The Crêpes of Wrath: A Pancake House Mystery

by Sarah Fox

  As much as I didn’t want to, I had to let my mom know what had happened to Jimmy. She was in Boston visiting her fiancé’s family and I didn’t want to spoil her trip, but I knew she’d want to know about her cousin as soon as possible. He was one of our few remaining relatives and my mom was fairly close to him. She’d known him her entire life and she’d always made an effort to visit him at least once a year, also keeping in touch by phone on a regular basis. No matter where she was or what she was doing, I knew she’d want me to call her about this.

  Angling myself away from Myler’s Point, I sat on a log and focused on the ocean, watching the waves break over the sand. Some of my tension eased away as I took in deep breaths of fresh, salty air. Bit by bit, my shoulders relaxed and I found it easier to breathe. After a time, I pulled out my cellphone and put a call through to my mom.

  “Hi, honey,” my mom’s voice greeted after three rings. She sounded so cheery, so normal. “I’m glad you called. How are you?”

  My breath hitched in my throat and the ache in my chest intensified. The relaxation I’d achieved moments earlier had disappeared in an instant, and I had to take a second or two to compose myself. In that short time, my mom clued in that something was wrong.

  “Oh, sweetheart. What is it? What happened?”

  “It’s Cousin Jimmy,” I said, pulling myself together. “He’s dead.”

  Maybe I should have delivered the news differently, less bluntly, but those were the only words I could come up with.

  “Dead?” my mom echoed. A second of stunned silence came over the line. “I can’t believe it. I thought he was getting better.”

  “He was. But he didn’t die of pneumonia.” I told her about finding Jimmy’s body on the rocks of Myler’s Point.

  “Oh, hon’. That’s terrible.”

  “It gets worse,” I said.

  I related what Georgeson had told me about his suspicion that Jimmy had been murdered.

  When my mom had recovered from the initial shock of that news, she asked, “Do you want me to come out there?”

  “What about Grant and his family?”

  “I’m sure they’d understand if I left a few days early.”

  I was tempted to agree to that plan, but I really didn’t want to ruin her trip.

  “No, you don’t need to do that,” I assured her. “You enjoy your time in Boston and I’ll look after things here.” I wasn’t entirely sure what looking after things meant, but I’d have to figure it out.

  “But are you safe there? If Jimmy was murdered…”

  She left the sentence hanging, but I finished it in my own mind.

  If Jimmy was murdered, his killer could still be around.

  I swallowed back a lump of fear and forced myself to sound unconcerned. “Of course I’m safe, and I’ll be extra careful until the murderer is caught. Really, Mom, it’ll be fine.” Before she had a chance to voice any more fears, I tried to distract her with a question. “Did Jimmy have any enemies that you know of?”

  “Of course not,” she replied. “Everybody loved Jimmy. Although…”

  I pounced on her hesitation. “Although what?”

  “He had a problem with one of his employees a few years back, but I don’t know the details. And anyway, that was ages ago.”

  “Which employee?” I asked, desperate for more information.

  “I don’t know. Like I said, it was years ago. It probably has nothing to do with his death.”

  Maybe that was true, but maybe it wasn’t. If an old grievance had resurfaced…

  I shook my head. I couldn’t bring myself to believe that Leigh or Ivan had harmed Jimmy. Even if the problematic situation had involved someone who no longer worked at the pancake house, it seemed unlikely that something that transpired years earlier would have led to Jimmy’s murder.

  My mom’s voice brought me back to our conversation. “We’re going out for dinner with Grant’s daughter in a few minutes, so I’d better run, but stay in touch, okay? And if you change your mind and need me there, just say the word and I’ll make the arrangements.”

  I assured her once more that I’d be fine and asked her for the name of Jimmy’s lawyer, which I recognized as the name of Lisa’s employer. We exchanged a few more words and hung up. For a minute or two, I simply sat there, at a loss. What was I supposed to do next? I couldn’t seem to grasp a clear thought.

  Briefly, I considered calling my friend Cassidy in Seattle. Although we’d exchanged a few text messages over the past week or so, I hadn’t actually spoken with her since the day before I’d left the city, and a sense of loneliness currently held me in a tight grip. But as I stared at her name on my list of contacts, I gave up on the idea. As much as I missed my friend of fourteen years, I wasn’t up to more conversation at the moment. Besides, with twin two-year-old boys, she always had her hands full and I didn’t want to unload my problems onto her.

  I closed my eyes and wished I could erase everything from existence except the sound of the ocean. That was impossible, of course. I couldn’t hide away from the fact that Jimmy was gone and likely murdered. I couldn’t stop all the desperate questions in my head from spinning around and around.

  Why Jimmy? Who killed him? Was it a random attack? Targeted?

  I had no answers, but I was determined to find some.

  Unable to sit still any longer, I got up and took a walk along the beach, toward the opposite end of the cove from Myler’s Point. As I made my way across the sand, something glinted in the sun to my right and drew my eyes toward it. On the property next door to Jimmy’s sat a two-story, ultramodern glass-and-steel mansion. I’d first noticed it within hours of my arrival in Wildwood Cove two weeks earlier and it still seemed just as garish and out of place as it had then. I remembered the charming Victorian house that used to be on the property and wondered why anyone would have wanted to tear it down and replace it with such a monstrosity. Fortunately, the next house along the cove still had its original Victorian charm and character, as did its next neighbor, the yellow-and-white house where Patricia Murray lived and ran the Driftwood Bed and Breakfast.

  Although I’d planned to walk all the way to the eastern end of the cove, I decided I didn’t feel up to it. Instead of continuing on past the Murray house, I cut my walk short, reversing my direction so I could return to Jimmy’s place. As I passed by the modern house again, I wondered once more why anyone would build anything so unsightly. Even if the original Victorian had been in a state of extreme disrepair, there were so many nicer options the new owners could have gone with.

  Turning my attention to the ocean view on my other side, I forgot about the garish house within seconds. My thoughts had strayed back to the terrible events of the day, reminding me of the reason for my sorrowful mood. When I reached Jimmy’s property, I left the beach behind me, entering the house through the back door.

  As soon as I stepped inside, Flapjack mewed at me and wound a figure eight around my legs.

  “Hey there, Jack,” I greeted the tabby.

  I bent down and scooped him up into my arms, burrowing my face in his orange fur. As he purred away happily, I had to blink back another rush of threatening tears.

  “What’s going to happen to you, buddy?” I asked as he continued to purr.

  I’d grown attached to the tabby over the past two weeks and didn’t like the thought of sending him off to live with strangers somewhere. I wanted to keep him, but my apartment building back in Seattle had a strict no-pets policy. Maybe my mom would take him in. I’d have to ask the next time I talked to her.

  When my eyes cleared of tears, I set Flapjack back down on the floor. He mewed at me again and I remembered then that he’d finished off the last tin of cat food that morning. There wasn’t a whole lot of human food left in the fridge, either. I let out a heavy sigh. I’d have to get some groceries before the end of the day, but I wasn’t eager to go anywhere at the moment.

  Instead, I surveyed the room around me. The family room was
exactly as I had left it that morning. There was nothing new, nothing moved. I turned my eyes to the kitchen, which opened to the family room. That area, too, remained undisturbed.

  If Jimmy had made it home that morning, surely I’d be able to find some sign of his presence. Deciding to search the rest of the house, I started with the closet in the foyer. A green, mid-weight jacket hung between a denim one and a rain slicker. I didn’t think the green jacket had been there before, but I couldn’t remember for sure.

  Next, I checked Jimmy’s home office, located off the foyer on the lower level of the hexagonal tower. Again, I couldn’t find any sure signs that Jimmy had been there recently. The same was true of the formal living and dining rooms across the hall, but as soon as I turned for the stairway to the second floor, a dark object caught my eye.

  A black gym bag sat on one of the wooden steps, halfway up the staircase. I recognized it as the bag of belongings Jimmy had had with him at the hospital.

  I fetched it off the stairway and unzipped it so I could peek inside. It held only the items I expected it to: a bathrobe, a pair of slippers, a paperback novel, some toiletries, and Jimmy’s cellphone.

  So Jimmy had made it home before encountering his killer.

  The middle of the stairway was an odd place to leave the bag, though. Maybe someone had interrupted Cousin Jimmy as he was on his way upstairs. The murderer, possibly, or a potential witness who might be able to shed some light on Jimmy’s movements that morning.

  Leaving the bag in the foyer, I climbed up to the second floor to complete my search. I didn’t expect to find anything up there, and I didn’t. Nothing had changed in any of the three bedrooms and I knew the upstairs tower room was used only for storage. I opened the door and poked my head in the room anyway, not wanting to miss any potential clues.

  Years ago, the upstairs tower room had served as a quiet reading room for Grace, but only the shelves full of books remained the same. A muddle of old furniture—some pieces broken—and odds and ends took up the rest of the room. One piece of furniture in particular caught my eye, and I moved farther into the room to get a better look at it.

  I shifted aside a box of old casters and doorknobs and knelt down next to my find. It was an antique slipper chair, made of mahogany and from the Victorian era, as far as I could tell. Although upholstered in hideous gold fabric worn thin in some places and faded in others, I loved its elegant shape. I could already picture it reupholstered in nice damask, either with a traditional or more modern design.

  “All you need is a little TLC, right?” I ran my finger along the edge of the chair. It came away covered in dust.

  I got back to my feet, not wanting to let myself get distracted by the antique chair. Navigating my way around a stack of boxes to the nearest window, I looked out over Jimmy’s property, wondering what events had unfolded that morning that had led to his death.

  My eyes settled on the detached workshop and a funny sensation thrummed through my stomach as I recalled my encounter with Daryl Willis. I still didn’t believe his explanation for his presence on Jimmy’s land. Maybe it would be a good idea to take a closer look at the workshop.

  Shutting the door to the dusty storage room, I jogged down the stairs and out of the house. When I reached the door to the workshop, I came to a halt, realizing I had to turn back. The door was secured with a shiny padlock.

  I retraced my steps to the house and entered Jimmy’s office. While in the hospital, Cousin Jimmy had told me that if I ever needed to get into the workshop, I could find the key in the upper left-hand drawer of his desk. As soon as I opened the drawer, I spotted the key among some pens, pencils, and other office supplies.

  Grabbing the key ring, I returned to the workshop, but when I tried to fit the key into the padlock it wouldn’t budge. Confused, I tried again, but there was no doubt about it—the key didn’t fit the lock.

  I returned to Jimmy’s office once more and searched every drawer of his desk. I found no other keys. Walking slowly back across the yard, I tried to come up with an explanation. Perhaps Jimmy had misplaced the key to the padlock and had forgotten he’d done so. Or maybe the shiny padlock was new and he’d forgotten that he’d replaced the lock, that he hadn’t yet put the new key in the desk drawer.

  Neither explanation sat quite right with me. It wasn’t like Jimmy to be forgetful. However, at the time he’d told me about the key he’d been suffering from double pneumonia, so I supposed it was possible that his mind wasn’t quite as sharp as normal.

  Still, the situation bothered me. I circled around the workshop, trying the first window I came across. It was locked tight and when I tried to peer through the dusty glass, I saw nothing but shadows. I continued around the small building and found another window. When I tried to jerk it upward, it moved an inch or two. Encouraged, I put my strength into wrestling with the window. Although it resisted my efforts at first, it eventually gave in and moved upward with a creaking groan of protest.

  Leaning in through the open window, I allowed my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness, but I still couldn’t see much. Wondering if I was crazy, I hoisted myself up onto the sill and wiggled my way through the window. It was a tight squeeze and I almost got stuck at one point, but a moment later my feet hit the cement floor of the workshop.

  Wiping my grubby hands on my jeans, I made my way carefully toward the door, stubbing my toe in the process. I felt along the wall until I found the light switch. I flipped it on and the overhead lights came to life, chasing away the shadowy darkness. As I took a step, a crunching sound came from beneath my left sneaker.

  I crouched down and noticed shards of shimmery blue glass scattered across the floor near the door. That didn’t seem right. It wasn’t like Jimmy to leave a mess like that. Straightening up, I worked my way around a table saw. I stopped short when I spotted two framed canvases leaning up against a sawhorse.

  Picking up the first one, I saw that it was an abstract painting with wide strokes of bold colors. I’d never seen it before in my life. Setting it down, I picked up the second painting, a seascape depicting a tall ship amidst gray, choppy waves. With my heart thumping in my chest, I inspected it more closely, deciphering the signature in the lower right-hand corner.

  Johnson Thornbrook.

  My hand trembled ever so slightly as I set the framed canvas down next to the abstract picture. I hadn’t seen either painting before, but I still recognized the seascape. The artist’s name and the subject exactly matched those of a painting recently stolen from the home of Gary Thornbrook, one of The Flip Side’s regular customers.

  Chapter 5

  I stood there in the workshop, staring at the canvases at my feet, my stomach sinking lower and lower. Jimmy had stolen goods stashed in his workshop, goods taken from the home of one of his most loyal customers.

  Why?

  I knew the obvious answer was that he’d stolen the paintings and was the burglar who’d caused so much trouble in Wildwood Cove lately. But I didn’t want to believe that answer. I couldn’t believe it.

  Could I?

  Growing up, I’d heard stories about Jimmy’s wild youth, both from Jimmy himself and from my mom, and I knew he hadn’t always been the most law-abiding of citizens. Still, none of the stories came close to painting him as the type of person who would break in to people’s homes. Besides, once he’d met his wife, Grace, he’d changed his ways.

  Grace had died years ago now, though. Had Jimmy changed his ways yet again since her death?

  No. I refused to believe it. There had to be another explanation. Someone else must have stored the paintings in the workshop. Someone like Daryl Willis.

  I had my phone halfway out of my pocket before I paused. Sheriff Georgeson knew Jimmy and he also knew I’d seen Daryl hanging around the workshop, but I didn’t know if that was enough to make him believe that his fishing buddy wasn’t a thief. Once word got out about the paintings, would Jimmy forever be remembered as a criminal?

  It s
eemed so wrong, so unfair, especially since he was no longer around to defend himself. But I was here and I could clear his name.

  Thinking back, I tried to remember when the most recent break-in had occurred. The theft of Gary Thornbrook’s paintings had taken place a few days before my arrival in Wildwood Cove. It had still been the talk of the town at that point, along with the break-ins that had preceded it, but I wasn’t sure if another one had occurred since. If the thief had remained active while Jimmy was in the hospital, that would provide him with an alibi, but until I had that information, I didn’t want to call Sheriff Georgeson and tell him about my discovery.

  I slid my phone back into the pocket of my jeans and wiggled my way out the window, shutting it behind me. On my way back to the house, I absently brushed at the cobwebs clinging to my clothes, my mind still on the paintings and how they might have ended up in the workshop.

  “What do you think, Jack?” I asked when I entered the foyer and Flapjack brushed up against my legs in greeting.

  He purred and blinked at me. I picked him up and he rubbed his cheek against my chin.

  “I bet you know what goes on around here when nobody’s home. If only you could tell me what you saw this morning and on the day those paintings ended up in the workshop.”

  Flapjack gave me another chin rub and then squirmed in my arms, bored with our cuddle time. No more enlightened than before, I set him down on the floor and he wandered into Jimmy’s office. I followed him and sank down into the desk chair while he hopped up on the windowsill. When my eyes settled on Jimmy’s computer, inspiration struck. I booted up the machine, hoping to have the information I was after within the next few minutes.