“Yes, from top to bottom. Apparently, Mr. Stuckey, God rest that poor man’s soul, only recently finished renovating. Barely any furniture is even in place.”
“It’s stunning.”
“Yes. This way, this way.”
Gellie stopped at a doorway that was located around a curve in the hallway, a curve that hid the tempting kitchen. I hesitated to follow her into the small bathroom that might have once been called a powder room, but she yanked me inside.
I wouldn’t need stitches, but Gellie insisted on a good, soapy scrub, followed by some antibacterial cream and a Band-Aid or two to hold everything together tightly. She was rough but quick and efficient, and I felt like she’d killed any bacteria within a three-mile radius of the small bathroom.
“Come along, come into the kitchen. I hear that damn . . . excuse me, that goose, outside in the back. I’ll have to let him in in a little bit.”
“The goose comes into the house?” I asked as I enthusiastically followed her into a space that must have had its blueprint written from kitchen heaven.
“Yes, Batman—that’s the goose’s name—was Reggie’s pet. I can’t leave anything small and shiny anywhere. He loves to steal those sorts of things and take them to who knows where. I’m sure he has a stash worth a fortune somewhere.”
“Wow!”
“I know, it’s a weird thing, having a goose.”
“Actually I was wow-ing about the kitchen.”
I’d been correct—the space was huge, probably double the size of my barn, though they were the same square shape. A large, white porcelain two-tub sink took up the middle of the far wall and above it were three wide windows, which looked out onto a crop of green pine trees. The scene was a perfect model for snow globes. If only we could shake it just a little and fulfill the picture’s potential.
I thought I’d heard about a new concrete countertop trend, and was impressed to see the thick, sturdy, gray substance all around. The cabinetry was white and simple with one raised inner border, and all the knobs were shiny chrome, which matched the center island.
There were two large appliances against the wall to our left. One was probably a refrigerator and the other a freezer. They were both light blue and enormous. I’d never seen the color on appliances before, and the doors were rounded at the edges, making them look like a pumped-up version of something from the 1960s.
“Are those custom made?” I said as I pointed to the light-blue doors.
“I believe so, but I can’t remember what Mr. Stuckey told me.”
“This must have been one successful tree farm,” I muttered, though I hadn’t truly meant to say the words aloud.
Gellie laughed. “No, not successful, not really. Mr. Stuckey just had money.”
“I see.”
“Have a seat. You like tea? Or I can make coffee. You like muffins?”
“Tea sounds great and I love muffins.”
“Oh, good. I just made some cranberry–white chocolate muffins this morning. Habit, and Joel and Patricia are still out there with the trees—they’re the ones who were helping Reggie. I’m still in shock about . . . everything, but I didn’t know what else to do but come to work today. I suppose someone will come out of the woodwork and claim all this, but until then it feels wrong to leave the house, and of course Batman, unattended.”
I scooted up to a stool next to the island.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said.
“That’s the thing; it’s not such a bad loss. I mean . . . I didn’t know him well. I’m sorry about what happened and heartbroken just because it was a terrible way to go and it was undeserved, but I didn’t have strong feelings for the man except that I thought he’d be a good boss. Am I callous? I don’t mean to be.”
“Not at all.”
Gellie placed a matching china plate, cup, and saucer in front of me. The china’s pattern was distinctly grandmotherly, delicate and beautiful. I suddenly decided that all tea should be drunk from such a cup and all muffins should be eaten from such a plate. The china’s blue-and-yellow small floral pattern made everything taste better, I was sure.
Tea was poured and two enormous muffins were deposited on my plate. I knew I’d eat both of them, and I hoped I could keep my longing glances toward the serving plate in check when I was finished. Two will be enough. Maybe.
“So. You don’t want a tree. Who are you and what are you doing here?”
I swallowed the heavenly first bite. “I’m Becca Robins and I work at the farmers’ market where Reggie was killed.”
“Oh. Well, that’s . . . so why are you here?”