A Premonition of Murder by Mary Kennedy Page B

virtuous, but I was salivating.
    I took another peek at the blueberry muffins.
Streusel topping!
“Well, maybe just a small one,” I said. She grinned and passed me a plate and a porcelain dish of butter. Was I really that obvious?
    â€œI’m doing okay,” she said slowly. “I miss Mrs. Marchand a lot, but I try to focus on what she would have wanted. She would have expected me to take care of the house just like I’ve always done. People think she was demanding, but she wasn’t, not really. She just knew what she wanted. These are beautiful things, and she wanted them cared for properly.”
    She let her gaze slide over the spotless kitchen with its white cabinets and black granite countertops. Clearly these were expensive renovations. The appliances were all high-end, and I recognized a gleaming burgundy La Cornue Grand Palais range, which looked like it was straight out of the Orient Express, and a wine cooler disguised as an antique cabinet. I doubt Abigail ever entertained and wondered who had selected the items.
    I noticed a collection of colorful porcelain wall plaques; sunflowers, poppies, and an especially pretty one with a fish. They had a Latin feel to them. “These are beautiful. Are they hand-painted?” I asked.
    Lucy smiled. “I brought them from my village in Mexico. Mrs. Marchand let me hang them here to remind me of home. I don’t usually get homesick, but some days, I long to see my relatives.”
    â€œI suppose it’s hard raising Nicky on your own,” I ventured. I had to tread carefully; I didn’t want to risk offendingher, or she’d clam up. “Without family around to guide him, I mean.”
    â€œI do my best to lead him on the right path,” she said softly. “He’s a good boy. Don’t believe what you might have heard about him. He wants to be an electrician. Next year, he’s going to take classes and get a two-year degree, and that will start him on his way. As an electrician, he can always find work.”
    â€œYes, he can,” I agreed. It was oddly quiet and peaceful in the kitchen with the sun streaming in the large windows over the sink. They looked like a recent renovation with double-paned glass.
    â€œDid you know they haven’t released her body yet?” Lucy asked suddenly. For the first time, a flash of anger crept into her dark eyes. “We can’t even plan a proper funeral.”
    â€œI know,” I said, nodding. “It’s very sad. It might take a few days.” I paused; the house seemed unnaturally still, and I wondered if Lucy was the only person living here. But hadn’t someone mentioned a summer student? And where was Jeb Arnold, the estate manager?
    As if she had read my thoughts, she said, “It’s quiet here today. Angus is doing some research at an art museum in Charleston, and Jeb has gone to visit his sister for a few days.”
    â€œAngus . . . ?” I said innocently.
    â€œAngus Morton. Mrs. Marchand invited him here for the summer to catalog the paintings and antiques.” She raised her eyebrows and her mouth twisted in a little grimace. “Mrs. Marchand was, how do you say it? Generous to a fault.”
    I nodded, and I wondered what she was hinting at. It was obvious she didn’t like this Angus fellow, and I wondered why. “Is he working for free?’ I said, hoping I could keep her talking. “Or is this connected to his studies?”
    â€œShe pays him a small salary and he gets to live here forfree.” She made a sweeping motion with her arm that encompassed the kitchen and the sun-dappled garden I could see from the bay window. “And yes, you’re right. He gets some sort of college credit for it. I suppose it’s a trade-off, you could say.” She sniffed. I knew I was on to something. Lucy really didn’t like Angus or didn’t trust him. But why?
    â€œIf he’s coming home