Smugglers & Scones
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Lemon-Glazed Blueberry Scones
Maple Oat Hazelnut Scones
About the Author
Smugglers & Scones
Moorehaven Mysteries: Book 1
A Red Adept Publishing Book
Copyright © 2016 by Morgan C. Talbot All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: January 2017
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
To Patricia Eiseman, who taught me sophomore and senior English. She posted a No Hunting sign to help us remember to be kind, and she let me wear a gown and cape when we studied Robert Browning’s “My Last Duchess.”
1
“I put beautiful paintings in my novels because when I look out the window, all I see is fog. Now, ask me a serious question.”
Raymond Moore, 1948
“Good morning. Moorehaven Bed and Breakfast Inn.”
“Pippa! Al Daulton here. I need to kill a few people this weekend. Can you help me out?”
“Of course, Mr. Daulton. Would you like the Oubliette again?”
“Yes. With all these bodies piling up, I’ll need the privacy. Can’t let anyone stumble onto the evidence.”
I smiled. Return customers were the best. And so far, I only had two guests booked over the weekend, leaving seven of my rooms free. Well, six, after Al’s reservation. “We’re happy to accommodate you, Mr. Daulton. What time can we expect you?”
“Some time tomorrow afternoon, probably.”
“We’ll have your room ready. See you tomorrow.” I hung up, penciled Mr. Daulton into the schedule, then let my gaze wander to my favorite landscape painting, Alessandro Baldochiero’s Paradiso Fugace, which I’d hung directly across the hallway from my hostess station. The landscape showed an Italian countryside, but not in the usual warm, bright colors. A late afternoon storm approached from the west, throwing the hillside villa and its surrounding vineyards into a lovely pattern of chiaroscuro. I loved studying the painting’s contrasting light and shadow. Some days, I was the serene villa, calm in my stability. Others, I was engulfed in the oncoming storm, fighting off tourists’ curious questions while struggling to give my guests their privacy—or wrangling peace between my guests and the locals, who didn’t see much difference between curious authors and roaming tourists. Baldochiero had really captured how I felt about owning the Moorehaven Bed and Breakfast Inn. But that’s what they say good art is supposed to do: show you yourself. And I had every intention of becoming as much a fixture at Moorehaven as Paradiso Fugace was. I couldn’t imagine my life anywhere else.
The picture was only one of many classic reproductions hanging along Moorehaven’s main hallway. Each one was a copy of a real painting that the famous author Raymond Moore had mentioned in one of his best-selling crime novels. And I was lucky enough to live and work in his home-turned-bed-and-breakfast. Even after six years, I sometimes pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. But most days, I was more likely to tear out my hair. My two current author guests had arrived this morning with the usual amount of distracted-creative fanfare, though they weren’t upstairs at the moment. Paul, who had stayed at Moorehaven to write sections of four of his novels, was out showing his friend and protégé, Skylar, Seacrest’s sights.
I bustled from my hostess station back through the wide arch at the back end of the main hallway, which led to the formal dining room on the left and the kitchen on the right. As I passed beneath it, the Moorehaven cats—pure-white Svetlana and gray-tabby Rex—gazed silently down from their favorite steps in the curving staircase that rose to the second floor. “It’s not time to eat yet,” I called.
“Mrrw,” Svetlana replied.
Of course she knew it wasn’t time to eat yet unless, of course, I was on my way to get a treat, in which case she’d deign to eat it solely for my benefit. After six years, I knew Svetlana’s vocalizations pretty well. Rex was still new to Moorehaven, but Svetlana was firmly instructing him in her ways. She rarely needed to employ the Paw of Justice anymore.
A metallic bang emanated from the kitchen, and I headed that way. A clang, a thump, and a muffled Sunday swear came from under the big steel kitchen sink, in that order. “You okay, Hilt?” I called, angling toward where my great-uncle lay, denim-clad legs protruding onto an old towel.
Hilt’s gravelly voice echoed from within the cabinet. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll live. But whoever designed this plumbing needs a swift kick in the Asperger’s.”
I crossed my arms. “You know this building is about a hundred and twenty years old. And didn’t you tell me that you redid all the plumbing in the kitchen, like, thirty years ago?”
A grimy hand with prominent veins and the odd liver spot reached from under the sink and wielded a wrench in my direction. “Yeah, well, I was an idiot back then. And I’m not ashamed to admit it. Now be a doll, and hand me that rubber mallet.”
I sighed and handed over the requested tool. Uncle Hilt had been forty-five years old thirty years ago and far from an idiot. But far be it for me to interrupt his diatribe. Uncle Hilt loved his diatribes.
And he wasn’t done. “Speaking of idiots, whose bright idea was it to hang that peacock-pane chandelier in the hall? That beast is a hellion to dust and a guillotine waiting to happen.”
“Still pretty sure that was Aunt Felicity when she had this place built.” Raymond Moore’s Aunt Felicity had been a woman wrapped in several layers of mystery, from her secretive, homebody life to the reason she’d left her immensely wealthy family behind in New York City and traveled across the continent, alone in 1891. She’d probably inspired Moore’s entire mystery-writing career simply by existing. Everyone who visited Moorehaven said they wished they could’ve met Raymond Moore, but Felicity was the Moore I wanted to meet. I didn’t know why she’d installed an octopus of a laundry chute system when she was the manor’s only permanent occupant, but now that Moorehaven had become a B&B, that feature made washing all my
linens easy and entertaining, and I wished I could thank her for her magical foresight.
Hilt sighed from under the cabinet. “I know, I know. But I can’t give a dead woman a piece of my mind, can I?”
I shook my head and smiled. We’d had this conversation dozens of times. “Nope. Which is why you hired me: so you’d have someone to gripe to. Quit pretending you don’t know how this works. I’ll get the chandelier dusted this week, okay?”
He grunted, followed by a few cathartic bangs on some poor, unsuspecting pipe. “You youngsters and your adventuresome spirit. Go ahead if it makes you feel better, Whip.”
I smothered a grin. “I’ll put it on my to-do list.” Uncle Hilt only called me “Whip” when he wanted to draw attention to the difference in our ages. The moniker was short for whippersnapper, and he was old enough to use it unironically. Part of me wondered if he had only complained about dusting the gorgeous chandelier in the entryway because he didn’t trust his legs on our shaky ladder anymore. My great-uncle was old, wise, and definitely crafty, and I wouldn’t put it past him to manipulate me into doing chores he wouldn’t admit made him nervous. And because I loved him the way one loves a grumpy old cat that’s been in the family forever, I never held his shenanigans against him.
The phone rang again, and I headed back to the main hallway. The cell forwarding—and cell coverage in general—was very hit or miss on the narrow strip of land between the Pacific Ocean and the forested ridge a mile inland, so I tried to keep within earshot of the landline.
With my eyes on the stained-glass art nouveau inset in the front door, I stepped behind the L-shaped counter at the hostess station midway down the hall and grabbed the phone. I felt the cats’ attention on the back of my head. “Good morning. Moorehaven Bed and Breakfast Inn.”
“My goodness, is that you, Pippa Winterbourne? You sound so accomplished!”
The voice belonged to an older woman, but I didn’t recognize it. My gaze lifted to the concentric circles of peacock-feather-painted, eight-by-twelve panels of glass eight feet above my entryway floor. I did not want to dust it either. “Yes, I’m Pippa Winterbourne. How may I help you?”
A breathless giggle. “Oh, honey. You don’t remember me, do you? Well, it has been six years. And we only met during your first two weeks in Seacrest.”
Oh, my local guide! Argh, what’s her name? An old friend of Hilt’s had shown me around town like a friendly tour guide when I first moved in after four years at college in Phoenix, making me feel at home in my new town and warning me what the weather on the Oregon Coast was like most of the year: soggy. She used to live in town, but soon after I arrived, she’d divorced and moved away. Her name was something hippie-ish… Ah. “Variety Braxton, what a surprise!”
“Oh, I went back to my maiden name. Aponte.”
Oops. “Of course. Variety Aponte. I didn’t expect to hear from you. How are you doing?” I glanced toward the closet-sized bookstore off the entryway and braced for a long, stream-of-consciousness reply. The Shelf needs an inventory update, doesn’t it? I might even be able to dust the chandelier before she’s done talking.
But Variety was delightfully succinct. “I’m absolutely wonderful, hon. I have work down in Banning that should last me all summer, and you know how lucrative tourist season is on the coast.”
“Are you still painting?”
A gust of wind blew across Variety’s phone, causing heavy static for a moment. “—gave up painting, it would literally kill me. You know how artists are, don’t you, with all those writers staying with you?”
I nodded, though she couldn’t see me. All my guests were mystery authors, as per Raymond Moore’s will, and though they came in all shapes, sizes, experience levels, and subgenres, they were all hopelessly dedicated to their craft, whether they wanted to be or not. “Well, congratulations. If I have time, I’d love to pop down and see your work.”
Variety laughed, a sound that evoked open skies and summer breezes. “Oh, that won’t be hard, honey. I’m painting a block-long mural of Popeye, SpongeBob SquarePants, and all their friends, facing off for mastery of the sea. You’ll be able to drive by and see it from the highway.”
I giggled at the mental image. “My money’s on Sandy Cheeks.”
“You betcha.” Variety’s voice got more serious. “Actually, I did call for a reason. I was wondering, you see, if you might be able to help me with something.”
Oh, jeez. The itinerant hippie artist wants my help. “I’m really no good with painting, Variety.”
“No, no, don’t worry about that. You see, my daughter… You remember Chloe?”
I did remember Chloe. She’d been a bright, but serious, twelve-year-old girl when I moved to Seacrest. That same year, her parents divorced, and she remained in town with her father, Mercer Braxton—local lawyer, town council member, and unfailingly polite white bread in a well-cut suit. I’d seen Chloe from time to time as she went through various identity changes, searching for herself as teens do. I sure had. Just last week, I found some old eyeliner jammed in the back of my vanity drawer and fell victim to My Chemical Romance flashbacks. “Yes, sure. How’s she doing?”
“She was kicked out of college last month—some sort of arbitrary establishmentarian ruling, no doubt. But I heard through the grapevine that she’s not doing well at home with Mercer. All the off-season jobs are taken right now, and it’s too early for the summer swell, so she just sits in her room and listens to that horrible thrash metal stuff.”
Poor girl. It sounded like Variety wanted me to mentor her. I hoped she wouldn’t expect me to make a thrash metal enthusiast girlier. I’d left my party-girl days long behind—and most of those college rumors weren’t even true. “How can I help?”
“Hire her.”
My eyes popped open like they were trying to escape their sockets from pure shock. “Hire her?”
“I can hear the excitement in your voice, hon. You must need help at the bed and breakfast, right? I’ve been hearing how the place has been revitalized by your new ideas. All that online advertising, those book signings and publicity events you do for your authors, the updated Moore classic recipes? Very impressive. But with all that extra business, you must need an extra pair of hands. Use Chloe’s.”
I stuttered like a flooded engine. “I-I—well, ah, it’s true we do have several times a year where we’re at full capacity, but our work situation is unusual. Mr. Moore set up a trust to take care of his finances after he died, and it technically runs the bed and breakfast. Uncle Hilt had to get permission to hire me, and I’d need to get permission to hire Chloe.”
Variety’s voice didn’t lose its hopeful tone. “Well, if you need the help, surely they’ll grant you an extra employee.”
“Probably so, but the trust is run by a bunch of bankers and lawyers. They have no idea what it takes to run a bed and breakfast, and they don’t care. I had to work for free for six months before they finally approved an official paycheck for me.” I had loved every minute of my unpaid internship—trying to interpret Hilt’s scribbled recipe notes, which he never used anymore anyway, and exploring all the Victorian quirks of the house—but the company that controlled my student loans hadn’t been as appreciative.
“Oh, honey, this isn’t about a paycheck. Chloe doesn’t need cash. Mercer gives her all the money she wants. What she needs is something to occupy her time. She’s sitting up in that third-floor attic room, losing herself in music and pulling farther away from reality. I want her to interact with normal people like you—well, as normal as one can get in Seacrest. She needs to find her own way in the world like I did. And honestly, her way doesn’t lie with her father. That man wasn’t good for me, and he isn’t good for Chloe. Please. Help my daughter.”
Variety’s words echoed off the walls of my memory. I had overheard my mother say almost exactly the same phrase to
Uncle Hilt six years ago. I had come home from college after my senior year and done absolutely nothing with my life. My depression was a rampant dragon trying its best to devour my soul. Hilt and Moorehaven had saved me, pulled me out of that house, that abyss of helplessness, and given me something to do—something I was good at. Maybe they could save Chloe, too. I swallowed a grateful lump in my throat. “Tell her to come by tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll interview her then. The best I can offer is an unpaid position until the trust approves her.”
“You’re an angel, Pippa. I’ll let her know. Thank you. In my gratitude, I’ll paint you in the background of my mural. You can be a sea horse!”
Variety hung up without saying goodbye. I grimaced, pretty sure she had no idea what I looked like. She’d probably paint my boobs too small and my hair too blond. I was more of an otter girl, anyway. Hermione Granger had been my spirit animal when I was a teenager.
I heard more banging from the kitchen. Rex and Svetlana studied me in feline silence as I passed out of their sight again. My hands still inexplicably held no snacks. By the sink, I picked up a freshly baked apple tart from the cooling rack next to the shiny new oven. The oven was still in its first year of use, inset in the kitchen’s wall beneath a low arch of original red bricks. Never gonna miss that barf-green seventies oven.
I crouched by my uncle’s knee, took a bite of my tart, and gave his leg a tap. “Hey, Hilt. How do you feel about hiring an unpaid intern?”
2
“My characters are never looking for love. I don’t write romances. But love is a force of nature. If it wants to show up, it will, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”
Raymond Moore, 1969