Cherry Scones & Broken Bones

by Darci Hannah

  “Exactly my point,” Dad said, looking vindicated.

  Encouraged, and trying my hardest to put the blame on someone other than me, I continued. “Also, remember that Peter has a motive. He told me that he had to work for Silvia. You might not have known this, but she was paying off his student loans in exchange for his services. He also had access to her room and knew her habits. If Silvia needed him in the middle of the night, he was expected to be there for her. I can’t say for sure, but judging by the sound of Hannah’s voice, there’s a pretty strong chance he didn’t sleep here last night. We won’t know the time of death until Doc Fisker does his examination. But the deed could have been done any time after midnight. That’s when we lock the doors and dim the lights in the foyer. Hannah stays up late on the weekends and wouldn’t say no to an early morning visit from Peter. He normally doesn’t leave the inn, but he would if he knew Silvia wouldn’t be needing him. And if he was responsible for Silvia’s death and got wind that you wanted to question him about her murder, he might decide to take his chances and run.”

  “Wow!” Dad exclaimed, beaming with pride. “She makes a convincing argument, MacLaren. You should listen to her. As much as I hate to admit it, my daughter’s got a real knack for this crime-solving business. Doesn’t she?”

  Jack crossed his arms, and, for the first time all morning, I caught a hint of a sardonic grin. That was never a good thing. “Well,” he began, allowing his narrowed eyes to size me up, “I wouldn’t recommend that she quit her day job just yet. It’s an interesting theory, Whitney, but unfortunately, it’s not backed by sound logic. Criminals are often under the belief that they can get away with murder. Running, hiding or refusing to talk to the police is seen as a sure sign of guilt, and therefore usually avoided. Often a criminal is so confident that they can actually get away with murder, they’ll appear helpful, normal even. It’s what makes my job so difficult. Criminals are also very skilled liars, but even a skilled liar will trip up eventually.” This last statement was punctuated with an accusatory look directed at me.

  “Whoa, fella,” I said, taking offence. “I’m not a murderer, nor a skilled liar.”

  “Sometimes we don’t know what we’re capable of until our backs are against the wall,” Jack added, pulling the door closed and making sure it was locked. “Whether McClellan is innocent or not,” he continued, turning to face us, “I’m confident he’ll show up at the station. Besides, Hannah is with him. She just might be able to give him an alibi for last night.” Jack chanced a look at me again and shook his head. “I wish to God it was you at Hannah’s place and not him. Because if you had stayed away last night I wouldn’t have to apologize for what I’m about to put you through this morning. And I do apologize, Whitney.”

  Thirteen

  It was the first time I’d ever felt trepidation about entering the welcoming turf-roofed, Scandinavian log building that doubled as Jack’s home and the Cherry Cove Police Station. As I sat at the desk reserved for “interrogating,” I stared at the man across from me and thought, what in the world did I ever see in this idiot? All the geeky charm of my old high school friend and academic nemesis had faded, replaced by a steely-eyed, robotic, humorless cop, albeit a hot one. The most disturbing thing was that Jack was treating me like he actually believed I had murdered Silvia Lumiere. He hadn’t even offered me coffee or water, a courtesy performed by even the meanest cop on all the TV crime shows. Nope, I’d been unceremoniously ushered to the desk behind the front counter. There Jack plopped a tape recorder onto the table and started asking me a string of questions that were, quite frankly, insulting.

  What did I do for a living? How long have I been employed at the Cherry Orchard Inn? How long had I known Silvia Lumiere? Seriously? Was he for real? When I cast him a look of pure exasperation, he shot me a glare of chiding disappointment, stating it was formality, part of police procedure. After a dramatic eye roll, the questions continued. What was the nature of my relationship with Silvia Lumiere? Am I the only one who bakes the scones? Who else has access to them? Had there recently been any variation in the recipe that might make them dry?

  “What?” This got me. Jack had eaten enough of my scones to know that my recipe created a delectable baked good that was crisp on the outside and buttery soft and moist on the inside. I pursed my lips, stating that I wasn’t even going to answer that question.

  “Right.” Jack scribbled something on his notepad that looked suspiciously like uncooperative suspect. Why he was taking notes when the whole conversation was being recorded was beyond me. A moment later the bright ginger head lifted. “And when was the last time you saw Ms. Lumiere?”

  “Shortly before midnight, just after I left the kitchen.”

  “Where did you see her?”

  “In the lobby.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “Nope.”

  “Who was she with?” His eyes narrowed with impatience.

  “If you must know, it was Fred Beauchamp, from the arts council.”

  The honey-colored gaze considered this. “What was he doing with Silvia?”

  “Really, Jack. I thought gossip was the grist in the mill of every small-town cop.” I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the table. “I’d like to say they were talking shop, but the truth is, Fred had a thing for Silvia. He was trying to worm his way into her heart via her bedroom. Silvia played along and had him buying her dinners, and a good deal of booze as well, thank goodness. It’s lifted some of the burden off us, but it’s really quite shameless the way she was using him.”

  He bit the cap of his pen as he ruminated over this little tidbit. The pen came away. The steely face cracked with the first glimmerings of emoting, which was, unfortunately, incredulity. “Were they, you know, doing it?”

  I shrugged. “I doubt it. I don’t believe she ever let him into her room. I would say it was sweetly old-fashioned, but it’s not. Even you must know that her tastes run to younger men.”

  “But Fred Beauchamp is a younger man … by at least a decade.”

  This was true, but I recalled what Peter McClellan had said that night on the beach. He believed Silvia was a vampire, feasting on the souls of the young and beautiful to fuel her great talent. Of course, he’d been super high at the time, and it was all a load of hogwash. But there was a sting of truth to her delight in tormenting the young and promising. The only reply I had for Jack was a noncommittal shrug.

  “How did she treat him?” he asked.

  “Kindly. But I do think he was beginning to get frustrated with her, having hit a wall, so to speak.”

  “Okay. Do you remember what Ms. Lumiere did after Mr. Beauchamp left?”

  I did, but here I hesitated. “She, ah, came to see me.”

  The ruddy eyebrows lifted. “Why?”

  And here it was, the question I feared. Part of me didn’t want to tell Jack the truth, because the truth was damning. I hesitated. A ripple of concern crossed Jack’s face. He schooled it and began drumming his pen softly on the desk.

  “Okay,” I finally said. “I wasn’t the last person to see Silvia, but please don’t read too much into this. She ordered room service.”

  A brow lifted. “Was this a regular request?”

  “Yes. I think I’ve mentioned it to you before that it was.”

  “Who delivered it?”

  “The same person who always delivers it. Erik Larson.” As I spoke the boy’s name, Jack’s face fell. Obviously, Erik’s name being connected to Silvia was upsetting. I couldn’t say that I blamed him. Erik and Jack went way back, from the time the boy and his friend Cody Rivers were caught stealing bikes from tourists and selling them on eBay for cash, to the using and selling of performance-enhancing steroids. Erik Larson was clearly no angel, but I knew he wasn’t a murderer either. However, if Jack’s look was any indication, he was entertaining the idea.

  “This was
around midnight?” he asked. “Why was he still working at that hour?”

  “It’s summer, and he likes the extra money. Also, Kenna stays late to straighten up the patio and wipe down the tables. She and Erik help Bob in the kitchen. The three of them basically hang out and goof around until Silvia’s room service is delivered.”

  Jack nodded. “I remember you telling me how she tormented Erik. Could the kid have snapped?”

  “I think it’s unlikely. Look, he’s a good employee. I don’t want to pat myself on the back just yet, but he’s really turning the corner. I’ve told him many times that he didn’t have to put up with Silvia. Last night I even offered to deliver her tray myself, but he insisted.”

  “Why do you think that was?”

  “Because Silvia requests that he deliver it. I would have been perfectly happy to disappoint her, but Erik knew she’d have a fit. He didn’t want to risk upsetting the other guests.”

  “What did she order?”

  I took a deep breath and cringed slightly. “Two scones and a bottle of wine.”

  A fearful look crossed Jack’s face. He lowered his voice and said, “She had scones in her room last night and you failed to mention it until now?”

  “I … I didn’t think it was relevant.”

  “What?” he cried. “Not relevant? The woman had a scone shoved down her throat and you think that her room service order wasn’t relevant?” The look Jack shot at me was deflating. It was followed by a furious bout of pen drumming. The pen stopped and he asked, “I thought you said that you sell out of scones every day.”

  “We do, but I always keep half a dozen in the freezer for emergencies, namely Silvia’s room service order. They’re fully baked. All Erik has to do is pop them into the microwave for thirty seconds and they come out smelling like they’re freshly baked. A little secret of the trade. Jack, you’re acting like scones were an unusual request for Silvia. They weren’t. She ordered room service every night. I don’t think the woman could get to sleep without downing a bottle of wine and a late-night snack.”

  “Are you certain Erik delivered them?”

  “If you’re asking did I see him, the answer is no, I didn’t. But

  he said that he would, so I assume that he did. He’s a very reliable employee.”

  “What did you do after talking with Erik in the kitchen?”

  “I went to bed.”

  Jack lifted his eyes from the notepad. “Can anyone corroborate that?”

  It might have been just me, but I detected a hint of challenge in the question. “What do you mean, ‘can anyone corroborate that?’”

  He set down his pen. “I mean, can anyone corroborate that you were in bed all night?”

  “Is this your way of asking was I sleeping with anyone?”

  He glared across the table. “It’s a simple question, Whitney. Was there anyone in bed with you last night?”

  How dare he even ask such a thing! Oozing sarcasm, I replied, “Hmm, let me think. As you know, I have so much energy at the end of my eighteen-hour day, and there are so many men who make regular visits to my bed, that I can’t quite remember.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Whitney. I need to know.”

  “Jesus, Jack!”

  “Look, I’m not accusing you—”

  “Really? Because it sure sounds to me that you are. You think Tate was in my bed, don’t you?”

  “I’m beginning to wish that he was. It would help establish your whereabouts at the time of death.”

  “Well, that’s going to be a little hard to do, because I was alone, Jack. There’s no one to corroborate my whereabouts. A nasty old woman was murdered at my inn last night and, unfortunately, I have motive, opportunity, plenty of scones on hand, and no alibi. But I didn’t kill her. I don’t have it in me. I was hoping that you of all people would at least understand that. But apparently you don’t. I think we’re done here.”

  Jack shot me a challenging look and turned off the tape recorder. “Are we?” he pressed. Clearly there were two meanings in that question.

  I stood up so fast my chair tumbled to the floor. MacDuff, who’d been banished to the garden, began barking. I pressed the tape recorder back on and cried into the speaker, “It’s unfortunate that your dog has more sense than you!” I turned it back off again and was about to storm out of the police station when Hannah and Peter came waltzing through the door. They both looked as if they’d just stepped off the dirty, dung-strewn streets of a medieval village. Hannah was in a long flowing robe of butter yellow with a chain of medallions around her waist and a wreath of wildflowers crowning her long, white-blonde hair. Peter looked like a grubby, pierced, pot-smoking Jesus. At the sight of me in jeans and Jack storming behind me in police blues, Hannah gasped.

  “Whitney! Jack! You’re not dressed!”

  I looked at them both and had a sudden flash of clarity. Before Jack got the chance, I said, “No. Unfortunately, there’s been a change of plans. Silvia Lumiere has been murdered.”

  If this news was a shock to Peter, he didn’t show it. Then I realized he thought I was joking. “Impossible,” he drawled. “Vampires are immortal.”

  “Not this one, sweetheart. In fact, Officer MacLaren will tell you all about it.”

  “Holy hand grenades! Are you serious?” Hannah shot Peter a look, then blanched white as a ghost. Peter merely looked thoughtful.

  There was something troubling in the look that passed between the two of them. I knew my friend almost better than I knew myself, and I had never seen such a look before. It wasn’t quite guilt, but more the look of unholy fear, and it shook me to the core. My fingers and toes went numb, and my entire body ached with dread. Much as I would have liked to stay and listen as Jack questioned Peter, I couldn’t. Beside the fact that I had worn out my welcome, I was also overcome with a pressing need I knew I was going to regret the moment I came to my senses. Hopefully I wouldn’t come to my senses anytime soon. I waved noncommittally to them all and shot out the door, fully aware that somewhere in Cherry Cove lurked a murderer and come hell or high water I was going to find them.

  Fourteen

  I tumbled into the morning sunshine and hungrily gulped the cool air, doing my best to ignore Thing One and Thing Two. They were frolicking near the edge of the turf roof, screaming at me. I had learned to accept Jack’s goats, but the fact that he’d interrogated me as a murder suspect was beyond my comprehension. The nerve of him! It was unconscionable! A month ago he had kissed me, for cripes’ sake, and now he actually believed that I was capable of murder? What an idiot!

  Across the street, the lake twinkled like a sea of diamonds. It was amazingly beautiful and so at odds with the anger that consumed me that I bolted toward it, regardless of the oncoming cars. Ignoring goat screams and one motorist’s choice comment, I headed up the shoreline toward Tay’s shop. It was doubtful she’d be there, this being the day of Lance’s big jousting tournament, but I needed a place to think. I also needed a way back to the inn and knew Tay wouldn’t mind if I borrowed her ancient Vespa scooter.

  As I walked along the calming waters of Cherry Cove Bay toward the charming Victorian building that housed Cheery Pickers, the nagging thought kept hounding me. Could I have actually murdered Silvia Lumiere while still asleep and not have known it—a lethal form of sleepwalking? Lord knows the woman had gotten under my skin. She was also the source of all my nightmares. As Jack had pointed out, there was nobody to validate the fact that I’d been in my bed all night. What if I had gotten up, crossed over to the inn side of the building, opened Silvia’s door and shoved a scone down her throat? I had dreamed of doing something very close to that nearly every time I encountered the woman. Heck, my own grandmother had the very same suspicion of me but knew better than to interrogate me. Instead she’d been willing to tamper with the evidence, God love her. Perhaps she’d been a little too willing, but e
ither way there was no doubt Gran had my back. But what if such a thing was possible? The thought was as curious as it was frightening. Reflexively, I pulled out my phone and called the one man I knew who’d entertain the possibility.

  “Angel, it’s Sunday morning,” the languid voice complained. “Haven’t I told you never to call me on Sunday morning?”

  “Maybe. I don’t remember. Listen, Giff, are you alone?” Gifford McGrady, friend and former assistant during my advertising days, still worked and lived in Chicago. He had an artistic eye, a knack for market analysis, and kept his finger on the pulse of everything chic in the Windy City.

  Giff yawned into the phone. “Unfortunately, utterly alone. Through no fault of my own, I’ll have you know. It’s your old job. The workload! The pressure! And having Mr. Black breathing down my neck twenty-four seven has crushed any hope I had of finding love. I now understand what it’s like to be you. In an odd sort of way it explains all the frustrated baking. How’s the baking, by the way? Or have you already gotten your dough hooks into Officer McHottie?”

  “I’m off him,” I said angrily. “Honestly, I don’t know what I ever saw in that … that insufferable jerk!”

  “I do, but that’s beside the point. Whit, darling, what’s happened?”

  “Murder’s what happened. Cold-blooded murder.” This got his attention.

  “Dear God, not again. I never dreamed that Cherry Cove was such a dangerous place. And here I was, about to pay you a visit. I still might. Two murders in one summer doesn’t scare this Chicago boy. And anyhow, I want to bask in the magnificence of your renowned painter before you kick her out. You know she’s going to adore me.”