Angie remembered Jasper’s suggestion that Reed had planned to meet with someone, maybe a lover, on the island without mentioning it to her, but Detective Bailey seemed to be on a roll, so she didn’t interrupt.
“So he came here on foot,” Detective Bailey said again. He was pacing back and forth on the sand now, looking at his shoes, going so far as to pull up the legs of his trousers in order to look at them.
“And got sand in his clothes? Did he have sand in his clothes?”
“Yes, and it’s consistent with the sand that’s on this part of the beach.”
“And you think the killer has sand in his clothes as well.”
Wait…was he trying to tell her that he had a suspect? Had he found sand on someone else’s clothes?
Detective Bailey looked up at her suddenly. “There’s a lot of sand on an island,” he said. “And a lot of the sand on Nantucket is consistent with this beach.”
She shook her head. “Whatever you’re trying to get at, I’m not following you.”
He straightened up, holding one hand to shade his eyes, and turned around in a slow circle. “I don’t know what I think yet. I need to get back to the office. I thank you, ma’am, for meeting me out here; it’s saved me a little time today, on a day where I don’t have time to spare.”
They walked back up to the street. She handed over the garbage bag with the briefcase, book, and papers, and he drove off, giving her a little wave as he passed.
What had that all been about?
The first thing she did when she got back to the bookstore was look up the book from Reed’s briefcase and put a copy on order. She should have read it from cover to cover when she had it here in the shop instead of giving way to shock and grief. But it’s easy to forget what one should do when one is carried away by strong emotions, as Victor Nouges’s mysterious lady had proved oh-so-long ago.
The second thing she did was to start educating herself on the world of forgery. She spent a half an hour speed reading articles online, learning in the process that forgeries were typically sold on the black market first before popping up in legitimate auctions. The articles were interesting, but not detailed. What she really needed was a book on forgeries. Maybe some in depth research would give her a little more insight into Reed’s so-called “quest.”
The third thing she did was stand up abruptly as the door opened behind her. Jo and Mickey were there—not carrying pastries boxes this time, but simply there—with arms outstretched.
Angie collected hugs from both of them.
“We’re getting you out of here,” Jo said.
“I’ve been in and out all day, really,” Angie said. She didn’t add that she was waiting to find out whether Walter was coming back this evening or tomorrow morning.
“I’ve already called Aunt Margery,” Jo said. “We have permission.” She leaned forward so that she could see into the bookstore and waved at Aunt Margery. Aunt Margery waved back.
“Where are we going?”
“Sheldon’s.”
“You’re going to make me fat,” she said, giving in.
“Sit around and eat all day?” Mickey said. “Fat sounds awesome. Let’s do fat.”
Angie was surprised to discover that she was starving when she walked in the door of Sheldon’s. Starving, and suddenly panicky. It was weird. The feelings that had been so overwhelming when she was here last—waiting for Reed and worrying about him—seemed to be waiting for her on her return.
But it was something she could master, even if it did force her to stand stock still in the doorway for a couple of breaths. . As she walked into the restaurant, Jeanette standing at the maître-d’ stand, watched her with her head tilted.
“Are you well, ma chère?”
Angie said, “I just remembered the last time I was here.”
“Eh, poor thing.” Jeanette came around the stand and gave her a hug. “No better cure for grief than to eat. Can you eat?”
“I can eat,” Angie said firmly. Her stomach growled obligingly, and Jeanette squeezed her tighter before letting her go.
“Follow me,” she said, and led them through the restaurant to the kitchen.
The quiet jazz music and muted buzz of conversation transitioned into the hustle and bustle of the restaurant kitchen. Clanks, bangs, and loud rock music filled the room, as did the smell of sautéed garlic and freshly cooked seafood. In one corner of the kitchen, a small outdoor café table had been set up for the three of them. A chef’s table.
A pan dropped on the floor, sounding like a gong.
Sheldon bellowed, “How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?”
“Just one more time, boss. One more time.”
“Don’t do that!”
Laughter.
Jeanette said, “You will not be ordering this evening. You will be fed. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” they all said.
Jeanette clapped twice, seeming to grow a foot taller as her face took on a stern look. “Then let the food begin!”
The feast commenced with genuine foie gras on toasted brioche. Angie was shocked. She knew that fattened goose liver wasn’t easy to get in the States, and it was terrifically expensive, especially for the small amount that she and the Jerritts were eating.
Then she noticed that everyone was eating it. Some of the cooks at the stations were feeding it to each other as they cooked, so no one would miss out.
Then came langoustines, which were lobster-like creatures that were just as delicious as their larger cousins, with a homemade tarragon mayonnaise, lemon wedges, a variety of crudités, and thin slices of sourdough bread. Finger food.
Jeanette had disappeared back to the front of the restaurant, but Sheldon was still moving around the kitchen, looking over the cooks’ shoulders, tasting a few things here and there, and cracking joking. The thing that most amused Angie was how noisy it was. From the front of the restaurant, you’d never suspect the relaxed but loud chaos happening a few steps away.
Mickey said, “So that guy who was at the café this afternoon?”
“Oh yes,” Angie said. Her strange meeting with Detective Bailey on the beach had briefly put Mr. Motorcycle out of her mind. “Wyatt Gilmore? How was he? I was trying to pull him out of his shell. He started talking about basketball for a while, but then he clammed up again.”
“Yeah, the poor guy. He’s had a rough year. His brain is dripping out of his ears. But it sounds like he’s pretty good at what he does. Or what he did. He got fired. He told you that, right?”
“I seem to remember that he did. Or he implied it at least. A data analyst, right?”
“That’s it. Anyway, I hooked him up with some of my friends from college who are running some kind of, well, I don’t like to say it’s a scam, but it’s a scam. They’re running a lot of data analysis on basketball numbers and making a lot of well-informed bets.”
“That does sound like a scam. Do I know these guys?”
“You mean, did you meet ’em?” He chortled to himself. “You must not have. These aren’t people you can forget.”
Mickey proceeded to tell them all about his college friends: three computer programmers whose official job was to hack into banks and then charge exorbitant fees to teach them how to fix their security issues. Once Angie heard the name of the company, it dropped into place—she’d heard about them back when she was working at the investment firm.
“Do you think it’ll be a good fit?” she asked.
“For Wyatt? No idea,” Mickey admitted. “I mean, the best you can do is put people in the same room and see if they click. But it might work. He’s desperate.”
Angie’s eyes went wide as she was struck by an idea.
“Um, Angie? You have something you want to tell us?” said Mickey between mouthfuls of bread.
“Well, yeah, I guess.” She replied, “I think Reed was looking into something about forged paintings. I learned recently that most of the forgeries start on the bla
ck market.”
Mickey swallowed his mouthful of food, and shot a glance over at his sister.
“Angie, this was supposed to be a night off. No work. No Walter. No murder mysteries. No treasure hunts.” Said Jo.
“Okay, okay,” Angie replied, “But let me just finish this one thought and we’ll move on.”
Jo shrugged, and Mickey nodded in agreement.
“Mickey, could you get your friends to help me do some black market research on the world of forgery?” Asked Angie.
“Yeah, sure.” Said Mickey grinning, “If it’s illegal and online, these guys can help. They owe me a favor or two so I’ll ask them tomorrow. Now, back to food?”
Angie sipped her wine and smiled, “Deal.”
She chewed on a slice of sourdough. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Jo staring into space while sitting on her hands.
“Jo…are you all right?”
“Sure.”
“You haven’t said a word all night.”
Jo wasn’t normally the quiet type.
“Sorry. Too many things on my mind.”
“Like what?”
She made a face. “Business stuff. They don’t tell you, when you’re a young punk with razorblades dangling off the safety pins on your leather jacket, if you don’t want to work for the man then someday you’ll have to learn how to run a business .”
“You totally work for the man,” Mickey said. She hit him in the arm, her face relaxing into a smile.
“I don’t work for you.”
“Do so.”
In a minute they were having the world’s most ridiculous slappy-fight, right at the chef’s table. Sheldon cleared his throat from across the room. “All right, children, settle down. Someone will bring you oysters in a minute…but only if you’re good.”
They laughed and settled back in their chairs. Mickey grabbed the last piece of sourdough and munched on it.
“Go on,” Angie said.
“Honestly, though? I kind of like running a business,” Jo said.
This had been obvious to Angie for years now, but she nodded as though the information had been some kind of big revelation.
“I like doing almost the same thing every day. I like running the numbers. I like paying the bills. The boring stuff. I like it.”
“Is that really what’s on your mind?”
“Honestly? I’m mentally counting up the bank account and realizing that we have extra money to play with, and I’m wondering what to do with it, and afraid of screwing it up. Advertising? Repairs?”
“Buy a new oven?” Mickey suggested helpfully. “We could buy a new oven.”
“It’s not that much money.”
They bickered for a few moments longer. Then one of the cooks brought over a plate of oysters Rockefeller and another plate of fresh Blue Points. A second later he was back, with all the trimmings and a basket of hush puppies.
“Good, good,” Sheldon called from the other side of the kitchen.
Jo sank back into her reverie, occasionally pulling a notebook out of her jacket to jot something down.
Mickey said, “Do you ever think about us?”
It came out of the blue. Angie actually had to blink at him for several seconds before she even realized what he was talking about. In high school, the two of them had dated for a while, but it hadn’t worked out. It felt so long ago. Ancient history.
“Not often,” she admitted. “Mostly I’m wrapped up in things closer to the present.”
“Now that you’re dating Walter, I think about it more,” he admitted.
Well, that was awkward. What was she supposed to say to that?
“Oh?” was what she finally settled on. She didn’t know what she expected him to say next. It was Mickey; he might go off on a tangent about how the situation reminded him of his favorite type of pastry flour. He might turn it into a joke.
But he didn’t.
“I should have said something when you came back. Before it was too late.”
Angie blinked again. She had been back for almost three years now. He’d had plenty of time if he’d wanted to try dating again.
He picked up one of the Blue Points, sprinkled some hot sauce on it, and gulped it down. “I don’t know why I didn’t. The bakery, probably. Like, we had to get it up and running before I was willing to, I don’t know. Live. Do real stuff that wasn’t numbers and ledger entries and trying to scrape by without having to ask anyone for help. I thought that’s what you were doing, too. I thought, ‘Don’t bother Angie, stupid. We both have too much on our minds.’”
He shook his head. “And now? Now you’ve got Walter. And I realize that it was dumb to wait. Life doesn’t do that. One second someone’s there. The next they’re gone.”
Angie said, “Mickey…”
“Don’t stress it, though,” he said. “I mean, look at you and Walter. He’s a good guy. You obviously click. And it would suck if things had gone awkward again. What if we’d dated for serious and then we weren’t happy with each other? That gets awkward fast, even more awkward than me talking to you about this stuff now. I mean, one minute you’re making out, and the next minute the circus comes to town and I run off with the bearded lady. Heartbreak city. What would you do without me?”
Angie cracked up. She couldn’t help it.
When she got her breath back, she opened her mouth to say something tactful.
Mickey raised a hand palm-out. “You don’t have to say anything. I know, you’re really upset that you took me for granted for so long, but let’s face it. I was always going to leave you for a sasquatch or something. Let’s just leave it at that and move on with our lives.”
So she closed her mouth again and ate another oyster.
“That’s my oyster,” he said.
She took another one and downed it, shoving his hands away as he jokingly tried to steal it.
After a main course of sirloin with béarnaise sauce and Jeanette’s mashed potatoes—which were loaded with enough butter, garlic, and cream to give a healthy person a heart attack—they struggled to finish with a chocolate stout mousse served with raspberries and whipped cream, and finally failed.
Sheldon didn’t seem to mind; he stood over their little chef’s table and gloated, literally rubbing his hands together as he cackled, saying things like, “I have defeated the Jerritt twins this day. Bow before me,” and other complete nonsense that made them all laugh.
On their way out, they spotted the Beauchamps at a table. Mr. Beauchamp waved them over and gave them a loud and conspiratorial whisper: “We’ve made progress!”
“On what?” Angie asked.
“On the mystery!”
“Oh, hush, Charles,” whispered Mrs. Beauchamp. “You’re overstating things just a little.”
Her voice sounded playful, but her eyes looked nervously around the room. They fastened on the same person that caught Angie’s eyes: Alayna Karner. Alayna was by herself at a small table, fixedly staring at the five of them.
“We think…” Mr. Beauchamp leaned in even closer. “…that we’ve found the location of the painting!”
“Oh, Charles!” Mrs. Beauchamp said in a low voice. “Don’t pull their legs like that!”
“It’s in—” Suddenly Mr. Beauchamp jumped, and twisted around in his chair. “Darling! Why did you kick me?”
“She…is…watching!” Mrs. Beauchamp said, jerking her head toward Alayna Karner.
Mr. Beauchamp turned in the direction Mrs. Beauchamp was looking. His eyes widened and his posture straightened until he was puffing out his skinny chest. Then his eyes narrowed.
“I shall tell you at a later time,” he said.
“If you think you know where the painting is, you should tell them at the Chamber of Commerce first,” Angie said. “That way, your guess will be registered.”
Mrs. Beauchamp put her hand to her face, as if to say, Here we go again.
“I refuse to tell the Chamber of Commerce,” Mr. Beauchamp said.
“Someone is sabotaging that office. Mark my words. That office has had more trouble than a barrel full of monkeys ever since we got here. Computers going down, bad service, information lost!”
“What information was lost?” Angie said, who could understand Mr. Beauchamp’s first two of his complaints, but was puzzled by the last one.
“Pamphlets! Books! Maps! Every so-called ‘lead’ they give us leads nowhere, or else it’s missing!” Mr. Beauchamp looked at his wife. “Isn’t that right, Dottie?”
“Yes, Charles,” she said.
“Couldn’t that be due to, forgive me, some unethical treasure hunters?” Angie asked.
“You betcha,” Mr. Beauchamp said. “But who?”
“What does that have to do with the Chamber of Commerce?”
“There’s a traitor in the office, can’t you see?” Mr. Beauchamp hissed. “Someone has to be one step ahead of us. One. Step. Ahead. Either it’s a traitor in the office or it’s a hacker, breaking into their computer, stealing information, and feeding it back to their treasure hunter on the island!”
Mr. Beauchamp settled back in his chair, smug.
“But we’ve gotten around all that, haven’t we, Dottie? And if they get too close”—he glared at Alayna Karner—“then we have our own defenses. They’ll regret getting in our way, won’t they, Dot?”
Mrs. Beauchamp seemed to sink into herself. “Oh, Charles. It’s not that important.”
“Not important?” His voice carried. “Winning is not important?”
A slim hand dropped onto Mr. Beauchamp’s shoulder. Jeanette. “Is everything all right?”
Mr. Beauchamp glared at her. “Your fine establishment never disappoints, Madame. But that…that spy has followed us here. She refuses to leave us alone. She can’t find the painting herself, so she follows in our footsteps, hoping to steal all the glory from us like some sort of vulture!”
He raised one shaking finger to point at Alayna Karner.
Jeanette took in the situation with a carefully blank face. “Would you like me to move your table elsewhere? We have a private chef’s table inside the kitchen that has only just been vacated, if you don’t mind the noise.”
Prize and Prejudice: A Cozy Mystery Novel (Angie Prouty Nantucket Mysteries Book 2) Page 12