In Cold Chamomile Read online

  Callie stepped forward and said, “Good afternoon, may I help you? You’re here for the event?”

  “Yes, I’m Sean Strong. The baritone.”

  Callie hesitated a moment as her mind conjured up another name for the singer, but with so many participants, she could have mixed up a name or two. She reached out her hand. “Oh yes, you’re going to perform with the orchestra. How nice to meet you at last.”

  Recalling her earlier judgment about the presumed ego of the absent soloist, her cheeks flushed a little as she shook his hand.

  He smiled widely. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be here sooner. I’ve just ended a string of performances in Vienna and only flew in this morning.”

  Callie’s jaw sagged. “You just stepped off a plane from Europe?”

  “Yes. Normally I would have stayed in Vienna for a few more days, but as I was asked to come here …” He made a gesture with both hands. “I couldn’t say no. Such a good cause, a beautiful old house.”

  Callie’s face heated even more as she realized how this kind man had made room in his busy schedule to perform with them, and she had judged him for not being there earlier to rehearse. He had flown in especially for them!

  What could she do to make him feel welcome, appreciated?

  “I’m delighted you’ll be singing here this afternoon,” she said quickly. “Can I get you anything to eat or drink? Do you want to rest up?” Her mind raced to decide which room upstairs could be allotted to him for the moment. She recollected vaguely that there had been a decision that Mr. King, the antiques appraiser, would also need a room to retreat to if he wanted, and she wasn’t sure what room had been chosen for him. She could hardly double-book.

  “Actually,” he said quietly, “I would very much like to see the room where we will be performing and meet the director of the orchestra so we can talk through the performance.”

  He leaned over to her. “I’m a perfectionist, and I can’t rest until I know I can perform under the right conditions to offer my audience the best possible experience.”

  “Of course.” Callie swallowed a moment, hoping the space would be to his liking. Her heart beat fast as she led him to the ballroom door. The orchestra had stopped playing, and the director stood talking to one of the members while others were either checking their instruments or walking about a bit to stretch their legs.

  The director saw Callie and Mr. Strong and waved. “Ah, Sean! Glad you could make it.”

  It sounded a bit cynical, and Callie rushed over to explain that Mr. Strong had just flown in from Europe and was happy to have some time to rehearse before the actual performance. “We’re so pleased he made the time to be here,” she ended, with a pleading expression at the director.

  The director sighed but welcomed Strong with a handshake and an introduction to the other members. Callie didn’t miss the excited looks of the ladies among the company. Strong didn’t seem to notice; he was looking at the music on the stand and then studying the height of the room as if deducing something about the sound when he would start to sing. He flexed his shoulders as he stood and accepted a glass of water from a lady who got envious looks from the others. This seems to be going down well. All right, what next? Callie turned away and wanted to leave the room. At the door was Iphy, who seemed to need her for something. Her great-aunt’s expression was eager as always but changed completely when she glanced past Callie. All color drained from her face, and she stared as if she had seen something horrible.

  Callie looked back at the orchestra and then to Iphy to determine what on earth could be so upsetting. Her great-aunt had raised a hand to her mouth and then turned around in a jerk and rushed off.

  Callie ran after her. “Iphy!” She overtook her and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Is something wrong? It looks like you’ve had a shock.”

  Iphy kept on walking, through the corridor into the kitchen, where nothing was stirring. She stood at the sink and leaned her hands on the edge. She took a deep breath, steadying herself.

  “Are you okay?” Callie urged. “Do you want a glass of water? Yes, you have to sit down.” She took her great-aunt by the arm, directed her to a chair, and pushed her into it. Then she got a glass out of the cupboard and filled it with water at the tap. The water was cold against the glass, and Callie shivered a moment as she handed it to Iphy. The sudden turn in her great-aunt’s mood had unsettled her, and she wanted to know what was up. But Iphy didn’t seem able to explain anything. She simply stared ahead without blinking.

  “There you go.” Callie held out the glass. Iphy accepted it with a mechanical gesture but didn’t seem to understand she had to raise it to her lips and take a sip.

  “I can’t believe it,” she whispered. “It can’t be true. He can’t be here.” She suddenly made eye contact with Callie. “What is he doing here?”

  Callie didn’t follow. “Who do you mean?”

  “Sean.” The name came out like a gasp.

  “Oh, the baritone. He’s here to sing.”

  “No, he’s not our baritone. I know who was coming. I would have known it was him as soon as I saw his name on the program. Our baritone is someone else. Why isn’t he here? Why did Sean come in his stead?”

  Callie frowned. So, her first impression that the name Sean Strong didn’t match the name of the expected performer had been correct.

  She reached into her jacket pocket and produced the program she had put together weeks before. She was carrying it in case anyone had questions about it, but hadn’t looked at it yet that day.

  She opened it and ran her eyes over all the entries. There it was. Cycle of Liebeslieder, or love songs, by various German composers, performed by …

  Simon Teak.

  She blinked, but it was really there.

  She looked up at Iphy. “You’re right. Our baritone listed here is Simon Teak. The man who just walked in is—”

  “Sean Strong.” Iphy leaned back against the chair, clutching her glass. “I can’t believe it. Why would he show his face here again?”

  “He’s been here before? You know him?”

  Iphy seemed to focus on Callie for the very first time. She startled upright, almost spilling the water across her neat dress. “It’s not important, really. What did he say for why he was here?”

  “He didn’t say anything. Just that he had flown in from Europe this morning. He’s been performing in Vienna, and now he’s here, because it was for a good cause and all, and in a beautiful venue. I was sure he was our baritone. Why would he pop up here if he didn’t have to? It can’t be cheap to fly from Vienna. And where is Simon Teak?”

  Iphy had sagged again and was sitting with her head down, her hands tight around the water glass.

  “I’ll go ask him,” Callie said and rushed off with the program in her hand. She found Strong in a deep discussion with the lead violinist of the orchestra. She tapped his arm. “Excuse me a moment, but something is unclear. Our agreement was with the baritone Simon Teak, but you just introduced yourself to me as Sean Strong.”

  “Oh, didn’t I mention that?” He flashed his heartthrob smile again. “Simon is ill. Nothing serious, just a little throat infection, but it does affect his voice. He asked me to take his place. For the good cause and all that. I agreed to it. I have a thing for old houses.” He eyed her with a twinkle in his brown eyes. “Is there a problem?”

  Callie shook her head. “No, not at all—very kind of you to take Mr. Teak’s place. I wish him a speedy recovery.”

  “I’ll tell him when I talk to him.” Strong nodded at her and returned his attention to the violinist, who had waited impatiently with his sheet music in hand.

  Callie slowly retraced her steps to the kitchen. It was a coincidence. A man falling ill, another taking his place. Inadvertently returning to a place he had apparently been before. But if it was such a long time ago, would he even remember?

  Iphy obviously did.

  Callie swallowed when she realized she had to tell her great-au
nt it was indeed Sean Strong taking the place of the man they had asked to come.

  Iphy was still sitting there, frozen in shock. She had not touched her water.

  Callie said, “It’s all clear now.” She tried to sound light and casual. “The man we asked to come turns out to be ill with a throat infection. Mr. Strong kindly offered to take his place.”

  “Offered? When he knew he was coming here?” Iphy sat motionless, a deep frown over her eyes, as if she was trying to work out something she couldn’t quite get a handle on.

  Callie closed in on her and leaned over. “Do you know him?”

  Iphy looked up. She blinked as if suddenly aware of Callie’s presence and the fact that she wanted to know things. “He performed here before. It didn’t turn out … Well, it wasn’t his fault, I suppose.”

  Iphy shook her head with an impatient insistence and rose to her feet. She put the glass of water on the table with a thud that suggested her usual determination was coming back to her. “It’s just silly of me. I hadn’t expected to ever see him again.”

  “He performed here? In Heart’s Harbor? Years ago?”

  “A lifetime ago.” Iphy’s voice was soft, her eyes staring as if into a distant past. “He wasn’t well known then. Not a world traveler like he is now.” She looked at Callie, her keen brisk self again. “Well, I suppose it’s just a coincidence then. People do fall ill at the most inconvenient moments.”

  She hesitated a few seconds, fidgeting with her hands. “I would appreciate it if you do not mention to him that you know he was here before. I will certainly act like I don’t remember.”

  “But …” Callie searched for the right words.

  “I just said it didn’t turn out well at the time. Bringing it up would just be painful. And Mr. Strong is doing us a favor by taking the sick baritone’s place. We should treat him with respect.”

  Callie wondered whether Iphy meant to imply that there had been some scandal surrounding Mr. Strong’s previous performance in Heart’s Harbor and that it was better for everyone involved to act as if said performance had never happened. Callie agreed that making their guest uncomfortable should be the last thing they wanted. So she nodded. “Okay. I really don’t know him at all, so it won’t be hard.”

  “I’ll just stay out of his way.” Iphy walked to the door. “I won’t come to the performance.”

  “But you said you wanted to hear it. That you loved these Liebeslieder.”

  “It doesn’t matter much. Hopefully, it will be so crowded at our tea event I won’t be able to leave anyway.” Iphy smiled at her, a wan forced smile. “It will be all right. Just act like you have no idea, Callie.” Then she left the kitchen in a rush.

  Chapter Two

  “There are more lemon macarons in the trunk of my car,” Peggy said to Callie. Her cheeks were red from the heat in the room and from rushing around to serve everyone. She carried a tray with mint teas and cappuccinos for a nearby table.

  Callie said, “I’ll go get them. Give me the key.”

  Balancing the tray against her hip, Peggy extracted the car key from her pocket and handed it to Callie, who rushed off with it. In the hallway she almost bumped into Mr. Bates. The pet portrait painter, who had done a stunning portrait of Daisy, beamed at her. “What an excellent event. Personally I have no appreciation for Valentine’s Day at all—this whole commercial thing with having to buy presents and all—but you gave it a fun twist. I was just up in the library.” He pulled a book out from under his arm. “I handed in my leather-bound edition of War and Peace, which I have read countless times, and got this.”

  He showed her a big book with reproductions of oil paintings. “I can leaf through this for hours. I’m already looking forward to it. Now, for a cup of hot chocolate before the concert begins. An excellent event!” Without waiting for a response, he bustled away into the drawing room.

  With a grin on her face, Callie headed outside and found Peggy’s car, tucked in between two other cars. She opened the trunk and dove halfway in, reaching for the plastic carrier box full of yellow macarons. There was also one with purple macarons, maybe blueberry flavored, and she decided to take that one in as well. Just as she pulled it toward her, she heard female voices.

  One said, “I don’t know if we should really do this.”

  The other said, “Of course we should. We decided this weeks ago. Don’t be such a spoilsport.”

  A short silence, as if the other woman was considering what to say in return, and then voice two, determined and a bit spiteful, said once more, “You want him to get his just desserts as much as I do. So let’s get on with it.”

  Callie extracted the box from the trunk and, turning her head in the direction of the voices, saw two women in woolen coats and big scarves, each carrying a large canvas bag. She didn’t know who they were or even what age they might be, as she could just see their backs, moving away from her at a brisk pace. But the snippets of their conversation had seemed a bit odd.

  Just desserts? For whom?

  Callie shook her head as she closed the trunk and made sure it was locked. She tended to puzzle over a remark made, tried to place it in context even if she knew very little, simply because she loved to deduce, but this was silly. She had no idea what it had all been about and whether she had even heard it correctly, what with her head stuck in the trunk.

  The wind breathed through the thin fabric of her dress, and shivering, she hurried back to the house with the extra macarons. Back inside, in the bustle of tea drinkers in the drawing room, she was glad to see Iphy serving and talking and laughing like her usual self. The shock of finding Sean Strong at Haywood Hall seemed to have worn off. Callie’s own discomfort had evaporated with the reassurance her great-aunt was well, and she passed both boxes of macarons to a Book Tea helper and retreated to see how things were going in the other themed areas. She first ventured out to the conservatory, passing a lady carrying a huge blossoming pink orchid, just remarking that she had never had one with so many blooms yet. For a moment Callie thought the woman was speaking to herself, until she detected the earpiece, suggesting she was on the phone with someone.

  In the conservatory, seed packets were changing hands by auction. Lively bidding was going on, reaching prices that probably more represented people’s desire to sponsor Haywood Hall than to own these particular seeds for their gardens or balconies. Callie saw some nice geraniums that she could put in hanging baskets at her cottage once it was a little warmer, and the seller offered to drop by later in the year and bring the geraniums to her. “White and pink, or red—you tell me closer to the time.” He passed her a card with contact information, and she slipped it into her pocket.

  Then Callie went upstairs to the library, where, in the swap corner, two women were each holding on to the same book, each claiming she had picked it up first. “I handed in my copy of Great Expectations for it. Now I want it!” said one.

  “But I saw it first, and I was already holding it when you tried to wrench it from my hands,” the other countered. Mrs. Forrester, turning her head this way and that, tried in vain to appease them and get one of them to let the other have it.

  Callie acted like she didn’t notice the discord, and passed by to have a look at the expert evaluating the offered goods. Mr. King was a tall man with dark hair—dyed, Callie believed—and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. A look of perpetual disapproval seemed glued to his long, thin face as he studied the leather spine of a book on the table before him. His lean fingers moved over it, assessing its condition, and then he shook his head with the sad certainty of an undertaker. “This is virtually worthless. I could give you twenty dollars for it, no more.”

  The elderly couple who had brought it in looked at each other. The woman fidgeted with the clasp of her purse, snapping it open and then shutting it again. Snap, snap, snap. “It comes from my mother’s inheritance,” she said in a thin voice.

  Her husband retorted at once, “You have so many of her things. This is
just gathering dust in the attic. Let’s take the twenty dollars.”

  The woman didn’t seem sure, but the expert had already pulled out money and handed it to the man, pulling the book toward him and handing it off to a young man who put it in a wooden crate that stood on the floor behind the expert’s table. Callie saw it contained quite a lot of books already. She hoped the locals would at least be happy with the deals offered to them and wouldn’t in hindsight regret having parted with something valuable.

  She was just about to turn away again and continue her inspection of the event’s themed areas, when she saw the two women from outside in the parking lot, now carrying their woolen coats over their arms. They still had their scarves wrapped around their necks, though, and one of them was ducking into hers as if she was still cold. They each had their canvas bags at the ready, and Callie concluded they contained books the women wanted to offer to Mr. King for assessment.

  Perhaps one of the ladies had taken them from her husband’s book collection at home and wasn’t sure whether he would agree that they should part with them? And her friend thought it would be his just desserts if she did? Maybe because he was always busy with those books and ignored his wife?

  Callie! You don’t know anything about it. Cut it out.

  Callie passed the women, noticing absentmindedly that one of them was probably ten years younger than the other. She looked a bit insecure, and her brown eyes were darting around the room as if looking for a way out. But the other woman, blonde with gray streaks and a very straight posture, ushered her forward.

  Callie smiled at them and then exited, determined to go check on the stables and make sure that the heater Quinn had managed to fix wasn’t broken again.