Worst Laid Plans (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 1)

by Claire Robyns

  “Define stupid,” she muttered. “How would you even start a conversation like that?”

  “I’ll come up with something.” I moved my purse from the floor to the table. “Keep an eye on my things. I won’t be long.”

  ∞∞∞

  Principal Limly was stopped outside Silver Bangles, a distinctly female fashion accessory store.

  I sailed right on by, glimpsed him out of the corner of my eye and spun about to an abrupt halt. “Principal Limly? What a lovely surprise.” I said enthusiastically.

  “Why, hello there, Maddox.” His eyes filled with warmth and twinkled. “And how’s my favorite student?”

  I knew for a fact he said that to all his students, past and present. Except maybe Johnny Delaware, who’d sprayed his car with shaving foam as a graduation day prank. The inside of the car.

  “I’m well, thank you.” I flipped my smile upside down. “It’s terrible about Ms Daggon. I’m so very sorry. You were close friends, weren’t you?”

  “She was a good woman.” He stroked his beard, releasing a heavy sigh. “She’ll be sorely missed by the staff and all her students.”

  Were we even talking about the same woman?

  “I have some beautiful memories of her.” My tongue nearly strangled me on the lie, but I pulled out my full repertoire of acting skills and swiped away a tear that rolled down my cheek. “You may not have heard, but I’m staying at Hollow House this visit, for a change of pace, you know? It’s so quiet and peaceful outside the bustle of town.”

  He nodded. “Mrs Limly mentioned you found Ms Daggon that fateful morning.”

  “That was truly horrible.” One hundred percent truth. “Especially coming after the night before. She made me a cup of tea and we had a long, sweet chat. I think she was feeling a little nostalgic.” I bit down on my lip. “Almost as if she’d known…”

  Principal Limly cleared his throat. “Ms Daggon was going through a personal upheaval,” he said sadly. “Reaching the end of an era, you might say. It probably had something to do with that.”

  “That sounds about right,” I agreed. “She showed me a photo, of you, actually, taken by Mr Biggenhill.”

  “Goodness, that’s going back some ways.” He scratched his beard, his gaze going to the handcrafted jewelry nestled in a display of feathers in the store front window. “I can’t think of when Harold Biggenhill would have taken my picture.” His gaze came back to me. “If I recall, he much preferred snapping away at wildlife, nature shots and such.”

  “And friends and family, surely?”

  “He was a good many years older than me.” Principal Limly grunted and shook his head. “We were acquainted, naturally, but I wouldn’t have considered us friends. You must be mistaken about that photo, Maddox.”

  “Ms Daggon seemed quite sure,” I said. “You were all at some place called The Lounge when it was taken. And it was right after you’d just gotten married….or so she said. Does that sound familiar?”

  Some of the warmth fled his eyes and I felt instantly bad. I was pushing, poking my nose into things that had nothing to do with me. Maybe Principal Limly really didn’t remember, or maybe he was still protecting Mr Biggenhill’s secret second life.

  “Perhaps if I saw this photo, it would jog some memories,” Principal Limly said after an awkward pause. “Do you still have it?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  I was not about to confess to committing a felony to my old principal.

  “It’s probably amongst Ms Daggon’s belongings and the cops have locked and sealed her room. You could try asking them to release it to you once the investigation is over,” I suggested, thinking he may appreciate the keepsake more than any of Ms Daggon’s relatives, if she even had any.

  “I might just do that,” he said, then swiftly changed the subject. “How long are you planning to stay?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t have an exact timetable.”

  “Ah…” He chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling with warmth again. “To be young again, without commitments to tie you down.”

  I’d rather enjoyed my commitments, but I just nodded and smiled.

  “Hollow House is a beautiful setting at this time of year,” he went on. “I’ve been thinking of treating Mrs Limly to a night there, what with our anniversary coming up next week.”

  “You really should.” You can thank me later, Mr Hollow. “I’m sure she’d love it.”

  “I think I will,” he said decisively. “I’ll call and make the reservation right now. Our anniversary is on Wednesday. Do you have the number?”

  I didn’t. And to my knowledge, there was no means to obtain it. I really had to have that talk with Mr Hollow about bringing his operation into the digital century. And maybe ask Burns what are freaking number was.

  “I’m on my way back there now,” I told Principal Limly. “Why don’t I make the booking for you? I’ll make sure you get the best suite available.”

  “That’s kind, thank you. Mrs Limly has always wanted to try out that terrace restaurant.”

  Uh oh.

  I opened my mouth to explain, but just then his wife stepped out of the store and Principal Limly leaned closer and put a finger to his lips, saying in a hushed voice, “Let’s keep this a surprise. She’ll be delighted.”

  He seemed so thrilled at the prospect, I didn’t have the heart to disappoint him.

  ∞∞∞

  Mr Hollow was not impressed with my good news.

  “The Terrace has been closed since last November.” He harrumphed and stomped his cane on the flagged stone floor. “Where am I supposed to find a cordon bleu chef at this short notice?”

  Burns finished penning in the Limly’s reservation with a flourish of his fountain pen, then closed the leather bound book with a decided thud. “Should I call Mops & Tops?” he asked of Mr Hollow.

  I crinkled my nose at him. “Is that a cordon bleu caterer?”

  “The cleaning service we use from Skaneateles,” Burns informed me. “They used to come in twice weekly, but we’ve been making do with every other month.”

  “I’ll help you make everything presentable, on the surface at least,” I shot back quickly. I’d made a mistake, it seemed, assuming guests were good for business, but it didn’t necessarily have to be an expensive one. To Mr Hollow, I added, “I can ask my mother to cook Wednesday night.”

  “No offense to your mother, but reputation is everything and I do intend to reopen The Terrace one day, when the time is right,” he muttered.

  “Well, I’m offended!” I slammed my palm down on the reception desk and glared at the impossible man. “My mom’s an excellent cook and you can’t have the egg without the chicken.”

  That sounded awful, as if I were comparing Mom to a chicken.

  “You can’t have The Terrace without guests,” I clarified. “And in this instance, you can’t have guests without The Terrace. Maybe a small compromise is in order, don’t you think?”

  Burns gave a small stretch and slumped low in his wicker chair.

  Mr Hollow glared at me from beneath his thick, furrowed brow. “If anything goes wrong, it’s on your head.”

  I sighed and walked off, disgusted with the thanks I got for nabbing our first paying guests of the season.

  ELEVEN

  Growing up, Mr and Mrs Adams had been like a spare set of parents to me. They’d run The Vine without Jenna’s help for most of their lives and they didn’t really need me on Saturday, but I hadn’t seen much of them since I’d moved to New York City. It was nice to spend the day in their company. It was also nice to be too busy to obsess over Mr Biggenhill and that troublesome photograph.

  If Nana Rose could see what I’d been up to, she’d wag her finger and warble, “Idle time is the devil’s playground, child.”

  Thankfully she couldn’t see me.

  Nana Rose was on her honeymoon, a six-month cruise around the world. Personally, I thought it was fantastic. She’d seen a lot in her sixty-nine ye
ars, and outlived two husbands, and after this she would honestly be able to say she’d seen it all. My mother had a slightly different opinion on the matter and Nana Rose’s name hadn’t been mentioned in the house since the elopement.

  Later that night, I snuck downstairs and returned the photograph to Ms Daggon’s shoe box treasure chest.

  The past belonged in the past.

  I put some effort into restoring the broken lock, but gave up when I lost another piece and a couple of screws to the big black hole inside the door. I used the remaining screws to fasten the brass plate and handle as best I could.

  By mid-morning Sunday, I was second-guessing my decision. The past did belong in the past, but what about when it crept into the present?

  There were many reasons for a man needing to run, as I’d told Jenna, and an abusive spouse was only one of them.

  There was also running from the law.

  Running from loan sharks.

  Running from a deal gone sour.

  Running after witnessing a mafia execution.

  The list was endless and what if that past had caught up to Ms Daggon?

  The FBI wouldn’t poison her, I didn’t think, but any of the others might—out of pure spite if they thought she knew where Mr Biggenhill was but wasn’t telling.

  The likelihood was remote.

  I wasn’t sold on the idea, not at all.

  Plus, this was a job for the police, not for an unemployed actress on the cusp of a divorce.

  And yet…

  I squashed the impulse and set off for the long walk into town and Mom’s Sunday roast. Since I was after a favor, I was on my best behavior. I wore a maxi skirt in autumn colors and rubber-soled pumps. I hadn’t brought any formal blouses with me, but I covered my tee with a linen jacket.

  Dad was in the front parlor with his paper and a beer shandy. I gave him a quick hello hug and then went through to the kitchen.

  Mom looked me over with a pleased eye. “Why, don’t you look pretty? You should wear skirts more often.”

  I smiled and inhaled deeply. “That smells glorious.”

  “It’s your favorite, rosemary lamb.”

  I plopped onto a chair and eased my pumps off. I’d thought the rubber soles would be good for walking, but I hadn’t considered the fact that they were new and hadn’t been worn in yet. “Anything I can do?”

  “Not at the moment, honey,” Mom said. “The roast still has an hour to go. I was late getting back from Betty’s.”

  “How is she?”

  “Very well, apart from her allergies playing up.” Mom brought her tablet to the table and took a seat beside me. “We were hoping you could verify something.”

  She opened up an email and tapped one the headlines in the digest post. Farewell, Belinda Daggon.

  My stomach lurched as I pulled the tablet closer.

  Instead of the usual obituary that listed accolades and people whom the deceased would be missed by, Miss Crawley described the last minutes of Ms Daggon’s life. How she’d sat down in the one room she’d always drawn the most comfort from, the kitchen, and enjoyed her favored cup of Rowan Circle Earl Grey tea. Then she’d put her head down in her arms and fallen into her final sleep.

  The piece was short and tasteful—and rather nice for a woman who hadn’t been very nice at all—and garnered a new respect from me for Miss Crawley. She didn’t just blog about propriety and the proper behavior that should be exhibited by a fine lady; apparently she was one of those rare people who practiced what she preached.

  She hadn’t even mentioned murder and, though I hadn’t said anything, I was pretty sure Miss Crawley knew all about the poison by now.

  “It’s lovely,” I told Mom. “And quite accurate.”

  “Oh, well, that’s that, then,” Mom said with a sigh of disappointment and stood. “I’ll just go ring Betty and let her know.”

  She sent me a look of accusation on her way out. “It hasn’t been a very good month for us.”

  Since I was on my best behavior, I swallowed any snarky comments about Miss Crawley’s blotter blunder on me buying Hollow House and how I really should be more important, being her only child and all.

  I needn’t have bothered.

  Mom was over-the-moon ecstatic when I got around to asking. You’d think I was doing her a favor by putting her to work.

  “I can’t wait to tell everyone that I’ve cooked for The Terrace restaurant.” Her smile beamed with uncontained excitement. “Imagine that.”

  I opened my mouth, then shut it firmly. So what if Principal Limly learnt he wasn’t getting the cordon bleu treatment? We were resurrecting the entire restaurant just for him, and that wouldn’t be possible without Mom.

  “Maybe I could put it on my resume,” Mom said wistfully.

  My eyes bulged at her. “Resume?”

  “I’ve never had a career and now with you gone and the house empty, it’s just something I’ve been thinking about.”

  “Since when?”

  “Why, since you asked me to help out at Hollow House.”

  “That was literally five minutes ago.”

  She tutted and went to start on prepping the vegetables. “If I can be the chef for a fancy restaurant like The Terrace, then why not somewhere else? Maybe I could even open up my own place.” She looked up and stabbed the dicing knife at her latest bright thought in the air. “I could call it Stormy Bistro.”

  Oh dear Heavens, I’d created a monster.

  I planted my elbows on the table and sank my head into my hands. Perhaps we could just keep The Terrace restaurant open and establish Mom as our master chef? That way, at least she wouldn’t be throwing their golden nest egg into the fickle waters of the restaurant trade.

  Now there was just the small matter of convincing Mr Hollow.

  I groaned inwardly and stared daggers at Ms Daggon’s farewell on the tablet screen. She was dead and gone, and yet somehow still causing me all kinds of trouble. Look at my latest problem. It was ridiculous how one stupid photograph led to my mom’s sudden midlife crisis.

  Part of a sentence jumped out at me.

  … favored cup of Rowan Circle Earl Grey tea.

  I hadn’t told Miss Crawley the name of tea. Did everyone know about Ms Daggon’s preference for the exotic brand? Another thing, so seemingly innocuous, but with dire repercussions.

  Most people favored a specific brand of tea, of course, but few went to the effort and expense of importing it in from Dublin or were so stingy when it came to sharing. Which made Ms Daggon’s innocent cup of tea the perfect murder weapon.

  Wondering what could be so special about a bag of leaves, I closed the email and opened a browsing window.

  The first link took me to a packaging and distribution company that operated out of Dublin. Rowan Circle Earl Grey was one of many diverse products offered and the tea actually came from a home industry type farm on the Irish moors: a blend of Ceylon leaves from India and locally sourced herbs native to the moors.

  I glanced over the pale lemon packaging and the logo of a stubby tree inside a blurry black circle. Two sizes were available for purchase. A box of one hundred and a box of two hundred and fifty tea bags.

  Now that was interesting.

  I’d assumed an ardent tea fanatic like Ms Daggon would have abhorred the convenience of tea bags over loose leaf, and maybe she had, but loose leaf wasn’t an option on the on-line shopping page.

  TWELVE

  Monday morning bloomed with the first serious signs of an early summer.

  Optimistic about the heat shimmering in a glorious blue sky, I pulled on a strappy tee and a pair of three-quarter Capri pants. I was happily surprised to discover a couple of spare inches around my waistband.

  Maybe I was capable of withering after all.

  I gave my new slimness a twirl in the mirror.

  This definitely deserved a treat, something in the order of a triple chocolate muffin for breakfast.

  Not wanting to ruin a good thi
ng, I left my car keys in the bedroom. Daily exercise, it seemed, wasn’t nearly as useless as I’d always believed.

  I peeped around the staircase to ensure the coast was clear before I ventured down. I wasn’t avoiding Burns… Okay, I was totally avoiding Burns and the spring clean I’d promised to help out with, but only for a couple of hours. I had something far more important to do first.

  Besides the triple chocolate muffin.

  I hoped crossing into a crime scene wasn’t really a proper felony, because I was about to confess all and come clean. Once I’d brought the photograph to the attention of the police, I could wash my hands of the case and never look back. I was done with poking my nose into other people’s dusty secrets.

  My stomach was rumbling by the time I reached the North Pier and cut through the alley onto the green. I had to walk straight past the town hall to get to Cuppa-Cake, but I figured confessing on an empty stomach was plain stupid. I didn’t think Jack would toss me into a cell, but the odds were in the air when it came to Detective Bishop.

  Detective Bishop wasn’t waiting at the station like an obedient policeman to take my statement when I was ready. He was seated beneath the awning of Cuppa-Cake with a mug and plate of crumbs for company.

  He saw me, scraped his sunglasses up into his hair and stood to greet me with a stone-baked smile. “Morning, Ms Storm.”

  As if he hadn’t shredded my personality at our last encounter.

  I didn’t have sunglasses to rake up, so I made do with running my eyes down his lean, muscular form.

  My pulse stirred at how good he looked in denim and a thin-ribbed sweater.

  Goodness, I was already aware that he knew how to look good wearing a sharp suit, and now I was uncomfortably aware of how good that pair of jeans looked wearing him.

  I arched an unimpressed brow at him. “Dress down Monday?”

  “Day off, actually.”

  “I didn’t know you lived around here,” I said while silently congratulating myself for getting the timing right for once. I couldn’t have chosen a better day for a confession if I’d tried.