Lily meets me at Harbor Roasters on Friday morning, and she looks like she hasn’t slept in three days.
Her auburn hair is pulled back in a messy knot. There’s a smear of cadmium yellow on her left cheekbone — she’s been painting, or trying to. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and she’s wearing the same linen shirt she had on Wednesday, which tells me laundry has fallen down her priority list to somewhere below “survive” and “find out who killed the man I was sleeping with.”
“I remembered something,” she says before I’ve even sat down. “Something important.”
Dina brings us lavender lattes without being asked. She sets them down with the quiet efficiency of a woman who knows when not to linger, and retreats behind the counter. The coffee shop is half full — a couple by the window, a man reading a newspaper, two women comparing recipes at the corner table. Ordinary people living ordinary lives on an ordinary Friday morning.
“What did you remember?” I ask.
“The dinner on Victor’s previous visit. Three months ago. He told me Agnes asked about his allergy and Dale wanted to know more.”
“Marina mentioned that conversation.”
“Yes. But there’s more.” Lily leans forward. Her voice drops. “Victor told me that Dale was very interested in the allergy conversation. Very specific. He asked Victor how severe it was — whether it was a contact allergy or an ingestion allergy, whether trace amounts could trigger a reaction, how quickly it could become life-threatening.”
I set my latte down. The cup clinks against the saucer.
“Victor said Dale asked these questions like a doctor — clinically, methodically. Like he was gathering information. And Victor thought it was odd, because Dale isn’t a doctor. He’s a lawyer. Why would a lawyer need to know the specifics of a tree-nut allergy?”
“What did Victor say to Dale?”
“He told Dale it was serious. He said he had medication.” Lily frowns. “I don’t remember the exact words. I wish I did.”
He said he had medication. Marina says he didn’t. Both accounts came through somebody else; I write the difference down.
I hear Victor’s voice in my head — the warm, practiced charm, the wire-rimmed glasses, the way he complimented my scones and asked too many questions. He said those words at Thursday dinner, casually, the way people share medical details that don’t seem dangerous until it’s too late.
Dale asked questions. A lawyer might be assessing a risk to a friend’s business. A killer might be doing something else. I hate that the same sentence can support both stories.
“When did Victor tell you this?” I ask.
“During his last visit. I don’t remember the day. We were in the gallery. He called Dale the sort of man who needed a questionnaire before he could say good morning.”
“Did he seem concerned?”
“No. He thought Dale was being officious. I keep replaying it now and making the questions worse. I don’t know how much is what Victor said and how much is what happened afterward.”
I think about the bag Dale brought yesterday and the way everyone in this town borrows everyone else’s kitchens.
Knowing an ingredient is not the same as using it to hurt somebody. I know more about walnuts than Dale does. The thought is not comforting.
“Lily, did you tell the police about this?”
“I called this morning. She’s taking my statement after lunch. I told her I wasn’t at the dinner. She said that mattered.”
“I’ll tell Davenport.”
“Good.” Lily takes a long sip of her latte. Her hands are trembling slightly. “There’s something else. Not about Dale. About me.”
“Okay.”
“I had a fight with Agnes yesterday. At lunch. I told her I was worried about the investigation. I told her I thought the police were moving too slowly. I told her I wanted to do something, and she said…” Lily’s voice hardens. “She said, ‘This is police business, Lily. Stay out of it. For your own good.’”
“That sounds like Agnes.”
“It sounded like a threat.” Lily meets my eyes. “I know Agnes loves me. I know she’s trying to protect me. But the way she said it — the steel in her voice — I’ve never heard her talk to me like that before. Like I was a guest, not family.”
I think about Agnes in the garden, her fingers tightening around the folded note. Dale. What did you do?
“Agnes is carrying a lot right now,” I say carefully. “George’s letter. The investigation. The B&B’s reputation. Harbor Days is tomorrow. She’s under enormous pressure.”
“I know. But she’s not the only one.” Lily sets her mug down with a sharp clink. “Victor is dead, Tess. He was murdered in the house where I spent half my childhood. He was killed by someone in this town — someone I probably know, someone I’ve probably smiled at and waved to and bought chowder from. And I’m sitting here drinking lavender lattes like it’s a normal Friday.”
Her voice has risen. The couple by the window glances over. Dina, behind the counter, looks up briefly and then looks away.
“Lily—”
“No. I’m done being quiet. I’m done being polite. I’m done waiting for the police to figure out what a blind person could see from across the harbor.” She stands, knocking her chair back. Her eyes are blazing. “Someone in this town killed Victor, and everyone is tiptoeing around like we’re afraid of offending them. Well, I’m not afraid. I want answers. I want them now. And if the police won’t get them, I’ll get them myself.”
She grabs her bag and storms out of the coffee shop. The door bangs shut behind her. The couple at the window stares. Dina raises her eyebrows at me from behind the counter.
I sit at the table with two lattes — mine and Lily’s, barely half-finished — and feel the room settle back into its ordinary rhythm. Conversations resume. Coffee is poured. The world goes on.
I take out my phone to call Lily, then put it down. She asked for answers; I offered reasons for her to be patient. I have been quicker to excuse Agnes’s silence than Lily’s anger, and I know why. Only one of them controls the room I sleep in.
I leave money for the drinks and go after her. By the time I reach the gallery the door is locked. Through the glass I can see her at the easel, painting over a section of harbor she worked on yesterday.
I send a message: I’m sorry I didn’t listen. Call when you want to.
She reads it. She doesn’t answer. I walk home without making her silence mean anything else.