft, but they’re very … artistic … craft.” If it was meant to smooth Donna’s feelings, it didn’t succeed very well, Genia thought, observing her niece’s face.
Good-naturedly, the mayor said, “You can’t really blame Kevin and the business owners, Celeste.”
“Why can’t I?” she asked, and everybody but Genia laughed. Stanley claimed that Rhode Islanders were argumentative by nature. She wanted him to be here to enjoy this. “Kevin just doesn’t want to be disturbed out on that island that doesn’t even belong to him, right, Donna?”
Genia’s niece nodded her head vigorously and briefly wagged her soup spoon at them as if she were lecturing her artist husband. “I’ve told him, ‘You ought to be grateful, Kevin Eden, that Stanley lets you live and work out there
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