by Jill Orr
Ash and I went upstairs and found Butter and Sheriff Haight standing in the chapel. Carl rolled his eyes when he saw me. “I should have known you’d be mixed up in this.”
I tried not to be offended.
“We got a call someone broke in here tonight?” Butter asked, looking around at the glass on the floor near the back door and the fallen podium.
I looked at Ash. This was his story to tell.
“That’s right,” he said and took a deep breath. “But before I tell you about the break-in, there’s something else you ought to know.”
Self-Care Assignment #4:
A Better You Through Daily Detox Diet™
Today we will explore the connection between our physical and emotional states of being. It should come as no surprise that the food with which we nourish our bodies nourishes our spiritual selves as well. If we choose to fuel up on empty, chemical-laden processed foods, our conscious and unconscious minds can become egocentrically obese or, worse, emotionally malnourished.
Spending just one day per week on our Daily Detox Diet™ will cleanse and purify your body while reinvigorating the light that lives within your spirit. #weightwatchersforthesoul
Daily Detox Diet™
7 a.m.:
Rise and drink 60 oz. of F.L.Y. Juice™, a proprietary blend of herbs, microgreens, and the finest cupuaçu extract, found only in the most secluded rain forests of Papua New Guinea (Six 12oz. bottles, $39.99).
10 a.m.:
Prepare a large bowl of ethically sourced bone broth flavored with cilantro, turmeric, ginger, and collagen hydrolysate. Be sure to say a blessing for the creatures who gave their bones in service of your detox. (F.L.Y. Bones™ soup starter, $17.99.)
12 p.m.:
Lunch is a high-quality probiotic such as No Guts No Glory™ (30-day supply, $44.99), followed by a guided meditation podcast on the metaphysical benefits of denying yourself (available for iOS or Android in the App Store, $5.99).
2 p.m.:
Count out twelve pomegranate seeds, and chew each seed eleven times to honor the number eleven, the most intuitive of all numbers (companion workbook, Add It Up: A Beginner’s Guide to Numerology by Dr. Diana Yarsborough, $24.99).
6 p.m.:
Prepare another large bowl of ethically sourced bone broth, this time flavoring it with cumin, turmeric, ginger, and collagen hydrolysate for a completely different taste profile! Eat in silence, alone if possible, taking care to open your mouth just the minimum amount possible. This helps avoid the pesky bloating that can come from swallowing air while you eat.
10 p.m.:
Bedtime snack is a high-quality probiotic. #yum
Do not be alarmed if you experience dizziness, tiredness, jitters, sluggishness, hyperactive bowel movements, brain fog, extreme irritability, or intense headaches. This is just trapped negative energy trying to work its way out.
Spend at least fifteen minutes journaling about how you feel after your Daily Detox Diet™, paying specific attention to the sounds emanating from your intestinal track, as these can provide great insight into the effectiveness of your detox. (Companion workbook, Decoding Your Duodenal Sounds with Dr. Erik M. Grossmann, $32.99.)
Dear Miss Ellison,
Thank you for your email. I am sorry to hear you feel the Daily Detox Diet™ represents a “reckless reduction in calories” and that you would sooner “throw yourself into the James River with weights around your ankles” than to eat something called fly bone broth. #notreallyfromflies #fliesdonthavebones I assure you it is the latest IT-superfood, according to Sustenance Concierge™ Faith T in our Nutritional Sciences department.
In any event, I certainly understand your reluctance to make such a drastic change to your eating habits. Sometimes it’s best to take these things slowly, particularly if, as you say, your current diet consists of eighty-five percent cheese, fifteen percent potato chips, and fifteen percent croissants. #doesntaddup #eatsomefruit.
Yours in Loving Alignment,
Regina H,
Personal Romance Concierge™ and F.L.Y.
Guy™-in-training
Click.com
CHAPTER 32
Despite being at the newsroom late to help Holman with the Mountbatten piece and write mine about the break-in at Campbell & Sons, I woke up early the next day. I wanted to give Coltrane a little TLC before I went into work. I’d been neglecting him all week and I felt badly about it. I knew the old boy would forgive me for the price of one hard-boiled egg and one long walk before sunrise. Coltrane was easy that way. The truth of it was that the walk would do me some good too. I’d need to sleep eventually, but for now I was running on adrenaline. Today was going to be a big news day around Tuttle Corner, with Holman and me at the center of it. There was nothing wrong with enjoying a few moments of relative calm before the impending storm.
The sun was still below the horizon, its warm glow bleeding into the night sky. The peaceful exchange of power between light and darkness was a daily phenomenon made no less spectacular by its regularity. I could still make out the faint glow of Venus against the inky backdrop—a beautiful reminder of how small a place we occupy in the universe. Stargazing was in the blood of the Ellison family, a hobby my dad and granddad were both extremely passionate about. As a child, my enthusiasm for amateur astronomy was mandatory, and I’m pretty sure I was taught to spot the Big Dipper before I could walk. But my love for it was my own now. There was nothing like looking up at thousands of pinpricks of light—all of which are millions of times brighter than our sun and millions and millions of years old—to give your life a little perspective.
It wasn’t cold, but chilly enough that my breath created little gray puffs as we took our usual route down Salem Street, then left onto Beach. I could see lights turning on in kitchens and bedrooms as we walked past, the gradual awakening of our town.
The grass was brown at this time of year, and with Thanksgiving just around the corner, most of the leaves had already fallen. The tidy Hamiltons had their leaves bagged in yard-waste-approved plastic bags stacked neatly at the end of their driveway. The Daltons next door clearly favored a more “natural” approach. And Oliver Washington, who lived across the street, had decided six years ago to rip out all his grass and rock his entire yard with pea gravel. He said that not only did it make his life easier, it cut down on his water bill too. This was one of the things I loved about living in Tuttle—how you kept your property was your business. There were no rules specifying length of grass or height or type of fence. If you wanted an above-ground pool, have at it. If you wanted to throw your old ’64 Mustang up on blocks in your front yard, no one was going to stop you. (However, if you lived within spitting distance of Charlotte Van Stone, you’d be in for some nasty looks.) Tuttle Corner was like a person of a certain age who has been around long enough not to care about looks. We didn’t have to put on airs; we knew who we were.
I turned left again onto Forest Avenue, and up on the right I could see the house Ryan and Ridley were set to move into in a few weeks. It was directly behind mine. Ryan said he bought the place because it has a full apartment in the basement where he could live, while Lizzie and Ridley took the upstairs. He said it was a way for them to live together as a family even though he and Ridley weren’t together. That was six weeks ago. Now I supposed he was hoping for a different kind of arrangement.
A feeling I couldn’t quite name, something north of nostalgia but south of angst, bloomed in the pit of my stomach as I thought about Ryan and Ridley and what the future would look like for them. I truly had no idea how Ridley would react when she found out about his feelings for her. If I had to guess, I’d bet she would be willing to give a relationship a try. They were a family, after all. And whether Ryan and Ridley were together or not, they were forever bonded by their deep love for and commitment to their little girl. I didn’t begrudge them their happily ever after, but was it wrong that I didn’t want to be a part of it? As I walked past the house that they’d soo
n share, I decided it wasn’t. I wouldn’t stand in their way, but I also didn’t have to be the conduit for them to get together. If Ryan wanted a future with Ridley, he was going to have to figure it out on his own.
Feeling settled having come to that very pro-self-care conclusion, I decided to give Coltrane an extra-long walk and turned down Maple Street toward St. Paul’s church. We didn’t always go this route. Usually we just did the square block around my house, but given how much we were both enjoying being out, I thought, What the hell.
Coltrane and I were rounding the far corner back onto Forest when I saw Tom Bell of Bell Construction pulling out of his driveway. He stopped when he saw us. “Morning, Riley,” he said, “I see you guys are up with the sun today.”
“Hey, Tom,” I said, letting Coltrane put his paws up on Tom’s truck door to say hello. “Yeah, nice out here this morning. You heading to work?”
He nodded as he scratched behind Coltrane’s ears. “We’re doing some work over at the Bluth property. Mary likes us to be out of there before Hank takes his 2 p.m. nap.”
Mary and Hank Bluth lived in one of the oldest homes in Tuttle, just off the town square. Bell Construction did a lot of work on the older, more historic homes in the area, and they’d even been involved in a few restorations over in Williamsburg. It occurred to me that the Bluth house was probably built the same time as Rosalee’s Tavern. I was still bothered by her story about the sledgehammer and the supposed basement remodel. I knew those old buildings were tricky to remodel. Plus, she’d been in that space for nine years, why renovate now? I remembered Melvin said she’d ask him to move the equipment so she could go down into the basement a couple of times a month to make plans. How long did it take to plan a basement storage room?
“Hey, have you ever done any work on the basement under Rosalee’s Tavern, by any chance?”
Tom thought for a minute. “Not since Rosalee’s been in there, but I did do some work on the building back when Jack Harper owned it. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I said. “It’s just I was talking to Ridley Nilsson, who’s working over there now, and she mentioned something about Rosalee planning to remodel the basement to use as storage. I just wondered if Rosalee ever had you come take a look since you do so much of that kind of work?”
“No, she never got in touch. But as I recall, it was your typical colonial cellar—a big empty space, with low ceilings, cold and damp. Probably make a pretty good root cellar.”
“You say it was a wide-open space?” My hackles went up. I distinctly remember Rosalee saying the basement was full of half walls and other odd angles, and that that was the reason she needed the sledgehammer.
“Oh yeah,” Tom said. “Back in the day, people used to use them as kitchens. I probably worked on a dozen or more houses like that around here. They’re all about the same. Big empty rooms with stone walls, dirt floors, and wooden beams. Depending on how well they’ve been preserved, some of ’em are pretty neat. The Tavern’s basement is pretty representative of the era. You should check it out if you can.”
What a good suggestion, Tom, I thought to myself. I think I’ll just do that.
CHAPTER 33
I walked into the newsroom and immediately knew we’d hit a home run. Normally we were a pretty laid-back office, but not today. Everyone was dressed better, walking faster, standing taller. Even stupid Spencer had trimmed his mustache and tucked in his shirt. For one shining moment, the Tuttle Times was the news leader. We broke a story that was certain to get national attention, despite the fact that there were several bigger news organizations following it. Not too shabby for a little weekly paper in the middle of nowhere. I felt a swell of pride for the part I’d played in getting this scoop. I just wished Flick was here to enjoy the moment with us. I hadn’t heard from him since his last call and really wished he’d get in touch.
Kay was already in her office meeting with Pedro, the Times webmaster and tech guru, to make sure the site would be able to handle the increased traffic. AP picked up the story and asked if they could link it, so Pedro was trying to make the necessary adjustments.
I walked into Holman’s office and found him with a large mug of coffee and a half-eaten bear claw on a napkin in front of him. He didn’t look like he’d slept or changed clothes since I left him here late last night.
“Hey,” I said. “You get any rest?”
He looked up at me, then blinked like he didn’t understand my question. I guess that answered that.
“Have you heard if Carl is still holding Dale?” I asked, taking one of the doughnuts out of the box on his credenza.
Holman’s eyes followed the doughnut from the box to my mouth, and he watched with a slight frown as I took the first bite. I could tell he wanted to protest, but he looked like he was having trouble finding the words. He just stared, wide-eyed, at my cruller.
“Holman!” I snapped my fingers at him.
“What?”
“Is Dale Mountbatten still at the sheriff’s office?” I repeated the question, despite my mouth full of food.
“No,” he said. He picked up a piece of scrap paper on his desk and read off his notes. “It’s all really complicated, but Carl said since the crimes Mountbatten confessed to—failing to register as a foreign agent, conspiracy to launder money, etcetera, etcetera—were federal crimes, they were out of his jurisdiction. He had nothing to charge him with in terms of the homicides. He’s being called another ‘person of interest’ in the case, and Carl asked if they could meet again today. Mountbatten agreed.”
“But Carl called the FBI, right?”
“Yes. He called it in last night. Not sure what the next step on that will be, but I imagine Dale Mountbatten is in quite a lot of trouble.”
“Did he ask for a lawyer?”
“Yes. She came down from DC this morning.”
“Wow,” I said, swallowing down the last bit of my doughnut. “So he’s still here? In Tuttle?”
Holman nodded. “He’s staying over at the Ottoman Inn.”
The Ottoman Inn was a six-suite bed-and-breakfast overlooking the James River, an old Georgian Colonial on the historic register of buildings. For years it had been a private home, but about ten years ago, Heather and Mike Flanagan bought it and turned it into a B&B. When they were asked about the name, as they always were, Mike said they fought for weeks about what to call the place, and then during one particularly acrimonious discussion while Mike was trying to watch the Masters Tournament on TV, he pointed toward his feet and yelled, “We can call it the goddamn ottoman hotel for all I care!” Heather loved the idea, and that was that.
“Any word from Rosalee?” I asked gingerly.
“Nothing.”
I waited to see if Holman had any more to say on the subject, but he did not. “Okay,” I said, walking toward the door. “Well, I’m going to do a little more digging on ‘Aunt Scheiner’ and see if I can find someone who might have seen her going in or coming out of the funeral home. I’m also going to follow up on Colonel Mustard Enterprises and see what I can find out there.”
I didn’t mention to Holman that I also planned to check out the basement of Rosalee’s Tavern. I wasn’t sure why I decided to keep that from him; I guess maybe I just didn’t feel like arguing about Rosalee again. “Why don’t you go home for a little bit? You look exhausted.”
“Mother called this morning to congratulate us on the story,” he said, ignoring my suggestion. “And she told me how much she liked you. She says she thinks you are nice.”
I felt an inner flush of happiness. “Wow, tell her thank yo—”
“I told her that calling a person nice is about as illustrative as calling them human. I gave her a selection of other words she could use to describe you, such as inquisitive, polite, intelligent, high-strung, slightly disorganized, quick to anger—”
“Okay thanks,” I said, cutting him off. “Tell Camilla I said hi back!”
Holman gave me his trademark blink, twice
. “Well, technically she didn’t say hi to you, as I said, she called you—”
I walked out and closed the door behind me before he could finish that sentence. Or that list.
CHAPTER 34
Carl had scheduled another press conference for 4 p.m. That gave me enough time to follow up on the stolen-property story and maybe even get Ridley to let me sneak down and check out the basement of the Tavern. I was bicycling around town today because Ivan still had Oscar, and I was on my way over to Campbell & Sons when I saw Ash walking through the park toward me. Perfect, I thought, this would save me a trip.
He had sunglasses on, so I couldn’t tell if he was looking at me as I waved. He didn’t wave back, so I called out his name. No response. As we got closer, I waved my arm comically like I was signaling a plane. “Ahoy there!” I said (I inexplicably tend to make Dad jokes around cute guys—it’s a problem). But he didn’t even crack a smile.
Ash stopped walking when he got about two feet from me. I slowed down and stopped my bike.
“I can’t believe you,” he said in a tone of voice that could only be described as disgusted.
“What?” I was genuinely taken aback.
“You totally screwed me last night!”
Old Mrs. Deaver, who was walking her two Chihuahuas past us at that very moment, let out a little yelp and clutched Mr. Deaver’s arm. The four of them hurried away from us as fast as they could.
“What’re you talking about?” I lowered my voice, hoping he would follow suit.
“That article you posted?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you have any idea how much that is going to hurt my family’s business? Or my grandparents?” he scoffed. “What am I saying…you don’t care about that. You just had to get your precious scoop, hell-be-damned who it hurts.”
I felt blood rush to my face. “Are you serious? Did you honestly think I wasn’t going to report what happened last night? I was an eyewitness to a crime. I’d have been fired for gross incompetence if I didn’t write that up!”