Murderoni and Cheese by Rosie A. Point

Author:Rosie A. Point [Point, Rosie A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

17

“Once you’re inside,” Aunt Rita whispered from her seat next to me in Primrose’s marble-floored foyer, “they’ll taste your food and discuss it. They’ll try to dismiss you quite quickly whether they like it or not. The audition is to get a measure of you as a person, and these women make up their minds fast. They go off first impressions.”

I glanced down at my outfit—a simple dress covered in sunflowers with a modest neckline. I’d paired it with a thin cardigan in pale yellow. Was it modest enough? Was it too modest?

Relax. You’re not here to get into the Baking Biddies. You’re here to snoop. To find out if Primrose did it or not.

That was what I’d keep telling myself to keep the nerves at bay.

“I need you to keep them occupied,” Aunt Rita said, brushing gray strands of hair back from her eyes. “Give me at least fifteen minutes. You give me fifteen, and I’ll get you your alibi.”

“You sound confident.” I clasped my Tupperware of chocolate chip cookies.

“It’s a virtue.”

“I think that’s patience, Auntie.”

“Well, I’m not patient, sweetheart. I go for what I want when I want it, so I’ve swapped out the patience for the confidence,” Aunt Rita replied, primly.

A door clacked deeper in Primrose’s glorious abode, and the tap of heels on marble approached. A young woman in a black frock and a white apron stopped beside us. “Excuse me, miss, but you’re wanted in the drawing room.”

“OK.” I gulped audibly.

I rose and followed the maid, glancing over my shoulder at my aunt. She gave me a thumbs-up, practically glowing at the prospect of mischief.

The maid led me down a long hallways, past the staircase, and toward a walnut door. She knocked once, then opened it for me and stepped inside. “Miss Sunny Charles.”

I entered, my fingers clammy on the Tupperware of cookies.

The drawing room was basically a smaller living room further back in Primrose’s grand home. A long, polished table had been set up along one side of it, and at it, four women sat with their backs to the empty fireplace. A single chair had been placed on a white rug in the center of the room. Paintings of women wearing severe expressions stared down from the ice-white walls.

“Hello,” I said, nervously. I didn’t dare check my watch and mentally kicked myself for not having done it before I entered the room. How else was I supposed to time fifteen minutes for Aunt Rita?

Oh well. You’ll have to stall for as long as possible.

“Miss Charles, is it?” The first of the four women could’ve been one of the paintings come to life. She shifted glasses along a crooked nose, peering at me over them. Primrose sat next to her, hands atop the long table, fingers interlaced. Businesslike.

“Yes,” I said, my anxiety ratcheting up.

It wasn’t so much large groups of people that bothered me. Parties and events were OK. It was this… being stared at and judged by folks I didn’t know that set me on edge.

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