Empty Nest by Marty Wingate Read Free Book Online Page A

crossed his arms and looked at me. Cecil set down his phone and, with an index finger, pushed it to the center of the table. “You don’t mind, do you, Julia, if I record the meeting?”
    I stared at the phone, transported to a few months previous when a detective sergeant interviewed me about a grisly murder that had occurred near Marshy End. He had used a phone to record my statement. I lost all ability to take a deep breath and had to rely on shallow panting. “Not at all,” I whispered, then cleared my throat.
    Addleton looked at the phone and cut his eyes to Cecil before shifting his gaze to me. “About this Christmas Market.”
    All right, here it comes,
I thought, he’s going to ask about the concept behind putting on such a large-scale event. Why Christmas? Why a market? I steeled myself for the onslaught.
    “Yes, Julia, the Christmas Market,” Cecil said, leaning in. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to attract enough quality vendors to make it worthwhile.”
    “Lord Palgrave has a point,” Addleton replied.
    I jerked my head round to see if another inquisitor had entered the room without my knowing, but then I realized Addleton referred to Cecil. As eldest son—only son—to the Earl Fotheringill, Cecil was allowed to take on one of Linus’s lesser titles and should have been known officially as Cecil, Viscount Palgrave. But to many people on the estate—as had been the case with the dinner guests the evening before—Cecil hadn’t aged a day since he’d moved away with his mother when he was ten. Most people referred to him as Mr. Fotheringill, Mr. Cecil or—in Thorne’s case, Master Cecil—regardless of what Debrett’s
Peerage
& Baronetage
said.
    “We’ve seventy food and crafts stalls booked—all businesses based in East Anglia,” I replied.
    “What about cars?” Addleton asked with a sideways glance at Cecil.
    “Sorry?”
    “Where will folk from out of the village park?”
    This was a trick. He was attempting to lull me into complacency before hitting me with the hard questions about the philosophy of tourism—if there was such a thing.
    “Park? Well, we’ve a field lying fallow at the southern edge of the village—room for a hundred vehicles. Plus the church car park and a few other smaller sites for a total of two hundred. The Boy Scouts will be car-park attendants. And minibuses will be running from Sudbury on the hour.”
    “Where will all the power come from to run the electrics?” Cecil asked.
    “The green will become a mucky mess from that many people tramping round,” Addleton pointed out.
    “The shops won’t want all those visitors trying to use their toilets.” Cecil again.
    I lifted my teacup to my lips to hide a smile that developed into a giggle, and straightened up in my chair. If Addleton and Cecil wanted to know about portable loos, they’d come to the right woman. I fired back answers.
    The barrage of questions lasted almost an hour, until Addleton took a final shot. “Won’t the village look like a trash tip at the end of each of the four days of the market?”
    “We’ll have a roving band of rubbish collectors”—that would be the rowdy boys—“to keep the grounds tidy. Not a stray toffee wrapper will be left.”
    The room fell silent. We could hear Vesta finishing up with a visitor.
    “Right,” Linus said, standing and rubbing his hands together. “I’m sure you’ll agree with me that Julia has everything under control. Now, we’ve taken up far too much of their time here at the TIC—shall we go? I thought I’d introduce Addleton to a few of our shop tenants, Cecil—you’re welcome to come along.”
    I stood like a good hostess as the men made their way out the door. Cecil, last to leave, hesitated.
    “Julia,” he said, lifting his chin so that he could look down his nose at me, “I would like it if you’d be sure to include me in your decision-making process about these events. I do want to keep abreast of the estate’s business