thoughts and didn’t know how to get out of her promise of marriage.
Jace leaned back in his chair, feeling as though he’d been kicked. For a moment he couldn’t get his breath. At Stacy’s funeral, her family had vented their anger at him, but his family had protected him from the worst of it. Truthfully, Jace had been numb with shock, unable to comprehend what they were saying. Only later did he remember what they’d said, and then only partially.
But here it was in print. Stacy’s sister, a woman he’d thought was his friend, had told the police that Stacy didn’t know how to get out of her promise to marry. “A promise to marry me,” Jace whispered.
“Yes, Mr. Montgomery?” the librarian asked coldly. “Do you need something?”
“No, I just…” She was looking at him expectantly and when she took a step toward him, he turned off the microfilm machine. He didn’t want her to see what he was reading.
“I was wondering why Hatch didn’t enter anything from Priory House in the local garden contest,” he said as he rewound the microfilm and put it in the basket.
“That’s what everyone wonders,” she said. “Whoever does win the competition is told that she, or he, would not have won if Mr. Hatch had entered his flowers. It is frustrating when one strives all year to be declared the best. Perhaps now that you own Priory House, you could speak to Mr. Hatch.”
“I most certainly will, and I will say now that if the roses in the front of this building are any indication of your expertise, I’m not sure Hatch will win.”
“I do my best,” Mrs. Wheeler said, obviously pleased by his observation.
Smiling, Jace thanked her again, then went outside. For a moment he had to concentrate to be able to breathe. He put the box of books about the history of the house in the car. Now what? he thought, but even as he wondered, he headed down the street to the Leaping Stag pub. His uncle said that Jace might find out things he didn’t want to know. Was he going to find out that Stacy wanted out of the marriage? That she despised him?
By the time Jace got to the pub, the last thing he wanted was more information. What he really wanted was a drink and to forget for a while.
The pub was full of old beams and shiny horse brasses, a tourists’ vision of what an English pub should look like. There was a young couple at a table in a far corner, but otherwise, the place was empty except for the man behind the bar. He was tall, in his forties, and had an apron pulled tight across his big belly. He had an air about him that said he was the owner of the pub.
“You don’t have any McTarvit single malt, do you?” Jace asked.
With a half grin, he poured Jace a shot of the dark gold whiskey.
“So,” the man said, “you’ve met ‘the three.’”
Jace looked up in question.
“Mrs. Browne, Mrs. Parsons at the stationer’s, and Mrs. Wheeler at the library, and now it’s time for a whiskey. Another one?”
“Make it a double.”
A pretty woman, about Jace’s age, with a good figure, came out of the back room. “Oh, my, you are a looker,” she said. “I was told you were, but my goodness.”
“Hands off, darlin’,” the bartender said good-naturedly. “By the way, I’m George Carew, and this cheeky lass is my wife Emma.” He nodded toward Jace. “He’s just been through the trio.”
Emma’s face changed to sympathy. “Poor thing. I’d offer to feed you up, but I imagine Alice has done that already.”
“How much weight can a person gain in twenty-four hours?” Jace asked.
“She’ll have cobbler for tonight—if she can find any raspberries, that is.” Her pretty eyes were twinkling in conspiracy.
“How can those girls keep a secret like that in a village like this?” Jace asked, his voice low. The whiskey was relaxing him, but he knew he couldn’t have any more for fear he’d say something he shouldn’t.
“Everything is done over at Luton,” Emma said. “The only
Jace leaned back in his chair, feeling as though he’d been kicked. For a moment he couldn’t get his breath. At Stacy’s funeral, her family had vented their anger at him, but his family had protected him from the worst of it. Truthfully, Jace had been numb with shock, unable to comprehend what they were saying. Only later did he remember what they’d said, and then only partially.
But here it was in print. Stacy’s sister, a woman he’d thought was his friend, had told the police that Stacy didn’t know how to get out of her promise to marry. “A promise to marry me,” Jace whispered.
“Yes, Mr. Montgomery?” the librarian asked coldly. “Do you need something?”
“No, I just…” She was looking at him expectantly and when she took a step toward him, he turned off the microfilm machine. He didn’t want her to see what he was reading.
“I was wondering why Hatch didn’t enter anything from Priory House in the local garden contest,” he said as he rewound the microfilm and put it in the basket.
“That’s what everyone wonders,” she said. “Whoever does win the competition is told that she, or he, would not have won if Mr. Hatch had entered his flowers. It is frustrating when one strives all year to be declared the best. Perhaps now that you own Priory House, you could speak to Mr. Hatch.”
“I most certainly will, and I will say now that if the roses in the front of this building are any indication of your expertise, I’m not sure Hatch will win.”
“I do my best,” Mrs. Wheeler said, obviously pleased by his observation.
Smiling, Jace thanked her again, then went outside. For a moment he had to concentrate to be able to breathe. He put the box of books about the history of the house in the car. Now what? he thought, but even as he wondered, he headed down the street to the Leaping Stag pub. His uncle said that Jace might find out things he didn’t want to know. Was he going to find out that Stacy wanted out of the marriage? That she despised him?
By the time Jace got to the pub, the last thing he wanted was more information. What he really wanted was a drink and to forget for a while.
The pub was full of old beams and shiny horse brasses, a tourists’ vision of what an English pub should look like. There was a young couple at a table in a far corner, but otherwise, the place was empty except for the man behind the bar. He was tall, in his forties, and had an apron pulled tight across his big belly. He had an air about him that said he was the owner of the pub.
“You don’t have any McTarvit single malt, do you?” Jace asked.
With a half grin, he poured Jace a shot of the dark gold whiskey.
“So,” the man said, “you’ve met ‘the three.’”
Jace looked up in question.
“Mrs. Browne, Mrs. Parsons at the stationer’s, and Mrs. Wheeler at the library, and now it’s time for a whiskey. Another one?”
“Make it a double.”
A pretty woman, about Jace’s age, with a good figure, came out of the back room. “Oh, my, you are a looker,” she said. “I was told you were, but my goodness.”
“Hands off, darlin’,” the bartender said good-naturedly. “By the way, I’m George Carew, and this cheeky lass is my wife Emma.” He nodded toward Jace. “He’s just been through the trio.”
Emma’s face changed to sympathy. “Poor thing. I’d offer to feed you up, but I imagine Alice has done that already.”
“How much weight can a person gain in twenty-four hours?” Jace asked.
“She’ll have cobbler for tonight—if she can find any raspberries, that is.” Her pretty eyes were twinkling in conspiracy.
“How can those girls keep a secret like that in a village like this?” Jace asked, his voice low. The whiskey was relaxing him, but he knew he couldn’t have any more for fear he’d say something he shouldn’t.
“Everything is done over at Luton,” Emma said. “The only
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