ONE
The vast grounds of the B&H Foods cannery were too quiet, lifeless but for the birds calling in the April evening. Margot Baxter Harriman hurried up to the double doors of the main building, keys clutched in her hand. Though unlocking the door was an action she’d performed many times, both as a child “helping” her father and in her more recent role as company president, something now made her uneasy.
Don’t be silly.
Shaking off the feeling, Margot opened one of the doors that led into the small reception area and paused, soaking in the birdsong, the breeze rustling through the trees, the distant bellow of a steamer on Little Neck Bay. Spring had come to most of New York and the mid-Atlantic states, and with spring came the start of the harvest. Within a few weeks, the cannery would be going all day, most every day, through October. Everything as it should be.
“I’ll be right back,” she called over her shoulder to her driver.
Bascom nodded to her from the driver’s seat of her new burgundy 1912 Cadillac Model Thirty. It may have been Margot’s automobile on paper, but it was definitely John Bascom’s baby. He “allowed” her to drive only under the narrowest conditions since her first sporadic and somewhat hair-raising lessons in her father’s Ford almost a decade ago.
Margot crossed the dimly lit reception area, light coming in from three north-facing windows, her heels marking sure, regular beats across the polished tile floor.
Through a second set of double doors, she passed the time clock and the locker rooms where employees left their coats and other personal items. A final set of doors opened into the main canning facility. With the overhead lights off and only a few small lamps burning, the vast room contained deep pockets of shadows among islands of equipment. Hazy sunlight through rows of high windows marked bulky machinery and long chopping tables.
The absence of sound was alien. Quiet usually didn’t bother her, but this room wasn’t meant to be silent.
In her head, she heard the chug of motors driving belts that delivered cans to packers, then to lidders, then to boilers. She heard the rattle of carts of empty cans, the voices of workers, the chop of knives through carrots and potatoes. The sights, sounds, aromas, and flavors of B&H were ingrained in her very being.
Margot hurried across the canning room, to the stairs that led to the windowed observation hall and the upper offices. The ever-present tang of vegetation and metal scented the air, despite the cannery having been closed for three days. Chilled air sent a shiver through her.
As she ascended, she trailed her fingertips along the blue and gold company logo painted on the wall. Her legacy. Her grandparents on both sides had been partners in a produce market, then her parents had taken over, expanding B&H to a cannery, adding a commercial bakery and a distributor. With the death of her father last fall, it was up to Margot to carry on, despite what everyone might think of a woman running a business.
Passing the closed doors of the offices labeled HIRAM POTTER, MANAGER and MARCUS JAMES, DISTRIBUTION, Margot fished her keys from her coat pocket and headed to JULIA BLUMFELD, ACCOUNTANT. Prior to leaving for Montauk for the long holiday weekend, she had asked Julia to gather information for an early Monday presentation to the shareholders. The extremely competent Julia had likely completed the task before Margot set foot on the eastbound train.
She slid the appropriate key into the lock and was met with resistance when she tried to turn it. The door was already unlocked.
Margot hesitated. Had Julia forgotten to lock her office? That would have been completely out of character for the attentive accountant. She knew Margot had her own keys, so there was no need to leave the door unlocked for her. Perhaps security had checked the office and forgotten to lock up behind them? Also unusual. What would have prompted the security guard to be in this office at all? Had there been trouble? A break-in? She should have been contacted.
There had been grumblings from men of business with her transition from “boss’s daughter and tolerated vice president” to taking over B&H six months ago; everything needed to run smoothly, to be on the up-and-up. She knew the shareholders would be more than happy to see her fail and try to replace her with someone more “capable.” In other words, a man of their ilk. She couldn’t let her family legacy slip through her fingers.
Margot pocketed her keys and opened the door. Light from the hall spilled in as she reached for the switch on the wall. She took two steps before she registered what she saw.
Giana Gilroy, retired assistant to Margot’s late father, sat at Julia’s desk.
“Mrs. Gilroy, what—” The rest of the question lodged in Margot’s throat.
Mrs. Gilroy stared at her through half-closed eyes, as if she were on the verge of sleep. One arm rested in her lap, the other on the desk, pen in hand. Her head leaned against the back of Julia’s chair, set at a questioning tilt to the left.
What a strange place to take a nap, Margot thought, drowning out the part of her brain that knew what was truly in front of her.
“M-Mrs. Gilroy?” Slowly, Margot walked toward her. She reached out to touch the older woman’s shoulder, but hesitated. All too vivid memories of finding her father in a similar position ran through her head.
Margot’s racing heart and flipping stomach lurched in opposite directions. She took a step back. Her gaze swept the desktop, searching for something to explain what had happened. The candlestick telephone with the receiver askew on its holder. A desk set with the pen missing. The report Julia had left for her.
And under Mrs. Gilroy’s hand, a note addressed to Margot.
TWO
Margot sat in the visitor’s chair in Hiram Potter’s outer office, a glass of water clutched in both hands as she listened to the police lieutenant and the coroner down the hall. She could hear the tenor of their voices, but not what they were saying, which was both frustrating and a blessing.
Lieutenant Presley strode in, followed by Hiram, who understandably looked rather pale. Margot appreciated Hiram’s comforting presence. He’d been her father’s best friend and was her godfather; she’d known him her entire life. Despite being called away from his Sunday dinner, Hiram was as smartly dressed in a charcoal pin-striped suit as if this was a regular workday event.
God forbid.
The lieutenant, a man of about Margot’s age, wore a crisp brown suit that seemed a touch loose on him. New suit or new position? His blond hair was slicked back, darkened with some sort of oil, and his stiff shirt collar dug into his neck.
“Are you up for some questions, Miss Harriman?” he asked.
This was her company. She had found the body. Did she have a choice?
Before she could respond, Hiram cleared his throat. He’d taken his handkerchief out and dabbed his forehead before folding it neatly, returning it to his trouser pocket.
“Is that really necessary?” He stood beside Margot, a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Miss Harriman has had quite the upset, Lieutenant. Can’t it wait?”
Agitation bristled through Margot, but she smoothed it over with the thought that Hiram was only being protective. He was trying to make the situation less traumatic for her. He’d done so throughout her life, offering solace over some hurt when she was a child, and when her parents had each passed. And yet, the assumption that she was too distraught to answer important questions, that he could speak for her as if she were incapable, reminded her that Hiram wasn’t always as keen on her being the president of B&H, or in charge of her own life, as he professed.
“It’s fine, Hiram.” She sipped the now tepid water, then set the glass on the desk. “Please, Lieutenant, go ahead.”
Hiram pursed his lips as he sat in his secretary’s chair on the other side of the desk. He wouldn’t contradict Margot in front of anyone, though she might hear his thoughts on the matter in private. She wondered if he’d ever truly stop seeing her as Randolph Harriman’s little girl—she’d be thirty-three in a few months, for goodness’ sake—and instead as the majority owner and operator of B&H, a proper businesswoman in her own right.
Presley retrieved a notebook and pencil from his inner jacket pocket. “What time did you arrive here?”
“About six. The train from Montauk was late. My driver, Bascom, can confirm the time.”
“Why didn’t you go home?”
“I was picking up a report Julia Blumfeld left for me. I have an early meeting tomorrow in the city.”
Presley scratched the information into his book. “The papers on her desk?”
Margot shifted slightly on the chair. “That’s right.”
“You came in on the train from Montauk. What were you doing out there?”
“Visiting friends for the weekend. The Keatings.” Why was this about her?
“When did you leave town?”
Margot quirked an eyebrow at him. Was he establishing general whereabouts or asking something else? The lieutenant stared back at her, pencil poised.
“Thursday, on the noon train.”
“Why didn’t you drive?”
“Everyone had the weekend off, including my driver and other house staff. After the Thursday shift ended, the cannery closed as well.”
“About seven that evening,” Hiram added. “I was the last one out and locked up.”
Presley narrowed his gaze at her. “Company and house staff were off this weekend?”
“For the most part,” she said. “The second weekend in April is a company holiday. My parents started it ages ago to celebrate my mother’s birthday. That, and the harvest hasn’t gotten into full swing yet, so closing doesn’t hurt. No one but security guards are on the grounds, usually.”
“No one else around all weekend?” The lieutenant seemed incredulous. “Who knew that was going to be the situation?”
Margot and Hiram exchanged looks. The April holiday had so long been part of the B&H routine that they hardly thought about it.
“Everyone,” Margot said. “It was no secret.”
Presley frowned as if he disapproved of such frivolity. “Only security on the grounds. Mrs. Gilroy would have known this?”
“Of course,” she said.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
Margot swallowed down the lump that suddenly formed in her throat. She took a sip of water. “October. My father’s funeral.”
Nearly six months. Could that be right?
“She had retired in September,” Hiram said.
“And she lived nearby? Did she have family? A husband?”
“No, she was widowed, and they had no children. She lived somewhere in Long Island City.” Hiram gestured toward his inner office. “I have the address and family contact, if you want it.”
Presley did. Hiram rose, straightening his tie while looking at Margot. She nodded once, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. She would be fine without him sitting there for the two minutes it would take him to retrieve the information.
“Why do you suppose she came here?” the lieutenant asked. He ran his pinky between his snug collar and the flushed skin of his neck.
Margot shook her head, wondering the same. “I have no idea. Mrs. Gilroy was very dear to my father, to my family.”
Yet she hadn’t seen the woman for months, nor written more than a dashed-off note last month to accompany a silk scarf sent for her birthday. The folded note in Margot’s pocket seemed to grow ten times its size, surely alerting the lieutenant of its presence.
Dearest Margot,
I wish there was an easier way to tell you what I need to say. Perhaps you will think me a coward for choosing a note rather than speaking to you in person …
Her stomach clenched, thinking of the rest. She couldn’t let anyone read it. Not until she understood what it meant. Maybe not ever.
Why had Mrs. Gilroy chosen to come to the cannery if she needed to contact Margot? She couldn’t have known Margot would be stopping by. Mrs. Gilroy meant to have the note found, if not by Margot or the house staff, then by Julia Blumfeld. Why?
“How do you suppose she got here?” Presley asked with a raised brow. “Walked or cab from the train station?”
Margot blinked at him, thinking for a moment. “Either, I suppose. A number of our employees come to work on the train or streetcar if they don’t live close enough to walk.”
“There was a set of keys found in her coat pocket.”
“She had keys when she worked here, of course. I thought she’d turned them in when she retired.” Though apparently not.
Presley grunted and flipped back through a few pages of his notebook. “No sign of forced entry or any other damage in or around the building.” He met her gaze again. “And you noticed nothing unusual when you came in?”
Only the quiet. But that wasn’t what he was asking.
She shook her head. “No, but I wasn’t looking for anything either. Nothing stood out.”
Hiram returned with a sheet of paper that he handed to the lieutenant. “Her address and next of kin. Mrs. Letitia Jacobs. A cousin, I believe.”
“Did you notice anything strange about Mrs. Gilroy last time you saw her, Mr. Potter?” Presley asked.
Hiram thought for a moment. “Nothing. Last time I saw her was at Randolph’s funeral as well. We were all bereft and not ourselves, of course.”
“Of course.” Presley jotted. “No idea what would have brought her here?”
“Not an inkling.”
The lieutenant started to ask another question when the coroner walked in. He was a man of middle years, hair mostly gray, and somberly dressed, as befitting his position. He checked his gold watch and addressed Presley as he slipped it back into his vest pocket.
“Heart failure, I’d say on first looks, Lieutenant, but I’ll have more after the postmortem tomorrow.”
“Natural causes?” Presley wrote in his book.
“So it seems.”
“That doesn’t answer the question of why she was here,” Margot said.
Though they’d been introduced, the medical man looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. “That isn’t my concern, miss.”
He turned his attention back to the lieutenant before he even finished the sentence, dismissing her out of hand.
Margot stared at him with bemusement bordering on irritation. “Miss,” as if she were some random person who had wandered into B&H. Had he not bothered to remember this was her building?
The coroner turned to leave the room.
“My men are going to take her down now. I suggest those with delicate senses”—he glanced at Margot—“remain where they are for the time being.”
Delicate senses?
Margot was caught between bristling and laughing. It wasn’t the first time others—particularly men—had assumed she was demure and squeamish. Though to be fair, she had no desire to leave her chair while the coroner’s men performed their task.
“Well, seems we have everything wrapped up,” Presley said, shutting his book.
Margot blinked. “But how she was just sitting there—”
She was interrupted by clatter and voices out in the hall. Someone laughed, and she cringed. It felt terribly out of place.
“You heard the coroner. Natural causes.” The lieutenant shrugged. “If you can come up with a reason why Mrs. Gilroy would come here, feel free to let me know. In the meantime, I believe I have all I need. Good evening.”
He tipped his hat and left the office.
The letter in Margot’s pocket grew heavier.
Copyright © 2025 by Cathy Pegau
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