Page 5 of Bringing Chelsea Home

“Would you like coffee?” Ms. Prescott offered. “Tea? Or perhaps some whiskey? Wouldn’t be a proper Irish wake without that spirit.”

“Coffee would be fine,” Griff said and followed her to a long white draped table with large urns. “Was Sister Bernie’s family Irish?”

“If you go back seven or eight generations,” Ms. Prescott said, filing the cups and handing him one. “But Bernie still liked to play the ‘Irish lass’, especially when she needed to convince someone to do something. There’s a vacant table in the corner over there. Shall we–?”

He followed her and when they were seated, he said, “This is a probably a dumb question, but how are you holding up?”

“A bit tired,” she admitted. Setting aside her cup and saucer, she carefully pulled what looked to be a long slender needle from her oversize hat and put it aside. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked.

Her smile lent a sparkle to her eyes. “It’s a hat pin,” she confirmed, taking off her hat as well. “Ladies of fashion at the turn of the nineteenth century and up until just after the first World War used them to be sure a sudden breeze wouldn’t lift their hats right off their heads. Considering how much they must have cost they couldn’t afford to lose what they invested in their wardrobes.”

Griff laughed. “I remember the hats Eliza Doolittle and the women wore in the Ascot Races scene inMy Fair Lady.”

She reached for her cup. “Not to sound like I’m stereotyping you, but I don’t know a lot of men who know that movie or remember those hats.”

“My mother is a retired professor of drama at UT here in Knoxville,” Griff explained. “We children grew up watching all kinds of movies and learning how to critique them. My sisters loved that movie because of the clothes. They both work in fashion, so it was hard not to have learned stuff by listening to them.”

Her deep laugh was a soft, sexy sound and something shimmied down Griff’s spine. “When Bernie and I would watch costume dramas, we always wondered, who did those women’s laundry? Even the everyday dresses, let alone all that lace and satin must have been a nightmare to keep clean.”

Griff shared in her laughter and said, “Judging by the number of people here, it seems Sister Bernadette was well loved.”

“That she was,” Ms. Prescott agreed and drank some of her coffee, her gaze locking with his over the cup’s rim. Around them, voices rose, and Griff watched glasses being filled from a large bottle of Bushmills Irish Whiskey being handed around.

“You mentioned sisters,” Ms. Prescott said. “Do you have brothers?”

“Yeah, twins,” and pride surged through him. “They were ‘surprises,’ born when I was eighteen. I’m the oldest. It’s lots of fun spoiling them when I’m home even if they’re almost twelve.”

“I’ll bet,” Ms. Prescott chuckled. “Lucky boys.”

“I’ve read the statement you gave to the police about the attack,” he said. “Since we’re probably going to be spending a lot of time together, is there anything else you can or want to tell me?”

“I’d like to know what’s going to happen next and what your part in it will be,” she said, and he recognized the caution in her voice. Many of BP’s clients often balked at having their lives put on hold while their situations were being resolved.

“You called us after you spoke with Anne Hamilton, so you obviously know about Brotherhood Protectors and what we do,” Griff said gently. “No doubt, my boss Hank Patterson sent you my bio and photo.” At her nod, he added, “I think the plan is to keep you safe while the police track down who killed Sister Bernie, mistaking her for you.”

Her face paled. “You know about that?”

“You told the police her killer said, ‘she’s wearing your jacket.’ Griff reminded her. “Since the killer knows he got it wrong, and probably left that note, he–or whoever sent him–will probably try again. Do you think it was Obadiah Collins?”

She chuckled and at his raised eyebrows, said, “It’s hard to remember Big Daddy has an actual name. But yes, I’d say so.”

“Did Anne Hamilton mention The Cadre to you?” If Anne hadn’t, then Ms. Prescott needed to know as soon as possible.

“She did,” Ms. Prescott said slowly, putting aside her cup again. “Could they be the group Bernie said might be working with Big Daddy to bring in young women to act as hostesses while possibly serving as prostitutes for the upcoming conventions?”

Unease knotted Griff’s stomach. “I think this conversation would best be done at BP’s local safehouse and headquarters around the corner,” he suggested. “Just in case.”

Her eyes widened again, but she nodded. “Let me change clothes,” she said, putting on her hat and fastening it with the pin. “I left my others in Mother Winnifred’s office. Give me a moment.”

He rose with her and asked, “Do you need me to come with you?”

“I’ll be fine,” Elaine assured. “I won’t be gone long.”

Darn you, Anne. You should have warned me that Lieutenant Griffin Tyler was knockout gorgeous.I’m going to get you for that.Elaine moved as quickly as the long skirt would permit. Slate grey eyes kissed with a touch of blue, short, slightly curly dark blond hair and the lean physique of a man who worked out often, made Griffin Tyler a very nice package.

Behind her, the conversation in the parish hall turned to boisterous singing, voices rising and falling, some not quite in tune. Glad to get away from the noise, Elaine followed the familiar way to Mother Winnifred’s office and found it unlocked.

Inside the room was neat and well organized with French doors, curtains drawn, facing a small courtyard lined with flower and herb beds. Elaine went to the cupboard in the corner next to the garden door where she’d stored her street clothes, grateful she’d worn modern shoes. She had the distinct impression Lieutenant Tyler wanted to leave as soon as possible and unlacing the high boots of the Edwardian era would take far too much–

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