by Maddy Hunter
I noted the time. “Missed it? But it’s only 8:10.”
Helen Teig pushed away from the table. “Since we were all seated by 7:30—well, everyone except Alice, who got here late and ended up in the chair that’s obstructed by the table leg—your grandmother decided to serve early. Family style. Pass the platter and dig in.” She gestured to the empty serving dishes strung out along the table. “Pancakes with real whipped cream and fresh fruit. Waffles. Sourdough French toast. Hardboiled eggs that were easier to peel than a ripe banana. Vegetable omelets. Sausage links and patties. Bacon. Cinnamon toast. Raisin toast. Plain toast with marmalade for fussy eaters. Plus coffee, tea, and a variety of cafe lattes, mochas, cappuccinos, and caramel macchiatos.”
I stared at her, dumbstruck. “Nana knows how to make lattes?”
“I think Jackie made them,” said Dick Teig. “She found a machine. They’re working in one well-equipped kitchen. That was the best breakfast I’ve ever eaten in my entire life, I kid you not.”
Osmond waxed philosophical. “It’s a darn shame Marion’s a millionaire. She could make a fortune as a cook.”
“When that Crabbe woman saw the spread your grandmother laid out, she even decided to end her hunger strike,” Margi said in an undertone. “Not that she offered a single compliment about the food, but I was keeping track. She downed five pancakes, an omelet, two waffles, and what looked like a whole pound of bacon in the space of ten minutes. I started setting the serving platters out of her reach so there’d be enough food left for the rest of us.”
I scanned the length of the table to find wadded-up napkins, empty plates, and two puny sausage links on a meat platter as big as a cookie sheet. I motioned to the platter. “That’s all that’s left? Two shriveled-up sausages?”
“Whoa! How’d I miss those?” Dick Stolee snatched the links off the platter and nibbled away at them as if they were logs going through a wood chipper. “These babies are too good to waste,” he mumbled around a mouthful of sausage.
Grace slatted her eyes at him. “Good move, Dick. Did it ever occur to you to save the leftovers for Emily and Wally?”
He swallowed dramatically, looking suddenly chagrined. “Oops. Sorry. I couldn’t help myself. They looked so forlorn lying there all by themselves that I felt morally obligated to give them a home.”
“What a crock,” scoffed Lucille, smiling at her own comment. “That’s not me talking. That’s what Bernice would say if she were here.”
“Speaking of Bernice,” George piped up, “where do you think she is? Alice gave us the lowdown at breakfast.”
“We don’t know where she is,” replied Wally, “but we’re doing everything we can to find out. I suspect she might be nursing her bruised feelings in a safe and comfortable place somewhere nearby. We just have to figure out where. Constable Tredinnick is working on that, which reminds me—does anyone recall what Bernice was wearing yesterday?”
They looked from one to the other, shrugging.
“I’m pretty sure she was wearing slacks,” Alice ventured. “And a top.”
Nods of agreement. “I remember that, too!” enthused Margi.
That information might have had greater impact if the preferred uniform for all the ladies on the tour had been something other than slacks and a top. “Do you recall the color?” I asked.
“Green,” said Dick Teig. “I remember thinking her outfit matched that gross slime on the rocks at the beach.”
Helen thwacked his arm, glaring. “That wasn’t Bernice’s outfit. It was mine. Bernice was wearing hot pink.”
“She was wearing pink the day we arrived,” corrected Tilly. “If I’m not mistaken, she was wearing aubergine yesterday.”
“What color is that?” asked Dick Teig.
“Purple,” I spoke up.
Dick angled a frustrated look at Tilly. “If it’s purple, how come you just can’t say purple?”
Tilly looked down the length of her nose at him. “Because it’s not purple. It’s aubergine.”
“You could have said eggplant,” chided Dick Stolee. “I bet he knows what color eggplant is.”
Margi made a face. “I don’t like eggplant.” She backed up her assertion with a revulsive curl of her tongue, followed by a moment of reflection. “No, wait. Maybe I’m thinking of zucchini.”
“Does anyone besides me remember her wearing red yesterday?” asked Osmond. “I recall thinking at the time that the only folks who should ever wear fire-engine-red pants are golfers and clowns.”
I sighed. Yup. You couldn’t beat the accuracy of an eyewitness report.
Wally held up his hands to stop the barrage. “Thanks for your input, everyone. Her photo is probably more important than a description of what she was wearing anyway.”
“Not if she was dressed like a clown,” objected Osmond.
“Kitchen’s closed,” announced Nana as she and Jackie entered the dining room, greeted by spontaneous cheers and riotous applause.
“Will you give us a hint about what’ll be on tomorrow’s breakfast menu?” Dick Stolee shouted above the ovation.
Nana responded with a two-shouldered shrug. “Don’t know yet. I’m waitin’ on inspiration.” When the clapping died down, she began issuing orders. “How about you folks make yourselves useful by clearin’ off the table and stackin’ the dishes next to the sink so’s Wally can get ’em into the dishwasher? That’d be real helpful. We’re gonna need clean dishes for dinner.”
Motivated by the prospect of another mouth-watering meal, the troops did what Nana asked without a hint of complaint or chaos, though it helped that Jackie appointed herself field marshal and took charge of establishing traffic patterns. Off came the dishes and platters. Off came the napkins and tablecloth. Into the kitchen went everything that Enyon would need to launder. I motioned to Nana as the activity died down.
“If I scrounged around in the kitchen, would I find any leftover hardboiled eggs or waffles?”
“Didn’t you get no breakfast?”
“Wally and I were otherwise engaged.”
“That’s a real shame, dear, on account of all we got left is corn flakes.”
“Okay, then. Jackie has cookies. Maybe I can mooch something off her to tide me over.”
Nana glanced across the room to where Jackie had assumed the role of human doorstop to keep the kitchen door propped open and the troops moving. “You coulda knocked me over with a feather when that girl showed up to help me this mornin’, Emily. I never thought she’d be one to roll up them sleeves of hers and pitch in like she done, but I couldn’t of done it without her. Me and her make a crackerjack team, especially seein’ as how she can reach stuff that’s too high up for me to fetch. That was a real good idea you had, dear. Thanks.”
“I’m tickled it’s working out.”
With my worries about the Nana/Jackie working relationship being put to rest, I was freed up to address the next item on my to-do list, which would involve a bit more finesse than a friendly chat with my grandmother.
“Hey,” said Mason Chatsworth when he answered my knock on his door. He took a quick peek at his watch. “Am I late or something? I thought we were leaving at nine.”
“You’re not late. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about last night.”
“What about last night?”
“You heard that Bernice is missing?”
He held the door wider and motioned for me to step inside the room. “Yeah. We all heard the news at breakfast. How weird is that, huh? You have any clues about where she went?”
“Not yet, but that’s where you can help. Did you hear any strange noises in the corridor after you returned to your room last night?”
“I heard the fans blowing when I passed the Sixteen String Jack suite. Man, someone’s wasting a lot of electricity on a lost cause. That carpet’s not salvageable.”
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br /> “You didn’t hear, like, screams or footsteps or dragging sounds or any kind of commotion?”
“Dragging sounds?” He cracked a smile. “You mean, like the sound of someone’s body being dragged down the corridor?”
“Uhh…okay.” If Bernice hadn’t left under her own power, then she’d left under duress, which might have precipitated a whole host of unusual sounds that someone should have heard.
“Boy, Emily, you have quite an imagination. So I didn’t hear a body being dragged past my door last night, but I did hear some commotion from the lounge every so often. Voices. You guys were really loud. I eventually popped in my ear buds to drown you out so I could finish my blog.”
I predicted that millennials would live long enough to regret their unremitting use of ear buds. It boggled the mind over the potential sounds they were preventing themselves from hearing. The musical calling card of the Good Humor man’s ice cream truck. The symphonic chorus of Sunday morning church bells. The earsplitting whistle of a freight train speeding straight at them.
“Did you see either Spencer or August after you returned to your room?”
“Nope. They had blogs to write, too.” He drew his brows together. “You non-bloggers don’t get it. Blogging eats up a ton of time, especially for conscientious bloggers like myself. I don’t know about the rest of them—Heather and Spencer and August—but I’m having a heck of a time knocking out a daily blog with the tour schedule you’ve set up. I’m earning every penny of that discount you offered me. So you can tell that to Bernice…if she ever shows up again.”
I regretted she wasn’t around to hear Mason’s comment. Knowing that even one of the bloggers felt burdened by the discount would please her to no end.
I received pretty much the same story when I stopped by August and Spencer’s room.
“Unusual noises?” Spencer asked me. “Like what? Screeching? Gun shots?”
“All of the above?” I said.
He shook his head. “I was working on my blog, which puts me in a kind of meditative zone, so I didn’t hear a thing other than that annoying hum from the fans that are still blowing in the flooded room. Is it really necessary to run those things 24/7? It’s maddening. Listen to the racket they’re making.”
I listened, hearing nothing.
“You have to agree that it’s way beyond an acceptable decibel level.”
I cocked my head, straining to pick up a whirring sound. “Sorry. I can’t hear a thing.”
He regarded me, wide-eyed. “Geez, for someone as young as you are, your hearing sucks.”
“Don’t be cowed by Spencer’s superhuman hearing,” advised August from the room’s lone armchair. Computer balanced on his lap, he stared at his screen as he clicked away on his keyboard. “I can’t hear it either.”
I was impressed by August Lugar’s ability to talk and type while focused on the data on his computer screen. He’d probably never have to worry about walking and chewing gum at the same time. “So…did you hear anything last night that was out of the ordinary?” I asked him.
“Spencer snored. Loudly. But that seems to be a normal occurrence. Quiet would have been out of the ordinary.” He continued typing.
“You didn’t happen to see Bernice in the hallway when you returned to your room last night?”
“The last time either one of us saw Bernice was when she stormed out of the dining room,” said Spencer. He directed a look at August for confirmation. “Right?”
“Exactly.” August finally looked up, his eyes snapping with exasperation. “Not to be a bore, but I’d like to post this before we leave, and I’ve yet to put the finishing touches on it. So, do you mind?” He lasered a look at the door that was coupled by an expression indicating I should open it. Immediately.
“Don’t mind at all. Sorry to take up your time. Thanks for your help.”
But they’d been no help at all. Their room was located two doors down from Bernice’s and they’d heard nothing? Spencer, with his superhuman hearing, had failed to hear anything but the whirr of blowing fans? Mason’s room was at the opposite end of the hall, so he’d been more insulated from general activity. But Spencer and August were claiming that they’d heard no door close? No footsteps? No inkling of a disturbance or departure?
Gimme a break.
No one had had a window of opportunity to do anything nefarious last night except the two of them.
But maybe I’d asked the wrong question. Maybe instead of asking if they’d seen Bernice, I should have asked if Bernice had seen them.
Was it possible she’d caught them in the act of committing a crime? Picking the lock of someone else’s suite while the rest of us had still been in the lounge? Or sneaking out of another guest’s room, loaded down with cash and other people’s valuables? If that had been the scenario, would Bernice have been able to run away from them or would they have overpowered her before she’d had time to cry for help? Overpowered her and…
In my mind’s eye I saw the razor-sharp rocks jammed together at the foot of the cliff and heard the violent pounding of the surf.
I inhaled a deep breath, swallowing slowly.
Oh. My. God.
Had they killed Bernice? Killed her because she happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?
Who were these guys? Killers posing as tour guests? Thieves posing as bloggers? Scammers who made their living by stealing from unsuspecting seniors? Had August Lugar even been the target of a crime or had he made the whole story up in an effort to pose as victim rather than perpetrator? Could he find any better way to deflect suspicion away from himself than to pretend to be the injured party?
So maybe they’d been more help than I realized.
My gut was telling me that August and Spencer were in cahoots with each other, just like Helen and Margi had suggested last night. All I needed to do was find the thread that linked them together.
As I hurried back to my room, I forced myself to ignore the little voice in my head that taunted, “Good luck with that.”
twelve
No one reported any valuables missing when they boarded the bus a short time later, which forced me to question my own assumption about the blogging burglars. I hung onto the possibility, however, that things might have gone missing without anyone noticing yet. Of course, people’s concept of what was valuable was probably all over the board. For Grace Stolee, it might have been the lovely diamond studs Dick had bought her on their last milestone wedding anniversary. For Nana, it might be her new denture case with the sparkly finish.
As we got underway to St. Michael’s Mount, I sat down next to Jackie, fully intent on occupying myself by scouring the internet for tidbits to back up my theory. I might have succeeded, too, if cell service hadn’t been so impossibly spotty.
“Doggonit.” Jackie gave her phone a two-handed shake. “How’s a girl supposed to find recipes with the service cutting out every five seconds?”
“You’re really jazzed about this cooking thing, aren’t you?”
“Yes!” She beamed like a lighted snow globe. “Just think, Emily, if Caroline hadn’t told me about my Bakewell/Backhouse/Bagwell/Bakehouse ancestors, I never would have realized that I’m a walking repository for centuries of culinary expertise.”
“Nana implied that you’re a natural.”
“She did?” She squeaked like a chew toy in the jaws of a playful Rottweiler.
“Yup. She said the two of you make a crackerjack team and that she couldn’t have done breakfast without you.”
“She couldn’t, Em. She really couldn’t. She actually needed me. Isn’t that the bomb?” She hugged her arms to herself and gazed heavenward, a beatific look on her face. “Someone needs me!”
Her phone chimed. She riveted her attention on her screen. “Out of the dead zone and back into civilization again. Hallelujah.” She began sw
iping her screen with trigger-finger quickness. “Mrs. S put me on dessert detail tonight, so I’m looking for a delectable confection that I can prepare in under an hour. Ahhh. How does this grab you? English trifle. Sugar, cornstarch, eggs, blah, blah, blah, and two packages of ladyfingers. I could whip this up tonight.” She studied the screen. “No I can’t. This thing has to chill for three hours. Shoot.”
While she continued her recipe search, I googled Spencer Blunt, only to have my service shut down again when we rounded a bend in the road. “Nuts. Are you getting service?”
“I was up until two seconds ago.” Leaning forward, she shouted toward the front of the bus, “Anyone’s phone still working?”
Groans. Shaking heads.
“Mine works,” Mason Chatsworth called out.
“Can you find out how long tiramisu needs to chill before it can be served?”
“Seven hours,” responded August Lugar. “Minimum.”
“Great.” She sank back into her seat. “All the impressive desserts take forever to be table-ready. How am I supposed to dazzle everyone with an exotic creation in under an hour?”
“Maybe you’re aiming too high for your initial outing. Maybe you need to simplify.”
“And serve what?”
“How about instant pudding? If you serve it in a pretty dessert glass with a lot of whipped cream and a maraschino cherry, people might mistake it for Baked Alaska.”
She regarded me without blinking. “You do realize that Baked Alaska is only served after someone sets it on fire?”
I shrugged. “Enyon probably has matches.” He might even show her where they were once he was released from custody, which needed to happen really soon in order for me to be able to stop hyperventilating.
Snorting at my suggestion, Jackie began flipping through screens again, only to shake her phone and let out an aargh of frustration ten seconds later. “Doggonit!”
And so it went throughout the entire trip. I wasn’t connected to service long enough to dig up anything on my bloggers, and Jackie was connected just long enough to discover that even “instant” desserts took much longer than an instant to prepare. So I occupied myself by peering out the window, desperately searching for a wiry-haired woman who might be wearing red clown pants.