A Photo of Murder by Brooke Penny

Author:Brooke, Penny [Brooke, Penny]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-08-21T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

Soon I had secured the services of Bartholomew and Buttercup, who came at quite a price, putting me way over budget for Martinis in the Garden. I suspected that their owner, the beady-eyed and watchful Eddie James, could smell the desperation coming off of me. While his fleecy charges were affectionate and gentle, Eddie was the opposite: loud-mouthed and determined to squeeze every penny he could get out me: a feeding fee, transportation add-on charges, fees for the handlers… The list went on and on.

Buttercup looked on as I put my signature on the dotted line. Sympathy seemed to well up in her big eyes, as if she were apologizing for the behavior of her owner.

With the festival back on track, I began the long drive home, knowing Marguerite would have waved away my worries over the unexpected costs. “You did it for the children,” she would have reassured me. “We’ll find the money, Rue.”

Her voice in my head sounded very sure—but she didn’t tell me where to look for these elusive funds.

I could also hear Bill Bright’s gravelly scolding now. “Expensive frippery!” he’d say if I couldn’t somehow manage to make the numbers work.

Hmm. It had been easy enough, I supposed, for him to stay on budget when his tired event was just the same old drudgery he put on every year. Somerset Harbor deserved better than dull and mediocre!

As often was the case, one of my beloved writers popped into my head to give better voice to my rambling thoughts.

Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself. That was Arthur Conan Doyle, whose books I really should pull off the shelves and delve into again. I loved a juicy crime when it stayed on the pages and out of my real life. Plus, I needed the distraction of an absorbing read. Sherlock, take me away!

I pulled onto the main road, cataloging in my head the expenses that remained for the big event. I’d have to make some cuts.

Flyers! Those could go, of course. Who needed flyers in a town of world-class gossips? If there was a new flavor at Sweet Dreams Bakery or if someone sprained an ankle on their way into work, everybody knew by the time the early lunch line formed at Crabby Cathy’s.

I knew I had done what I’d had to do. The alpacas were the thing to bring the town together at our fall event. The teetotalers, of course, could refuse a nice martini. The dull and the straitlaced could turn their noses up at the gardens and the art. But even Bill’s mouth had tugged up into something like a smile when I had brought out the photos of alpacas during our initial pitch.

I drove on for a while, glad to have, at least, a change in scenery. But in the silence of the car, my mind went back to the murder. The urgent need to save my friend’s reputation hit me once again like a boulder to my chest. If I didn’t find some answers, Bob Lee would latch on even harder to the ugly rumors in his rush to solve the case.

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