Say No Moor

by Maddy Hunter

  “I didn’t kill two people.” Caroline recoiled visibly. “I only killed one!”

  A commotion erupted in the parking lot as Nana and company gathered in front of the squad car, clambering over each other to focus their cell phones on the tower of flames that had burst through the inn’s thatched roof and was spiraling upward with the force of a raging inferno.

  The inn was on fire.

  “YouTube’s gonna love this,” whooped Dick Teig.

  Jackie pivoted toward me, hands on hips, eyes narrowed, brows arched, mouthing words with such deliberate slowness, I could actually read her lips.

  “I told you I needed to check my cake.”

  With the help of Constable Tredinnick, we found alternative lodging for everyone in two different B&Bs in Port Jacob, with its impossibly steep hills and bone-breaking cobblestones, settling everyone into their new digs before eight o’clock that night. And thanks to the gang’s neurotic compulsion about keeping their belongings safe, everyone except Osmond escaped with fully packed luggage. The bloggers, Jackie, Wally, and I lost everything, but even though we didn’t have a change of clothing, toothbrush, or underwear, we still had the critical documents we were carrying in our neck wallets. I encouraged Jackie and the bloggers to go out tomorrow and buy whatever essentials they might need with the knowledge that they’d receive full reimbursement for their purchases from Destinations Travel.

  We might not have a stellar travel record, but we had really good insurance.

  The bloggers were especially hobbled after their computers went up in smoke, but they located an internet café on a nearby street so they figured they could post their blogs in other internet outlets along the way without much hassle. I appreciated their being so flexible and felt more than a twinge of conscience about my thinking them capable of murder. But the niggling question still remained. If Caroline hadn’t killed Heather, who had? And even though the bloggers might not have killed Lance, did that necessarily exonerate them from the thievery that had taken place? They could still be part of a criminal burglary ring despite their denials to Constable Tredinnick that they knew each other back in the states. But how could I prove they were lying?

  And then there was the continuing worry with Bernice.

  I knew it would feed her ego to know that every police force in Cornwall, Devon, Somerset, and Dorset was trying to track her down, but what if something really horrible had happened? What if she wasn’t planning to surprise us in Lyme Regis? What if she’d been hit by a car and was lying dead in a gutter or a culvert? What would I say to the gang? What would I say to her family?

  “Are you up for hitting the hardware store before we hit the sack?” asked Jackie as she peered out our bedroom window. Our B&B was located at the top of High Street, directly opposite Kneebone Hardware and Museum, so we had convenient access to all the local shops. “At least we can buy a couple of toothbrushes and some floss before we go to bed tonight. I refuse to invite the beginnings of tooth decay into my mouth simply because I’ve had a lousy day. The lights are on, so the store’s still open.”

  We’d been so anxious to shower when we’d checked in that we hadn’t obsessed about not having a set of clean clothes to change into, but Wally had come to the rescue when he appeared at our door with an armful of elastic-waist slacks and sweatshirts. “Your grandmother figured you’d need something that wasn’t dirt encrusted, so she asked the group for clothing donations. Hope you can find something that fits.”

  Zoning out on the bed in a floral sweatshirt and swishy wind pants, I tried to recall what my Escort’s Manual said in the section entitled Paradise Lost: When Luggage Goes Missing. I was pretty sure it advised the efficient tour escort to assemble care packets for the affected guests, rather like the ones hotels give out to guests whose bags have been lost in transit. A small gesture of goodwill might go a long way with the bloggers, but let’s face it: I had a lot to make up for.

  I swung my legs over the bed and stood up. “Okay, Jack. Let’s do it.”

  We headed out the door—me in my outdated hand-me-downs and Jackie in high-water pants and a sweatshirt cluttered with bird decals and really big rhinestones. She glanced down at the bare skin exposed between her pant hem and ankles and grimaced. “How is it that I always seem to be traveling with midgets?”

  Kathryn Crabbe emerged from the room at the end of the hall, off-balance and limping. She clutched the wall for support even before taking two steps.

  “Are you okay, Kathryn?” I called.

  “I was just on my way down to see you. I needed a break from beating the dust out of my streetclothes.” She tightened the belt on the terrycloth robe that the B&B provided as an amenity to all its guests. “I can’t go out, Emily. I can’t try to maneuver over those cobblestones again. Not with these legs.” She leaned over to rub her knees. “They’re so stiff, I doubt I can walk down the hall. What am I going to do? I need clothes. Toiletries. But I’m as good as an invalid right now.”

  I took her arm. “Well, first thing we need to do is get you back in your room and seated so you don’t fall down.”

  With Jackie on one arm and me on the other, she shuffled back to an armchair and sat down. “It’s not so bad when I have support. Maybe what I need is a cane like Tilly’s. Only until the stiffness goes away.” She leaned back in her chair, the epitome of hopelessness. “If that’s even doable.”

  “But it is.” I offered her a reassuring smile. “Which do you prefer? A walking stick, a cane, or a wheeled rollator? Because I can have one here for you in a matter of minutes.”

  “How?”

  “Tour escorts are very clever people, Kathryn. We have our ways.” It also helped that the region’s one-stop shopping place for ambulatory assistance devices was located across the street.

  “Maybe a couple of walking sticks. They might help me blend in better with the locals.”

  Kathryn Crabbe wanting to blend in? I didn’t see that coming.

  “Okay. Walking sticks it is. Stay right where you are until we get back.”

  Her voice stopped us at the door. “You embarrass me with your kindness, Emily, because I don’t deserve it.”

  I turned around to face her, temporarily speechless.

  “I’ve been rude and inflexible and demanding…and I’m sorry. You’d think I’d be old enough to know better, wouldn’t you? Apparently people who nurture oversized egos are rather slow learners.”

  She stared down at the hands she’d folded in her lap. “I used to be a nice person. I really did. But something happened along the roadway of my life and I turned into an old, dry, bitter stick. I should have tried to make your job easier rather than harder. I shouldn’t have been so horrid to Heather. Her only sin was her taste in literature and her passion for pop culture, but I couldn’t let it go. I felt offended by her very existence. I shouldn’t have been so bullheaded about the fob-seal. It was hers, not mine. I’ve acted like a spoiled brat to everyone. I’ve shamed myself with my bad behavior, and I ask you to forgive me, Emily…if you can. I’m truly sorry that my participation in your tour has contributed to its ruin.”

  I flashed an indulgent smile. If she was asking for a second chance, she’d asked the right person. I’d lost track of how many second chances I’d been given to conduct the perfect tour—the one where there was no body count. “Say no more, Kathryn. Apology accepted. But I disagree with you on one issue. It’ll take more than two unfortunate deaths, a missing person, a landslide, and a hotel fire to completely ruin our tour.”

  But we were really pushing the envelope.

  “Wow,” Jackie whispered as we stepped out onto the cobbled sidewalk. Streetlights flickered on overhead, illuminating the twilight, while the fluorescent tubing that framed Kneebone’s storefront windows brightened the shadows, spilling light onto the walkway and street. “Talk about throwing yourself on your sword. Do you think she meant it?”


  “I’d like to think she did. Why? Don’t you?”

  “I dunno. Honestly, Em, I’ve always thought you are what you wear, but I’m stepping out in public for the first time in my life in apparel that I shall charitably describe as grandmother-wear, so I don’t know who I am or what I think anymore. This outfit is really messing with my brain.”

  A redhead with long straight hair and heavy bangs sashayed up the hill and paused near the display window of the hardware store to take a long drag on a cigarette. With smoke jetting from her nose and mouth like exhaust from a muffler, she looked up and down the street as if she were waiting for someone.

  “If I were you, Jack, I wouldn’t be so quick to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially since Nana was thoughtful enough to—”

  “Hey you!” Jackie yelled to the girl in an indignant voice.

  Oh, no. Was she about to hop up on her soapbox and lecture the girl about the dangers of smoking? Yup. That’s what the evening was missing—a treatise on the deleterious effects of chain-smoking on a woman’s complexion. “Cool it, Jack. You’re not the tobacco police. If she wants to light up, that’s up to—”

  Muttering a string of scathing epithets, she pounded across the cobblestones like a racehorse out of the starting gate, high-kicking and arms pumping, heading straight for the girl.

  “Jack!”

  The girl froze in place—paralyzed, no doubt, by the sight of a six-foot transsexual in high-water pants and rhinestones charging at her. Her cigarette fell from her lips as she opened her mouth to scream, but Jack tackled her to the ground before she could utter a peep.

  “Jack! What are you doing? Stop it!”

  I charged across the street, grabbing Jackie’s shoulder as she pinned down the redhead. “Let her go! What’s wrong with you?”

  “She’s wearing my wig!” With a burst of female outrage, Jackie reached down and ripped the wig off the girl’s head, brandishing it in the air in the same way Jason might have brandished the Golden Fleece. “How did you get my wig?”

  Omigod. This was Jackie’s wig? Wow. It looked like something Cher might wear. I wondered how she’d feel about lending it out.

  “It’s not your wig. It’s mine!”

  “It was in my dresser drawer. How did it get from my drawer to your head?”

  The girl kicked upward, struggling to free herself. “Get off me, you bleedin’ Amazon!”

  I glanced at their tangled limbs, my mouth falling open when I realized what else the girl was wearing. “My shoes! You’re wearing my canary yellow ankle-tie flats. You…you stole my shoes!”

  “I did not! I didn’t steal nuthin’. Jory gave ’em to me.”

  Treeve Kneebone threw open the door of his hardware store, one hand on his walker, his voice booming out at us. “Wot’s going on out here?”

  “Jory?” I asked the girl as I threw a questioning look at Treeve. “You mean Jory Kneebone? Treeve’s son?”

  “Yeah, Jory Kneebone. He’s me boyfriend.”

  twenty-one

  “You need to lock her up,” demanded Jory Kneebone’s girlfriend, Daisy. She stabbed a finger at Jackie. “Nutters like her shouldn’t be allowed on the street. She’s bleedin’ barmy!”

  Constable Tredinnick had hauled all of us off to the station house and seated us on opposite sides of a long wooden table—Daisy, Jory, and Treeve on one side; Jackie and I on the other—and then he’d pressed the record button on his outdated tape recorder.

  “You know what makes me barmy?” Jackie shot back, eyes ablaze, spittle flying. “People who steal my stuff and treat it like their own!”

  “Not another word out of either one of you,” cautioned Tredinnick. He dragged a chair to the narrow end of the table and sat down, fingers tapping impatiently on the pitted wood. He trained a narrow look at Jory. “All right, young man, what are you on about?”

  Jory swiped at the fringe of stick-straight bangs that drooped over his eyes. “It was Pops’s idea. He made me do it.”

  Treeve yanked his knitted cap down over his eyebrows and groaned. I guess he’d expected his kid to withstand questioning for a little longer than half a nanosecond.

  “What else did you nick besides the wig and the shoes?”

  “Cash.” Jory smiled proudly. “Splashed out in the cash department, I did. Twice.”

  “You stole the presents you gave me?” squealed Daisy, smacking him roundly upside his head. “That seals it, you bleedin’ tosser. We’re finished.”

  Jackie raised a finger. “Not to change the subject, but have you read the latest medical reports on concussions?”

  “It was you?” I exploded, meeting Jory’s unrepentant gaze. “You’re the one who stole August’s and Caroline’s money? Here I was blaming my own tour guests for the thievery! Accusing innocent people. Concocting wild theories. Casting aspersions on their integrity! And all the time it was you?” I was sure I’d be even more angry when I got over being so embarrassed.

  I’d been sooo wrong.

  Again.

  He grinned. “Well, it wasn’t Pops. He uses a bloody walker. How would he get through the tunnels?”

  “Tunnels?” questioned Tredinnick. “What tunnels?”

  “The ones wot the smugglers used,” Treeve spoke up. “The whole cliff is carved out like an ant farm. Where do you think the smugglers stashed their booty so it wouldn’t be found? How do you think they carried it from the beach to the bluff without being seen? Through that sliver of cave at the base of the cliff, then up through the tunnels.”

  “Smugglers?” I gave him a squinty look. “Where do smugglers fit in? I thought the inn was the past hangout of highwaymen?”

  “True, true.” Treeve nodded. “The smugglers arrived on the scene after the highwaymen. Turned out to be a much more lucrative occupation.”

  “So you’re suggesting that there’s a whole network of tunnels beneath the Stand and Deliver Inn?” asked Jackie.

  “I’m not suggesting,” said Treeve. “I’m telling you for a fact. The tunnels were already part of the landscape, so when we decided to convert the farm to an inn, I says to meself, Treeve, you old sod, why not update the things? Make ’em more accessible. Easier to use. Jory did the work himself.”

  “Did I have a choice?” Jory scowled at his father. “Pops didn’t want anyone to know wot we were doing, so he couldn’t contract the work out. There was no one to give it a crack but me.”

  “Whoa,” I said, making a T with my hands for a timeout. “You’re the person who converted the farm to an inn? Not Enyon and Lance? You were the original owner?”

  Treeve nodded. “Me…and me family before me.”

  “And no one thought to mention that?” I fixed Tredinnick with a frustrated look. “Not even after guests started dying and valuables went missing?”

  Tredinnick shrugged. “How would former ownership of the inn have been pertinent to the case?”

  “Well, it might have allowed us to put two and two together.” I leaned forward on the table, giving Treeve the stinkeye. “So how did it work? Did the tunnels give you access to every room?”

  “Sure did. Through a trapdoor in the closet floor. All me boy had to do was wait for a guest to vacate the room and the place was his to explore at his leisure.”

  “I couldn’t do nothing until low tide though,” Jory explained. “No place to land me boat at high tide. The beach gets flooded.”

  “How did you know when the rooms were vacant?” pressed Tredinnick.

  Jory snickered. “I ran a pret-tee slick operation, Constable. I installed surveillance equipment just about everywhere.”

  Jackie sprang out of her seat like a giant jack-in-the-box. “You put surveillance cameras in our rooms?”

  “’Course I put them in your rooms. I wouldn’t be able to tell if you was in or out otherwise, now would I?”<
br />
  I wrestled her back into her seat. She clenched her teeth. “You watched us undress?”

  Jory looked affronted by the question. “No! I closed up shop before anything got X-rated. I’m not a freakin’ perv.”

  I did a quick mental inventory of our room, unable to visualize any type of photographic equipment. “Where did you hide the cameras?”

  “Stuck ’em in the teddies we left in the rooms for the new owners. Hid ’em in plain sight in the little glass eyes. Pops said it was a stroke of genius.”

  Jackie made a gagging sound. “That is so disgusting.”

  “Bugger that,” argued Jory. “I ran a very posh operation. Outfitted quite a nice observation room under the spa with all me equipment, I did, so when you blokes headed to the dining room, I was ready to pop over to the inn and do me diddlin’.”

  “Nick their property, you mean,” corrected Tredinnick. “You should be ashamed of yourself. And you!” He fired a contemptuous look at Treeve. “From respectable pig farmer and store owner to two-bit thief. Whatever happened to you, Treeve Kneebone?”

  “I’ll tell you wot happened,” huffed Treeve as he hammered his fist on the table. “Austerity happened. The harder we work, the more the government takes away. I’m fed up!”

  “Austerity hit all of us,” reasoned Tredinnick, “but we didn’t all resort to thievery.”

  “If it was good enough for me forebears, it’s good enough for me,” spat Treeve.

  I stared across the table at him. “What are you talking about?” I searched the faces in the room for assistance. “Am I the only one who doesn’t know what he’s talking about?”

  “I was sick of farming,” boomed Treeve. “Too unpredictable. Long hours. Little return. And the pigs stunk. So, says I to meself, Treeve, use wot little savings you’ve got to convert the place. Open an inn. The hospitality industry has to be easier than pig farming, and it’s bound to smell better. Give it a throw. So we got rid of the pigs and began remodeling the house and installing the spa, but when we were about halfway through, me nerves got wobbly. I’d be dealing with whingey guests and temperamental cooks and cleaning staff who might not show up, and it seemed like way too much work. So, says I to meself, Treeve, if you sell the place, that doesn’t mean you can’t profit from it. Make a few adjustments to the tunnel system and bam! You’ll be able to earn money the old-fashioned way: by stealing from unsuspecting strangers. Just like Sixteen String Jack used to do.”