Cherry Scones & Broken Bones

by Darci Hannah

  It was a stunning blow because I’d been so certain. Tate’s suicide note and confession had thrown me over the edge. I couldn’t accept it. I wouldn’t accept it. And so I had done the unthinkable. I had stolen aboard an innocent woman’s super sexy yacht.

  Tate, dear Tate. What have you done?

  Defeated, and feeling a new wave of hurt and anger, I turned off my flashlight app. I was about to send Giff a quick text when I realized that the portrait was still illuminated.

  “It’s hideous, isn’t it?”

  I spun around. The woman who confronted me was so strikingly similar to the one in the portrait that I flinched. The only difference was the murderous look in her eyes and the gun in her hand pointing at my head.

  “Alexa,” I uttered, both fearful and confused.

  “I had a feeling you’d figure it out sooner or later,” she said. “You’re a smart girl, Whitney Bloom. Pity. Under different circumstances I’d take you under my wing, cultivate that drive of yours and give your life real purpose. But I can’t, you see. That terrible woman has made a murderer out of me.”

  I stood in silence as my mind raced to find a reason why this woman would have killed the portrait painter. I was coming up with nothing when I offered, “I … I thought that you and Ms. Lumiere were friends?”

  “Nearly friends,” she countered. “But when she presented me with this—this travesty,” she seethed, flicking the barrel of her gun at the portrait, “I was outraged.”

  Alexa had a gun trained on me, yet her remark was the thing that made my jaw drop. I closed it and shook my head. “I … I don’t understand. That portrait’s a masterpiece.”

  “A masterpiece?” she cried, looking utterly unhinged. “Look at it!” she demanded. “Look at it, Whitney! Look and see what that old pixy hag has done to me!” Her voice was quaking with anger, and I was a little afraid some spastic nerve in her trigger finger was going to snap as well. It didn’t. But I was still at a loss as to why the painting angered her. I turned, because she wanted me to, and stared at the stunning portrait once again. When I didn’t reply she answered for me.

  “Don’t you see it? Don’t you see it?” she cried in an escalating shrill. “She’s gone and made an old woman of me! That … that stranger in the portrait, that’s supposed to be me! But it’s not. Look at me, Whitney! Look at my face. My skin is flawless. There’s not a wrinkle on it,” she declared, pressing her age-gnarled fingers to the firm skin of her high, round cheek.

  There was no doubt Alexa had gone to great lengths to make herself look younger, but somehow Silvia’s brush had captured more than any of us dared notice. In this new light of hysteria, Alexa’s eyes looked more desperate than vibrant as they stared from their tight sockets, her face as gray and weathered as the oak she stood against. I didn’t know what to say to her. The fact that anger now consumed her made her look even older than her likeness in the portrait.

  Alexa wiggled her pistol at the canvas. “Those careless brushes of hers, they’ve stripped me of my youth and beauty. She’s stolen my vibrance. That wrinkly-necked creature staring out with the haunted eyes, that’s what she thinks of me! That! I was a model before I was married! I was a beautiful, successful business woman! And she had the nerve to tell me that I was wrong. That this—this ghost of skin and bones—is what I am … is how the world sees me.”

  I finally understood. Alexa Livingstone was mad and delusional.

  Tears streamed from her old brown eyes then, and I actually felt sorry for her. I should have taken the gun from her hand, but I was too dumbfounded by what she was telling me.

  “You confronted her?” I asked, recalling that Alexa’s unveiling had taken place Saturday afternoon.

  “Not at the unveiling, of course. I have better manners than that. But afterward. Late, late at night, well after Fred would have gone. You see, I couldn’t sleep I was so upset.”

  “But you had an alibi,” I said. “Your housekeeper confirmed you’d been there all night. She lied to Officer MacLaren!”

  “Of course she did. Dear Paulina, she says whatever I tell her to. A very loyal employee, she is.”

  “And you had Silvia’s spare key, didn’t you?”

  “Very good, Whitney. Yes, I had her key, the very one you found hanging on Fred’s keyholder. I didn’t want anyone to see me, so I made a black cape out of the veiling material, like the one her hippie assistant wears. I didn’t mean to kill her. I just wanted an apology and to make her admit to her mistake. But that insolent old bitch! She wouldn’t budge. She told me to look in a mirror and get over myself—that the brush of an artist never lies.” Alexa growled at the memory. Redoubling her anger, she continued. “She … she had the nerve to tell me that I might have been young and beautiful once, but that I was just as old and wrinkly beneath all the plastic surgery as she was. I was the one lying to myself, she said.” Alexa paused for a moment to flick on the light, illuminating the whole stunning room.

  “I was only trying to shut her up,” she admitted. “There was a plate of scones on the table. I grabbed one and threatened her, but she just laughed in my face. My anger amused her. She was getting a good laugh at my expense. I’ve suffered the woman for nearly forty years. Forty years of it, Whitney! I wasn’t about to take it any longer.”

  “You stuffed the scone in her mouth,” I said, able to picture the horrible scene all too clearly.

  Alexa nodded. “The beast was still trying to laugh, so I picked up the other one and stuffed it in too. That finished the job.”

  “Why did you push her down the stairs?” I asked, trying to keep her talking. It suddenly occurred to me that Giff was still up at the house while Alexa was here. I needed to get word to him. As she talked, I slyly slid my thumb over the screen of my phone, trying to write the word HELP.

  Alexa, seemingly unaware of my phone, replied, “I panicked. Like I said, I really didn’t mean to kill her, only to teach her a lesson. I wanted to make it look like an accident. Or at the very least …” She suddenly crossed the room and yanked the phone from my hand. “You little sneak!” she cried, looking at my phone. She then walked to the door.

  “No!” I pleaded, real fear gripping me. “Please,” I begged, feeling a welling of panic. “My whole life’s in there!”

  “Too flipping bad.” She flashed a rueful smile and tossed my phone into the lake. The sound of a splash confirmed my deepest fears. “Your life, I’m sorry to say, is about to end as well. Just like your ex-lover’s. Pity about him.” Before I could react, she yelled out an order to someone called Adrik. A moment later the engine engaged, and the boat shifted beneath my feet. I was seized with panic.

  “And that’s the thing I find most troubling,” she continued. “I didn’t intend to murder Silvia, but I did. However, I absolutely refuse to take the blame for it. I’m an upstanding citizen and a credit to my gender. Of course, because they were your scones, I tried to pin the murder on you, but that didn’t last very long. When I learned that your name had been cleared, I panicked. I had Silvia’s room key. I needed to get rid of it, and Fred, that poor, pathetic man, was the obvious choice. He thought Silvia was the ticket to the art world he needed. He convinced himself of it, even though she saw right through him. Oh, she had a good laugh over him as well. Poor Fred. I hung the key in his pottery studio, certain you’d find it, and you did. But framing Fred was a hollow victory. I’m actually quite fond of him, you know.”

  I glanced out the window. The lights on shore were swiftly getting smaller. “Tate!” I cried. “What have you done with him?”

  “Let me tell you a little something about that ex-boyfriend of yours. I met Tate at Shenanigans last night. He was very drunk, and very talkative. So sad about you two. But what really got my goat was what he told me. You see, he nearly had it all figured out. I knew that after a few quiet hours on that island he was sailing to, he’d have it. I couldn’t risk it,
so I sent out two of my employees. Tate provided the perfect solution. A murder confession and a suicide note in one fell swoop!” She clapped her hands as she said this, an unhinged look flashing in her eyes. “My boys are a bit rough but they know how to get the job done.”

  Fear gripped me again. Two armed men going after Tate … and after I had dumped him? “You … you killed Tate?” Pure white-hot hatred flared within me.

  “Did I have a choice?” she screeched, turning on me like a rabid dog. “No, I didn’t. And I’m afraid, Whitney, you’re to meet the same fate—you and that hideous painting. You shall both meet your end at Porte des Morts.”

  “Death’s Door?” I cried, recognizing the old French term for the watery place of death. Every boater around these parts knew of it. Death’s Door sat at the end of the peninsula and was the navigational passage between the Bay of Green Bay and Lake Michigan. The swirling currents, high winds, and raging waves had given it the dubious distinction of being the world’s most deadly fresh water passage. “You’re … going to toss me overboard? With your painting?” It was a horrible thought to entertain. I was a decent swimmer, but I was no match for Death’s Door.

  “Yes.” It was said with little emotion. “I’m dusting my hands of two embarrassments at once.” Alexa then turned to the door and cried, “Riley! Take Ms. Bloom away!”

  The cabin door burst open, revealing a man larger and with more bulging muscles than Tate.

  “Lock Ms. Bloom up but do be kind. We’re not animals, you know.”

  Forty-Six

  I was sobbing uncontrollably when Riley, the bald, muscly giant, escorted me to a set of stairs that descended into the belly of the yacht. What had I done, I thought? Dear Tate. She had drowned him too. He didn’t deserve to die like that. And now I was about to follow him on that dark, lonely journey.

  The corridor we traveled down was dim and narrow. A moment later the man unlocked a cabin door and thrust me inside. I tumbled forward, tripped and crashed to the carpet-covered floor. And there I stayed, too helpless with anger and sadness to move. I was going to die—to be left to drown in a cold, wet, terribly haunted place—at the hands of a super-rich madwoman. Odd as it sounded, I might have been safer had I stayed in crime-ridden Chicago.

  It was only a second before I heard the rustling, indicating that I wasn’t alone in the room. My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach. Giff, I thought. The crazy woman had snagged him too.

  “Babe. Is that you?”

  I sat up and found myself staring into the confused face of none other than Tate Vander Hagen. “Tate!” I cried, scrambling to my feet. “Mother-loving fudgeballs! You’re not dead!” Without thought I launched myself at the bed, wrapping my arms around him. Although his arms were bound behind his back and his legs were tied together as well, his lips were working just fine.

  “Babe,” he said, pausing for a breath. “Happy to see you too. I knew you’d find me. I knew you’d take one look at that note and figure it out.”

  “Figure what out?” I sat up on the bed and stared down at his rope-bound, prone body.

  “The clue I left you. Sure, I was mad when I left your car, and heartbroken,” he added. “But I knew you’d come to your senses eventually, like you always do. I mean, MacLaren? Really? I figured you’d know where I’d gone off to. You’d cool down eventually and come out to our island and join me. We’d have a heart-to-heart and make up, like we always do. But our plans got ambushed by Alexa and her lackeys. Her two men came to the island before you, and they made me write that stupid suicide note. I knew that once you saw it you’d see right through it. I mean, seriously, why would I take my life when I have everything in the world that I want right here in Cherry Cove?”

  “What?” I said, quickly coming to my senses. “You sailed off to the island knowing I’d come running after you?” It was not only incredulous, it was the height of arrogance. “My God, I was worried sick about you! We all were. And when I finally did see that note I really thought you’d killed Silvia and took your own life as well. I was so … so mad at you! How could you!” I cried and brought my hand down as hard as I could manage on his bare chest.

  “Ouch!” He flinched. “Hey, babe, I’m defenseless here. How about another kiss instead?” He looked incredibly confident.

  “No, Tate. I’m not making up with you.”

  “Really, babe? Because a moment ago you were doing a very convincing job of it.” He flashed his cheek dimples.

  No, my heart screamed. Look away. Think of Jack. Think of Jack at the helm of this uber-sexy yacht. “Tate,” I said again, this time squeezing his face between my hands. “I’m not here to make up with you. That ship has sailed. I’m here to rescue you,” I stated confidently, having no idea where that came from. “Alexa is heading for Death’s Door,” I told him. “She means to throw us and her portrait overboard there before continuing to Mackinac Island.”

  He stared at me a moment, then uttered, “Well, crap,” noting the serious look in my eyes. “All right. So what’s your brilliant plan, Whit?”

  And that was the funny part, because I didn’t have one. But Tate was alive, and seeing him in the cabin looking so healthy had given me confidence. Embracing that confidence, I said, “I’m going to untie you, and then you’re going to …” I looked at the door. It was locked, but it wasn’t the most solid thing in the universe. It was a cabin door on a private yacht. I was pretty sure they weren’t designed for prisoner containment. I shot Tate’s muscly thighs a look next and made a decision. “Fortunately, Alexa’s henchman was in a hurry. He must have thought this room would be enough to contain us. Silly henchman. I’m going to untie you, and then you’re going to kick down that door.”

  As the yacht motored along through some truly choppy water, I sat on the bed with Tate and wrestled some very intrepid knots.

  “Jesus,” he uttered, listening to the boat’s engine while making some quick calculations in his head. “We should be arriving at Death’s Door soon. Alexa will send her goon down any minute.”

  “And that’s why you need to kick this baby down now!” I declared, pointing at the door.

  A moment later, with back braced against the solid frame of the built-in bed, Tate’s legs sprang to action. He kicked the door with all his might, nailing the sucker and stripping the small bolt from its seating. The door flew wide. That was my cue. The moment I heard footsteps pounding down the stairs I shot out of the cabin and ran the opposite way. Riley took the bait and raced after me. The moment he came to the cabin door, Tate jumped out and punched him square in the face.

  Riley went down like a stone.

  I stopped and turned back around. Our objective was the stairs Riley had just bounded down.

  “Come on!” Tate cried. I was just about to leap over the prone body when it suddenly sprang up and grabbed hold of my leg. Tate, bounding for the stairs, turned in time to see me land on top of Alexa’s henchman.

  “Crap!” he uttered. He took a few purposeful steps back, growled like a Viking and gave the man a hard kick in the teeth. Blood poured from Riley’s nose and mouth as his head crashed back to the floor. Then, without hesitation, Tate grabbed me and tossed me over the large body blocking the narrow hallway. He kicked the man again and followed me up the stairs.

  “Quick,” I cried. “To the dinghy.” For I had visions of lowering that little boat into the water without Alexa finding out, but the thought was absurd. And we were too close to that dangerous passage to make a swim for it. The lake was cold, and the wind had picked up. Due to the darkness, I wasn’t exactly sure where we were.

  None of that mattered, however, when we burst into the large living room. Alexa was already there, standing beside her painting and waiting for us with her gun.

  “No!” she cried and took aim.

  Tate pushed me to the deck, falling on top of me as the gun went off. The large window behind him
shattered, causing an explosion of glass to rain down all around us. Alexa, angered that she had missed, aimed the gun again. Before she could pull the trigger, we were back on our feet, this time scrambling for the door behind us.

  “Go on deck,” Tate ordered, slamming the door. We were in a little antechamber that led both to the galley downstairs and the wheelhouse upstairs. There was also a door leading to the outer deck. “I’m taking the helm.”

  “I’ll help you,” I insisted, frightened of Alexa and her gun.

  “Babe. I got this. Hang on to whatever you can until I give the order. By my calculations we’re now very close to Death’s Door Bluff,” he said, looking grim. “I saw it when the glass broke.”

  Another shot rang out, this time whizzing through the shut door and striking he wooden frame of the galley stairs. It narrowly missed us. There wasn’t any time to argue. “Got it!” I cried, unwilling to stay put while a madwoman had a gun.

  As Tate ran up the stairs to the wheelhouse, I felt safest heading for the outer deck. The moment the cabin door shut behind me, I realized that might have been a mistake. The decking was narrow and covered in ice-cold water, making it slippery as well. But I had no choice. I started to work my way forward in the darkness, praying that Alexa wouldn’t follow me. But the woman was unhinged.

  I hadn’t gone far when the cabin door burst open again. Alexa appeared, silhouetted by the light from the cabin. She looked around wildly, then shouted a warning to the man at the helm. I couldn’t tell what happened next, but the boat suddenly lurched to the right, causing Alexa to tumble and me to look up. My heart sank again when I saw that Tate was already there, fighting not only the captain of the ship but also that other big brute, Riley. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to worry about Tate. Alexa was on her feet again, aiming her nasty little pistol at me.