The first person who came to mind was Gwen, but she didn’t have a competitive bone in her body. “His wife is a team player, through and through. She supported all of Roddy’s ideas, including turning the bar into a club when he inherited it from—well, from his mother’s husband, I suppose, if you wanna get technical. But initiative isn’t Gwen’s strong point, not by a long shot. I can’t think of anyone else who would stand to gain from working with Roddy and then betraying him. Unless he told Gwen about inheriting the marina from Cecil…” I trailed off, uncomfortable with my train of thought.
I had stopped petting Svetlana a while ago, and she finally got fed up with my ignoring her repeated nudges. She let out an irritated grumble and hopped to the floor.
Skylar finished writing, tore several pages out of Paul’s notepad, and gave him back his pen and paper. “The killer must have a different motive. Who would want to kill Mr. French and Mr. Scott?”
Clueless, I pressed my hands onto the tabletop. “That’s the thing. They were on opposite sides of almost everything, all the time. They never got along. Pretty much everyone in town either agreed with Cecil, or they agreed with Roddy. I’m not finding an easy answer as to who would hate both of them, let alone kill them.”
“And what about the burglary?” Skylar’s voice betrayed her stress and exhaustion. “That could have some connection, too.”
I shrugged tiredly. “It could. We need more information.”
Paul reached across the table and took Skylar’s hand in his. “Much as I would like to stay up all night and bounce theories around with you guys, I think I should get Skylar to bed. Authors are people, too.” He met my eye. “But after whatever sleep we get, I’m sure we’ll be ready to think on our feet during a good breakfast.”
“I’ll make sure we have plenty of brain food,” I promised. “Now, you two get to bed, and I’ll do the same. Tomorrow, we’ll redouble our efforts to catch this killer.”
14
“Family makes us who we are, for good or ill. And sometimes the best thing you can do for someone you love is to keep a secret from them.”
Raymond Moore, 1942
“Good morning, Moorehaven Bed and Breakfast Inn.”
A squeal of excitement rang in my ear, and I was transported to my childhood. “Pippa! So good to hear your voice! How’s the B&B biz? I bet you’re totally rocking it.”
My little sister, Trudie. Alternately my best friend and the bane of my existence, she and I had only been as close as we were because our older half siblings enjoyed tormenting the both of us. I hadn’t seen her since she moved out to Chicago two years ago. “Trudie, how are you? What are you up to these days?”
“Well, I finally finished my art degree. Yay, me!”
She paused, obviously waiting for some kind of congratulatory remark, so I said, “That’s great. I knew you could do it if you stuck to it.”
“Yeah, so I’m working in Philadelphia right now, and it’s not going so hot. I might have gotten myself into a little bit of trouble.”
When do you not, Trudie? “What’s going on? Are you all right?”
“No, no, it’s totally fine. Everything will work out. But can I ask you, what would you do if you had to choose between what you loved and who you loved? You know, hypothetically.”
A smiling Lake jumped to mind, balanced—threatened?—by the glass and glamour of Moorehaven. I blinked the images away, shaken. Love should not have been on my radar. “I don’t know, Trudie. I guess it would depend on which one brought me the most happiness. Stability. I mean stability. That’s most important.”
Trudie made a long, drawn-out gasping noise. “Pippa! You have a man! And stability is totally not the most important thing. Quit preaching at me.”
My fingers tightened around the phone receiver. “I do not, and yes it is.”
“Is he cute?” Her tone lilted playfully.
“If you’re not going to take my advice, why did you call me, Goofy Noodle?”
Trudie snorted at my childhood nickname for her. “Spunky Spork,” she shot back. “I didn’t call you for advice. That just sort of slipped out. Listen, I gotta go. It was great to hear your voice. Take care!”
I hung up, leaned against the counter, and glared upward, as if it were the ceiling’s fault my random, crazy little sister had called only to hang up without actually talking about anything. It certainly wasn’t my fault.
I heard Hilt banging around in the kitchen. If he was in the kitchen, that meant he was hungry enough to make it himself, which meant everyone else probably was, too. I slipped into a room smelling of blueberries, lemons, and scone dough and broke the bad news to him about Roddy’s death. He took it hard because he’d seen the man grow up.
“Why don’t you call Sheriff Kettleman and ask him how the investigation is going?” I suggested, uncomfortable at the sight of the weathered old man tearing up. “I can handle breakfast on my own.” He could use a distraction, and if it focused him on his old habits of police work, all the better.
Hilt honked his nose in a clean white hanky from his pocket and did just that. I distracted myself by finishing up the blueberry scones and then making as much brain-boosting food as half a dozen people could eat. In due time, my dining room table sported two platters of blueberry scones with lemon glaze, dishes of fresh, warm granola, local probiotic-laden yogurt, scrambled eggs with kippers, thirteen-grain hot cereal with walnuts and raisins, and pitchers of orange, cranberry, and V8 juices.
Lake was the first one down, wearing Uncle Hilt’s black jeans and a blue-and-black plaid flannel over a black T-shirt. His hair was still damp from the shower, and it curled off his forehead in a way that made me want to run my fingers through it. “Morning, Pippa. Smells amazing.” Before I knew what was happening, he lightly clasped my arms and gave me a soft peck on the cheek. Then as if nothing had happened, he pulled out a chair, sat down, and began loading his plate.
A little lightheaded, I plopped down in the chair at the head of the table. “Did you leave Moorehaven last night?”
He shook his head without even looking away from the scone he was reaching for. “Why?”
“No one’s going to speak up to the sheriff and say that they saw you wandering around last night, even if you thought you weren’t being seen?”
He reached for the serving spoon in the hot cereal. “No. Again, why?”
“I have bad news, and I have good news. The bad news is that someone else died last night.”
The warm grains drizzled off the spoon into Lake’s bowl as he froze in place, looking alarmed. “Who?”
“It was Roddy Scott. He was killed outside his club. The good news is, you’re probably off the hook for your boss’s murder. What are the chances we have two separate murderers running around Seacrest at the same time?”
Lake dared to look testy at me. “I don’t know. You tell me. You hang around with people who think about murder all day. Do you know any details?”
I filled him in on the most basic details Skylar had shared with us last night.
“Well, that’s terrible. Roddy had a wife, right? That poor lady. On the selfish upside, I hope this means that the cops will start cutting me a little slack. I want to keep searching for whoever killed Cecil.”
Skylar and Paul joined us at the table. “Is it weird that I’m absolutely starving after last night?” Skylar asked. “Finding a body is supposed to ruin your appetite, not sharpen it.”
Paul said, “Maybe your appetite for justice is being sharpened along with your appetite for food.”
Skylar gave him an intimate smile. “Yeah, that’s probably what it is. I definitely feel my appetites sharpening.”
Lake’s eyebrows climbed high on his forehead, and he didn’t dare look at me. Instead, he bent over his plate and stuffed his face with one of my blueber
ry scones. I had the sudden urge to sit on his lap and feed it to him, maybe smudge a little lemon glaze on his upper lip… Whew! Is it hot in here? I bent over my own plate to hide my pink cheeks. But the smug tone of Paul’s chuckle told me he wasn’t so distracted by Skylar that he hadn’t picked up on the chemistry between Lake and me.
Hilt and Al eventually joined us at the table, and once we had filled our bellies with food for thought, Paul leaned back in his chair with a big, satisfied sigh. “All right, guys. The motive on this one is killing me. Who would want to kill both Cecil French and Roddy Scott in this adorable little seaside town? I got nothing.”
“Do you think it’s related to the town council troubles that Cecil and Roddy had with each other?” Al asked around a mouthful of coffee cake.
“Or that museum Roddy wanted to have Seacrest pay for?” Lake added.
Hilt scratched at his unshaven jaw. “That vote already passed. The museum idea was unexpected, but I don’t think it was unpopular. It’s been long enough since Seacrest citizens used those speakeasies illegally that it doesn’t carry nearly the stigma anymore. It’s more of a cultural curiosity. That documentary guy, Devin, has been all over this town, asking the old folks about their memories and their parents’ stories of Prohibition. It’s cool now.”
Lake finished off his cranberry juice. “I remember he came out to interview Cecil last week. At first, I tried not to listen. But it was obvious there was something Cecil was trying not to say, and Devin weaseled it out of him.”
I leaned forward. “What was it?”
He shrugged. “Maybe all the locals already know this, but Cecil’s dad was a rumrunner. He had a small boat that could fit up the river, and he’d go out to pick up the booze from the big ship as it headed south from Canada, probably carrying whisky. He’d bring the stuff in and slip it to the speakeasy, or hide upriver if the cops were suspicious that night. Devin asked Cecil what his dad’s most interesting story was. And Cecil said it was the time his dad rescued a princess from a storm, a princess and a treasure.”
“No. Way.” Skylar’s face lit up like Christmas.
My uncle’s eyes, normally a mild blue, sparked as they held my gaze. “That’s the plot from The Crimson Kiss.”
I nodded. “The notebook stolen from the gallery yesterday held Moore’s notes for writing a book set in a small seaside town during Prohibition with a beautiful woman, a secret treasure, and the mobsters who were trying to kill her. It’s a Hilton Gray book and the only one that isn’t set primarily in Los Angeles. Everyone has always assumed that Raymond Moore simply wanted to write his own small town into one of his books. But if Cecil’s father really did bring a treasure in from the rum-running ship…”
“I wonder why he would keep a story like that to himself,” Skylar said. “It sounds awesome.”
“I wonder how he kept it to himself,” Hilt said. “Seacrest ain’t exactly the Fort Knox of secrets.”
“He must never have told anyone,” I guessed. “Ever. Maybe he was ashamed of his father’s rum-running just like Emily’s mom was embarrassed by the speakeasy in her family’s past.”
“They were lovers, right? You know how lovers pick up perspectives from each other.” Paul twined his fingers with Skylar’s.
I glanced at Lake and found him looking right at me.
“That means,” I blurted, thrown off guard by Lake’s blue gaze, “um, that means the killer must be the burglar. He thinks the story of the treasure is real, and he’s looking for more clues in Moore’s notes.”
Paul’s dark eyes were as serious as Hilt’s. “The killer is one step ahead of us. He’s trying to find that treasure right now, and he’s killing people in his way.”
Al let out a small burp. “Excuse me. Delicious breakfast. So Mr. French couldn’t tell the killer what happened to the treasure, and Mr. Scott…?”
Paul completed the thought. “Owns a speakeasy he was about to give away, which would probably go through months, if not years, of restricted access for restoration purposes. Lake, you said Mr. French’s dad would deliver the booze to the speakeasy. He probably delivered the treasure the same way. And at my book signing, Roddy told us about that secret underwater tunnel to his speakeasy.”
I said, “So the killer thought that Roddy knew where the treasure had been stashed or maybe even that it was still in his basement, off-limits to everyone and maybe forgotten about. And when he couldn’t or didn’t tell him where it was, he had to die, too.”
Skylar shifted in her seat and played with the last half of a baby sausage on her plate. “We’re not thinking it’s that Devin guy, are we? The documentary was in his grandfather’s honor. He seemed pretty genuine to me.”
“It would be a great cover to get around town, though.” Al wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“And he did say his grandfather was the son of the last Boss of the Nicolosi family. Prohibition turned LA into a boom town, and in the scramble for territory, not all the mafia families made it out the other end,” Hilt explained.
“But that’s not true,” I said. “I think Devin’s grandfather just told Devin the story he wanted to hear. His friend, Kyle, told me he had done some research for the documentary and ended up discovering that Devin’s not actually descended from that family at all. He hadn’t told Devin the truth, and he asked me not to, either, for the sake of Devin’s grandfather and the project in general.”
Paul took a swig of his OJ. “Just because it’s not true doesn’t mean Devin isn’t a misguided murderer. I mean, come on, how often do you see that trope? It’s everywhere.”
Al snorted. “Maybe in your subgenre. The kid seems like an innocent bystander to me.”
Genre tropes aside, I couldn’t make up my mind about Devin. He sure had an unfortunate habit of interviewing people who died soon afterward.
Skylar spoke toward her plate, possibly intimidated by Al’s self-confidence. “Everyone seems innocent until the real killer is caught.”
“Unless everyone seems guilty.” Al played up a sinister undertone.
Lake eyed Al. “Everyone does not seem guilty here.”
Al had the grace to look abashed.
I polished off my last blueberry scone. “Listen up. I’m making a new house rule. Two of my current guests have had to be rescued from too much real-world research in one weekend. This is my hometown. I live here, and I have to hear the complaints of the locals when you guys get pushy with your questions and research-y manipulation. So here’s what’s going to happen from now on.”
The three authors at the table bristled, but I blithely continued. “You can do as much real-world research as you want to, as long as it has something to do with finding out who’s killing Seacresters. But I do ask you this one favor: please, try to be subtle. And obviously, be very careful. If the killer really is after some hundred-year-old treasure and he’s already killed to get it, he won’t hesitate to do so again. Don’t go alone—for God’s sake don’t go sneaking around after dark”—I shot Skylar a stern look—“and keep in touch. You have my number.” And I have the sheriff’s. He needs to know this stuff.
They took the end of my short speech as a dismissal, and they all leaped up from the breakfast table and scampered toward the hallway. The last thing I heard from them before they bolted out the front door was a high-pitched exclamation from Al: “Oh, my God, this is going to be so cool!”
15
“The Crimson Kiss is somewhat of a departure from my usual fare, yes. But it’s still fiction. The rumors that Seacrest holds a secret treasure merely show how stir-crazy America got during Prohibition. Now pass the whisky.”
Raymond Moore, 1934
Sheriff Kettleman arrived at Moorehaven about half an hour after I called him and offered him some crime-scene photos of Roddy’s murder on the understanding that their innocent-bystander owner wo
uld remain anonymous. He questioned Lake thoroughly, asked corroborative questions of the rest of us, checked out the photos I’d transferred from Skylar’s phone to mine, and listened politely to our theory about the killer’s motive.
He gathered us all in the hallway afterward, where he gazed down at us like a wizened tree. “All right, people. Here’s the deal. Firstly, I want to thank you for your cooperation. These photos will prove useful, and they’ll go a long way toward making sure that someone doesn’t get charged with filing a false police report.” His eyes flickered toward Paul for the barest second. “Secondly, I know you writer types think you’re onto something with this treasure thing, but I’ve lived in this county all my life. I remember the treasure hunts that would kick up in this town every few years. No one ever found bupkus. But it’s possible the killer actually believes the treasure is real, and that goes more toward motive than anything we had before now.”
“You’re welcome, Sheriff,” Al said with a cheeky grin.
Sheriff Kettleman frowned at him. “And thirdly, I understand that reinforcements are on the way to town as we speak, which means I can stop spending all my time in Seacrest and get back to the rest of my county. No offense, but if anyplace fits ‘quirky small town’ better than this place, I’ve never heard of it. Mr. Ivens, it seems no one, not even the anonymous donor of these crime-scene photos”—he shot a quick smile in Skylar’s direction—“can place you at or near the scene of the crime, nor offer any proof that you were anywhere but your bed here in Moorehaven. You’re free to roam around the town as long as you tell Pippa where you’re going.” The sheriff excused himself with a tip of his hat, leaving us to our own devices.
I grinned and headed for the safe.
When I returned Lake’s wallet to him, he groaned in exaggerated relief. “Thanks, Pippa. I’d like to head in to Cecil’s office. Straighten it up a little bit. Make it look nice. I suppose Gwen Scott owns it now, right?”
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