Smugglers & Scones

by Talbot, Morgan C

  Hilt and Chloe exchanged a glance. Chloe spoke first. “I’m not really sure where he was while I was impersonating that lawyer on the phone. I was on hold for several minutes while Amber asked my dad about Mr. French’s will, and the desk with the phone was way over in the corner of the room. It’s one of those desks with shelves and stuff, so I couldn’t see much of the rest of the room while I was sitting down. But I do know it was around 10:45 because I heard the church bells chime the three-quarter hour. I hate those bells. So frigging happy every fifteen minutes, all day long.”

  I nodded. Hilt scratched his grizzled head and gave me an apologetic look. “It’s possible I might have sat down in one of the waiting chairs and closed my eyes for a second.”

  My own eyes widened. “Hilt! You were supposed to be the chaperone. Did you just lie to the sheriff?” Hilt glared at me indignantly, but I blurted out everything Tyleen had told me about our burglar. “What if she was wrong about the limp? You know how bad her eyesight is. What if it really was Lake, and he sneaked back here from Blade and Boom? What if I’m wrong about him, and you’re right, Uncle Hilt?”

  “Hold on, now,” Hilt said, trying to distance himself from his earlier suspicions. “There’s no way he could’ve been gone that long without me noticing. My eyes were shut for about three minutes. No more.”

  Chloe joined in. “If the burglar waited for us all to leave, why would he need a gun? It could’ve been something else in his hand, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Like a phone, which everyone has. Except Lake. I used Lake’s phone so Amber wouldn’t recognize the marina phone’s 541 area code on her caller ID. Lake had transferred his old phone number to it already.”

  Between Hilt’s timekeeping and Chloe’s phone borrowing, my chest went fizzy with bubbles of relief. “It wasn’t him.”

  Hilt snorted. “He might not be the burglar. Still doesn’t mean he ain’t the killer.”

  I squinted at him. “Just because you don’t like him, Uncle Hilt, doesn’t mean he has to be guilty of murder.”

  Hilt gave me a crabby, suspicious look. “Doesn’t mean he’s innocent, either.”

  No, but I really want it to.

  13

  “A good PI knows his streets. He can tell where he’s standing by the feel of the pavement through his soles. He carries a map in his head. He knows when to follow it and when it’s leading him astray.”

  Raymond Moore, 1926

  Tyleen’s chili on Raymond Moore’s corn bread was definitely a hit at the dinner table, during which the main topic of conversation was the fingerprinting job the sheriff’s tech had done on my sliding-door handle. All the authors had watched and openly taken notes on their phones or shot video. Al had dared to offer suggestions until Sheriff Kettleman put his hand on his service weapon again. I shooed Al back to the Oubliette for his own safety.

  My guests gathered in the front parlor, where Paul spent the remainder of the evening spinning theories about our burglar. He was mostly convinced that the man had simply been after cash, and had stolen what had been in the glass case because he assumed it was more valuable than the items in the library cases on the main floor. But drugs, a love triangle, and of course, Cecil’s murder all figured into his theories at some point. He even began jotting notes for Sheriff Kettleman.

  I kept an eye on Lake while Paul dominated the conversation, and I learned two things. First, he didn’t show any signs of guilt while Paul blathered on and on about the burglar. And second, I really enjoyed studying that handsome mug of his out of the corner of my eye.

  Eventually, Paul wound down, and we all separated for the night. Lake held my hand for a long moment and gazed down into my eyes. “Today was pretty rough, but I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. You and everyone else. I could be in jail right now, but instead, I get to sleep in the most comfortable bed I’ve had in a month. I appreciate you looking after me, Pippa. Good night.” He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, leaving me warm and tingly all over.

  After my guests headed upstairs for bed, I double-checked all the locks on the doors, pulled open the shelf in the back of the pantry, slipped into my turret bedroom, and snuggled down for a good night’s sleep with the cats. They were as warm and snuggly as ever, but I fell asleep wishing for something more. Someone more.

  Just over an hour later, my phone rang, startling me out of a deep sleep and into a bleary, dark world where people had no respect for the exhausted. “Hello?” I muttered, before I realized that my swipe to accept the call had been way off target. I tapped the screen and repeated myself. Svetlana muttered a disgusted noise and hopped onto the windowsill, pointedly ignoring me.

  Skylar’s high, frantic voice filled my ear, and a faint, rhythmic thumping acted as her background. “Miss Winterbourne? I’m super sorry to wake you up, but I need your help.”

  I leaned up onto one elbow. “Where are you, Skylar? You went out?”

  Her voice was thick with guilt. “I did. There’s a club scene in my novel, and I wanted to hit up On The Rocks at about the same time as my character would, so I could get a feel for the atmosphere. I don’t club much, so I wanted to get the details right.”

  She’s sleeping with Paul, but it’s Al who’s rubbing off on her. I slapped my forehead down into my palm and stifled a groan. “So what do you need?”

  “Well, I’m a little drunk, and I can’t remember the way back to Moorehaven, and I’d really like to get out of here before I get accused of murder.”

  I blinked into the darkness of my bedroom. “Wouldn’t we all?”

  Her voice sharpened to an urgent warble. “I’m not kidding. I’m at the end of the alley next to On The Rocks, and I can see the body from here.”

  Cold shock rocketed up my spine, and my breath caught. Not again.

  Skylar kept rambling in my ear. “I called Paul first, and he said he would wait five minutes before he called 9-1-1 to give me time to head back to Moorehaven. Please, Miss Winterbourne, you have to help me. I didn’t kill him! I get how Lake feels now, I really do. I can’t get caught with a body. My parents would freak. You have no idea. And this alley is dark. What if the killer’s still here? What if I danced with him in the club or something? What if he’s watching me right now? I have to get out of here.”

  I cannot lose an author to this crazy killer. I’m responsible for them! Okay, okay, think. “Skylar, look around. What signs do you see?”

  A pause. “There’s a clothing boutique sign across the street. Something something Threads.”

  “All right, I’ll guide you back to Moorehaven. Just do exactly what I say. Head toward the store, but don’t cross the street. Turn right at the end of the alley.”

  Faintly, I heard her footsteps echoing off the narrow brick walls. “Okay, turning right.”

  “Walk that way for two blocks.” I got out of bed and struggled into my robe, one arm at a time. I tripped my way upstairs and rapped on Paul’s door. He answered, bleary-eyed and wearing nothing more than heart-patterned boxers and a worried look. He quickly snatched a T-shirt off the back of a chair and tugged it over his muscled chest.

  I covered the phone with one hand and whispered, “Did you call the cops yet?” He nodded. “Go meet Skylar on Cedar Street. She’s walking back from On The Rocks.”

  “Alone?” he blurted. He got dressed in a whirlwind of clothing and bolted past me.

  “Skylar,” I said into the phone, “Paul’s on his way to meet you on Cedar. I’ll get you there. Try to walk straight and quickly, and keep your phone by your ear like you’re having an important conversation. Turn right on the Cedar Street Bridge. Cross the river. If you hear sirens, look over exactly one time, and then ignore them. Bad guys get nervous. Bad guys run for no reason. Upstanding citizens carry on about their business.”

  Another long p
ause. I heard Skylar’s breathing speed up. “Okay, I’m on the bridge now… Hey, there’s Paul! Oh, my God, Pippa. Thank you. I’m gonna go. See you in a few.”

  She hung up. I paced the main hallway like a worried parent, clutching my phone until it belatedly—and cynically—occurred to me to check on Lake. I’m only making sure he’s here safe and sound, I told myself.

  I tiptoed up to his door and pressed my ear against it, trying to determine if he was inside. Almost immediately, it swung open, revealing Lake in his adorable nightshirt. I tried my best to stifle my surprise and act like I wasn’t spying. Which I totally was, and I knew it.

  “Pippa? What’s up? I happened to see your shadow under the door there. Something wrong?”

  “Um, nope. No, just checking you out.” Dammit, Mouth! So embarrassing! “Checking up. On you. You know, hostess stuff. Why are you awake? You need anything?” My winning smile was probably more of a creepy leer, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  He showed me his palm, which held two Tylenol tablets. “Just a little headache. Woke me up.”

  My humiliation retreated, forced aside by concern. I examined his face. He’d been sweating. “You look flushed. You want a cool washcloth?”

  He popped the pills and washed them down with a glass he had in his other hand. “I’ll get one. Good idea, but it’s the middle of the night, and I can’t impose on you.” He winced, and it made him look exhausted. Surely, he couldn’t have run around Seacrest and murdered someone in that state.

  “Yes, you can. It’s my job.”

  A small smile flirted with the corners of his mouth. “Is that why you’re here so late? Because it’s your job?”

  I felt my lips mirror his expression. “Maybe not only my job.”

  I heard footsteps thumping up the outside stairs. “That’s Skylar. I need to go back down. You get a cold compress on your head, and if you don’t feel better, wake me up.” I backed toward the stairs.

  “I don’t know where you sleep,” Lake said reasonably.

  “I’m in the—well, it’s behind the false shelf—you know what, just shout my name, and I’ll come.”

  Lake’s eyebrows shot up. My face set itself on fire with embarrassment, and I fled down the stairs, hurling a “You know what I mean” behind me.

  Skylar sneaked in the front door like a wayward teen past her curfew trying to smuggle her boyfriend up to her room. She even looked the part, with her short black leather skirt and a spangled sheer top under a hoody. She must have been freezing outside. By her side, Paul didn’t look much warmer in a white T-shirt above gray plaid lounge pants. She hung her coat on the wall-mounted coatrack. Then she started shaking like a leaf and swearing repetitively under her breath.

  Paul didn’t seem to know what to do. I took her by the hands, gave her a quick, strong hug, and led her into the kitchen for something to calm her down. After my recent encounter with Lake, I could use something similar myself. Skylar couldn’t have been more than five years younger than me, but she seemed so scared and vulnerable right then that she seemed younger than Chloe.

  Once I deposited her at the little round table in the breakfast nook with a cup of chamomile tea in her hands, her shoulders released their tension. Her fingers still shook, though. Paul came in silently and sat across from her, and I took the third chair, facing the window where Svetlana perched, and sipped from my own cup.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

  She nodded. But she didn’t start telling her story until after she’d had another couple of sips of tea. “As soon as everyone went to bed, I got dressed for clubbing and slipped out. I got into On The Rocks, but I was really nervous, so I had a couple of drinks. I grabbed the table closest to the corner and just stood there taking notes for a while. Setting, some of the cute outfits I saw, what people were ordering, the songs. You know. Roddy Scott was there, chatting with his guests, moving around the room like a good host. He even got on the dance floor a couple of times. He tried to convince a woman—maybe his wife—to dance with him, but she wouldn’t. The crowd loved him, though.” Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat.

  I squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to tell us until you’re ready.”

  She squared her shoulders. “No, I’m good. Recounting detail helps you remember stuff, right? That documentary guy was there, talking to Mr. Scott for a few minutes. The way he gestured with his arms, it seemed like he was really after something, but Mr. Scott didn’t let him have it, so he left looking disgruntled. I decided to poke around the club to see if there were any other cool details I could use in my book. I found the metal grill door that led to the old speakeasy in the basement, but it was locked with a deadbolt. The air coming up from below was dusty, and like, salty? It was cool, though. Then I headed outside, looking for unmarked doors, that sort of thing, in case I wanted my sleuth to sneak in or out of the club. And that’s when I saw him. He was just lying on the ground, in the shadow of the dumpster. The light was terrible, so I pulled out my phone and turned on its flashlight. It was Mr. Scott, and he was lying in a pool of his own blood.”

  “Oh, my God,” I blurted. Roddy was a Seacrest fixture and a genuinely nice guy. And suddenly he was gone, stolen from us like Cecil had been. My heart squeezed.

  Paul made a thoughtful face. “You know, you never hear about anyone lying in a pool of someone else’s blood.”

  “Paul. Too soon,” I said. But it was also too late. The speculative look in his eyes told me he was already chasing down that plot idea. I shuddered. The body Paul was envisioning belonged to Roddy, someone I had known for six years. “You did call the police, right?”

  He jerked back to the present. “Yeah. I tried to sound like I was standing right over the body myself, to try and cover for Skylar. Come to think of it, I might have thrown in a bunch of details to back that up, and I have no idea if they were accurate or not. I think I remember saying something about a crowbar and maybe an industrial-grade syringe.”

  I clenched my jaw shut to keep from yelling at him. When I could speak normally, I said, “Paul, you know they can trace your phone number. If they’re off hunting things that don’t exist, they might start looking at you as the killer.”

  Skylar gasped. “That’s so romantic. You’d do that for me? Take the rap?”

  Paul’s startled expression indicated otherwise, but Skylar didn’t seem to notice. I made a mental note to attempt to get him off the hook for any possible repercussions with the sheriff. Chief Craig had always been pretty forgiving when it came to my authors because his former partner helped run the place, but I had no idea if my sweet-talking and baked-breakfast-food bribery would sway Sheriff Kettleman.

  I focused on her. “Skylar, did you see anything that might have indicated who killed Roddy?”

  She shrugged helplessly. “I’m just a writer and an unpublished one at that. I don’t have an eye for crime-scene detail.”

  Paul looked as disappointed as I felt.

  “But Paul insisted I take a couple of pix when I talked to him,” she added. “I can’t believe I forgot until now. I really am shaken up, aren’t I? I have to remember how it feels to actually find a body. That way I can make it accurate in my books. I’d better write it all down before I forget.”

  I reminded myself how young and inexperienced she was and softened my next words so I didn’t sound like I was chastising her. “These pictures place you at the scene, Skylar.”

  Her wide-eyed expression told me she hadn’t considered that.

  “You should send them in to the police. I can help you do it anonymously. And actual pix will help get Paul out of any trouble he may be in for lying about the crime-scene details.”

  Paul shot Skylar a hopeful, puppy-dog look, and she melted. “Of course,” she said. “Thanks, Miss Winterbourne.”

  Paul slid a no
tepad and pen toward her at the same time that she offered her phone to me. Swaps completed, she began scribbling, and Paul and I swiped through her crime-scene photos.

  My chest tightened at the sight of Roddy lying on his side in the alley next to the club he loved. The dumpster sat near his feet, and he lay near a door marked Exit. “Poor Gwen,” I murmured. “She’ll be heartbroken.”

  “Is that really blood?” Skylar asked. “It looks almost fake. Shouldn’t it be darker?”

  Paul took the phone and zoomed in on the photo of Roddy’s head and torso.

  I grimaced, but I studied the stuff coating the ground underneath him.

  Paul frowned. “I’m afraid it looks pretty real to me and pretty fresh. Blood doesn’t turn black until hours after it’s been spilled.”

  “I can’t tell you how creepy it is that you know that,” Skylar murmured, but the brief smile she shot Paul was fond.

  Annoyed at being ignored, Svetlana hopped to the tabletop and rubbed her head against my shoulder. I absentmindedly scratched her between her ears, and she began to purr. “A second murder. Most of the books on my shelves will insist the two cases are somehow connected.”

  Paul tipped his head and raised his eyebrows. “It’s not a crazy idea. Whoever killed Roddy could very well be the same person who killed Cecil French.”

  I nodded. “And that would mean Roddy was innocent all along.”

  Paul waggled his open hand, indicating he wasn’t sure. “Unless he got betrayed by a conspirator.”