by Lynn Bohart
Jake signed off, and I sat for a moment in contemplation. I agreed that Miller was capable of having set the fire, or at least of having someone else set the fire. In fact, it seemed more likely that he did it than anyone else I could think of. But thinking I knew who did something that was so despicable wasn’t as comforting as I might have thought, especially since I didn’t think I could prove it. Breaking into his office in order to steal the jewelry box was beginning to take second place to my desire now to find something that would prove he had orchestrated the fire. Maybe we could kill two birds with one stone.
The day progressed into evening, and before I knew it, the day was over. I retired to my apartment exhausted. April had offered to bring in pizza, but I was almost too tired to eat and declined.
After a breakfast bar and a glass of milk, I finally slipped into bed. I feared I wouldn’t sleep. Even though my body had trouble functioning, my brain wouldn’t stop replaying images of the candle-walker, Emily Foster, Frank Miller, and even how I pictured Lollie Gates and the baby. So much had happened in such a short time, and I had no doubt the fire was somehow connected. And sure enough, I slept little, waking the next morning tired and mentally depressed.
I had a meager breakfast and got ready for another busy day. The insurance adjuster would be out to do a thorough walk-through, and the owner of a demolition crew was coming to give us an estimate. I helped with the guests’ breakfast and then offered to hold down the fort while April went shopping to replace supplies lost in the fire. She would use the inn’s main kitchen for everything, including baking some of her signature items for retail.
Even though it was Sunday, the insurance adjuster arrived at 10:00 a.m., along with Mr. Mulford, my bookkeeper. Together, we reviewed records and took a look at what remained of the bakery and the warehouse. Both David and Chief Rampart were back, walking through the building once more, looking for clues.
Sometime after lunch a giant dumpster was delivered. We’d also hired a couple of José’s friends to come and help. They began separating things damaged by fire and smoke from those that could be saved, while José updated the inventory and the claims adjuster looked on. And even though our commercial ovens were still intact, they were blackened with soot and had some melted wires, and so were deemed a total loss.
As we rummaged through the building, something caught my eye. It was a glint of metal among the charred remains of the attic up near the front wall.
“What’s that?” I said to José, pointing toward the glint.
He handed me his clipboard and climbed carefully through the debris, reaching over to pull up the candlestick from the attic. “Just this,” he said, holding it up so that I could see. He glanced around the area and then said, “Uh…hold on.” He shuffled through the debris toward the north wall, reached down and pulled something else out of the rubble. “And this. There’s two of them.”
A jolt traveled from my head to my toes. In his left hand was the missing candlestick. And the moment I realized it, a refreshing summer breeze blew through what was left of the barn, swirling up ashes and raising the hairs on the back of my neck.
Since David was there, I called him over and explained my theory about the two candlesticks. He took them both in his hands.
“Any way to tell which one is which?”
“I doubt it,” I replied. “Although this one,” I said, gesturing to the one in his right hand, “was found over there,” I said, gesturing to the north wall.
“Does that make a difference?”
“I think so. The one in your left hand was found up by the front of the building. In other words, right below the attic. So I think that’s the one we already had. The one in your right hand was found closer to where the diaper bag was found. It’s a weak theory, I know.”
“Not really,” he said, glancing around. “So this one might have been hidden up in the rafters, just like the diaper bag?” he said, gesturing with the one in his right hand. He looked thoughtful for a moment as he studied that one. He turned it over and brought it up close to his face to peer closely at the bottom. Then he blew ashes off of it. “It looks like there could be blood on this one,” he said. “It’s covered in ash, but the lab can probably separate the two.”
I leaned in to take a look and saw a splash of something dark across the bottom edge of the candlestick and stuck in the crevices. “So I was right. The baby might have been killed with the candlestick.”
I can’t say I was exhilarated by the revelation; none of this excited me. But I did feel a sense of satisfaction knowing that perhaps we’d actually found the murder weapon.
“I’ll give it to forensics,” he said. “And then maybe you and I need to sit down and go over everything you’ve learned about that secret room. And I mean everything,” he emphasized.
My mind flashed to the potential trip to the Hardliner Pub later that night to steal the jewelry box. “Let me get through today, please,” I said. “Can we meet tomorrow?”
“I need to know what you know,” he said impatiently. “Whoever torched your barn is probably connected to the work you’re doing on your book.”
“I know. I know,” I said. “Just give me until tomorrow morning,” I pleaded. “I’m just overwhelmed right now.”
I didn’t have to manufacture the beginnings of tears, since I’d been on the verge of tears most of the day. He recognized my distress and sighed. “Okay, first thing in the morning.”
I recovered my composure, and we resumed our work. Over the course of the rest of the day, we checked in two more guests and had a large container delivered to store the antiques that were still viable. I spent most of the afternoon running through the inventory with José and meeting with the demolition company, who said they would begin first thing Monday morning. At dinner time, April came to find me.
“You need to eat. Come into the kitchen. And call the boys,” she said, meaning José and his friends. “I put out sandwiches on the counter.”
I told José to take a break and eat and then followed April inside. I washed my hands and plopped into one of the kitchen chairs, rotating my neck to release tension. She already had a chicken salad sandwich and chips set out for me.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m exhausted. I think we can save the sinks and counters from the bakery. We’ll store them in with the antiques for now.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, coming over to the table.
“But we can rebuild, April. It won’t be easy, but we can do it. I promise.”
She smiled sadly and took a deep sigh. “Maybe we shouldn’t, Julia. Maybe we should just stick to baking things we can sell right here in the inn. The bakery didn’t really bring in that much extra money anyway.”
“But you loved the bakery,” I stressed.
“I did. But I can use the main kitchen here for everything we need to run the inn, and then I’d be more available to help out around here,” she said. “We’re booked solid again for another six months. And Crystal said we had two calls today with requests for weddings.” She paused with her hand wrapped around half a sandwich. After a second, she said, “Maybe what we ought to build is a reception hall.” She paused again, watching me – apparently to gauge my reaction.
“So, drop the bakery?”
“Yeah. If we had a reception hall, we could host bigger events, maybe bring in more money. If we wanted, we could include a kitchen, but more for the caterers. What do you think?”
I took a moment to consider the idea. “Actually, I think it’s a great idea! A reception hall right out there on the water would be beautiful. But where would we store the antiques?”
“I’ve thought of that,” she said between bites. “We could expand the garage. We only park the van in there anyway, so we could use half of it for the van and gardening tools and build on another section for the antiques.”
“That could work,” I agreed.
She seemed to be energized by my reaction and leaned in to me. “I w
as thinking that we could design the hall as a complement to the inn, you know, Victorian in style, with big picture windows so that guests had a full view of the lake.”
“You know, if we had a separate reception hall when we held a special event, we wouldn’t be interrupting guests who are staying here at the inn. They could be completely separate.”
“Right. We’d probably have to add some parking,” she said. “Maybe take out a few trees.”
“And add lighting and electrical wiring for bands,” I said. “What an exciting idea. But are you sure, April? That bakery was your dream.”
“I did love it. But it was a ton of work, and I always felt like I wasn’t pulling my weight at the inn. This way, I’d still get to do my baking and cooking for the guests. But now we’d have the opportunity to do some party planning, too. I think this would be a very popular location.”
Her broad smile lifted my spirits, and we spent the rest of our dinner together brainstorming and penciling out some design ideas. By the time we were done, we were ready to talk to an architect, and the tragedy of losing the barn seemed diminished.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Jake and Blair arrived at eight o’clock that night to make the final decision on whether to go to the Hardliner Pub to grab the jewelry box. I had wrestled with this question all day, and my brain felt like a smudge pot. With the lack of sleep and all the stressors competing for my attention, I almost couldn’t cope.
I didn’t want to go.
“I can’t do it,” I told my cohorts. Blair’s face fell, but I went on. “Blair, any way you look at it, it’s breaking the law. Not only could we get caught and go to jail, we’re dealing with Frank Miller, who wouldn’t think twice about hurting us. I still wouldn’t put it past him to have been the one who started the fire. Jake, you need to tell her what you told me about Miller.”
We were spread out around my small dining table in my apartment. Jake recounted his story about Miller threatening him. Blair slumped back against her chair.
“Okay, I get it,” she said. “But I thought we could figure out a way to do it without breaking any laws or anyone knowing it was us.”
I heaved a sigh. “Maybe we could. But I don’t want to have to explain whatever we did to David. This relationship is important to me.” Blair twisted her mouth into a frown. I shifted my gaze to Jake. “You okay with that?”
He shrugged. “Sure. But I’m not going to give up just yet. There may be another way to get it.”
“How?” Blair asked, sitting up.
Jake waved away her enthusiasm. “Hang tight. I have to check out a couple of things. Then I’ll let you know.”
We chatted for a few more minutes, but when they finally left, I felt a great sense of relief. So much so, I decided to go to bed early. A character in one of the many mysteries I’d read once said, “Who needs sleep when you’re solving murders?” Well, that was all well and good in a book, but I hadn’t slept for a couple of nights, and I needed some rest.
I took a sleep aid and fell into a heavy slumber, and yet still woke groggy the next day. I dragged myself out of bed and began my daily routine, feeling like the walking dead. I slumped into the kitchen to help April. She noticed the lack of a spring to my step.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, looking up from the breakfast burritos she was making.
“Uh…I’m just really tired. What with the fire and everything else that’s going on,” I looked at my friend and noticed the circles under her eyes. “How are you feeling?”
She shook her head. “Not much better. All last night, a tape kept running through my head about all the things we have to do now just to clean up the mess and straighten things out after the fire. At least we’re not expecting any check-ins today, are we?”
“No.” I yawned, covering my mouth with my hand. “But I have to call David. He wants the low-down on what we’ve learned so far in our research for the book to see if any of it is connected to the fire. Doe will probably have to work, but I’ll see if Blair and Rudy can come over.”
April was rolling up eggs, sausage, black beans and cheese in a tortilla. “Well, I hope the police find whoever it was that set fire to the bakery and put him…or her…in jail,” she said, putting the last burrito in the chafing dish.
“Amen to that,” I said. The front door jingled, catching my attention. “I’ll get that.”
I pushed through the kitchen door and rounded the corner to the reception area. Aria Stottlemeyer stood at the front desk with her hand poised on the reception desk bell.
“Good morning, Aria,” I greeted her. “What can I do for you?”
I hoped nothing, but when I saw a paperback book in her hands, I remembered her grandfather’s memoir.
“I thought I’d drop this off on my way to work,” she said. “Sorry I didn’t bring it over sooner, but I’ve been down with a pretty bad cold.”
I experienced a momentary twinge of guilt at having had snarky thoughts about her in the past. But then I remembered the time Aria had said, “You look like you’ve put on a little weight, Julia,” right in front of six people waiting in line at the post office, and my guilt evaporated.
“Thanks so much, Aria. I’m sure this will help. I’ll get it back to you.”
“No problem,” she said, raising that pointy chin. She sniffed the air. “I guess I’m not stuffed up anymore. I can smell your dogs.”
And with that, she gave me a satisfied smile and left.
Really!
I climbed onto the stool behind the reception desk to check out the memoir. It had been written by Otis Stottlemeyer, Aria’s grandfather. Aria had never married and so had the same last name.
The book was divided into decades, so I wasn’t sure what chapters would cover stories about his father, Jacob.
After twenty minutes of scanning pages, I finally saw a mention of the Mercer Island Ferry. I zeroed in and read about how Jacob Stottlemeyer had run the ferry five days a week. Otis reported that when he was a kid, his father told elaborate stories about the comings and goings of good guys and bad guys on the ferry. But there was one incontrovertible truth; Jacob Stottlemeyer was on Gramley Miller’s payroll and was the one who most likely had informed him about George Bourbonaise.
÷
Jake called just before lunch and asked if Blair and I could meet him downtown. Since David was tied up with something until late that afternoon, I agreed to meet Jake at a small deli downtown. I called Blair to see if she could join us, and by 12:30 the three of us were neatly tucked away in a booth, each with our sandwich of choice in front of us.
“What’s up?” I asked Jake.
Jake had placed a shopping bag on the seat next to him and looked like he’d just won the lottery.
“I have news,” he said.
“What’s in the bag, goose?” Blair said, mimicking an old Granny Goose potato chip commercial.
A toothy grin slid across his face. “Just this,” he said, reaching into the bag.
He pulled out something wrapped in tissue paper. As we waited in anticipation, he took off the wrapping to reveal the jewelry box. We both inhaled in surprise.
“Where did you get it?” I exclaimed.
“Ah…ve have our vays,” he said with a fake German accent. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a photo. “I didn’t tell you about this before, but…” He turned the photo so we could see the image.
It was a picture of a woman who looked very much like the woman in the photo with Miller, but this time she was in a lip lock with someone else.
I started to laugh. “Oh, my God, Jake. Where did you get that?”
“Is that Miller’s wife!?” Blair asked.
Again, he grinned. “Miller was supposed to leave town the night he assaulted me at the gas station. I heard the bartender and one of the waitresses talking about it later when I was in the bar. He was going to be gone three days. Night before night, after the bar closed, I was parked at the end of the parking lot,
waiting to see what time the cleaning guys came. Remember, I was casing the place. Anyway, these two showed up and slipped in the back door,” he said, indicating the photo again. “I had my camera with me with a telephoto lens and clicked this picture when they came out.”
“Amazing,” Blair said, smiling with appreciation. “Don’t tell me you blackmailed her?”
He rocked his head from side to side. “Well…kind of. I showed up on her doorstep this morning and showed her the picture. She almost fainted and tried to grab it from me. Instead, I invited myself in and did the deal.”
“What do you mean?” Blair asked.
“I told her I wanted to buy the jewelry box. I described it, but I wasn’t even sure she’d know what I was talking about.”
“But she did,” Blair said.
“Yeah. Get this…Miller brought it home and gave it to her as a present a couple of days ago.”
“Probably the day we stopped by and saw it on his shelf,” I said.
He nodded. “No doubt. Anyway, I told her that he’d stolen it from someone I knew, and I was there to get it back. But…I offered to pay her for it.”
“Why’d you do that?” Blair asked skeptically.
“Because you convinced me to get it legitimately, and I figured money would talk louder with her than anything. So I gave her $250 and had her sign a receipt.” He was nearly laughing, he was so giddy.
“But what about the photo you took of her?” I asked.
“I gave her the one I had and then pulled a photo card out of my pocket and stomped on it.”
“But…” I said, confused.
He burst out with a chuckle. “I stomped on a brand new photo card. I still have the other one, just in case.”
“Well, c’mon,” Blair said with excitement. “Let’s find out what’s in the box.”
Jake’s expression fell. “I already looked in it, and there’s nothing we can use.”
Blair lifted the lid to the box, releasing the stale odor of age. Inside was nothing but a collection of old bottle caps.