Cookies and Clairvoyance

Home > Mystery > Cookies and Clairvoyance > Page 8
Cookies and Clairvoyance Page 8

by Bailey Cates


  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Standish filled a plate and sank onto a chaise lounge. She waved her hand at the table. “Please have a bite.”

  Suddenly very hungry, I obliged.

  “Now.” She set her plate aside and folded her hands. “How can I help?”

  Lucy and I exchanged glances.

  “You know what happened to Kensington Bosworth, right?” I asked.

  Mrs. Standish nodded. “At least what was in the paper. Why were you there?”

  “Um,” I hedged. “Detective Quinn thought I could help with a question he had.”

  She leaned forward. “And could you?”

  “That remains to be seen.” I considered exactly what to tell her and decided the truth, or at least part of it, would be the best course. “The problem is that the police suspect Randy Post of killing Mr. Bosworth.”

  Her eyebrows raised so high they disappeared beneath her turban for a moment. “Now, why on earth would they suspect him?”

  Lucy spoke up. “Apparently Mr. Bosworth and Randy argued. Something to do with payment for the security system Randy installed. As I recall, you mentioned something about how you hoped Mr. Bosworth wouldn’t balk at the bill.”

  Mrs. Standish nodded emphatically. “Kensington was rich as Midas, but he had a miserly streak in him. As did his daddy and granddaddy. Not so much with causes, but with people. Philanthropy was a family tradition, but they were terrible about paying the help. I imagine that secretary of his was underpaid, and I heard he’d cut back the housekeeper’s hours.”

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Gleason, who’d found the security system disarmed and then her employer dead in his office. I thought again of the grilled cheese sandwich she’d been going to make for Mr. Bosworth’s supper and added a chat with her to my list.

  “Heaven knows it’s hard enough to find a good housekeeper,” she mused. “I desperately miss my Alda since she got married and moved away. Happy for her, of course! But we’ve had to make do with a service, and it’s just not the same.”

  “I see,” I said. “You mentioned something about how Mr. Bosworth wasn’t giving to charity the same way.”

  Now her head swung back and forth. “Indeed, he wasn’t. He used to be so good about contributing to my animal causes, but in the last two years he gave only a pittance in comparison to his earlier generosity. I heard rumors through the grapevine that he had become involved with some shady characters.”

  “Really? Like who?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know the specifics.” She grimaced. “Such a shame. Apparently, he short-shrifted the other charities he’d avidly supported before and was donating to someone new.”

  “What charities were those?” Lucy asked.

  Mrs. Standish looked blank.

  “He gave to organizations that promoted Native American cultural preservation,” Skipper Dean said.

  He’d been so quiet that I’d almost forgotten he was sitting there.

  “And there was an organization that returned pilfered treasures to their homelands in Egypt and the Middle East,” he continued.

  “Well, dog my cat!” Mrs. Standish exclaimed. “I had no idea.”

  Dean gave her an affectionate smile.

  “Could he have been under some kind of financial strain?” I wondered.

  “Lord, no. The man was loaded,” Mrs. Standish said. “Though he once joked that he hoped to spend the majority of his fortune before he died. At least I assumed it was a joke. His heirs would have been very sorry if that had happened.”

  I scooted to the edge of the chair and leaned my elbows on my knees. “Do you know anything about his will or his heirs?”

  “Not really,” she admitted. “He and his sister, Florinda, inherited the family fortune. Kensington got more money than Florinda, though. His daddy was a sexist pig, you see. But she still got quite a lot. In the millions, certainly.” She took a bite of bagel, chewed, and swallowed. “She lost it all, though.”

  I frowned. “All of it?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Her voice lowered a fraction. “Had a bit of a gambling problem, you see.”

  “Ah,” Lucy and I said at the same time.

  “I imagine she’ll be awfully happy to get any money Kensington left her,” Mrs. Standish said. “I just hope she doesn’t gamble that away, too.”

  “He didn’t leave her any money, honeywaffles,” Skipper Dean said.

  Honeywaffles? Really? I stifled a smile.

  Her head whipped around. “How do you know that?”

  He shrugged. “We were chatting at a fund-raiser recently. I try to be a good listener.”

  My lips twitched. He’d had plenty of practice, considering his housemate.

  “Well!” she brayed. “Tell us what you know!”

  Another mild smile from Dean, and then, “Kensington said his sister had found a balanced life, and he didn’t want to upset her by dumping a bunch of money in her lap.”

  Lucy and I exchanged glances.

  As if.

  Dean noticed. “No, he was serious. She had indeed suffered from a gambling problem, and giving her money was only going to upset her equilibrium. He felt it was a kindness not to burden her with temptation. However, he did leave some to her son.”

  My ear perked up at that. “So, his nephew?”

  “Indeed.” Mrs. Standish leaned forward and reached for another bagel with one hand and the caviar spoon with the other.

  Skipper Dean didn’t know the name of Florinda’s son when I asked.

  Mrs. Standish held up one finger as she finished chewing and swallowed. Then she said, “Florinda divorced her first husband when her son was still a teenager. I believe she’s remarried since then, but we don’t exactly run in the same circles anymore. . . .” She trailed off.

  Skipper Dean cleared his throat. “Edna, what was Florinda’s first husband’s name?”

  She looked thoughtful, then brightened. “It was Bundy! I remember, because I thought he was such a cad, and at the time I wondered if he could have been related to that murdering sociopath, Ted Bundy.”

  My jaw slackened in surprise, but she didn’t notice.

  “Of course, he wasn’t actually a serial killer—or at least if he was, they never caught him!” She grinned. “But I do remember that name. Kensington’s nephew’s last name must be Bundy.”

  “I love Mrs. Standish to death,” I remarked to Lucy as we drove back to the Honeybee. “But she is one odd duck.”

  She smiled and nodded. “One of my favorite odd ducks.”

  Chapter 7

  Lucy and I came back into the bakery through the alley. Right away I heard a familiar voice.

  “Dad!”

  I ran out to where my father sat talking with Declan and Uncle Ben. Mungo was fast on my heels. My father stood up and held out his arms for a big hug.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he said in that deep, warm tone that always seemed to make everything all right.

  Smiling, I stepped back. Someone had once remarked that he looked like Lorne Greene from the western series Bonanza, and if I squinted I could see it. He had a strongly planed face and warm brown eyes. His thick white hair waved above his ears, and summer or winter he wore a chambray shirt, jeans, and boots. I’d inherited a darker shade of my mother’s red hair, green eyes, and freckles, but I had my father’s mouth and deeper coloring.

  “How was your flight?” I asked.

  He held out his hand and rocked it back and forth. “You know—air travel. But it’s worth it to see you.” A nod at Declan. “And this guy here. On the drive in from the airport, he filled me in on what happened to your customer. It looks like you’ve gotten yourself into another fine mess.” He bent to pet my familiar, who had completely ingratiated himself with my father when we’d visited at Christmas.

  I rolled my eyes at the Laurel and Hardy quote a
nd gave him another hug when he straightened. “Thanks for coming to help out.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Always happy to help my favorite daughter.”

  “Mmm.” I was an only child, so he was trying to be funny again. “Speaking of help, and messes, what can you tell me about that picture I texted to you?”

  “Right. The totem. Do you have a larger version of that picture? It’s a bit difficult to make out the details.”

  “Come into the office,” I said. “We can take a look on the computer monitor.”

  I took out my phone and quickly sent the picture to my e-mail account. He followed me back to the tiny office, where I brought up the photo. He sat down, pulled a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket, and leaned forward.

  “Mmm-hmm,” he murmured, and zoomed in a little closer. “Hmm.”

  “It’s apparently called Ginegosh. I tried looking that up online but got nothing.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” he said again, then leaned back and took off his glasses.

  “Mmm-hmm, what?”

  “Ojibwe for ‘fox’ is waagosh, and the word for ‘snake’ is ginebig. My bet is that Ginegosh is a combination of the two, since those are the only two animals in this totem.”

  I stared at him. “How did you know that?”

  He shrugged. “The Ojibwe, aka Chippewa, speak a native language that’s similar to Shawnee. As do the Cheyenne and some other tribes. They’re, shall we say, sister languages, but not the same. A few years ago, I worked with a Chippewa tribe member who was looking for some help, and I became interested in the similarities between the languages.”

  “What kind of help?” I asked.

  Afraid of how people might take it in our little town of Fillmore, Ohio, my mother had insisted that my parents stop practicing magic in order to protect me when I was very young. Since Lucy had told me about my hereditary gifts, I’d learned that my father helped my mother with a bit of spell work, and that she was practicing regularly again, but I knew next to nothing about his shamanic practices.

  “She was ill,” he said simply. “There was misplaced negative energy left over from a bad relationship, and I helped her remove it, so she could get better.”

  “Really?” I asked, fascinated. “Will you tell me more about how you do that kind of thing?”

  His face lit up. “Sure, if you’re interested.”

  “Oh, believe me. I’m interested.” I looked at my watch. “But right now, the lunch rush is about to start. Can you tell me anything else about this piece?”

  “Other than there’s a hefty dose of blood on it?” He made a face. “Not really. It was probably made for someone specifically, perhaps as a gift. It likely represents a particular family, kind of like a coat of arms would in England or tartan plaid patterns represent Scottish clans. To the best of my knowledge, there isn’t any kind of registry for Native American totems like there are for those systems, though. I can tell you that foxes represent cleverness and strength, and snakes represent wisdom and renewal.”

  “A good combination,” I said but couldn’t help looking at my watch again. “I’d better get back to work.”

  Sure enough, there was a line at the register. Lucy was ringing up purchases, and Iris was whipping up coffee drinks.

  Declan and Ben were standing by the front door talking, and we wended our way toward them.

  “Any luck?” Declan asked.

  “Dad can tell you about it,” I said. “I need to call Quinn and fill him in.” I looked at my dad. “Thanks.”

  “I hope it helps,” he said.

  “Sky, how about we head over and drop your luggage at Ben’s, and then I’ll show you the progress at the carriage house?” Declan asked.

  My dad nodded. “I’ll see you later, Katie. Sounds like Lucy and Ben are planning a barbeque this evening.”

  I looked at my uncle, who grinned. “Burgers on the grill. Just the five of us.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “We’ll be there.”

  And hopefully, we’d know a bit more about Kensington Bosworth by then.

  * * *

  * * *

  After the lunch rush settled down, I went back into the office and called Detective Quinn. The phone rang four times, and I expected to get his voice mail. Then he picked up.

  There was a short silence before he mumbled, “Hlo. . . .”

  “Oh, God. I woke you up. I’m so sorry.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Katie Lightfoot,” I said. “I can call back.”

  “No, no.” He cleared his throat, and I heard him take a drink of something. “Did you find out anything about the murder weapon from your father?”

  I repeated everything Dad had told me. When I was done, Quinn made a hmphing noise. “Chippewa for ‘fox’ and ‘snake,’ you say. That’s interesting enough, I suppose.”

  He didn’t say the other thing I knew he was thinking—that Randy had shown an interest in the Ginegosh totem and his fingerprints were probably on it.

  “Do you know anything about who inherits Mr. Bosworth’s money yet?” I asked.

  Quinn sighed. “Katie, I know I asked for your help, but you can stop now. We have this investigation under control.”

  “Because you think Randy did it.”

  Silence.

  “Are you even bothering to investigate anyone else?”

  “Of course,” he snapped. “We aren’t complete incompetents.”

  “Yes. I know you’re very competent indeed. But Quinn—” I paused to carefully consider my words. “The police have been wrong before.”

  More silence at that, then a sigh. “And you’ve been right. You’re not going to back away from this case, are you?”

  “Probably not. Sorry. Randy is my friend.”

  Another sigh. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said. “And don’t get hurt.”

  “Okay.”

  “And let me know if you find out anything.”

  “Quid pro quo?”

  “If I find out something that seems . . . relevant.”

  “Like who the money goes to?” I persisted. “Because ‘relevant’ seems awfully subjective.”

  “We’ll see. We haven’t heard back from the lawyer yet.”

  “Well, it didn’t go to Bosworth’s sister, Florinda. He was afraid she’d gamble it away like she did the inheritance from their father. That much I was able to find out already.”

  Quinn swore softly under his breath. “Maybe I should put you on staff.”

  I allowed a little laugh. “Nah. I’m way too busy here at the bakery. Go back to sleep, Detective Quinn. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  We hung up, and I turned my attention to the computer again. There was no match when I entered Florinda Bosworth into the search engine. Then, because Florinda was such an unusual name, I tried searching for that plus Savannah.

  Turned out that Florinda wasn’t such an unusual name after all, at least not in my town. A total of eight records came up, and one of them was for Florinda Bundy from decades before. If I had a staff like Quinn did, I’d have them start calling each one. On the other hand, Quinn probably already knew her current last name from Bosworth’s records, which I didn’t have access to. Or he’d found out from Malcolm Cardwell.

  The very man Bianca and I were about to go see.

  I closed the search engine and found the picture of the Ginegosh totem was still open on the computer. On impulse, I grabbed my phone back out of my tote bag and, not having its USB cord with me, mailed myself the rest of the photos and the video I’d made in Bosworth’s outer office. After I downloaded them from e-mail, I perused each one on the larger screen.

  Such an eclectic collection of magical items. I wonder if he ever used any of them, or if someone else did it for him.

  Because I had definitely felt something protectin
g the house, and it hadn’t been Randy’s security system.

  Then I saw the picture of the datebook on the desk. I’d skipped by that photo a couple of times already because the glare from the desk lamp had obscured the details on the plastic evidence bag. However, it perfectly captured the page of Mr. Bosworth’s weekly planner, albeit upside down. Quickly, I cropped out the rest of the photo, rotated it so the writing was right side up, and enlarged it. Doing so lost some of the resolution, but I could still make out what it said.

  Tuesday, he’d had a dentist appointment. In the margin, there was a note that had a line through it. By zooming even more, I made out the words, “Hermetic Order of the Silver Moon.”

  What the heck is that?

  I scribbled a note.

  The only other thing written in the datebook was a name: Caesar Speckman.

  “Katie,” Lucy called from the kitchen. “Bianca’s here.”

  “Be right there,” I called back, quickly jotting the name on a Post-it note and sticking it to the side of the monitor.

  I looked over at Mungo, who bounded up from his prone position to stand on the chair. “I’ll follow up on Mr. Speckman later. You stay here and take care of things while I’m gone. Okay?”

  He whined and sat back.

  “I don’t know how receptive Malcolm Cardwell will be to dogs,” I said. “Besides, you know how Bianca drives.”

  He blinked, then ducked his head under his paw.

  I laughed. “Exactly.”

  Bianca wasn’t really a bad driver. I was sure that if I drove a cherry red Jaguar convertible, I’d want to take corners a bit too quickly, too. She was fast but had great reflexes.

  And truth be told, I loved riding in her car.

  My friend had showered and changed into a flowing gauze dress and ankle-strap sandals. Her thick black hair was braided and coiled into a chignon on the back of her head, and she wore a delicate silver choker with a single pearl in the middle. All she was lacking was a crown of flowers to be the May queen.

  The GPS guided us to 618 Fallow Road. Admittedly, I kept a firm grip on the edge of my seat, out of Bianca’s sight, for most of the ride, but a part of me wanted to squee! when she whipped through a roundabout or made a sharp turn. On the way I filled her in on what Dad had told me about the Ginegosh figurine.

 

‹ Prev