A slow grin spread across her face. “It is, isn’t it?”
The affable Teddy Bristol had been a great host, loud and cheerful, like a party in a box all by himself. He’d adored Martha, spoiled her outrageously, and jokingly called her his trophy wife, even though she was only ten years younger. He had two sons from his first marriage, and Martha was like a doting aunt to them. They adored her, too, but they were both in the military, and so their limited time off was usually spent with their mother.
Her expression sobered again. “I miss Teddy so much. And the boys. I miss having someone to cook for, talk about the day with, and share the good times. And the bad.” She finished sliding the mini quiches and stuffed mushrooms onto a serving platter. “It gets lonely in this old house by myself sometimes.”
I put an arm around her shoulders. “I know.”
Martha was incredibly generous, and involved in lots of charity work, plus the Historical Society, but I decided she needed something more.
Some kind of big project to occupy her energy.
I added a mental note to my to-do list, which was getting longer by the minute.
I hugged her. “Well, I, for one, am grateful you decided to have a party. It was very brave of you. Besides, we should celebrate. We helped Betty hold a great auction, and to keep things going until Angus gets back.”
My words hung in the air. Martha didn’t comment, but I knew she thought I was on a fool’s errand trying to prove Angus’s innocence.
I carried a tray of hors d’oeuvres into the living room. As people helped themselves to the tidbits on my platter, I watched Cyril expertly wiping down the bar and filling a shaker with ice. From his fluid motions, I could see it wasn’t the first time he’d done this. What else had he done in the years between moving from Yorkshire, England, to winding up in our sleepy village?
Some of Martha’s neighbors called her over, and I couldn’t see Joe, so I wandered around with the hors d’oeuvres, catching snippets of conversation. Warren Zeigler was standing in the corner with his wife and another couple.
“Warren! Just the person I wanted to bump into.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Yes. What’s happening with Angus’s case? Any idea who the judge will be?” As I peppered him with questions, Warren waited patiently, his eyes calm behind his round-rimmed eyeglasses. I’m not a tall woman, but I was taller than him by a few inches. He looked a bit like a baby owl sporting a bow tie.
“The preliminary hearing is on Thursday. We’ll know more after that.”
He told me what he knew about the judge, and I felt marginally better. Warren was well-spoken, competent, with an old-fashioned charm, and sounded like he knew what he was doing. Although with the way the deck was stacked against Angus, he had his work cut out for him.
Warren’s wife laid a hand on his arm. “All right. Enough work talk for tonight. This is supposed to be a party.” She smiled at me, but the message in her eyes was clear. Knock it off.
I smiled back and moved away until I was standing in the center of the long room.
My tray was empty. I should have gone back to the kitchen for more, but I lingered for a moment, taking it all in.
Angus was always the life and soul of any occasion. But no one had even mentioned his name tonight. None of these so-called friends seemed to remember where he was. Alone, in prison, with only his jumbled thoughts for company.
“Hey, Mom, you okay?” Sarah came up beside me.
“Yes, fine, just thinking about Angus, that’s all.”
“Well, he would be proud of the way we pulled it off tonight.”
“Yes. You were fantastic, Sarah. Thanks for everything you did.”
“Oh, no problem. This is the most fun I’ve ever had in Millbury!”
Chris Paxson waved at her from across the room, and Sarah wandered over to chat with him and his friends.
Why was I the only one with a sense of urgency about Angus?
Because he always seemed so capable, so well equipped to breeze through any complications that came his way, that’s why, I told myself. They all assumed he could get himself out of this mess, too.
Eleanor came up, nudged me, and took a slurp of her martini. “Hmm. Inquiring minds want to know.” She cocked her head toward the bar. “What’s going on over there?”
Cyril Mackey was pouring champagne into Martha’s glass, his face animated. She was laughing, her hair loose, and sandals kicked off to one side.
I smiled. “He’s a man of many talents, I gather.”
“I must say, he’s come in handy tonight.”
“How’s your drink?” I asked.
“Probably the best martini I’ve ever had. And yours?”