by Maddy Hunter
A smile lifted the corners of Tredinnick’s mouth. “With what I have planned, I guarantee you won’t be bored.” He elevated his palms in a gesture of dismissal. “Now you may leave.”
He left amid the gripes and grumbles of a lounge full of unhappy tourists. I followed him to the front door. “Excuse me, Constable, could I speak to you for a minute?” I looked over my shoulder to check for eavesdroppers. “Outside?”
“You can walk with me to my car.”
I launched into my theory once we hit the front path. “I think there’s a good reason why the bloggers heard nothing suspicious last night. I think Spencer Blunt, August Lugar, and Mason Chats-worth have formed some kind of criminal cabal where they prey on tourists, so naturally they’re going to vouch for each other’s whereabouts. They’re in this together.”
“You have evidence to back up what you’re telling me?”
“Well, the evidence is kind of circumstantial, but one of my Iowa guests discovered instances where all three men were visiting the same place at the same time back in the States. So it’s quite likely they all knew each other before they signed up for this trip, even though they’re not admitting anything.”
“Kind of circumstantial?” He guffawed. “You mean highly circumstantial.”
“And then Mason visited Heather Holloway’s hometown only last year. So she could be in on the caper, too.”
“I’m not aware it’s a criminal offense to visit the town where another blogger resides, Mrs. Miceli.”
“So you’re not going to look into this more closely?”
He withdrew his pen and notebook from his breast pocket and jotted something down. “I’ve made a note.”
“Okay. Thanks. Because I really think they had something to do with Bernice’s disappearance.”
He leaned against the door of his squad car. “Why?”
“Because I can’t see any other explanation. I think Bernice caught August and Spencer in the act of burglarizing another guest’s room, so they were unexpectedly forced to deal with her in a way that…that didn’t go well for Bernice.”
“Your Mr. Lugar himself was the victim of a theft, was he not?”
“So he says. Personally, I think he faked it to throw you off the scent.”
“Have any of your other guests reported their valuables being nicked?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t. It could boil down to the fact that they just haven’t noticed yet. We’ve been keeping the group pretty busy.”
“Are you also placing blame for Mr. Tori’s death on their heads?”
I hadn’t quite figured that out yet. “I’m not saying they’re to blame, but I’m also not saying that the two incidents aren’t connected. And once again, if the bloggers are using each other to confirm their alibis, who’s to know?”
That gave Tredinnick pause and me an opening to pose another question. “Are you planning to release Enyon anytime soon? My troops have rallied to keep up with meal preparation, but it would sure be a lot easier if Enyon could take charge again. It’s not much of a holiday for my grandmother and my roommate. We’re doing the best we can to keep the place running, but with the added stress about Bernice, we’re running out of gas.”
“I’ll be releasing Mr. Gladwish when I return to the nick, Mrs. Miceli.”
“You will? Oh my God! That’s the best news I’ve had since we arrived.”
“Questioning him is turning out to be less productive than beating a dead horse. He claims to know nothing, and I have no evidence that would allow me to hold him any longer, so you may soon look forward to order being restored at the inn.”
I raised my arms in a V over my head. “Yes.”
“Besides, my wife tells me I need to exercise Christian charity by allowing him to make funeral arrangements for Mr. Tori, and he can’t very well do that from jail.”
Mention of Lance’s funeral triggered another thought. “I’m not sure how relevant this is, but when I spoke with Kathryn Crabbe today she informed me that her ex-husband was a famous chef and that their marriage had ended quite badly because of an adulterous affair he’d been conducting with her best friend’s daughter.”
“Not bloomin’ likely, is it?”
“What? That her husband was having an affair?”
“No. That she had a friend.”
“Please don’t go yet!” Caroline Goodfriend waved her arm over her head as she sprinted down the front path toward us, her usual calm replaced by visible distress. “He’s struck again!”
“Who’s struck again?” asked Tredinnick when she’d skidded to a stop in front of us.
“The thief.” She gasped to catch her breath. “The wad of cash I hid in my jar of night moisturizer—it’s gone.”
fifteen
I groaned. “You didn’t keep your cash in a neck wallet?”
“I bought one for the trip, but it felt itchy and made my clothes look lumpy, so I left it at home. Besides, who’s going to know to look for anything in a night moisturizer jar?”
“An accomplished thief,” said Tredinnick.
She pressed the heels of her palms against her forehead as if trying to squeeze an image out of her brain. “I removed some money from it yesterday evening, before we gathered in the lounge for my presentation, but when I went to put money back just a few minutes ago, it was empty.”
“Are you quite sure you haven’t mixed up your jars?” asked Tredinnick.
“Yes, I’m sure. I only packed two—an empty one for my cash and a full jar of daytime cream that I planned to apply both day and night.” She touched her fingertips to her cheek. “I didn’t think that using only one product for a few days would make that much of a difference in my complexion.”
Tredinnick regarded her blandly. “Where was the jar?”
“In my toiletry bag on the dresser, along with my toothpaste, facial scrubs, and everything else.”
“So to the best of your knowledge, the theft occurred in the time period between yesterday evening and a few minutes ago?”
The same time period when Bernice had disappeared. The same time period when August, Spencer, and Mason had enjoyed sole access to the rooms and hallway. Was it Caroline and Heather’s room that the bloggers had been sneaking out of when Bernice had interrupted them?
Which led me to a more insidious thought.
Had it been Heather who’d alerted her fellow bloggers to the stash in Caroline’s jar of beauty cream?
“Yes,” said Caroline, responding to Tredinnick’s question. “Twenty-four hours ago I was flush with cash; now all I have left are my credit cards. But my door was locked! How did someone get into my room without a key?”
“Wally is carrying the only master key,” I confirmed.
Tredinnick massaged the thigh of his bad leg. “There’s those who’ve made a handsome living breaking into locked rooms, Ms. Goodfriend. I’d guess that picking locks was the specialty of a few score of blighters who called Her Majesty’s prison in Dartmoor home.”
“Are you sure the door was locked?” I asked Caroline. “They don’t lock automatically. You have to use your key to lock it. So unless you did that, you might have accidentally left it op—”
“Yes, the door was locked. Heather locked it after we left the room.”
Or tricked you into thinking she’d locked it. I arched my eyebrows at Tredinnick, giving him a look that screamed Do you believe me now?
Catching my drift, he pushed himself off the car, his eyes narrowed as he focused on the inn. “It’s just occurred to me that I may have a few more questions to ask before I leave.”
The police radio inside his car squawked to life. “ Consta…zzt…zzt…zzzzzt…in please,” said a woman’s voice amid a background of static.
Leaning through his open window, he picked up the car microphone. “Come again,
Bess?” After a brief interlude where the connection thrummed with more static, he returned the microphone to its cradle and pulled out his cell phone. “System needs updating,” he griped as he punched in a number. “Bess. The car radio’s dodgy. What can I do for you?”
His breathing changed as he listened, his body language indicating that he was preparing to kick into high gear. “Call the ambulance. Keep him comfortable until I get there.”
“What’s happened?” I asked as he piled into his car.
“It’s Enyon. He’s doubled over with pain. Bess says he needs to get to hospital.”
He gunned his engine and peeled out of the parking lot as if he were participating in time trials for the Indy 500.
“I’m sorry about Enyon,” Caroline allowed, “but in the meantime, what am I supposed to do about my missing money?”
She was sorry about Enyon? My blood pressure had just shot through the top of my head and would probably trigger a brain aneurysm that would kill me, but immediate death was not an acceptable reason to shirk my professional responsibilities.
“Two things,” I said when I could breathe again. “First, we have an emergency cash fund to float you a loan, and second, you need to stop by my room to pick up a neck wallet. I brought extra.”
“This being our second substantial theft of cash since we arrived, I’d like to encourage all of you, again, to keep your valuables on your person at all times in a neck wallet, a fanny pack, or a money belt.”
After braving the cooking frenzy in the kitchen to give Nana and Jackie a heads-up about the situation, I enlisted Wally’s assistance to help me gather everyone back in the lounge so I could advise them of our latest setback. Tilly raised her hand.
“When you say we should keep our valuables close at all times, are you suggesting that we take our possessions to bed with us?”
“I’m not sleeping with my blasted wallet around my neck,” declared Dick Stolee. “I tried that once.”
“He did,” Grace attested in a grave tone. “He had a horrible nightmare and thrashed around so violently, he got the cord all tangled up in his CPAP machine and would’ve choked to death if I hadn’t cut him free.”
“What were you dreaming about?” George asked him.
Dick shivered at the memory. “Medicare vouchers.”
“Say, Emily, let’s pretend a fella was hiding money in the heel of his wingtips,” Dick Teig piped up. “Would you advise him to wear his shoes to bed?”
“He wouldn’t have to wear both, would he?” asked Margi. “If it were me, I’d only wear the shoe with the money in it.”
Alice frowned. “Wouldn’t a thief be curious about why a fella is wearing a shoe to bed?”
“Not if he sees how old the fella is,” retorted Osmond. “He’d probably figure Dick was suffering from dementia and just forgot to put the other one on.”
Helen thwacked Dick’s arm. “Why don’t you announce to the immediate world that you’re hiding money in your shoe?”
“I never said it was me,” protested Dick.
I raised my hand for quiet. “I’m not recommending that you take your valuables to bed with you. I’m just saying that during the day, please carry them on your person in a secure pouch or wallet. If you lock your door at night, your valuables should be safe.”
“Please don’t take this as a criticism,” Caroline demurred, “but my money was stolen despite my door being locked. I don’t know how it happened, but it has me pretty rattled.”
I sidled a look at Heather, knowing exactly how it had happened, but I couldn’t divulge anything until Tredinnick verified my suspicions.
“So tonight, I’m planning to wedge a chair under my doorknob to make sure no one can sneak in and steal anything else,” Caroline continued. “And if the rest of you were smart, you’d do the same thing.”
Nods. Grumbles. A few deer-in-the-headlights stares.
“My cash was stolen despite my door being locked, too,” August Lugar reminded us.
I regarded him stiffly. Right. And I was the reigning Miss Brazil.
“It might not be my place to comment on this,” he went on, “but I think somebody should because it’s become the elephant in the room.” He looked left and right to make eye contact with every guest in the lounge. “Somebody on this tour is one hell of a thief.”
I rolled my eyes. Right on cue. Deflecting suspicion away from himself again to imply that the thievery should be blamed on someone else. He was as predictable as a vindictive politician with a Twitter account. But his words had hit their mark because everyone was quite suddenly exchanging distrustful looks with their neighbors, which was, I suspected, the very reaction he’d been hoping for.
“Please stop looking at each other like that,” I urged them. “It’s painful to watch.”
“But that fella’s right, isn’t he?” asked Osmond. “Someone in this room is a thief.” He cast a slow look around him. “Show of hands. How many folks—”
“As of this minute, all voting is suspended,” I announced in a forceful voice. “Instead of sitting here, pointing fingers at each other, I’d like you to go back to your rooms to make sure all your valuables are still where they should be. And if you’re missing anything, come down to my room and let me know so I can pass the information along to Constable Tredinnick. Okay?”
Pouting. Grudging nods.
“And one more thing. Enyon suffered some kind of medical emergency while he was being held for questioning, so he’s been taken to the hospital and I don’t know when we should expect to see him again. Please keep him in your thoughts and prayers.”
“So Marion gets stuck with KP until we leave?” lamented George.
“Sorry, George. I’m afraid it’s looking more that way.”
“Gee,” said Dick Teig, looking as gleeful as a kid with an Xbox capable of both Blu-ray and video streaming, “that’s a shame Marion can’t hang up her apron. Isn’t it a shame, Dick?”
“You bet.” Dick Stolee rubbed his hands together with such vigor, I expected flames to shoot out of his palms. “So how much longer before we can sit down to eat?”
Wally sprang out of his chair and popped his head into the kitchen to ask the cooks. “Couple of hours,” he called back.
Apprehension morphed into anticipation. Frowns turned to smiles. All was right with the world again. Music might have charms to soothe a savage breast, but the thing that apparently worked best with my guys was the continued promise of Nana’s home cooking.
I regarded them fondly. Iowans were so basic.
As they began to ease out of their chairs, Kathryn Crabbe went out of her way to hobble directly in front of Heather. “I hope you’re storing my fob-seal in a safe place.”
Heather didn’t skip a beat. She plastered a smile on her face and addressed her as if she were a favorite aunt. “Thanks so much for your concern, Kathryn. How are you doing after your spill today? Anything I can do for you? If there is, you just let me know and I’ll be happy to oblige. No need for you to suffer in solitude when I’d be more than willing to keep you company. Can’t you just feel it? I think we could become the best of friends.”
Kathryn fell into silence as Heather brushed past her, her expression signaling that she was both confounded and thrown off-kilter by the girl’s unexpected response.
I guess no one in Jane Austen’s novels had made a habit of spouting one of Nana’s favorite proverbs: What can the enemy do when the friend is cordial?
Figuring that what was good for the goose was good for the gander, when I went back to my room I took inventory of my own stuff to make sure that our phantom thief hadn’t paid me a visit. I didn’t have to worry about my cash, credit cards, or passport. I always carried those with me, unless the room was outfitted with a personal safe, which this one wasn’t. I went through my dresser drawers and jewelry pouch, finding all in
order, but when I checked the closet I stopped short.
I’d brought five pairs of shoes with me. I was wearing one pair, which left four pairs in the closet.
So how come I was only seeing three?
I rummaged around in the closet, removing our suitcases for a better look. I checked under my cot and Jackie’s bed. I searched the bathroom, under the nightstand, and went through Jackie’s drawers, thinking she might have accidentally grabbed my shoes and stashed them in with her stuff. But I found no missing pair of ankle-tie flats in canary yellow.
I slumped down on my cot, confused. They were so stunning…and brand-new! I could swear I remembered bringing them, but was it a false memory? Had I actually left them at home? Or—I perked up a bit—had Jackie simply overlooked packing them when she’d volunteered to move my belongings our first night here?
Of course! They must still be in my original room—the suite Kathryn now occupied.
Anxious to find out, I hurried across the room and opened the door to find Dick Teig in the corridor, preparing to knock. I paused on the threshold. “Oh, no. You found something missing?” I hoped it wasn’t his gold doubloon.
“I’ll say. My Fruit of the Loons. I’ve been cleaned out of a whole bunch.”
“Fruit of the Looms,” I corrected with some relief. “I’m pretty sure the brand refers to the bounty from the textile looms rather than the plumage from a flock of aquatic birds.”
He offered me a blank stare. “What?”
“Never mind. So what are you missing? Boxers or briefs?”
He hitched up his trousers, clearing gravel from his throat. “Getting kind of personal, aren’t you, Emily?”
“Not if you want your skivvies back.”
He shrugged one shoulder in a sign of submission and after glancing both ways, lowered his voice to a whisper. “Boxers. The kind they sell in the economy five-pack. Helen buys the tartan plaid ones because she says they’re more slimming than the solid stretch knits. Do you need the size?”
“Uhhh…”
“Four XL. But they look a lot smaller when I’m wearing them.” He clutched his rounded belly with both hands. “Helen says my pot looks more like a six-pack when I step into my tapered Burberry checks.” He let out a bawdy chuckle. “Don’t tell Helen I told you, but you wouldn’t believe how frisky she gets when she sees me wearing—”