Page 17 of One Last Lie

We chat as he brews the coffee. I learn that despite his fairly youthful appearance, he is even older than I am. He will turn sixty next month. He spent twenty-seven years working in fine dining, twelve as chef of the two-Michelin-star rated Chateau Montpelier in San Francisco.

I feel genuine sympathy knowing that he had to cook such horrific swill when I hear that. Not that I blame the children, of course. When I was a child, my favorite meal was a cheese sandwich and a hard-boiled egg. How strange that such simple pleasures lose their power when we reach adulthood.

The children arrive to a breakfast of poached eggs on toast garnished with arugula and seasoned with a butter and cream sauce that amazes me for its simplicity and deliciousness. Samuel and Elijah—typical boys—devour it with gusto. Isabella takes a moment to warm up to it, but she cleans her plate.

Paolo, of course, deserves the lion’s share of the credit, but I feel a great deal of pride in this accomplishment. Good food can heal a multitude of wounds, and I have inspired him to give them good food.

After breakfast, I send the children outside to play once more. I need to talk to Cecilia about the clothing and jewelry I found the night before, and I don’t want to accuse another member of the staff of theft in front of them.

You don’t know that Theresa stole those things, I remind myself. There could be…

Well, there really couldn’t be a perfectly acceptable explanation for them, could there? I mean, why would a half million dollars in clothing and jewelry be stored in a closet in the north wing? But perhaps Theresa isn’t a thief. I shouldn’t make that assumption simply because I don’t like the woman.

“Where are you going?”

I jump at that voice and turn to see Theresa staring at me with her typical sour frown. I recover quickly. “I need to speak to Cecilia.”

Theresa frowns. “Mrs. Ashford is away on business.”

I hesitate a moment. I don’t want to take Theresa at her word, but I don’t want her to know I don’t trust her, either.

“This is about the dresses and jewelry you found?” She sees my look of shock and adds, “I know you’ve been snooping around the house, poking your nose into places it doesn’t belong.”

At her arrogance, I recover some of my dignity. I lift my eyebrow archly and say, “It would seem that the clothing and jewelry I found are in a place they don’t belong.”

Theresa’s lip curls upward in contempt, and I feel an unpleasantly strong urge to slap her. “They were intended for charity,” she informs me. “They belonged to Mr. Ashford’s mother. He held onto them for many years for sentimental value, but he came to feel it was wrong to let them sit uselessly in his closet. He intended to sell them on consignment and donate the proceeds to the American Cancer Society. It was a favorite charity of his mother’s.”

“Oh.”

I leave that somewhat lame reply as it stands. Theresa’s explanation makes sense, but I don’t know that I believe it. I don’t have a good reason not to believe her. It’s just a sense I get that she’s not telling me the truth. But is that unfounded suspicion enough for me to act on?

“If you don’t believe me that Mrs. Ashford is out, you can feel free to check,” Theresa says, “but if I were you, I would ask myself if bothering her with a bit of old clothing and jewels is right. She has a lot on her mind right now without the suspicions of a nosy governess to worry about.”

She storms off, leaving me stunned and confused. Part of me wishes to tell Cecilia about what I find simply to spite Theresa. Part of me wants to tell her because that part of me still believes it’s the right thing to do.

But as annoying as Theresa is, she does have a point. Cecilia has enough to worry about without concerning herself with some old clothing and jewelry. And if Theresa stole them, then why hasn’t she sold them herself? Why are they just sitting in the closet?

The doorbell rings and pulls my thoughts away from that particular mystery. I sigh and head for the door. I’ll let our visitor know that he or she can leave a message but will have to return later to speak to Cecilia.

“You may head to the family room, children,” I reply. “I’ll be along in a moment to read to you.”

The children leave silently. Isabella gives me a worried look, to which I return a smile that I hope appears reassuring.

I answer the door to reveal a well-dressed man in his early forties. He is of average height with thinning brown hair, and a much thicker and better-groomed beard. He wears a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and speaks with a gentle tenor. In short, he fits nearly every stereotype of the psychologist, and I’m not surprised when he introduces himself as such.

“Good morning. I’m Doctor Alexander Harrow, Mr. Ashford’s mental health counselor. Is Mrs. Ashford available?”

“No, I’m sorry,” I reply. “She’s away on business today. I’d be happy to tell her you’ve stopped by.”

“Ah. How unfortunate. I assume you’re the new governess?”

“Yes. Mary Wilcox.”

He smiles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Wilcox. I’m glad to see that Mrs. Ashford has followed my advice and found help.”

“I’m happy to be here.”

We lapse into an awkward silence. I can tell he's waiting for me to invite him in. I am about to remind him that Mrs. Ashford isn't home, and he should call later, but it occurs to me that I may have an opportunity to learn more about Johnathan's death. Of course, Dr Harrow can't share intimate details with me, but if I can gain a general understanding of Johnathan’s relationships with Theresa Godwin and Elena Serrano, I might be able to determine if one of them truly was likely to murder him.

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