Travis nodded solemnly and tucked the paper into his notebook. He walked off, and they picked up their clubs and ball bucket.
“You know he’s going to talk about this,” Callie said, once Travis was out of earshot. “Will we get into trouble?”
“We who? Tracy Hamilton? That’s the only name they have. And we never claimed to be police, did we? Or flashed phony credentials.”
“The cell phone number you gave him?”
“A burner phone,” she said, grinning. “I haven’t written all those books without picking up a few things. It’s a slim chance our Travis will call with anything new he’s remembered. But I’ll check it every so often. You never know.”
Yes, you never know, Callie thought as they dropped off their clubs and “Tracy Hamilton” chatted charmingly with the thin-haired man still behind the counter. She hadn’t known how good Lyssa could be at pretense. A successful author, of course, had to be good at making up characters and putting words into their mouths. So it shouldn’t be surprising that she could so easily become a character herself.
But it still kind of was.
Twenty-Four
On the ride back, Lyssa asked, “Do you really think Parks had an Uber driver take him back to Keepsake Cove that night?”
“No. There’d be a record of that somewhere, and he’d know that,” Callie said. “But he could have managed it some other way.”
“You want him to be the murderer.”
“It’d be nice,” Callie admitted. “Especially after he did his best to put Dorothy in that spot. But I don’t know if wanting to get the Foxwood Inn at a bargain price is enough of a motive.”
“He’d have to be pretty greedy,” Lyssa agreed. “And for all we know, he is. But maybe there’s other things involved. Hey, want to stop in at the B&B when we get back? I could call ahead and ask Paula if she can rustle up some dinner—nothing fancy—and maybe George will be around. He’s been making himself scarce lately.”
“I wouldn’t mind a chat with him,” Callie said. “Will Paula mind?”
“Let’s find out.” Lyssa placed the call through her Bluetooth system as she drove, and Callie heard Paula offer a salad with a version of Eggs Benedict on her homemade brown bread.
“It’s all I have on hand,” she said.
Callie quickly agreed that it sounded great.
“We’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Lyssa told Paula. “And thanks!”
Callie grabbed onto her seat as the Corvette picked up speed.
Paula’s simple meal tasted amazing. After the long, stress-filled day, comfort food was welcome.
Of course, Paula had questions about Renata Moore’s murder. Lyssa invited her to join them for a cup of coffee in the Victorian dining room, and as they ate, Callie filled her in on the basics of how the body had been discovered and the murder weapon.
“Scissors again! I heard that but didn’t believe it. Were they Mrs. Ashby’s?”
“Dorothy told me the scissors were absolutely not hers,” Callie assured her, seeing that Paula was distressed. The sewing shop owner, after all, was Paula’s de facto boss, and her ability to remain so affected Paula’s livelihood. “And Dorothy’s cousin vouches for the fact that she was at home all that night.”
“Then … then, who’s doing this? What did Renata Moore have to do with Clifford Ashby?”
Callie wished she had an answer. All she could offer was, “We’re working on that.”
“Which is what made us so late for dinner,” Lyssa said, reaching for a second slice of brown bread from the basket Paula had set before them. “What can you tell us about Vernon Parks?”
Paula looked puzzled for a moment before it clicked. “Oh! The man who wants to buy the inn.”
“Right. We know he and Cliff Ashby knew each other from their years in Annapolis. We also know that Ashby had started pressuring Keepsake Cove shopkeepers in a way that would make him extra money. Would Vernon Parks have been a part of that scheme?”
“I … I didn’t know about that.” Paula looked honestly surprised. She shook her head. “It sounds just like Mr. Ashby. But if I knew anything about it, or whether Parks was involved, that would mean I was involved, too, wouldn’t it?” Her expression darkened. “I wasn’t.”
“No, no, Paula,” Lyssa assured her. “I just wondered if you might have overheard things—phone conversations or anything.”
“I didn’t.” She stood after that flat statement, obviously not liking where the discussion had gone, and carried her cup into the kitchen.
“Sorry,” Lyssa muttered to Callie.
“It’s okay,” Callie answered as quietly. “I doubt she had anything to tell us.”
They worked silently on their dinners until they heard the front door open and footsteps head to the kitchen.
“Ah, Paula, you’re here.” Callie recognized George Cole’s voice. “May I possibly have a cup of coffee to take to my room?”
Lyssa recognized the voice, too, and called out, “Bring it in here, George, and join us.”
George Cole leaned through the doorway of the dining room. “What a pleasant surprise. You’re having a late dinner. And Ms. Reed is here, too.”
“At Lyssa’s invitation. And Paula was kind enough to fix us something in a hurry. Do join us.”
“I believe I will, thank you. That is, if this won’t inconvenience Paula?” He turned questioningly toward the kitchen.
“I need to clean things up,” Paula tersely replied. “It’s late.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Lyssa said, picking up her now-empty plate. “Let us help you, and perhaps we could take our coffee into the living room? I promise to rinse out the cups when we’re done.”
Callie followed with her own plate and the bread basket and saw Paula pouring out George’s coffee. She then silently lined up two more mugs, apparently for Callie and Lyssa, and then elbowed them out of her way to do the rest on her own. The three meekly carried their mugs away and into the dimmed living room, heading for the velvet-covered sofas that Callie had last sat on with Cliff Ashby perched across from her.
Lyssa switched on an additional lamp. “There. Now we can see each other. So, George,” she said, settling down, “what’ve you been up to?”
“Oh, this and that.” He took a sip of his coffee and turned to Callie. “Any word on the music box I ordered?”
“For your daughter? I’m expecting it soon.”
George nodded, and Lyssa said, “Oh come on, George. We know about you and Jane.”
George’s eyebrows rose, but he turned to set his mug carefully down on the table next to him. Finally he said, “And what is it you know?”
“Only that you forgot to mention that you knew each other,” Lyssa said, her voice full of exasperation. “Like you forgot to mention that you went to Dorothy and Cliff’s wedding.”
“I did explain how that came about,” he said.
“Right, you took your mother to it. But not a word about Jane until Callie got the story from her.”
“You spoke to Jane?” he asked Callie. “And she told you about us?”
“She did.”
“Well, then it’s all right. I wasn’t sure how much she’d want anyone to know. We’ve just been slowly reconnecting. That’s how our generation does things, you know. Plus, there’s our children to think about. Even though they’re adults, they’ll have feelings about the situation to consider.”
A small lightbulb went off in Callie’s head. “The music box isn’t for your daughter, is it?”
George smiled. “A little white lie. I hope you’ll forgive me. I took Jane to see a performance of Oklahoma on our first date. I thought she would enjoy that little reminder. What I said about my late wife being a good singer, on the other hand, was perfectly true. But neither she nor my daughter saw Oklahoma with me.”
&n
bsp; Callie nodded. It did sound sweet and sentimental. But she also remembered the smoothness of George’s explanation (which he now admitted was false) when he placed the order for the music box.
“Jane must have made a strong impression on you,” she said. “Yet, you didn’t keep in touch when you left for your job.”
George frowned. “It was my first job after college. I was so eager to prove myself and succeed that I set my personal life on hold. When I finally tried to reach her, she’d obviously been hurt by my silence and moved on. It was my mistake, completely.”
“All very well and good,” Lyssa said. “But why didn’t you tell us it was Jane you saw talking to Cliff that afternoon before he was killed?”
“Because I simply didn’t recognize her at first.” George smiled. “Oddly enough, she’s changed a bit in the forty-some years since I last saw her. I had to identify myself to her too, of course, though happily my name brought a smile to her face.”
“Oh, George.” Lyssa sighed. “Sorry for the grilling. But under the circumstances I hope you can understand. We have to be sure about everybody. Secrets only make us suspicious.”
George acknowledged this with a dip of his head. “It should have occurred to me that my discretion, particularly given Jane’s proximity to her cousin, might be misconstrued.” He paused. “I really didn’t recognize her from my window. And when I came down to get a cup of coffee shortly after, I asked Paula if she was a new guest at the inn, which she wasn’t, of course. It wasn’t until her name was mentioned later, along with Dorothy Ashby’s, that it clicked.” George drained his mug. “Speaking of guests,” he said, “we’ve been joined by at least four new ones. Did you know?”
“No,” Lyssa said. “When did they arrive?”
“Late this afternoon. Two couples. I happened to see them as I was on my way out but haven’t met them. I suppose we’ll get to do that at breakfast. I’m only concerned because Paula’s staff seems to have dwindled.”
“The housekeeper, Jackie?”
“No, Jackie’s still here. But the younger one, Kelsey, has apparently quit. Paula’s going to have her hands full.”
“That’s right. Jackie did mention that. And we added to her work with our last-minute dinner,” Lyssa said. “Now I wish she’d just told us no.” She glanced toward the kitchen. “Is she still staying here overnight?”
“I believe so. One of the smaller rooms. We should probably keep her workload in mind if our rooms aren’t kept completely up to snuff.” He rose and picked up his mug.
“Have you heard any more of those creaking noises behind the wall?” Callie asked, getting up as well.
“No, I haven’t.” George paused. “Which is interesting, though I don’t know what it means.”
They carried their mugs to the kitchen, which Paula had left sparkling clean, and washed and dried their own things as promised. Then they bid each other a good night and went their separate ways.
Callie, fighting off a yawn, envied the other two their much shorter trips to their beds as she made her way to her car. Although she was sure all the things she had to mull over during her drive home would keep her alert.
She followed the two-lane country road that led to Keepsake Cove. Traffic was light at this time of night, as most people in the area were already home and winding down for a good night’s sleep before their next day’s early start. As she navigated a curve, her headlights picked up two small white crosses. Callie remembered hearing about a deadly accident that had occurred in the spot some weeks ago and shivered. She checked her speedometer, which showed she was just under the forty-five mile-per-hour limit.
She was on a straight stretch of road alone, about halfway home, when she saw headlights in the distance coming toward her. As she watched, they seemed to approach much faster than she would have expected at the speed limit. Still, it was on the opposite side, and they could pass each other safely.
She didn’t start to tense until the other car began to weave. Within moments it pulled into her lane and headed straight for her. Callie wrenched her wheel to the right as the oncoming headlights nearly blinded her. At the last second the other car corrected. But it was too late for Callie, who’d steered off the road, plowed through a bush, and slid into a watery ditch.
Twenty-Five
C allie sat, stunned. Her airbag hadn’t deployed, so the bush must have slowed her car down enough to avoid triggering it. She was lucky. Her headlights illuminated a stand of solid-looking trees several feet ahead.
She assessed herself. No head bumps or blood, only a rapidly beating heart, which long, deep breaths helped to ease. She glanced around and saw no other vehicle nearby. Whoever had run her off the road had driven on, which maybe was a good thing. But no other vehicles were coming by either. She was on her own.
She turned her motor off, leaving the lights on, and unbuckled and opened her door. She stretched out one leg to clear the ditch, then pulled the rest of herself out with some effort. Once on level land, she could see that driving her car out of the ditch was not going to happen. At least not by her. The good thing was that no steam rose from under her hood. The bad? Her right wheels were sunk in inches-deep mud.
After a few minutes of thought, she pulled her phone out and pressed a number.
“Brian?” she asked in a voice that was much cheerier and calmer than she felt. “Hi. Got a minute?”
The formerly dark and lonely road was flooded with light: yellow ones from the tow truck that Brian had contacted, and red and blue flashes from a police car she’d summoned herself. After wondering briefly if her accident was worth reporting, since she could state nothing about the vehicle that had caused her crash, she realized it needed to be on record, for insurance purposes if nothing else. She could definitely narrow down the oncoming vehicle to a car, rather than a truck, but other than it having very bright headlights, that was it.
After relating her story to the responding officer, she joined Brian at the side of the road to watch her mud-caked Camry get pulled, inch by inch, up the ramp to the tow truck bed. It was a grim sight but could have been much grimmer, she knew, if she’d made contact with the trees instead of a bush. Brian put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed in sympathy.
“I was halfway afraid I’d have to talk to the same officer who showed up at the park this morning about Renata,” she said. “That one’s shift is probably over, but I had the feeling this guy recognized my name. It’s probably getting familiar among local law enforcement.”
Brian squeezed again. “Not for anything bad you’ve done.”
“Thank you for coming out,” Callie said. “I really only needed the number of a garage.”
Brian looked at her incredulously. “Do you really think I’d leave you to deal with this all alone? What if you’d been hurt but hadn’t registered that?”
“I’m fine.” She didn’t mention the delayed reaction of tremors she’d suffered after placing her calls. Thankfully, she’d gotten them under control by the time anyone showed up.
“But you at least need a ride home, and I can provide that.”
“I appreciate that.”
Brian paused. “You could have been badly hurt, you know. Or even killed. It’s possible whoever caused this did it on purpose.”
Callie nodded. She’d thought of that. “But there’s no way to know for sure since I have no idea who was driving the other car. It could have simply been someone drunk or falling asleep.”
“Will you do me a favor and not drive on these lonely roads alone for a while? Particularly after dark?”
“Since my car is sitting on a flatbed, about to be hauled away, there’s no worries about me driving anywhere for a while,” she said with a smile. But she knew she’d be watching her back. Whatever the reason for her accident, it would have some lasting effects on her.
Once the tow truck took off, followed
by the police car, Callie climbed into Brian’s Impala and buckled up. He drove for a while, then said, “I have some amazing chocolate cake at the café. Want to stop in for a piece?”
“Hmm. Chocolate cake. Is that the recommended treatment for accident recovery?”
“It is.”
“Well, in that case I’d better have some. With coffee?”
“Of course.”
Callie smiled.
It felt odd sitting in the Keepsake Café at eleven o’clock at night, but it was also very cozy. The front window shades were pulled down, and only one low light had been turned on. Brian refused Callie’s offer of help and carried out two plates of chocolate cake to the table where she sat, then went back for the coffee. She waited for his return before picking up her fork, though resisting a quick taste of the dark and gooey chocolaty goodness before her was difficult.
“Black, right?” he said, setting a mug before her.
“Yup.” She grabbed her fork then and dug in, savoring every molecule for several seconds. “Amazing was the right word for it. Did you make it?”
“Uh-uh. I’ve been trying various bakeries for café desserts. I think this’ll be the one.” He got to work on his own slice. By the time they had scraped the final crumbs and were sipping their coffee, Callie felt the bulk of her tension had gone. She told Brian all she’d been up to that afternoon and evening.
“You’ve been busy.”
“Yes, but so far everything I learn only brings up more questions. And trails that might lead to who killed Cliff Ashby peter out before taking me anywhere.”
“And now the second murder. Are they connected?”
“The only connection I see would be Dorothy, which doesn’t make sense to me.” Callie sank her head into her hands. “Am I wrong and just fooling myself about her?”
Brian shook his head. “I think you’re a pretty good judge of character.” He added with a grin, “After all, you chose to sit here alone with me late at night. And I’ve got a drawer full of knives back there.”
A Vintage Death Page 17