The booking ledger has more crossed-out names than names on Saturday morning.
Agnes turns a page as I set down the eggs. She turns it back. I have seen her examine a recipe when she suspects someone has omitted an ingredient; the expression is the same.
“How many?” I ask.
“Enough.”
“That isn’t a number.”
She closes the book. “Eat before they’re cold.”
A month ago I would have accepted the diversion. Ryan used to tell me the figures would only spoil my breakfast. I was grateful to him for saving me from the part of the bakery I didn’t understand.
I sit down without taking my fork.
“Does my job still exist next month?”
Agnes’s face changes. “Yes.”
“Can you afford to say that?”
For a moment I think she will tell me I have forgotten who owns this house. Then she pushes the ledger across the table.
“Three weekends mostly empty. Two weekday cancellations. The roof payment is due in October.”
“What roof payment?”
“The west slope. Replaced last winter.”
I look at the entries. Deposits returned. A balance carried forward. Figures small enough to understand and large enough to frighten me. Not the vanished fortune I imagined when I heard about the land. An old house with new expenses, supported by people deciding to sleep in it.
“George’s share of that sale,” I say. “Did it pay for the B&B?”
“Improvements. Debt. Some investments. I’m having the records reviewed.” She turns her wedding ring. “I don’t yet know how much of what I call mine came from what they did.”
The eggs cool between us.
“I can take less pay for a while.”
“No.”
“Agnes—”
“No. You need wages. I will not solve a problem about stolen money by asking you to work for affection.”
I look down before she can see what that does to me. Then I pick up the pencil.
“Could we sell breakfast boxes? To guests going out early. And maybe Dina could order something different from the scones she already makes.”
“We would need to work out the requirements, the costs, the capacity.”
“Then let’s work them out.”
She opens the ledger to a clean page. For the next hour, we price butter and packaging, argue about whether four small pastries are worth more than two large ones, and discover that I have been forgetting to charge for the time required to make everything beautiful. Agnes points at my figure for labor and makes me double it.
The doorbell rings while we are disagreeing over labels. Davenport is on the porch with Harding. She asks whether Agnes’s attorney is available by phone.
The pencil rolls off the table.
“It concerns your movements on August eighth,” she says. “You can arrange another time if you prefer.”
Agnes calls the attorney. I go into the pantry because the questions are hers to answer. Through the open doorway I hear the detective confirm the changed account of the shed, the argument with Victor, and the letter Agnes first denied having.
There is no raised voice. That makes it harder. The conversation sounds like people checking a delivery until Agnes says, “I was afraid of losing the man I remembered.”
I stop counting paper bags.
“Did you believe Victor could make the letter public?” Davenport asks.
“Yes.”
“Did you speak to him after dinner?”
“No.”
The attorney asks for a moment alone with Agnes. Davenport steps into the hallway. I follow her, unable to keep the question to myself.
“Does Dale’s statement change anything for her?”
“About Thomas, yes. It doesn’t settle Victor’s death.”
“He admitted—”
“I heard what he admitted. So did you. I need you to keep those admissions separate from what he denied.”
I lean against the wall beside a photograph of George holding a prize rose. The expression on his face is uncomplicated pride. I resent him for having left us so many uncomplicated pictures.
“When will you know?”
“When the evidence answers the question. There is a review next Friday. I’m waiting on records and follow-up interviews.”
“Friday.”
“A review, Tess. Please don’t turn it into a promise.”
I nod. This time I understand the temptation. A deadline would mean I could endure until a particular hour and then be allowed to stop.
Harding returns to the kitchen. Davenport asks me whether anyone has discussed the biscuit markings with me since our conversation. I tell her I asked Marina for the fundraiser list, but did not describe the photograph.
“Give me the exact exchange later,” she says. “Please don’t investigate the volunteers yourself.”
Agnes calls them back. The interview ends with arrangements for another statement if necessary. Nobody takes her away. Nobody announces that she is safe. After the police leave, she sits at the table staring at the breakfast figures.
“I liked it better when we were arguing about paper bags,” she says.
“So did I.”
We warm the eggs in a pan. They turn rubbery. Agnes eats them without comment, which tells me more than complaining would have.
In the afternoon I take a sample box to Dina. She reads the proposed price before opening it.
“This includes delivery?”
“To here. Not to Portland.”
“Good. Because I have a cousin who would try.”
She tastes the orange loaf, then the savory muffin. A customer asks for an oat-milk latte and she leaves me waiting beside the counter, my sample box suddenly looking too small. I know this feeling. Waiting for somebody to decide whether my work deserves room in their day.
When she comes back, she says she could try six boxes on Monday.
“Six.”
“Would you rather I promised thirty and threw twenty-four away?”
“No. Six is good.”
We write down the quantities, price, and payment day. She gives me a copy. Nothing about the murder appears on it. No sympathy discount. No promise to save us. An order I can fill.
As I leave, I see Marina at a table by the window. She lifts her hand. I have no excuse not to stop.
“How’s Agnes?”
“Tired.”
“I heard the detective was there.”
“People hear quickly.”
“Dina saw the car.” She shifts her cup aside. “I was worried. What did they ask?”
“About her own account.”
“And Dale?”
“They’re checking his.”
Her fingers close around the cup. “He admitted what happened. Why are they still putting Agnes through this?”
“I don’t know everything they’re checking.”
“You used to tell me when you were frightened.”
The sentence lands more sharply than she can intend. I am frightened. I also have an order for six boxes in my bag, and for the first time all week I would like to walk uphill thinking about something I know how to do.
“I’m trying to stop repeating interviews,” I say. “The detective asked us to.”
Marina sits back. “Right. Of course.”
I touch her shoulder before I go. It is meant as reassurance. She puts her hand over mine, holds it for a second, then lets go.
At home I pin Dina’s order above the work table. Agnes reads it twice.
“Six,” she says.
“Six paid for at the price we agreed.”
She takes the ledger down again. This time she opens it toward both of us.