Page 86 of The Dead Come to Stay

“Jill! We haven’t lunched!” Jillturned out to be a robust woman of fifty and the daytime manager for Velmont’s signature restaurant. She cheek-kissed Chen and took her by the delicate fingers.

“Howhaveyou been? Would you like your usual table?”

“Not today, dear; I’ve brought friends. This is Jo Jones and Gwilym...” Failing his surname, she added, “Welshman. AndI think you know Arthur?” Arthur had been lingering behind in the room’s foyer. When he joined them, Jill gave a little gasp of delight.

“My God, Arthur! It’s beenyears!”

“I know,” he said quietly. Chen took his arm.

“Table 24, I think,” she said.

***

People spoke about the view of Paris, sometimes of London, and often of New York—cityscapes that had been painted, photographed, framed and studied. Jo had never seen the Newcastle skyline among them, but looking out from the clear glass dome into a horizon of great stone and steel bridges, buildings and an honest-to-Godcastlecouldn’t fail to impress. Then there was brunch, which included, among other things, caviar and crab cakes.

Arthur ordered a croque madame in honor of Aiden and ate it, misty-eyed. Mostly, Chen did the talking, her voice a gentle hum surrounding them with news of art and of the city. She made occasional clicks as she spoke, not a tic so much as moments of verbal affirmation. Jo began to rely on them, counting like a clock. She could happily listen to Chen all day, a background for a wondering mind. It was Arthur, finally, who broke the reverie.

“This has been a very unusual Thursday,” he said, smiling over his finished plate.

“A good one, I hope?” Gwilym asked. “Considering a bunch of strangers descended on you before breakfast.”

“Chen and I aren’t strangers,” Arthur said. “Or at least, we weren’t.Before.” He cleared his throat over the unsaid bit. “And I hope you and Jo aren’t strangers any longer.”

“Cheers to that.” Gwilym lifted champagne, and they toasted to grief and recovery.

“It all seems such an elaborate setup for a brunch, however,” Arthur said.

Jo had been thinking that, too. Maybe the table number had been a clue? Maybe one of Chen’s paintings? But no one else was looking for them and maybe—probably—there weren’t any more clues to find. She wriggled in her chair; sometimes, things simply ended. Sometimes.

But not this time.

Jill had returned with the bill, which Chen took upon herself. But Jill had also brought something with her.

“I had nearly forgotten about this,” she said. “Honestly, I might still if you hadn’t sathere.” She placed a paper take-away bag on the white linen—just in front of Arthur. “I had firm instructions, and I promised I would hold onto this until you came back to the restaurant,” she said. “Aiden said that you coming back here was the sign you’d be ready to open it, and no sooner. I didn’t think it would be five years. You’re lucky no one tried to resell it!”

MacAdams reached into the bag and produced a bottle of wine.

“A—a 1999 burgundy,” he said, his breath catching.

Jill placed a hand on his shoulder. “Aiden bought the last bottle we had. I was—we were all—so sorry to hear of his passing. There’s also an envelope.” She pointed to the bag and then retreated from an increasingly emotional Arthur. He’d pulled out a square envelope with trembling fingers.

“I—I can’t open it,” he said. “Jo?”

Jo took it in hand, another letter from Aiden, posthumous, awaiting fruition. She unsealed it with her butter knife and lifted out a folded piece of paper... and a tiny, flat key. It lay in her hand; nothing special, no marks. Too small to be a door key.

“What’s it say?” Gwilym begged.

Jo pursed her lips. “It says, ‘Go get an ice cream, and this timeyoupay.’”

Finding an ice cream in Newcastle in May wasn’t difficult. Little carts dotted the parks and side streets, proffering the usual fare plus not a few rum-raisin possibilities that Jo still hadn’t got used to.

“Was there someplace specific you used to go?” Gwilym asked. They were walking Quayside under a warm sun.

“Not really,” Arthur said. “To be honest, Aiden preferred pastry to ice cream. He had two favorite pastry shops in town.”

“Doyoulike it, though?” Jo asked. The note had been singular imperative; not “let’s get ice cream,”but “you” get it.

Arthur considered. “I fancy strawberry. Though not for my figure.” He paused, smiling. “Hans and Pepper love it, of course. Vanilla.”