Dead Certain - Mariah Stewart [56]
“Don’t be silly. Any friend of Sean’s, and all that.” Greer dismissed her compliment with a wave of one hand.
“You’re very kind.” Amanda smiled, wondering when she and Sean had become friends.
“Now, don’t mention it again. Sean, you just take that bag of Amanda’s up to the guest room—she’ll be in the room you stayed in when you first got to Broeder—then come back down to the kitchen.” Greer turned to Amanda. “Unless you feel you need to rest. I can only imagine how terrible this day must have been for you. . . .”
Amanda shut her eyes, trying to avoid the memory of Marian’s body on the floor. The blood. All that blood.
“I’m all right. Thank you.” I will be all right. I will be. . . .
“Then let me get you something to drink. Perhaps some soothing herb tea. Or something stronger maybe? A glass of wine?” Greer was all motion, all energy. She talked fast, and her footsteps seemed to keep pace with her mouth. Amanda had trouble keeping up.
“Actually, I think a glass of wine would be wonderful, if it isn’t too much trouble. Thank you.”
“Oh, no trouble. Now, would you like to sit out on the patio? We just had it screened in. West Nile, you know.”
“What?”
“West Nile virus. Spread by mosquitoes. We screened in the patio so that we could sit outside and enjoy the nice summer evenings without slapping ourselves silly.” Greer continued to talk even after she disappeared through the dining room door. “Those mosquitoes were brutal this year. Damned things were everywhere. And of course, the summer is nearly over now. Won’t be but another month we’ll be able to sit out there without bundling up.”
She bustled back into the room, two crystal wineglasses in hand.
“We’ll use the good stuff today. Just because I feel like it.” She smiled at Amanda as she pulled a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator. “Not every day that Sean brings a girl home.” She searched a nearby drawer, pausing to say, “Actually, Sean has never brought a girl home. . . . Ha, here it is.”
She held up a corkscrew, then turned her attention to using it.
“Oh, Mrs. Kennedy, Sean and I aren’t—”
“Greer. Please call me Greer. Mrs. Kennedy was my mother-in-law, God rest her soul. What a character she was. Sean tell you about her?”
Pop. The cork was out.
“Jesus, Greer, what the hell was that?” Sean appeared in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room.
“It was a cork. What do you think it was? You think someone was shooting at us?” She laughed, then looked at the expression on her brother’s face. “Shit, you did think someone was shooting at us.”
Sean sighed.
“Sean, why would you think—”
“Got any coffee left from lunch?”
“I’ll make a pot. That’s been sitting there for hours. And while I do that, you can tell me why you thought someone might be shooting at this house.”
“It’s not the house, it’s me,” Amanda told her. “Sean, didn’t you tell Greer about Derek? Don’t you think she deserves to know what she’s getting into?”
“I started to tell her,” Sean began to explain, “but sometimes, when you’re trying to talk to Greer . . .”
“Who’s Derek?” Ignoring Sean, Greer turned the spigot on and began to fill a glass carafe with water.
“See what I mean?” He turned to Amanda.
“Derek England was my partner. We owned an antiques shop together out at St. Mark’s.” To Sean, she said, “You could have tried a little harder.”
“Oh, which one? I shop out there all the time. Why, that little clock out there on the hall table came from St. Mark’s.” Greer poured water into the coffeemaker, set the carafe, and hit the on button.
“Our shop is Crosby and England. And Derek—”
“Derek England is the man who was found shot in his car two weeks ago, Greer,” Sean filled in when he saw Amanda falter.
“Oh, my God. Of course. I read about it.” She turned to Amanda. “Oh, honey,