Brewing the Midnight Oil

by Constance Barker

  Are you in trouble? Ivy thought.

  Nah, not right now. There’s a whole subcontinent due east of me. I can handle that, even without GPS. I’ll have to put in for repairs in India. What’s up? Why aren’t you in the shop?

  Ivy didn’t have time to explain it all. She’d been keeping her adventures with Everett from Harmon, so he wouldn’t worry. I just came up with some coordinates, and I thought you might know the general location.

  Shoot.

  Ivy opened her eyes and stared at the numbers.

  That’s about two miles due east off the coast of St. Augustine, Harmon thought at her. Water’s not too deep, but I can’t think of anything interesting that might be there.

  Ivy’s mind raced. Would it be a good place to sink something, if you wanted to go back and retrieve it later? She wasn’t exactly sure if this was her own thought, or something she picked up from her brother.

  Good a place as any. Tie it up to an anchor, mark it with your GPS. Should stay put, unless there’s bad weather.

  Thanks, Bro-chacho. Let me know what happens with your nav stuff.

  Roger-dodger, over and out.

  “Check the anchor lockers,” she called up to Everett.

  She watched him walk across the boat and hunker down aft. “There’s one back here.”

  “See if there’s one forward.”

  Everett moved to the front of the boat. He popped open a hatch. Then he stood upright. “Should be one in here, but it’s missing.”

  Ivy held up the dive log. “Might be here. And maybe the tiara, too.”

  Everett motioned for her to hand it up to him. He flipped through it. A square of cardboard flittered out. He bent over and picked it up.

  “What is it?” Ivy asked.

  “Looks like a clue.” He showed her a business card. On the back, a phone number was scribbled down. On the front was the Beranger Import logo and Susan Miller-Day’s name and digits.

  Chapter 10

  “Only one way to find out,” Ivy said.

  Everett drove north again, toward St. Augustine proper. “I don’t think so.”

  “We’ve gotta dive on these coordinates.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “You don’t know how to dive?”

  “I do,” Everett said. “I just prefer not to.”

  “C’mon, Susan’s business card, the missing anchor, the story about Johnny expecting money. The tiara has to be at that location.”

  “Maybe we can confirm it another way. We’ll ask Susan once we get to Beranger’s house.”

  Ivy’s heart sank. “What? Now? But I smell like mildew, and my makeup’s been melting in the sun!”

  He took his eyes off the road to squint at her. “What? You look fine.”

  Fine, sure, but I don’t look awesomely put together anymore! She didn’t say.

  “Sorry, but I just don’t like scuba diving. It makes me feel claustrophobic. Something about the mask, the regulator, the dimness of the ocean.” Everett shuddered.

  “Wow, really?” Ivy assessed the man. “To me, it feels kinda like flying.”

  “It feels more like drowning to me. Plus, I want to brace Tanner.”

  Ivy scowled at him. “Why the butler? Because he threw Bronwyn Beranger under the bus after she dismissed the tiara as a hunk of junk?”

  “Partly.”

  Ivy doubted she’d get any more out of him. Since they skipped past most of the historic area traffic, it was a quick jaunt to the Beranger compound. A big white Lincoln ticked in the sun near the west wing. Everett ignored the suggestion that they enter at the east wing and trotted up the veranda steps. Tanner had seen the Dodge. It wasn’t hard to spot. He already had the door open.

  The manservant cocked his head disdainfully. “I thought I told you—”

  “Why’d you implicate Bronwyn in the tiara theft?” Ivy asked. “Especially after she said the tiara was a gaudy bauble.”

  “I said no such thing. I said Mrs. Beranger was the only one who ever had an interest in the object. Miz Bronwyn is acutely aware of the tiara’s value. It was she who insisted upon hiring a private detective.”

  Ivy juggled this around in her head. “That makes no sense.”

  “There was an offer,” Everett said.

  Tanner’s eyes ticked between the two of them. Finally, he made a decision. “Yes, a private buyer made a substantial offer for the Queen’s Dowry Tiara.”

  “If Bronwyn insisted, there must have been a discussion,” Everett said. “An argument even.”

  “It is not my place to discuss the relations of my employer.” Tanner said.

  Didn’t you just now? Ivy didn’t say.

  “We’d like to speak to Miss Miller-Day,” Everett said.

  “I have guests to attend to,” Tanner spoke as he closed the door. “You’ll find Miss Miller-Day in the east wing.”

  “Having a party.” Everett said.

  “A reunion of sorts. You are cordially uninvited. Good day.”

  They walked around the house. Ivy could feel her hair poofing beyond the ability of the mousse’s hold against the humidity. Her makeup felt like it was sliding off her face, a sticky mask that would drop onto her low cut blouse and make it impossible to dry clean. Mildew still hung around in her nasal cavity. She was on the verge of sneezing, of runny eyes—mascara disaster.

  “State your business.” A guard stood in a booth near the closed loading dock doors. Ivy checked herself in the glass. Okay, she was freaking out about nothing.

  “Here to see Susan Miller-Day,” Everett said.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  Everett pressed his ID to the glass. “I don’t need one.”

  The guard looked; then pointed to a man door. They were buzzed in.

  How Everett managed to navigate the confusing halls of this part of the house amazed Ivy. At every turn, she would have picked the opposite direction. Yet in a moment, they walked into the office. The women did a collective examination as Everett walked straight through to Susan’s door.

  She gave a start that turned angry for a flash. Susan quickly got a hold of herself and turned off her computer monitor. Solitaire, Ivy figured.

  Everett preempted anything she might say. “Tell me about John Starling.”

  Ivy caught it. Just a quick widening of the eyes. Mama had a spell that told her when her kids were up to no good. In this case, Ivy didn’t need it.

  “He died in an accident. At one time, he worked security here,” Susan said, her voice low.

  “About a year ago,” Everett said, “the last time the tiara was seen.”

  She picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. “That sounds about right.”

  “Fresh out of the military.” Everett kept on with the non-questions.

  “Still had the crew cut,” Susan smiled, “and the yes sir, yes ma’am.”

  “According to Franklyn, he doesn’t place new hires on the most sensitive sites. Did you have some influence over Starling getting posted here?”

  Susan threw her hair back. “You come busting in here without knocking, and start accusing me of interfering with the security staff. I think you’d better leave, Detective.”

  Everett gave Ivy an elbow, but she already produced the business card. It was sealed in a plastic evidence bag, but still legible.

  The woman nearly fell getting off her high horse. “I’ve mentioned contacts being important in this business. Starling still had them. He’d been stationed in Europe where most of the better decommissioned military material is warehoused.”

  Ivy felt a strong hunch come on. It forced her to jump in. “His sister, Linda-Lou, mentioned John having a new girlfriend, that he was going to get hitched. Was that you?”

  Susan’s face darkened. “I run one of the top weapons importers on the Eastern Seaboard. John Starling was a fresh-faced kid just out of the army. If he thought we were anything more than infrequent colleagues, then the delusion was on him. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I�
�m in the middle of a complicated negotiation to obtain two Cold War-era tanks. You can see yourselves out.”

  “We’ll be back with more questions,” Everett said gravely. But once they were back in the office, he whispered to Ivy, “Good one!”

  He turned to the woman seated closest to the door. “I’m wondering if you can help me.”

  The woman was a little older than Ivy, brown flapper hair framing her square face. She smiled up at him. “Any little ’ol thing at all, Everett.”

  “I need to report to Gus Beranger. Have you seen him around?”

  “Mr. Beranger takes most of his appointments out on the golf course,” she said. “But his children are in town, on summer break. I’m sure he’ll be around the house.”

  They hiked toward the west wing, Ivy bracing herself for more berating by Tanner. But in the room near the pool, where they had met Bronwyn Beranger, Gus was talking and laughing with two blonde girls in swimsuits.

  “Beranger’s daughters,” Everett said.

  Thankfully, neither girl had inherited Gus’ looks. Less thankfully, they hadn’t inherited Bronwyn’s either. As they neared, Ivy saw that these were college-age women. Neither one could be Bronwyn’s. Not unless she was born pregnant, like a Tribble from Star Trek. Gus wore a fluffy beach robe over his swimsuit and cinched it shut when he caught Everett and Ivy approaching. He excused himself.

  “Tell me you found it.”

  Ivy was pretty sure she had. The coordinates were a photo in her cell phone. She didn’t say as much.

  “Getting close,” Everett said.

  “Close? I’ve only got a few days before True Treasures opens.” He plodded forcefully up to them.

  “We’d be closer if we’d had all the facts.” Everett asked about the acquisition of the tiara.

  Gus confirmed the story of Martin and Alejandro Castro. “Sad business. Made me put the damn thing in a trust.”

  “You were afraid of the curse.” Everett said.

  “Better safe than sorry. I own a lot of strange objects, y’know.”

  Everett pushed on. “You didn’t tell us you had a substantial offer on the tiara.”

  “Not sure that’s any of your business.”

  Arms folded, brows raised, Everett just looked at Gus for a moment.

  “Yeah, okay, I should’ve mentioned it.”

  “More money than the insurance payout,” Everett said. “Which gives you more motive to recover the tiara.”

  “Ten times the money! It’s how we discovered the tiara was missing weeks before the exhibition.”

  “Bronwyn,” Everett said.

  Gus shrugged. “Bronwyn comes from money. The insurance payment would be a drop in the bucket. But twelve million? Hell, she practically twisted my arm into selling. I had to display it, though, just one last time. Everybody loves the Queen’s Dowry Tiara. It’s got a great back story: romance, pirates, a spooky curse, everything but horses.”

  “If you report the tiara as stolen, you get the insurance, but lose your credibility with weapons dealers. Not even your most secure location is safe,” Everett said.

  “Yeah, that’s about the size of it. So go find the thing.”

  Gus returned to his daughters, one of whom gave Everett a long stare. The other questioned her father in low tones. Everett angled his head. They walked toward the west wing door.

  Back out in the heat, Ivy thought she was done detecting for the day. It was harder work than she would’ve guessed from watching it on TV. Everett started the Viper, cranking the AC when another car pulled in. It was a sporty little BMW convertible. A woman stepped out, sporting oversized sunglasses and a kerchief holding down her blonde hair, like in a movie. She was maybe in her late thirties or early forties. Ivy noted the western shirt, sparkly-butt jeans and cowboy boots.

  “Who the heck is that?” she asked.

  She noted Everett looking at the woman as well. As they watched, Bronwyn Beranger pranced out the front door. Bronwyn wrapped the newcomer in a big hug and led the blonde into the house.

  “I don’t know. Friend of Bronwyn’s I suppose. Snap a picture of her license when we pull out. I’ll look into it.”

  Chapter 11

  They drove back to Everett’s office. Ivy’s truck stood on the curb, the non-AC vehicle baking in the sun. Woo-hoo. Plants in the reception area were taking over the room. The window was completely covered in climbing vines, the potted trees in the corner now crushing against the ceiling. She did a mental face plant.

  If Everett noticed, he didn’t say anything about it.

  “Beranger is off the hook,” Everett said. “And Bronwyn as well, if it’s the money angle. I don’t know what else it would be.”

  “What about Tanner, saying Mrs. Beranger was the only one who took an interest?”

  “He may be tossing us the ol’ red herring.”

  “Meaning he’s in on it.” Ivy tried not to look at the jungle overtaking the room.

  “Or just annoying. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t think he likes us.”

  Ivy said, “But Susan, I’m pretty sure she’s the one, or at least the facilitator.”

  Everett moved some fronds aside and stepped into his office. “Just because John Starling had a bizarre accident doesn’t necessarily mean he had the tiara in his possession.”

  “He did have Susan’s business card.”

  Everett nodded. “And it does seem she had a hand in his employment at the Beranger vault. Let me see if I can’t run some deep background on her, and Starling.”

  “What about the coordinates?”

  He sat behind his deck, booting up his laptop. “I’m pretty sure we can solve this without going swimming.”

  Ivy didn’t think so. “Anyway, I’d better get to the shop. Blanche is there, but I know she’s all hot to get to work on her dissertation. Without customer interruptions, that is. Will you let me know what you find?”

  “I will. I’ll need your hours, as well. Call me when you close.”

  Once inside the boiling truck, she struggled out of the jacket. Even without sleeves, she was dying. Zipping down the windows, she launched into traffic as quickly as she could, to stir up a breeze.

  Blanche didn’t look up from her laptop when Ivy entered August Botanica. “What’s up, seal pup?”

  “Can you hold down the fort? I gotta change before I die.”

  Her cousin eyed Ivy. “What for, you look—oh, okay, you look a little wilted.”

  Ivy grabbed a Scünci out of her purse and yanked her sweaty hair up in a bun. She could still hear the crunch of mousse. It fell on her suit shoulders like snow.

  “I think you need to graduate to hair gel. With that bird’s nest on your head, you gotta have more hold.”

  “Right now, I gotta have less pantyhose,” Ivy said.

  “Pantyhose? What are you, sixty-five and off to church?”

  Ivy looked down at her legs. “Mama says a lady doesn’t wear a skirt bare-legged. Princess Kate wears them.”

  “So do Hooters waitresses.”

  Ivy growled and headed back outside to the apartment entrance. She shucked the suit, scrubbed her face, and jammed on some cut-offs and a T-shirt. Ah…

  She returned to the shop. Blanche was packing up to go.

  “You might wanna try thigh-highs,” Blanche said. “They’re cooler.”

  “With that slit up the skirt? You’d see the tops,” Ivy said. “That would be too slutty.”

  Moira appeared wearing red gym shorts with two white stripes circa 1978 and thigh-high stockings. They clashed with the gold sandals. She shrugged. “It’s a look, I guess. Oh, how about this? I bet Everett Klein is old fashioned.” The thigh-highs turned into gartered stockings, suspenders just visible below the white hem of the shorts. Moira did a twirl.

  “You don’t have veins, or moles—a bunch of razor cuts, though. You actually still use a razor to shave your legs?”

  Moira waved Blanche down. “Forget the stockings. You got
the gorgeous getaway sticks, I say let ’em fly free.”

  Ivy didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “How would you feel about taking out Harmon’s boat and going diving?”

  “What, you mean, close the shop? It isn’t even two o’clock.” Blanche gave her a look. “I think you’ve gotten too much sun today.”

  “Has it been busy?”

  “No,” Moira said, “but you did miss Julio. Woof, what a man!”

  Ivy shrugged. “Harmon said to take some time out for fun. I’ll hang a sign on the front door.”

  Blanched pooched out her lower in lip in speculative thought. “Hmm. Why do I have the idea that this is more about work than fun?”

  Ivy raised her brows. “You in?”

  “Hell yeah, I’m in. Let’s stop by the house for sunscreen and wetsuits.” Blanche jammed her laptop in its case. “We’ll take my car. I’m sure your truck is a regular Easy Bake Oven on wheels.”

  “You really wanna haul around briny wetsuits and tanks in your car?”

  Blanche made a face. “Meet me at the house. Maybe I’ll feel better about that horrid little red Chevy when I’m wearing less.”

  Half an hour later, with the bed full of dive gear, Ivy drove the truck toward the marina where Harmon kept his little power boat. Blanche wore a wrap over a one-piece swimsuit. The window was down, but she still fanned herself. “Why did you buy this awful truck anyway?”

  “It’s rare.” Ivy sighted water and made a left.

  “Sugar, we passed about a bazillion red Chevy trucks on the way here.”

  “Yeah, but this is a compact truck, regular cab, short bed, and it’s a diesel. I fill up with biodiesel when I can.” They reached the marina. It wasn’t too busy, but Ivy had to circle around the lot to park.

  “Yeah, and it makes this thing smell like you hijacked it from Colonel Sanders.”

  Ivy got out. “You don’t like the smell?”

  “I like it too much. Heck, every time I have to follow you, I have to force myself not to pull into a drive through for some French fries.” Blanche heaved her dive bag and tank out of the bed.

  Ever since Harmon built his big sailboat, his little power launch was stored in the marina’s warehouse. They watched a guy in a forklift bring the boat down to the water. It was a nineteen-footer, two outboards, and a poling platform that sheltered the driver. Ivy double checked that the air tanks were full. If they needed air, they could do that here. They sure couldn’t do it once they were out on the Atlantic.