by Maddy Hunter
Well, it might have worked…if August hadn’t been outpacing Spencer by producing two blogs a day for ten freaking years! That was more than 7,000 posts. How was I supposed to skim 7,000 posts with spotty cell service?
“Are you waiting to take a selfie or have you planted yourself here to count heads when we’re done?” Tilly appeared before me, feet apart and head bent, anchoring herself against the wind. She waggled her cane in the direction of the queue. “We went with tallest first, so I’m the first one done.”
I held my phone up. “I’m performing clandestine research.”
“On whom?”
“Our bloggers.”
“Excellent.” Her eyes twinkled as she lowered herself onto the rock beside me. “I’ll have you know I haven’t been idle while Marion’s been in the kitchen.” She dropped her voice to a stage whisper. “I have information for you on our recently departed chef.”
She removed her phone from the pocket of her blazer, swiped the screen, then tapped it a couple of times. “I just sent the link to your email, but the upshot is that Chef Lance Tori was universally despised by the residents of Port Jacob. According to a scathing article in the Port Jacob Crier that appeared a few weeks ago, Lance was conducting an ongoing feud with the green grocer about produce that Lance claimed was inferior. Their last disagreement actually ended with Lance throwing a cantaloupe through the storefront window, so the constable had to be called in to restore order. But the incident left a sour taste in the mouths of many of the locals, most of whom are related to the green grocer. So public opinion was definitely not in Lance’s favor. There was even mention of a restraining order to prevent further run-ins between Lance and the grocer, but Enyon stepped in to assure Constable Tredinnick that such a measure was unnecessary because he would be making all future purchases at the store in Lance’s place.”
“Oh, wow.” I accessed Tilly’s link through my email and began skimming. “The owner of the hardware store told Jackie and me that Lance was kind of a square peg in a round hole, and proud of it, but he failed to mention that the situation had required police intervention.”
Tilly fluttered her finger at my screen. “Scroll down to the op-eds at the end if you’d like a taste of how bad things really were.”
I began reading the letters to the editor, puzzled by the local slang but pretty sure none of it was complimentary. Lance was accused of being “a gormless twat,” a “whiny sod who delighted in throwing never-ending wobblers,” a “cranky wanker who was always in a nark,” and the ever-popular “bloviating Yankee arse.” Several letters concluded with the suggestion that Lance should either “get stuffed,” “naff off,” or “get off our island.” I suspected a couple of these suggestions were the height of obscenity, but if you ignored the intended translations, the words themselves were actually quite melodic.
“Kudos to George for his theory,” Tilly spoke up when I’d finished reading. “With the level of animosity Lance roused in the village, one of the locals could very well have sneaked into the inn to kill him. They were making no bones about their feelings in their letters to the editor. They wanted him gone.”
“It must be terribly hurtful being hated by everyone.”
Tilly nodded. “If Bernice were here, we could ask her.”
Bernice. Ugh. I could feel myself start to hyperventilate again.
“Chop-chop, everyone.” Grace Stolee executed a couple of hasty claps as she came up behind Tilly. “We’re through here, so let’s move on to the next attraction.”
“How can you be through?” questioned Tilly. “There are people in line behind you.”
“Well, when it was Margi’s turn she refused to sit on the rock because of the crusty mold that’s crawling all over it, so she sanitized the area, but the goo wouldn’t dry, so no one wanted to sit down. Dick tried blowing on it, but that didn’t work, so we cut to the chase: turned our backs to the castle and snapped our selfies right where we stood. Dick’s a little put out about our taking matters into our own hands, but he’ll get over it.”
Nine individual selfies—in Iowa parlance also known as a group photo.
We walked the rest of the way to the island using the buddy system, picking our way along the causeway like animals making their way to the ark. Thankfully, no one incurred the injuries I’d anticipated. Once beyond a massive wall whose arms formed a protected harbor for the island’s small fleet of boats, I spied Wally with our tickets and herded the group in his direction.
“The bloggers have gone on ahead of you,” he announced as he handed out tickets, “but you’ll probably run into them inside the castle. If you want to avoid having to stumble over more cobblestones on the harbor front, follow the gravel path to the end of the hedges”—he pointed straight ahead—“and take a right. It’s a cobble-free lane that leads to the entrance gate of the castle, and that’s where you’ll be asked to present your ticket.”
“Where’s the little boys’ room?” asked Dick Teig in a pinched voice. He gave a frantic glance left and right. “Nearby?”
Wally gestured to the stucco building with green shutters to our left. “Just around the corner.”
All four guys rocketed toward the building, with Dick Stolee taking the lead as they rounded the corner. “I warned Dick to quit after his third cup of coffee this morning,” tsked Helen as we watched them disappear. “But nooo. The only reason he quit after six was because they ran out.”
“Do they got a potty for us girls down there, too?” Nana inquired.
Wally nodded. “It’s even closer than the men’s room.”
“Oh, thank God,” said Lucille in a relieved gasp. “I drank seven cups.” Breaking from the group, she raced across the gravel path, only to be overtaken by the rest of the girls, who were obviously unwilling to take a chance that the ladies’ comfort station might turn out to be the dreaded one-seater.
With the entire Iowa contingent addressing internal plumbing issues, I regarded Wally and exhaled a deep breath. “Are you absolutely positive that the bay will be sufficiently flooded to allow us to take a launch back to the mainland? Because I have a very bad feeling that if we have to pick our way back over those cobblestones again, someone is going to—”
“Come quick!”
We looked toward the harbor front to find our green-haired millennial pounding over the cobblestones toward us.
“We have injuries!”
thirteen
“She pushed me.”
“I did not.”
“Then how do you explain these?” Kathryn Crabbe held up her hands to show off her skinned palms. “And these?” Her capris were bunched high on her legs, exposing her bloodied kneecaps.
We were being administered to in a back room behind the ticket sales counter at the far end of the harbor, surrounded by an exhaustive supply of wound wipes, bandages, rolls of sterile gauze, and surgical tape.
“I lost my footing and stumbled into you,” defended Heather. “There was nothing deliberate about it. It was an accident. You can ask Mason. He was walking beside me and saw the whole thing.”
“Birds of a feather.” Kathryn’s voice became a hiss. “It was probably a coordinated effort.”
“Where is Mason?” I asked, realizing he’d disappeared as soon as he’d dropped us off.
“He said he was heading up to the castle,” said Wally. “He apologized for cutting out, but touring the castle is a big deal for a hotel blogger, and he wasn’t sure how long all this”—he panned his hand from left to right to indicate our present surroundings—“would take.”
“Turning tail and running to avoid being questioned, more likely,” huffed Kathryn.
Heather made a pointer of her forefinger and aimed it straight at Kathryn’s face. “If this is the thanks Mason and I get for peeling you off the ground and trying to find a first-aid station, the next time you fall, I, for one, won
’t be volunteering to put you back together again.”
One of the clerks at the ticket counter, a gray-haired lady named Fiona, had revealed herself to be a retired nurse, serving a dual role in sales and first aid, so she’d offered to dress Kathryn’s battle wounds in the privacy of their makeshift infirmary, which, she confessed, overflowed with visitors during the summer tourist season. “It’s the cobbles,” she fretted as she ripped open a hygienic packet that looked like the moist towelettes Blimpies provided with an order of buffalo wings. “There’s some days when we have more guests queued up here than in the castle. I blame the bloody footwear industry. How do they convince women they can walk in shoes that have heels like stilts?”
I sucked my lips into my mouth, trying not to look guilty. Because some styles make your feet look really small?
“You should tar over every one of those cobblestones,” sniped Kathryn as Fiona doctored her injured knees. “They’re a public health hazard.”
“In case you weren’t aware,” Heather wisecracked while gathering up her belongings, “one of the main reasons tourists visit England is to see those cobblestones. I should think the woman posing as the penultimate authority on Jane Austen would know that.” She turned to Wally and me. “I’m heading up to the castle now. I expect my services are no longer required here. What’s that quote? ‘No good deed ever goes unpunished’?”
I squeezed her arm. “Wally and I can’t thank you enough, Heather. We’re in your debt.”
Kathryn snorted. “Don’t think your phony Good Samaritan act changes anything. It doesn’t. I still want my fob-seal back.”
Heather shot a look at Wally and me, her eyes spitting fire. “Can you believe her? Man, has she ever pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes. The world of Jane Austen is so mannered. So proper. Penelope Pemberley claims to be a part of that world, but she’s not mannered and proper. She’s mean-spirited and vindictive, so I’m taking great pleasure in pulling the curtain aside and letting my fellow Janeites sneak a peek at the real person behind the blog. Penelope Pemberley is a hoax perpetrated by Kathryn Crabbe…who, in the time-honored Austen tradition of revealing characters’ personality traits through their surnames, is exactly what her name implies—a crab.”
At the doorway she turned back to Kathryn to deliver a parting shot. “I am so taking you down.”
“I survived the first takedown. Where will you choose for your next attempt?” Kathryn glared at her retreating back. “The basement stairs at the inn? That venue is a bit overused, don’t you think? Ow! That stings.” She shot an irritated look at Fiona.
“There, there,” Fiona quipped as she disposed of the wound wipes. “I’d give you a spoonful of sugar if I had it, but all I’ve got is that artificial rot, and you certainly don’t want to take that straight. Crushed cardboard would taste better. Don’t fret, now, pet. I’m almost done.”
Kathryn stabbed her finger at the doorway where Heather had exited. “I demand you provide me with protection from that girl. She’s dangerous.”
I looked at Wally. Wally looked at me. We both looked at Kathryn. “Protection as in a bodyguard?” I asked.
“Of course a bodyguard. You see what she’s done to me. If you don’t do something, it’ll happen again. And next time, the outcome might be far less benign than cut knees and skinned palms.”
“She claims your fall was an accident,” Wally pointed out.
“And you believe her?”
He opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it shut again. “Look, the reality is that until we talk to Mason, we’re dealing with one of those he said/she said situations.”
“And you’re choosing her side.”
“I’m not choosing anyone’s side.”
“But after you talk to Mason and he parrots her version of the incident, you will choose a side, and I can guarantee it won’t be mine. Throw me to the wolves, then. And when my personal safety is compromised, you can bid farewell to your career as a tour director because once people learn what you’re allowing to happen, you’ll never work again.”
“Hands, please,” instructed Fiona, making a gimme motion.
Cupping my palm around Wally’s elbow, I urged him toward the door. “Why don’t I stay here with Kathryn while you check to see if the other guests found their way to the castle? Don’t want any of them getting lost.”
“Take the stairs at the far end of the courtyard,” Fiona piped up. “They’ll lead you straight to the entrance gate.”
Wally gave a tug back on his arm. “I don’t think that’s necessary, Emily.”
“Yeah, it is.” I shuffled him toward the exit. “Make sure that the Dicks abide by the rules on the castle tour, and I’ll see you when I see you.”
I could tell he wasn’t happy about leaving, but I wasn’t about to allow Kathryn to subject my employee to more of her intimidating behavior.
“There you go.” Fiona assessed her handiwork as she peeled off her disposable gloves. “All done. Your knees will probably stiffen up like an old barn board, so the best thing you can do is to keep moving. If they lock up to the point where you can’t walk, try an over-the-counter anti-inflammatory.”
“Delightful.” Kathryn grimaced as she rolled down the legs of her capris.
“Not to rain on your parade any more than I have to, pet, but I’m not so sure you’ll be wanting to tour the castle on those knees. It’s not the interior of the castle that’s the problem; it’s the access to the castle. The stairs are a bit wonky. And I don’t dare mention the hill beyond the stairs.” She gave her head a woeful shake. “All cobblestones. Much like Port Jacob, if you’ve been there.”
After offering profuse thanks to Fiona for her services, I escorted Kathryn into the courtyard outside the ticket office, where we were confronted by yet more cobblestones. To our left was the protected harbor where boats lay grounded in the tidal muck like a pod of beached whales. To our right were two finely crafted wooden benches bedecked with pillows that advertised the Courtyard Shop. A sign for the Sail Loft Restaurant was attached to a rock wall behind one bench. “Where to?” I asked Kathryn.
“Are you my self-appointed bodyguard?”
“Until we can come up with a better solution, I guess I am.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Have you seen the security detail hired by celebrities? Muscle-bound body builder types stuffing two-hundred-fifty pounds of rippling sinew into slim-fit suits. What do I end up with?” She fixed me with a sour look. “A fun-size bodyguard. My right thigh weighs more than you do.”
“Unfortunately, our agency has to fill emergency needs with the employees we have, not the employees we’d like.”
“Oh, whatever. At least you’ll be around to witness the next attempt that girl makes on my life.”
“Would you like to browse through the Courtyard Shop? Pick up a few gifts to take home to the family?”
“I loathe shopping. Besides”—her voice bristled with a defensive edge—“I don’t have family to take anything home to.”
I blinked in confusion. “But…didn’t you tell Heather that your family—the Crispy Triscuit-somethings—would crush her in court if she didn’t hand over the fob-seal?”
“The Crispin Truscott-Tallons,” she corrected. “Permit me to amend my statement. I have no immediate family. The Truscott-Tallons are scattered about and wield global influence, but we’re not what you’d call close.”
“Christmas card relations?”
Her eyes grew hollow as she paused to reflect, but the emotion evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. “I don’t see where it’s any of your business knowing how close we are. But you can be sure that if I have to drag that girl to court, I’ll have their complete backing. The family is quite adamant about protecting their interests in matters that require litigation.”
Or so she’d like me to believe. I wondered if the Truscott-Tallons ev
en knew Kathryn existed. I was beginning to wonder if her boastful rants revolved around the family she imagined she had rather than the one she actually had. “Have you decided to take Fiona’s advice and skip the castle tour?”
“Of course I’m skipping the castle tour. Do I look like a complete dolt? I’m not even sure why you booked this tour. Senior citizens? Wonky stairs? Cobblestone hills? What detail about this venture didn’t spell disaster?”
“My regulars aren’t afraid of a challenge,” I replied in a measured tone, looking her square in the eye. “They might have a lot of birthdays under their belts, but they’re not daunted by stairs or hills or physical activities geared toward the younger generation.” In fact, the only two things that truly terrified my guys were cell phone dead zones and pay-to-use Wi-Fi.
And maybe the occasional spider.
“Paragons of virtue one and all,” she gibed.
I gestured to the sign for the Sail Loft. “The restaurant is on the next level. Would you like an early lunch?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“There was a sign advertising the Island Café at the other end of the island. That’s the one with the ocean views. Do you want to try there instead?”
“What part of ‘I’m not hungry’ don’t you understand?”
“The walk might prevent your knees from getting stiff.”
“My knees are already stiff. I’m old. It goes with the territory.”
“Would you like an anti-inflammatory?” I began riffling through my shoulder bag. “I have some ibuprofen with me.”
“Do you know what I’d really like?” Her voice exploded from her throat in an angry bark. “I’d like you to go away. Good God, you’re worse than my ex. Where are you going? Who are you going with? Why do you have to go? When will you be back? I felt as if I had a leash strapped around my neck. And you want to know the irony of it all? The entire time he was keeping tabs on me, smothering me, peppering me with endless questions, he was having an affair with my best friend’s daughter. He even set her up in her own luxury apartment and paid the rent. His love nest.”