by Maddy Hunter
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Because just before they completely imploded, Enyon would be cleared, and all that emotional upheaval would have ended up being a total waste of energy. So no, I didn’t tell you.”
She twitched her lips, looking offended. “I would have told you.”
“The thing is,” Treeve continued, “Lance Tori was a damp squib. He didn’t fit in. And I think he enjoyed not fitting in. No one understood how Gladwish tolerated the bugger’s foul moods or vile temper.”
“I never met Lance personally,” shared Jackie, suddenly sounding like a witness for the prosecution, “but I’m pretty sure no one in our tour group liked him either. He apparently picked a fight with everyone he came in contact with, including some of the most patient and tolerant members of our group. Between you, me, and the bedpost, I think everyone had it in for him.”
“Is this a good time to browse through the museum?” I asked Jackie, hoping to pry her away from Treeve before she could implicate the tour group any more than she already had. Even I knew it wasn’t a good idea to admit to a complete stranger that everyone in your tour group despised the dead guy.
The store phone rang, interrupting our conversation, so while Treeve answered it, I pulled Jackie away from the counter and herded her toward aisle five. “For future reference, Jack, I’m not sure it’s wise to spread the word that every guest on our tour despised Lance.”
“You think I should be more accurate? Like…nineteen out of twenty-one guests despised him? What would that work out to on the percentage chart?”
“It doesn’t matter. You’ve basically given the police a viable reason to question and detain all twenty-one of us.”
“Oh.” She pondered this as we passed shelves of furniture polish, feather dusters, and household cleaning products. “How are the police going to find out what I said to Treeve? Is the store bugged?”
“What if the constable is a personal friend of his? They could even be related for all we know. Do you know how easily your comment could be passed along the grapevine to someone who might decide your observation warrants further investigation? You could become the number-one trending item on Twitter.”
“Really?” She gave a little shimmy of excitement. “I’ve never trended on Twitter before.”
“Do you have any idea what this could do to our time schedule?”
“If the police release Enyon, don’t you want the whole group interrogated just in case one of the guests did kill Lance? Or would you rather have the killer strike again after we leave Cornwall? Look, Emily, if Lance’s death wasn’t an accident, none of us are safe, are we?”
I sometimes longed for the good old days before Jack had undergone gender reassignment surgery. She made such commonsense arguments now. She’d never been this astute when she’d been a guy.
“Okay, point well taken.” As much as I’d want to find a killer, if there was one, I felt as if I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. I found Enyon so likable that I didn’t want him to be the perpetrator. But if he was released from custody, that would suggest someone else at the inn had killed Lance—realistically, someone in our group—and I didn’t want that to happen either.
Not this time.
We strolled past floor space jammed with four-wheel rollators and three-wheel roller walkers, aluminum crutches, wooden crutches, and walking sticks. Beyond the pegboard displays of canes in every form imaginable—folding, comfort grip, quadpod, round handle wooden—and shelving stocked with forearm and underarm crutches, we arrived at Treeve’s highwayman museum.
“Have you ever seen a business that sold hardware and highwayman lore?” asked Jackie as we scanned the orderly arrangement of glass cases.
“Nope. Night crawlers and cold beer. Fresh corn and fireworks. But never anything like this.”
The display cases sat against the wall and were overhung with an exquisite hand-drawn map of Bodmin Moor that showed the moorland’s proximity to Port Jacob. Squiggly lines that resembled mountain peaks illustrated the area’s geologic anomalies, their names spelled out in spidery calligraphic lettering—Showery Tor, Tolborough Tor, Brown Willy Tor. A dozen photographs flanked the map, showing panoramic views of barren wasteland, gray sky, marshy bogs, and stark isolation. And as we perused the moor with its bleak terrain and eerie rock formations, I grew aware of just how inhospitable a place could be without LED streetlights or a single PDQ.
“Brown Willy Tor,” said Jackie, reading the label beneath a picture that depicted a massive tumble of rocks at the summit of a rise. “I bet there’s something creepy buried under that rock pile. Look at these photos. The whole place is creepy. Cheesewring Tor.” We studied a column of enormous granite slabs that were piled one atop the other like children’s blocks to the height of a two-story building. “I don’t think this place is in danger of turning into a golf resort any time soon. Not unless some developer can make it look a lot more tourist friendly.”
“It was probably even more forbidding three hundred years ago when the highwaymen were plying their trade.” I noted an antique carriage in one photo, fully restored and polished, probably sitting in a museum somewhere, and I wondered at the terror its occupants might have felt when chased across the moor in the dead of night by a masked horseman wielding pistols and knives.
As I continued to study the photographs, Jackie wended her way down the row of display cases. “Hey, the name on these charcoal sketches is Jory Kneebone. You think this is the touch Treeve’s kid added? A portrait gallery of eighteenth-century criminals? They’re really good.”
I joined her at the display case and read the name on the identifying label beneath the drawing. “Sixteen String Jack. So that’s what he looked like.” He sported a straight patrician nose, overly large ears, and a mop of curly hair that peeped out from beneath the floppy brim of his hat. “He looks more like a teenage heartthrob than an infamous highwayman.”
“He wasn’t much more than a teenager when he died—1750–1774. He was only twenty-four years old.” She scanned the biographical information that was typed on a placard below the sketch. “‘Yada, yada, yada. Acquired the name Sixteen String Jack from the sixteen colorful ribbons he wore to lace the knees of his silk breeches. Yada, yada, yada. Hanged at Tyburn Tree wearing a pea-green suit with a nosegay in the buttonhole and blue ribbons tied around his leg shackles.’ Ooo. A man with unfaltering fashion sense. I would’ve liked this guy.”
“Not if he shoved a pistol in your face and demanded your valuables, you wouldn’t.”
As small as it was, the exhibit was intriguing. Not only had Treeve’s son sketched portraits of the most notorious highwaymen of the era, he and his father had provided examples of much of the plunder the thieves had filched and showcased them amid yards of flowing satin. There was a porcelain box the size of a cosmetic compact that held breath sweeteners, porcelain eggs with enameled motifs that were used as hand-coolers for young ladies who were attending balls, and flintlock pistols, powder flasks, and hair ornaments studded with what looked like precious gems.
Treeve must have spent a fortune at flea markets in an attempt to add to his collection, but in his haste to share his hobby with the public, I wondered if he’d allowed security concerns to slip through the cracks. Upon closer examination, the display cases were more rickety than they’d first appeared, with wobbly legs and protective glass that was both chipped and loose at the corners.
“Hey, Em, look at this.” Jackie lingered over one of the better- built cases. “This is a handwritten ledger kept by the constable of Port Jacob in 1749, and the ink hasn’t faded—you can still read the entries. It lists all the valuables that highwaymen stole from peers of the realm on Bodmin Moor. First item on the list is a gold egg-shaped etui with ivory and agate inlay. What’s an etui?”
“Isn’t that like a little case that holds sewing materials or manicure sets?”
“Etienne. He’s developed an addiction for crossword puzzles.”
“Well, this etui thing was apparently lifted from Lord and Lady Rosemurgy, along with an emerald necklace and a gold timepiece. And listen to some of the other stuff: gold snuff box with agate emblem of crossed swords inscribed with initials AT. Porcelain scent bottle painted with initials MR. Gentleman’s personal fob-seal with trumpet-shaped amethyst fob, gold base, and inscribed with initials BP. Double-earred silver porringer engraved with initials SD.” She turned toward me. “Sounds like these guys didn’t own anything that wasn’t monogrammed. Do you suppose they were all related to Donald Trump?” She snickered. “So the thieves basically stole tobacco, air freshener, a stamp, and a bowl, but the only items of value were the containers. Man, if the highwayman craze hadn’t died out on its own, recyclable plastic would have killed it.”
She craned her neck, giving the surrounding shelves the once- over. “Would you mind if I take a quick spin around the store? I might spot something that could come in handy for our investigation.”
“We aren’t investigating anything, Jack.”
She smiled coyly as she flounced off. “We’ll see.”
The fact that she felt motivated enough to do a little shopping was encouraging, though. Maybe this would be her first step on the long road to emotional recovery.
I made my way back to the sales counter where Treeve was concluding a transaction with a customer in a closed-toed fracture boot who’d just purchased a plastic pail and shovel for his toddler. “At low tide, the harbor beach at the bottom of the hill will be perfect for mud pies and fairy princess castles.” He gave a little peek-a-boo wave to the toddler as she raced away toward the door, pail in hand. “Mind the cobbles,” he cautioned as the bell jangled their exit.
“A little late for that,” the man called over his shoulder with forced humor.
“So.” Treeve turned to me. “What did you think of my little museum?”
“It’s awesome. Your son’s drawings look like they should be hanging in an art gallery. The whole display is fascinating. But it’s stuck way over there in the corner.” I lowered my voice. “Aren’t you afraid someone might steal something?”
“In Port Jacob? Bollocks. We don’t have much problem with theft, and the tourists tend to be a good sort.”
“But some of the hair ornaments look as if they’re embedded with real gemstones.”
“That’s because they are, and I have documentation from an independent appraiser in Exeter to prove it.”
“Back in the States, a thief with the right tools could rob you blind in a few minutes flat—and in broad daylight. You’re not at all worried about that?”
He peered left and right before hooking his forefinger in the air to beckon me closer. “Surveillance cameras. Just in case. We’ve hidden them all over the store in places that don’t even look like places. If a bloke so much as nicks a pack of chewing gum, we’ll have his face on so many videos, it’ll be plastered over the telly from here to the Orkneys. Me boy’s idea.” He smiled his gap-toothed smile. “When he’s not working on his art, he’s full-bore with his computer toys. And with the price of his toys, he’ll turn me into a bloody pauper one day.”
Jackie emerged from a nearby aisle with a lilt in her step and an armful of items that she dumped onto the counter. She’d obviously hit the processed food aisle, buying up a dozen packages of cookies and potato chips, or as the English would say, biscuits and crisps. Maybe her investigative plan entailed forcing potential suspects to eat excessive amounts of carbohydrates until they confessed. Like enhanced interrogation, only with sugar.
She flashed a satisfied smile. “All stocked up.”
I eyed her stash. Dark chocolate digestives. Milk chocolate digestives. Shortbread rounds. Custard creams. Bourbon cream biscuits. Fruit shortcakes. Uh-oh. I hoped she wasn’t planning to binge-eat her purchases to fill the emotional vacuum left by her husband. She’d end up hating Thom and herself.
“Did you find everything you were looking for?” asked Treeve as he started ringing up her items.
“Not everything.” She smiled hopefully. “Do you carry ladies’ wigs?”
seven
One of the unintended consequences of touring a town built on a hill is that at the end of the day you have to climb back up the hill to board your bus. Since we weren’t on a strict time schedule, I encouraged everyone to make the ascent in stages, with plenty of rest stops in between. I was heartened when the group followed my instructions without complaint as they made strategic stops at the tearoom for cream tea and sandwiches, the nut shop for snacks, and the ice cream shop for cones. No one suffered a heart attack from the stress of the climb, but I feared that the liberal ingestion of saturated fats during the ascent had clogged so many arteries, I’d be dealing with a slew of medical emergencies in the days to come.
Of course, the best part of the group’s slow ascent to the bus was that they’d scarfed down so much food, they’d probably be too full to eat later, which was a relief since I had no clue what to do about dinner. In a perfect world Enyon would be cleared of suspicion, return to the inn, blow the dust off his cookbooks, don his old chef’s hat, and prepare a meal that would knock our socks off. But the world was fueled by imperfection, so as I descended into a slow panic, I surprised myself by wondering if the local market sold toast n’ serve breakfast tarts and waffles.
When we pulled into the parking lot of the inn, I was greeted by another surprise.
A neon yellow and blue checkered Port Jacob police cruiser.
I got so excited, I nearly broke into handstands, but lacking the adequate space to perform even limited acrobatics, I grabbed Jackie’s arm instead. “The police. They must have finished questioning Enyon and driven him back.”
She peeked out the window at the uniformed officer who was leaning against the back end of the squad car. “Oh, pul-leese. Do you see the look on the guy’s face? Trust me. He’s not here to deliver good news.” She grunted with frustration. “I so need to buy more wigs. How is it that Kneebone Hardware carries every walking aid known to man but not one stinkin’ wig?” She frowned. “Do you recall passing a costume shop any time in our travels today?”
A frisson of unease rippled through the bus as guests noticed the police car.
“What’s up with the fuzz?” questioned Dick Teig, whose tone grew alarmed as he tacked on, “Are they going to arrest us for digging stuff up on the beach?”
“They can’t arrest us if we didn’t know it was illegal,” assured Dick Stolee.
“They should arrest Emily,” railed Bernice. “It was her idea.”
Wally grabbed the microphone. “I can guarantee you that no one is going to be arrested for exercising your right to metal detect. But I do have some recent information to share, and now seems as good a time as any. Lance Tori’s postmortem indicated that his death might have been deliberate rather than accidental, so earlier today, the police took Enyon in for questioning.”
Gasps. Murmurs. Shock.
“If Enyon is still being questioned, I’ll need to retrieve the key from its hiding place before I can open up the inn, so I’d like you to remain on the bus until I find out what’s going on.”
“The authorities think Enyon killed Lance?” Heather Holloway called out. “Why would he murder his only chef?”
“Maybe so he wouldn’t have to eat no more stargazy pie,” suggested Nana.
“Heather’s right,” offered August Lugar. “Without a chef, the Stand and Deliver is doomed.”
“I couldn’t disagree more,” argued Spencer. “The inn was doomed with Tori. How long do you think their doors would have remained open if Lance had been allowed to interact with future guests like he interacted with us? The way I see it, Enyon had a choice. Run the business into the gr
ound with Lance or run a successful business with a new chef. It seems perfectly clear which option he chose.”
“Maybe a stint in a rehab facility would’ve helped that fella,” Margi commented.
“Do they got places to rehab folks what got no manners?” asked Nana.
“Charm school,” suggested Caroline Goodfriend.
“Charm school is a thing of the past,” asserted Kathryn Crabbe. “People don’t cough up money to learn manners anymore. They’d much rather be obnoxious.”
“You oughta know,” taunted Heather Holloway.
“I need to clarify my statement,” Wally spoke up. “No one has accused Enyon of Lance’s murder. He’s only being questioned. So let’s remember he’s innocent until proven otherwise.”
Snickers. Guffaws. Snorts.
I glanced toward the police car to find the officer limping his way across the parking lot toward us. That he walked with a pronounced limp and needed the assistance of a cane came as no surprise. From what I’d observed, everyone in Port Jacob was suffering with an ambulatory disorder that required the use of a cane, crutches, or a rolling walker. The place was probably a goldmine for orthopedic surgeons.
Wally hurried down the stairs to greet him, returning a few minutes later to deliver the news.
“Unfortunately, your afternoon and early evening schedule is about to change. The Port Jacob police have received credible information that Chef Lance Tori didn’t exactly endear himself to certain members of our tour group, so Constable Tredinnick would like to document those encounters.”
“How many folks does he wanna talk to?” asked Nana.
Wally hesitated. “All of us. No one gets a pass.”
As a symphony of groans erupted throughout the bus, Jackie slid down in her seat as if it were a freshly waxed slide. I arched a brow. “So the police had no way of learning what you said to Treeve, huh? How’s that working out?”