“I don’t think that’s right,” I said, remembering the blood on the man’s head. Had there been blood on his body? I didn’t think so.
“Well, I’m not at all surprised Lyle got that wrong,” Clara said. “Trusting Lyle to deliver information is as bad as trusting Rosie.”
“Rosie?” Clara worked so fast with her shears, trimming each of the flower stems now that she had them in place, that I was mesmerized by her movements.
“Rosie O’Hare.” Clara set down the shears and wrapped the cellophane around the stems. “If there was an award ceremony for biggest gossip, Lyle and Rosie would tie for first prize.”
I laughed. “I guess that’s a small-town thing?”
Clara smiled. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never lived anywhere but here.”
She wound a tiny rubber band around the stems in the cellophane, reached for a blue ribbon, and started tying it around the bundle of flowers.
“It must be nice,” I said. “To have people who know you so well. To know other people so well.”
I didn’t have anybody like that. My relationship with my dad and his replacement family was distant at best, and my mom was busy with her career and life as a “perimenopausal empty nester.”
Her words, not mine.
Clara laughed softly. “Every bed of roses comes with thorns.”
She handed me the bouquet. I reached for my wallet, but she shook her head. “You never have to pay for flowers for Evelyn. Tell her hello from me.”
I smiled. “I will.”
11
AVERY
I followedBeck’s directions and continued down Main Street with the bundle of flowers in my arms. They really were beautiful, colorful and fragrant, perfect for spring.
I passed an antique store, a coffee shop, and a bookstore. Across the small parking lot that separated Main Street from State Street, I spotted a hardware store and a tea shop (ironically right across from the coffee shop).
And then I was right on the shores of Hollow Lake, the sapphire water glinting under the sun. A motorboat sped across the middle of the lake, well away from two sailboats gliding over the waves. There was a small marina and a series of wooden docks to the left of the road. On the other side was a boat launch, plus a cute yellow cottage behind a sign that readFinch Farm.
It didn’t look like a farm — there was no barn, no crops — but then I remembered Beck telling me about the duck farm on the lake and it made sense. Peering around the yellow cottage, I spotted several small outbuildings.
Coops? Did ducks use coops like chickens?
I had no idea, but this was apparently the source of the duck eggs that were the bakery’s secret ingredient.
And there was something else: a huge sign on the wild grass between the duck farm and the lake.
Future home of the Lakeside Hollow Gated Community and Country Club
Where modern luxury meets traditional comfort
Brought to you by Hearthstone Development Group
This must be the development Harold Pembroke had been trying to stop before he was murdered. I looked around, trying to imagine a gated community filled with gigantic new homes on the shores of Hollow Lake.
But I couldn’t. Blackwell Hollow was perfect, the lake surrounded by green space that was coveted in the city. Houses dotted the landscape in an assortment of architectural styles: Arts and Crafts, farmhouses, cottages, and more than a few Victorians like Aunt Evelyn’s house.
The gated community would block the view of the water from Main Street. Plus, how would the ducks get to the water with the gated community between the duck farm and the lake?
Sadness descended like a weight on my chest. I’d only been in Blackwell Hollow a day but I could already feel the impact such a massive new development would have on the town. I wouldn’t even be here in a couple months. I couldn’t imagine how Blackwell Hollow’s residents must feel.
No wonder Harold Pembroke had been fighting to keep it from being built.