Worst Laid Plans (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 1)

by Claire Robyns

∞∞∞

  The deal was done in blood and sweat.

  No, seriously.

  My palms were sweating and no one ever sold their soul to the devil without it ending in bloodshed. I’d watched enough re-runs of Supernatural to know how this worked.

  Miss Crawley clasped her hands to contain her excitement, because it wouldn’t do to show emotion, and swept me into the front parlor. Jenna had conveniently needed to get back to The Vine, leaving me to enter the beast’s den on my own.

  “Make yourself comfortable, dear,” Miss Crawley said. “I’ll fetch us a pot of tea and then you can tell me all about Ms Daggon’s final hour and how you stumbled upon the unfortunate creature. A dreadful business, but times like these pull our town together.”

  I was going to burn and I probably deserved it.

  The room was a delicate arrangement of antique chairs and tables with spindly legs that didn’t look capable of supporting much more than fresh air. I sat down carefully and consoled myself that I was here for a worthy cause. After all, the dead couldn’t rest easy while their murders went unresolved. Another gem I’d picked up from my Supernatural obsession a couple of years back.

  I glanced over the display cabinets and wiped my sweaty palms along my thighs as I listened to Miss Crawley tinkering in the kitchen.

  I hadn’t really thought this through.

  Then again, I hadn’t really expected to get this far. After setting my mother on her, I’d fully expected Miss Crawley to give me the cut direct and slam the door in my face and I’m sure you don’t know what the cut direct is, but that’s a whole other story.

  Miss Crawley was the former proprietor of Miss Crawley’s Establishment of Etiquette for Young Ladies. Right here in town, actually, in the building that’s now our community center. Thankfully the demand for turning out fine young ladies dropped into oblivion before I was born, but when the internet and blogging came along, Miss Crawley jumped right on top of that.

  Guess what her blog is called?

  Miss Crawley’s Advice on Etiquette for Fine Ladies.

  Not that I read it, but the bar running down the side was a live streaming Aunty Agony column and always good for a laugh. And again, not that I would know, but if you’re wondering about the cut direct, Miss Crawley’s blog would be the place to start looking.

  I extracted the photo from my purse, ready for Miss Crawley when she came through.

  She deposited the silver tray on the polished table and perched on the chair beside me, tipping forward to pour from a stub-nose spouted porcelain teapot into matching cups.

  “This is the photo I told you about,” I said, sliding it alongside the tray.

  “Ah, the mystery photograph that’s created all this buzz.”

  “There’s no buzz,” I said quickly, not wanting her to get ideas that it was worth more than the scoop I’d traded. “Just something I found while spring cleaning that got me curious.”

  She gave the picture a cursory glance. “Why, this is Adrian Limly.”

  There was only one Limly family in Silver Firs that I knew of. “Principal Limly?”

  Miss Crawley nodded and peered at me over the top of her rimless bifocals. “Your mother could have told you that.”

  “I didn’t think to ask.” My shoulders slumped with disappointment. If it was only Principal Limly, then I’d made a big fuss over very little.

  “That would have been taken about the time he became the head of the science department. I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday.” Miss Crawley placed an embroidered doily in front of me and then a cup of weak, milky tea. “He was an excellent teacher, such a bright lad, but my goodness, what an appalling mop of hair and I didn’t mind telling him so. When it comes to a highly regarded public position, appearances are every bit as important as brains.”

  She lifted her tea cup to her lips for a dainty sip.

  “He paid a visit to the barber the day before his interview and three weeks later he was appointed to the post.” Her pinkie shot out to dot her satisfaction. “I don’t like to blow my own horn, but Adrian Limly would never have gotten as far as he has today if he hadn’t followed my advice back then.”

  “I’m sure he was very grateful,” I said politely.

  Miss Crawley smiled and sipped her tea.

  We both leaned in to admire the dapper haircut that had led him to victory.

  I now had a name to put to the face, but there was still nothing vaguely familiar about it. The building at his back drew my eye. The Lounge was spelled out in curly neon piping that I imagined would have been a flickering blue or red. Some sort of nightclub? Maybe a Jazz Club, given the era.

  Miss Crawley had never heard of The Lounge, but she probably wasn’t the best person to ask about the local clubbing scene, now or then.

  Considering the inconsequential drab I’d bargained for, I didn’t feel bad about feeding Miss Crawley the bare minimum when it came my turn to share. I just hoped she wouldn’t take the glaring gaps in my story as an opportunity to improvise.

  ∞∞∞

  I’d left my car parked at the pier and since Miss Crawley lived at the end of our street and I still had most of the day to waste, I decided to take a stroll by my house in case Mom was home.

  My talk with Miss Crawley hadn’t uncovered anything relevant to the investigation, but it hadn’t been a total loss with regards to sating my general curiosity.

  It seemed that Principal Limly, Mr Biggenhill and Ms Daggon had been thick as thieves in their youth, maybe the latter two had even really been high school sweethearts. Hanging out like the Three Musketeers, clubbing together, that sort of thing. That would explain the photo and Ms Daggon holding onto it, a precious keepsake of better times. And, of course, the unlikely friendship between Principal Limly and Ms Daggon that had apparently persevered through the years.

  Dad was in the front garden, knee-deep in his flower beds.

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?” I called out.

  He glanced up, saw me, and a world of warmth creased into his smile. “I don’t work Fridays anymore.”

  “Jeez, I go away for four years and suddenly everything changes,” I exclaimed, then grew serious. “There’s nothing wrong, is there? Did Doctor Kerb advise you to slow down? Is there—”

  “Slow down, baby girl.” Dad chuckled. “My last check up, the only thing Doctor Kerb advised was for me to slow down on those second helpings of pie.”

  My eyes skimmed over his flat stomach, along his lean thighs folded in the dirt. “You haven’t put on any weight.”

  “It’s my cholesterol,” he said, and quickly added when he saw my brows sharpening, “Nothing wrong with it, but Doctor Kerb wants to keep it that way.”

  “So why the short week day, then?”

  “To spend more time with your mother,” he said. “We’re thinking of getting one of those campers and doing some long weekends exploring.”

  “Oh, okay.” I relaxed my expression. Dad was in his mid-fifties and fitter than most thirty-year-olds. I had to stop jumping to dark, grim conclusions. “That sounds great.”

  I grinned down at him and patted my chin. “You’ve got some dirt there.”

  He wiped his chin and spread the mess.

  I laughed. “Never mind.”

  “This is nice, having you drop in unexpected.” He rested on his haunches, his smile creasing into his leathery face. “We’re happy for your success in the city, but your mother and I miss you, baby girl.”

  “I miss you, too,” I said, skating over the issue of my so-called success. “Is Mom home?”

  “She just popped over to the Stop & Grab,” he said. “There’s pumpkin pie for lunch, if you’re up to a full scale interrogation.”

  “Joe or Ms Daggon?”

  “That Detective Bishop.” Dad wagged his brows at me. “She has it on good authority you were last seen chasing after the detective like a wild tigress.”

  “Suzie-Sue.” I rolled my eyes and sighed. “For once, t
hat’s actually not too far off from the truth.”

  Give or take a few highly suggestive words.

  I hadn’t chased after him and I’d been more like a madwoman if you had to describe me. Although I preferred the image of wild tigress. Maybe I’d let that one stand.

  “I’ll bring you out some lemonade.” I turned toward the house, then hesitated and turned back to Dad. “Have you ever heard of a place called The Lounge? A club, maybe, somewhere around here and this was ages ago, round-about when Principal Limly was first made head of the science department?”

  “Goodness, that’s going back some years.”

  “You do know it then?”

  “No, sorry.” He scratched his cheek, spreading the dirt even further. “I was just thinking about all the hoo-ha at that time.”

  My attention perked. “Hoo-ha?”

  “When Adrian got his promotion, he proposed to Jean,” Dad said. “They married shortly after, a big wedding, we were all invited, and a couple of days later, that’s when Harold Biggenhill went missing.”

  I stared at Dad. “Are you saying it’s all connected?”

  “To that place of yours?” asked Dad with a nonplussed look. “The Lounge?”

  “Forget about The Lounge,” I said. “Do you think Mr Biggenhill’s disappearance was linked to the wedding?”

  “Why would I think that?”

  “Because you said that’s when he went missing.”

  “Which is why we all remember Adrian’s promotion,” Dad said. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  Maybe it was just a coincidence.

  And maybe it was as simple as Mr Biggenhill attending a friend’s wedding and then questioning how happy he was in his own marriage.

  TEN

  The curious circumstances surrounding Mr Biggenhill’s disappearance crowded my head as I took a leisurely stroll back to the town square some hours later. I suppose it was only a matter of time before I drew the parallel to my own life and played an impromptu pop quiz.

  Which would be worse?

  One: Your husband leaving you for another woman.

  Two: Your husband dying.

  Three: Your husband going poof without a trace.

  Well, number one wasn’t pretty, especially when you caught him in the act.

  But not knowing had to be worse.

  Imagine if I had to spend the rest of my life wondering if Joe had run off with a Chintilly or if he were dead?

  Jenna must have been watching at the window because she rushed out the door just as I cut through the parking lot behind the community center. She had her jacket on, her purse slung over her shoulder, and she put a hand up to keep me from crossing Birch Road. She was coming to me.

  “Mom’s behind the counter,” she called out as she zipped across the road. “It’s been slow all afternoon.”

  Her phone went off. She pulled it from her pocket and checked the display. “It’s Jack.”

  “Take it,” I said with a sly grin. “Miss Crawley’s amazing revelations can wait.”

  “You’re killing me,” she groaned, although the suspense didn’t stop her from taking Jack’s call.

  I chuckled and strode up ahead, leading us across Main Street to Cuppa-Cake. She’d sent me a dozen texts demanding details, but I could be evil that way. Stalling her was too much fun, especially when the big reveal was kind of limp.

  Jenna caught up to me, the phone clasped to her chest. “Jack wants to take me camping in the foothills tomorrow and Sunday. What do you think?”

  “I’m not the best person to ask for dating advice,” I said with a dry laugh. “Look how my last relationship ended up.”

  “I see you’ve moved on to stage three,” she snorted. “Self-depreciating humor.”

  “What was stage one and two?”

  “Emotional denial and revenge,” she said. “You choose the order.”

  I was just happy that my psychotic break didn’t have its own stage.

  My eyes prodded the phone clutched at her chest. “You should definitely go. I’ll help out at The Vine tomorrow if your parents need me to.”

  “Thanks, but when I asked what you think, I meant about coming camping with us.”

  “And give up my creature comforts?” I shuddered at the thought. I loved nature and all its bountiful joys, I really did. I just preferred to tuck myself into a bug-free bed when I was done with it for the day.

  I twirled a finger at an empty table beneath the candy-striped trellis outside Cuppa-Cake. “Grab that while I get us coffee.”

  Feeling guilty about our contraband croissants this morning, I added a couple of frosted lemons to our order. If anyone snitched on us, at least I could claim unbiased patronage.

  Jenna hung up as soon as I returned, a dreamy smile plastered on her face.

  I deposited the tray on the table. “You really like him, huh?”

  “I do.” Her smile sank deep into her eyes, then crumpled as she remembered. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not a bitter and twisted divorcee yet.” I pulled a chair out and sat. “I still believe in love, in theory anyway, and I’m happy for you.”

  “Slow down there, tiger.” Her eyes widened. “I like Jack, but we’re not rushing into anything.”

  “Speaking of tigers…” I wrapped one hand around my mug and extracted the photograph from my purse with the other. “Suzie-Sue is going around telling everyone that I’ve got the hots for Detective Bishop.”

  “There’s that word association again.” Jenna sighed and lifted her mug of coffee. “If you’re not careful, you’ll land up with your brain pickled and preserved on a shelf in a laboratory.”

  “So long as they wait until after I’m dead.” I didn’t really mind being someone’s science project. Pity there was nothing odd or unusual about my brain. “And FYI, she’s saying I’m chasing after him like a demented tigress.”

  “No one will believe that,” Jenna reassured me.

  “That must be why I’ve just spent the last two hours trying to tell my mother that I was after his blood and not his loins.”

  Jenna spluttered out a mouthful of coffee. “His loins?”

  “You know what I mean,” I grumbled.

  “Unfortunately, I do.” She wiped her mouth, not trying very hard to contain her mirth. “But next time, please, just say you’re after his body.”

  “I’m not!”

  “You should think about it,” she said. “He is incredibly hot.”

  “Jenna!” Hadn’t we already had this conversation? “Rebound relationships are never ever a good idea.”

  She fluttered her lashes at me. “And what’s your take on a rebound fling?”

  That didn’t deserve an answer.

  I pushed the photo of Principal Limly in front of her nose and told her everything I knew. Which wasn’t much, granted, but I buffered the scanty facts with my version of the Three Musketeers and Mr Biggenhill’s uncanny timing.

  That’s when I noticed the ring on Principal Limly’s finger. “Oh my God, that picture was taken after he got married.”

  “And that’s important, why?”

  “My dad said Mr Biggenhill went missing just days after the wedding.” I traced the curly neon piping with my fingernail, thinking hard. “This might be the last photograph Mr Biggenhill ever took. Maybe…” I looked at Jenna, frowning. “Maybe this was the last place he was ever seen.”

  “You’re creeping me out,” Jenna said. “We don’t know for sure that he’s dead.”

  “But say he wanted to disappear, just up and leave his life. What if Principal Limly and Ms Daggon helped him arrange it? They may even have kept in contact with him. They may know where he is right now.”

  I tapped The Lounge.

  “Maybe even in the same town as this club.” My voice dropped in awe. “What if he’s been living just around the corner all these years?”

  “Okay, stop.” Jenna gave me a look. “Listen to yourself, Maddie. Everything is ma
ybe, might and what if.”

  “But it would explain the sentimental value of this photograph to Ms Daggon.”

  “If she knew he was alive,” Jenna said, ever the voice of reason, “why did she accuse and hound Mrs Biggenhill for killing him?”

  “To put everyone off the scent?”

  “That’s extreme, even for Ms Daggon.” Jenna laughed. “Besides, Mr Biggenhill had everything here.” She ticked them off. “His job. His house. His friends. Why leave all that behind when he could just leave his wife?”

  “There are husbands who are afraid to leave their wives,” I said, thinking of my Broadway play, The Rambler. “Husband abuse is a real thing.”

  Jenna groaned. “I’m confused. Is Mrs Biggenhill a sweet little old lady or a bully capable of heinous crimes?”

  “I don’t know and I’m not accusing anyone,” I said. “I’m just pointing out that there are reasons someone might want to disappear and that they might have friends willing to aid and abet.”

  Jenna scowled down at the photo. “You’re not suggesting Mr Biggenhill has been renting a room at The Lounge all this time?”

  “It would be a place to begin…looking...” I trailed off as I caught sight of Principal Limly and his wife approaching from the green. “Lookie there.”

  Jenna looked and looked and looked.

  I chuckled. “You’re trying to shave his hair and beard and slice a hundred pounds off his waistline, aren’t you?”

  She brought her eyes back to the table and me. “Actually, I’m trying to picture myself thirty years from now. Growing old is a nasty business.”

  We sipped our coffee and watched as the elderly couple crossed the road and walked down Main Street. Principal Limly was a good few years younger than Ms Daggon, but he couldn’t be that far from retirement age himself.

  When Mrs Limly popped into a store and he remained standing by the door, I pushed to my feet. “I’m going to have a word with him.”

  “About what?”

  “What do you think?”

  Jenna nearly spluttered out another mouthful. “You cannot be serious.”

  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “I won’t do anything stupid.”