“Don’t worry,” I reassured her as I moved toward my chair. “I make it with yogurt instead of heavy cream. Half the calories.”
Skylar sagged in exaggerated relief. “Oh, bless you! I’ll have just one more.” She snatched another scone.
When I came to Moorehaven six years earlier, Hilt cooked all the breakfasts himself. When he finally deigned to share his recipes with me, I understood why I’d been gaining weight. It turned out those recipes were all Raymond Moore’s personal favorites—holdovers from the early twentieth century, before counting calories was on anyone’s radar. And before radar was on anyone’s radar.
It had taken some doing, but gradually, I’d convinced Hilt to let me update those precious recipes, replacing tasty-but-fattening ingredients with healthier options. Now I got to call them heart healthy, trans fat free, brain boosting, and the like. My authors were happier with food that promised to help them better capture their ideas. And the dishes definitely tasted better.
Lake snatched two scones then handed one across to me. I took it gratefully, eager to taste its hearty yumminess but glad I didn’t need to look greedy in front of my guests. He took a giant bite and savored the scone’s mix of flavors. “This. Is. Amazing. Great recipe, Pippa.”
“Thanks. I’m glad you like it.” I took my own big bite, and after some coffee, I addressed my guests. “Morning, Skylar. Morning, Paul. You guys sleep okay?”
Paul swallowed his mouthful of egg scramble. “Eventually. I couldn’t stop thinking about that crazy crash for a long time. I hope you’re okay, man,” he told Lake.
Lake’s mouth was full with his second enormous bite, so he just nodded. But he held up his fork to indicate he had something to say. After he swallowed, he said, “I did take another couple Tylenol this morning. Hope that’s okay, Pippa.”
I waved my own fork dismissively, though mention of his injury brought back my concerns with a vengeance. The man who’d handed me a scone was currently a walking mystery, and I wanted to solve him something fierce. “Absolutely. I’m just glad that’s all you seem to need.”
Skylar shook her head, flaring the fuchsia streaks in the sandy waves that framed her face. “Lucky much.”
Hilt sipped his OJ. “I’ve always been more of a pre-much kind of man.”
She looked at him, puzzled. “A what?”
“Pre-much. As opposed to your generation, the post-much crowd. See, back in my day, we put our muches first. As in, ‘much obliged.’ But you’d probably say, ‘obliged much.’”
The young author gave a delighted gasp. “Oh, my God, that is the coolest thing ever. I have to steal it. Can I steal it? I have to have a character say that. Maybe Mo’net, my French rapper. Seriously, I need it. Can I have it?”
After thirty years of working with authors in all stages of their careers, Hilt merely smiled and dipped his head in the affirmative. Lake laughed softly, seemingly torn between surprise at someone who was so thrilled about vernacular and amusement at her charming excitement.
“Omigod, squee much,” Skylar said. “You were right, Paul. Moorehaven really is the best place for writers. This place doesn’t have any ghosts, does it? Because, well”—she pointed her index fingers at herself—“paranormal mystery writer much.”
“Rex, the tabby, gets spooked and distracted sometimes,” I said. “The lady at the shelter told me he used to have a twin. I like to think the ghost of the twin cat still hangs out with Rex.”
Skylar’s expression melted. “That’s so sweet.”
Hilt cleared his throat. “No one’s ever died in this building, despite it being so old.” His gaze drifted toward me, and he lowered his head for a moment before taking a gulp of coffee. Though my uncle claimed not to believe in ghosts, the memory of his failure to save his little sister from the river still haunted him. “And how did you sleep, Lake?”
Skylar chimed in again. “Yeah, how was it getting woken up every hour? I can’t believe you look so well rested.”
Lake’s eyes widened, and he coughed on a piece of fresh strawberry. His hand swept past his plate until he found his juice glass, and he gulped it all down. Skylar and Paul exchanged a knowing glance. Hilt’s face darkened, and I tried to sit as still as possible so as not to draw any attention to myself.
No luck. Skylar said, “Pippa? You were there. How was it?”
Might as well just get it over with. “Actually, I forgot to set the alarm after it went off the first time.”
Paul leaned forward onto his elbows and eyed me closely. His unruly brown hair fairly vibrated with curiosity, and his tone was distinctly gleeful as he asked, “And why was that, exactly?”
I looked at Lake, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. I couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed or amused. But I couldn’t out him for his sleepy ardor in front of everyone else, not after I’d kept it to myself upstairs. And if I didn’t get the whole truth off my chest, Paul would drag out the embarrassing Q&A until he’d gotten it. Where secrets were concerned, the man had the nose of a bloodhound. “I accidentally slept on Lake’s bed with him all night. Okay? It was a thing. It happened. And it was all sleeping, just so you know.”
Hilt’s expression darkened further, and his knuckles cracked. Lake tried to simultaneously sit up innocently and subtly lean away from Hilt, who was definitely close enough to grab him if he wanted to, all while grinning at me like we’d been in cahoots and gotten our hands caught in the cookie jar. He’s adorably rakish. Too bad he doesn’t know how protective Hilt can be.
Paul hooted with laughter. “Oh, my God, can you imagine if I had one of my characters say that she accidentally slept with someone? No one would believe her.”
Skylar came to my defense. “Yeah, but you write psychological thrillers. No one accidentally sleeps with anyone in a psychological thriller.”
Paul stole one of Skylar’s strawberries with his fork. “You couldn’t get away with it either. You could have a ghost voyeur, though. I’d read that.”
Her green eyes slitted, but her smile warmed. “Eat your strawberry, perv.”
Time for a distraction before Uncle Hilt commits murder. “Okay, pop quiz.”
Paul’s eyes lit up. “I love these pop quizzes, Skylar. You never know what she’s going to ask.”
“What, like trivia?”
He nodded. “Kind of. But it’s all about your character, your plot, your setting, or something. Little stuff that makes you think. It’s awesome.”
Skylar gave me an eager nod. “Okay, go.”
I hadn’t actually thought of a topic ahead of time, so I mentally scrambled. “Authors are sometimes known to shamelessly make use of the personal details of people around them.”
Lake shot me a pleading look as he reached for the very last scone. Hilt viciously stabbed it with his fork as if he hadn’t seen Lake’s fingers a hairsbreadth away from it. I took pity on the poor, injured guy. It hadn’t been his fault I’d forgotten the alarm.
“We’ll spare Lake over there—this time—because he’s got head trauma, but as always, I’m fair game. Once upon a time, when I was at college in Arizona, my friends and I took a weekend trip to the high desert. On a hike, we had to cross an old rope bridge over a steep, narrow canyon. We had no idea how old the bridge was or even if it would support our weight. I was terrified, not of heights, but of that long, screaming drop that might await me. If I hadn’t just taken a pee behind some scrub brush, I would’ve wet pants by the time I reached the far side of the bridge. But I crossed it and lived to tell the tale, and we got some amazing pics from the top of the next rise and the best bragging rights of anyone in the sorority for the whole semester. So worth it. So here’s your question: if the main character in your book had to face something that terrified them, what would it be, and how would they handle it?”
Paul steepled his fingers. “Nice
one. Artemis doesn’t fear death or pain, really, after all I’ve put him through. I shot him up, I pushed him off a building—twice—and he jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge once. He’s afraid of dishonoring his father’s name. If he got caught in a situation where he was forced to choose between dishonor and something truly heinous—a nice scheme crafted by a rival mafia family for just such a moment—he’d be canny enough to sense it coming, even if he couldn’t stop it. He’d insert a new variable, like a sniper in the wings or a sudden phone call from a formerly neutral third party, giving him a moment of freedom inside the trap set for him. He might have to shoot his lover or betray his closest friend anyway, but he’d do his best to avoid it. And that lover, that friend, they’d know he’d done all he could. Because Artemis Bellisi knows who his friends are.”
“Sounds like a good friend to have,” Hilt commented.
I nodded. I loved all of Paul’s Artemis Bellisi books.
Paul gave a crisp nod. “How about you, Skylar?” He squeezed her hand.
Skylar looked like a deer in the headlights. “Gosh, I haven’t really fleshed Petra Smythe out yet. I mean, I’ve started writing, but I don’t know her by heart, if that makes any sense. In my book, see, ghosts are just a part of Petra’s daily life. Their world touches hers. But even though she can see them, the world of the dead isn’t her world. The Divide is the bridge between the worlds, and Petra has to cross it at the end of the book. She goes in to save her boyfriend from the villain, but she knows she could lose her soul and be trapped there forever. And time has no meaning in the blank grayness, so she can’t really tell if she’s lost her way or not. She loves her man more than she fears death, so she risks everything to save him.”
Paul knuckled Skylar’s shoulder in congratulations.
Skylar’s Divide reminded me of my depression. Just thinking about how I’d felt back then opened a door to that part of my past. I mentally slammed it shut—easy now, but once impossible. Maybe Skylar struggled with it the way I had. How brave she was to name her demon. I nodded and smiled. “Petra sounds like she knows who she is. I’d love to read about her.”
The quiz worked, sparking character development discussion among my authors. I kept my mouth stuffed for the next several minutes, hoping that Uncle Hilt wouldn’t pepper me with awkward questions about last night. When I dared open myself up for more conversation, I jumped straight in with, “I bet you’ll be glad to get home after the night you’ve had, Lake. I hope Cecil is understanding.”
Lake fiddled with his fork. “My home sank last night.”
Gasps of surprise went around the table.
“I’ve only been in town for a month, and I haven’t been looking very hard for housing, so Cecil was letting me stay down in the Mazu’s cabin. Everything I own is underwater. It’s not a lot. I travel light.”
“Ah. Figured you for the wandering sort.” Uncle Hilt gave Lake the squint eye.
I never could tell if he meant that suspicious expression, or if it just came out whenever he felt old and crotchety. Either way, I felt even more sympathy for Lake.
“I suspect you’ll be on your way soon then. Burned your bridge with your boss, and all.”
Lake opened his mouth to answer, but a heavy knock echoed down the hall from the front door. Locals knocked. Tourists rang the bell, which generally scared away the cats. I rose, headed down the main hall, and answered the door, finding a serious-looking Chief Craig on my porch. And he wasn’t alone. Doc Stevens stood on one side of him, wearing her long white lab coat—a favorite for official occasions—and Naoma Jassley stood on his other side. The nosy head editor from the Seacrest Register held pen and notepad poised at the ready, wearing a fuchsia business suit with matching pumps and a matching headband in her short, curly dark hair. It was no real surprise to see her on my porch, considering, but behind her stood a pair of young men I didn’t recognize. One held a similar notepad, and the other raised a small handheld camera with the red record light on.
I took a moment to make sure my voice would sound properly professional. “What’s going on, Chief?”
Chief Craig shifted his bulk and shrugged. “Heck if I know. Everyone seemed to get here at the same time.” He turned to Naoma. “You, no. This is official police business. And you guys with the camera, also no. Same reason.”
The tall young man with the notepad spoke up. His pale features had an Asian influence, and his black hair had a bit of curl. He leaned forward in a way that was both eager and humble. “I’m Devin Gilfillan, sir, and this is Kyle. We’re not here about… Whatever you’re here about. We came to speak with a Mr. MacKellar?”
I spoke up before Chief Craig could bluster at the poor guy. “That’s my great-uncle. I can send him out to see you, unless you’re here for him, Chief.”
“No, that’s fine. I’m here for your latest houseguest. Lake Ivens.” His eyes widened for a moment as he realized Naoma was still glued to his side. “And that’s all I’m going to say, on the record or off. Naoma, scoot.”
Naoma pouted and backed off a few steps, her notepad drooping, and Chief Craig pushed his way inside. Doc Stevens followed us in. I knew that Naoma had no intention of leaving, even if all she got was a short report on whatever the dark-haired guy wanted to talk to Hilt about, but I closed the door on her and the young men anyway.
“How’s your patient, Pippa?” Doc Stevens asked.
“Remarkably well. He slept fine and only has a little headache this morning. I don’t think he got very injured in the crash after all. Thank God. I fell asleep and forgot to wake him for most of the night. I’d have been absolutely wrecked if he’d died. Uh, no pun intended.”
“Too bad its other occupant wasn’t so lucky,” Chief Craig said with a scowl.
I shot him a look of surprise. “What do you mean? Who else was with him?”
He pressed his lips tight and wouldn’t answer. A dozen steps later, he passed under the arch at the end of the hall and hung a left into the dining room. I followed with a feeling of foreboding in the pit of my stomach.
Skylar and Paul chatted quietly at the end of the table. Lake patted his lips with a napkin as Chief Craig adopted an aggressive pose at his side. “Lake Ivens.”
“Yes, sir?” He looked up, as did Skylar and Paul.
“The salvage crew was out early this morning to recover Cecil’s boat. You lose anything in the crash?”
Lake nodded. “Yeah, all my stuff. My good boots, too.”
The chief’s back stiffened. “Anything else you’d like to tell me about? Something really important, maybe?”
Lake’s eyes flicked from side to side as though he were trying to remember any possible contraband he might have stashed down there. Hilt met my eyes with a questioning look, but I couldn’t look back at him for very long. My gaze flicked across the table and walls before settling on Chief Craig.
The chief let out an exasperated sigh, and I saw the back of his neck turning a deep red. “Your boss, for example?”
Hilt’s voice rang out like a shot. “What?”
I breathed, “Oh, crap,” knowing how useless my words were.
Paul swore in shock, and Skylar clapped her hands over her mouth. But Lake was stunned into silence.
Chief Craig’s eyes scanned the room. “That’s right. Cecil’s dead. Tide’s low, but the Mazu’s still half in the waves out there. They pulled his body from the wreckage not an hour ago.”
Lake swore under his breath before staring intently at the chief with a furrowed brow as if trying to make sense of his words. No, I realized. He’s trying to remember. He really can’t remember.
“How did he die?” I asked because it would sound better coming from me than from my blatantly curious writers.
Doc Stevens answered. “I haven’t done the autopsy yet. But it looks like someone hit him over the hea
d hard enough to kill him.”
Skylar put down her fork, having clearly lost her appetite. Paul’s hand covered his mouth, but the way his cheeks moved, I suspected he was actually covering a gape of amazed interest rather than a shocked gasp. Veteran mystery authors loved nothing so much as an actual crime in their vicinity—as long as they could remain on the sidelines and take notes. If Skylar stuck with it, she’d be just as jaded in a few years. I’d seen it happen. I’d had friends and family change in darker ways for lesser reasons, so I definitely preferred my canny, experienced writers’ company.
Lake had gone so pale he seemed a little green. “Whoever killed Cecil probably tried to kill me, too. Remember this giant lump on the back of my head?” Lake pointed to his skull. “I wish I could remember what happened last night, but I can’t. I do remember that I’m not a killer. I’d remember if I’d done it, wouldn’t I? I didn’t—that’s not who I am. I swear.”
The chief crossed his arms. “Maybe you just got injured trying to sink the evidence of your crime. We don’t know you here in Seacrest. You could be capable of anything.”
Did I just sleep with a murderer? I couldn’t be sure, but I didn’t think so. He seemed so easygoing and kind, so… normal. “Are you going to arrest him, Chief?”
The chief paused and winced, rubbing his knuckles against his chest. “Not yet. I’m still waiting on evidence from the boat.” He jabbed a fat finger toward Lake. “Where can I find you when I need to question you again?”
Lake’s expression went blank then worried. Not having a home address probably made him an excellent flight risk. The chief might just lock him up to be on the safe side.
I blurted, “Here. He’s staying here. He probably shouldn’t move much until his head feels better, anyway, right, Doc?”
Smugglers & Scones Page 4