Smugglers & Scones

by Talbot, Morgan C

  Hilt’s face went through a series of uncomfortable expressions. “Well,” he finally said, “when you put it that way, I suppose, maybe just this once.”

  Thrilled at so easily convincing Hilt to let a pet psychic try to retrieve lost memories, I darted up the three creaky wooden steps and held the door open for him. He stumped inside and glared around at the soothing, animal-friendly room with suspicion.

  “Oh, be right with you.” Sebastian’s voice floated out from the back room.

  Hilt plunked himself down in a chair, but I sidestepped until I could look through the open doorway. A bright-blue yoga mat and Sebastian’s head and arms came into view as he performed what was probably Downward Dog. This guy is really dedicated to the pet theme.

  While Sebastian finished his yoga, I studied his cozy front room. The catwalks that ran just below the ceiling, around the edges of the room, were Rex and Svetlana’s favorite spots outside Moorehaven’s second-story sunroom. Whenever their cat-senses told them they had a veterinarian appointment, they ran down to Sebastian’s shop and hid up there, where I couldn’t reach them. Their safe refuge also afforded the best view of the fish tank, where it probably looked more like a buffet than a display. Mats, pads, and beds lined one wall, and another displayed a brightly colored gerbil run, a carpeted cat stand, and a complex, multilevel birdcage. All were empty, as Sebastian didn’t keep pets. He always said he simply borrowed others’ pets and let them play with his toys to relax them.

  A small TV mounted up in the corner of the room played an animal video on mute. I glanced up at a cheetah bolting across the savannah. Rex and Svetlana found Big Cat videos irresistible, especially from the high perch of their catwalk. I wished I could have brought them along on this trip, but if I had taken the time to fetch them, Uncle Hilt would have dashed off and hidden in the basement or something—not much different than a cat trying to avoid the veterinarian, after all.

  Sebastian finally stepped out, patting his neck with a fluffy white towel. His dark hair was slicked forward and upward, making him look younger than me instead of a few years older. The reverse age differential was compounded by adorable cinnamon freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks. Tyleen’s complexion was a light creamy olive, so Sebastian must have inherited his fairy kisses from his father. His white T-shirt had a picture of a dog, a cat, and a parakeet on it, and his black sweatpants sported leaping kittens down each side instead of racing stripes. “Pippa! Why didn’t you say it was you? Are Svetlana and Rex okay?”

  “They’re fine. We actually came for another reason entirely.”

  Sebastian shifted his jade-green gaze from me to my glowering Uncle Hilt then back again. “Sure thing. How can I help?”

  I eased closer and lowered my voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “You heard about the murders in town?”

  He nodded. “Who hasn’t? It’s horrifying. I’ve had three toy dogs, two birds, and an aging cat in here since it all started. It’s hard on all of us, even our pets.”

  “Well, we think we’re on to the killer’s motive. But we need more the information that’s locked in Hilt’s memories.” I widened my eyes at him meaningfully.

  As a pet psychic, Sebastian’s strong suit was picking up on subtlety. “I’m humbled that you came to me with this. I’ll do what I can.” He gave Uncle Hilt a hedging look. “But it always helps if the subject is willing.”

  Hilt levered himself up from the chair. “I’m willing, all right. I’m just not sure you’re able.”

  Sebastian only smiled and gave his usual response to negative comments. “That’s okay.” His phrase for, you’re wrong, but I won’t hold it against you. He gestured to the back room. “Pippa, I see you have a notebook. Will you cue me with the information you’re looking for?” I nodded. “Why don’t we use my yoga mat for this?”

  We followed Sebastian through the doorway into a room filled with supplies, pet treats, and a small vanity laden with hair products. Sebastian spread a fluffy blue towel atop his yoga mat and asked Hilt to lie down, face up. My uncle eased down into a supine position, muttering under his breath the whole time. Sebastian knelt, Japanese style, at his head.

  I got my notebook ready and tried not to make any distracting noises.

  Sebastian’s voice, already gentle, became as smooth as silk and as sweet as honey. “All right, Hilt. We’re going to slip into your memories. Close your eyes, and take a nice, deep breath for me. Good, and now one more. And another. Good. You’re floating peacefully on a big, fluffy, plaid pillow. As you lie there, imagine you’re doing your favorite thing in the world. Maybe you’re on a nice, brisk walk or singing to yourself in the mirror. Maybe you’re playing fetch in the park. Maybe you’re riding with your head out the window, or you’re curled up in the sun, comfortable and warm. Maybe you’re taking a nice, long, tongue bath. Are you imagining your favorite thing in the world?”

  “I’m imagining me duct-taping your mouth shut. Does that count?” Hilt growled.

  “Shh. My subjects don’t talk. Wait for the questions. Imagine you’re doing that favorite thing, and it makes you happy and relaxed.”

  Hilt’s grumbles subsided into a contented hum, and his arms went limp at his sides. His chest rose slowly, and I let out a small sigh of relief at his participation, reluctant though it was.

  Sebastian’s voice was a gentle murmur. “And now you’re getting sleepy, content, and your mind begins to drift.”

  I wrote some words, nice and big, and held the notebook out toward Sebastian so he could read it.

  “You think back to the last time you were reading Mr. Moore’s notes on The Crimson Kiss. Do you remember where you are?”

  Hilt nodded. “I’m in the gallery. It’s raining. I was rearranging stuff in the glass case, and now I’m sitting in the corner, reading the whole thing.”

  “Imagine yourself reading through the notes. You recognize Mr. Moore’s handwriting. His words are familiar.”

  Sebastian glanced at me, and I scribbled another message.

  “Look for the information about the treasure.” Though Sebastian’s voice was still slow and sure, his light-green eyes stabbed questions at me. I could only shake my head, putting him off for the moment. “Do you see it, Hilt?”

  Again, Hilt’s head rocked up and down on the yoga mat.

  Sebastian tipped his head toward my notebook. “What does it say? Speak, boy, speak.”

  “Stars, it said something about stars. Treasure under the stars.”

  Wide-eyed, I scribbled on my paper. I flipped the page and wrote another all-caps message for Sebastian.

  He gave me a hesitant look, as if uncertain he really wanted to be involved in this craziness with us. I didn’t blame him one bit. It put us all in danger. But after a moment, he gave a decisive nod and continued. “Hilt, I need you to look for another clue. Flip through that notebook in your mind, and see if Mr. Moore gave any reference to that treasure itself. What is the treasure?”

  “It’s… It’s there, somehow. I don’t know what it means, but I can remember what it said. ‘She rode ashore with a baby in her arms and a treasure rolled on her back.’ Moore said that about his mob princess. About Gracie.”

  I scribbled the quote into the notebook even as I admired its symmetry. The Crimson Kiss never mentioned a baby, and the rumors of treasure didn’t either. We were actually entering new territory, maybe catching up to the killer. I spun my finger in a circle at Sebastian.

  “Did Mr. Moore leave any other clues about the treasure or the woman who brought it to Seacrest?”

  Hilt grunted. “I see a name, written sideways in the margin. It’s a woman’s name. Graciela. But he’s underlined all but the last two letters. He underlined Gracie.”

  I scribbled some more. Gracie was a character in The Crimson Kiss. Graciela must’ve been her inspiration.
>
  “Do you see anything else?” Sebastian prompted.

  Hilt’s head rocked from side to side in the negative. “But I think he loved her—just the way he writes about her. Maybe… Maybe that was his big secret, the thing he didn’t want to write down. Like in his book, except it really happened to him.”

  My jaw fell open, and my heart squeezed. How would I feel if I fell hard for a stranger, and then I couldn’t save him? How would I tell the world about the double tragedy of my lost love and my failure? If my job was writing stories, I’d make sure it was an unforgettable tale, so everyone would remember the glorious, bright beauty that we had shared, even for so brief a time.

  Sebastian nudged my knee with a gentle finger and mouthed, “Pippa? Are you all right?”

  I blinked and realized my eyes had filled with tears. I swiped at them with the back of my finger and nodded. Then I made the kill gesture, slicing my fingers past my throat.

  “You did a good job, Hilt. Yes you did. Yes you did. Such a good boy.” Sebastian’s fingers ruffled through Hilt’s gray hair and scratched gently behind his ears.

  Hilt swatted Sebastian’s hands away and sat up. He jabbed a finger back toward the pet psychic. “If you try to feed me a treat—”

  “I’m not sure you deserve a treat.” Sebastian’s voice was high with judgment.

  Hilt gave me a patient look that said he was setting aside his frustration with Sebastian’s pet-centric ways. “Did we get anything?”

  I showed him my scribbles. “We got lots, Hilt. You did do a good job. See? I told you this would work.” I shot Sebastian a brilliant smile, and he nodded at me like an old-fashioned gentleman. I stood up and hauled Hilt to his feet, and Sebastian gathered up his towel and yoga mat. “Thanks again, Sebastian. If this information ends up helping us catch the killer, maybe you can put up a sign. Though you’ll definitely want to wait until after he’s caught. Knowing what we all know now could put us in danger if anyone else hears of it.”

  Sebastian walked us to his front door. “Oh, no. My lips are sealed. And as for the sign, no, that’s okay. I don’t do humans, and such a sign would only draw more of them in. No offense, Hilt. But good luck in your investigation, Pippa. I’ll keep your secrets the way I keep all my clients’ secrets. I hope you find out who’s been killing our residents before he strikes again.”

  “Don’t go burying anyone else before they’re dead, Pet Boy,” Hilt grumped.

  “No, he meant well, Hilt.” I shoved my uncle out the door ahead of me.

  “That’s okay.” Sebastian raised a friendly hand of farewell.

  “Bye, Sebastian!” I called over the wind.

  Hilt and I hurried back to Moorehaven, braving a strong headwind down the entire block. We blew in through the front door and found everyone else gathered in the hallway like a still shot just before a fight breaks out.

  Chloe stepped forward. “Oh, my God. You’re back. There’s been another burglary, and someone’s about to get killed.”

  17

  “Felicity Moore didn’t raise me, but she taught me everything I needed to know. She taught me that people are like gems: multifaceted, with deep color and unexpected flashes of brilliance. That the beautiful can also be hard. And that those who have been cut can be sharp enough to cut others.”

  Raymond Moore, 1949

  I took in the collected group. Chloe appeared frazzled and lost. Lake seemed sympathetic but confused. Al was impatient. Paul looked worried, and Skylar was a little angry. Beside me, Hilt wore an expression similar to the way I felt: baffled. We had left Moorehaven about fifteen minutes ago. I was at a loss to deduce how all this chaos had happened in so short a time. I couldn’t quite see Lake the same way I had before I’d met Mallory. Maybe he considered himself off-limits now that she was in town. Maybe he was into crazy. Or maybe that was just me.

  One crisis at a time. “We got broken into again?” I admit my voice wasn’t entirely calm.

  Chloe shook her head frantically, belatedly realizing what she had inadvertently implied. “No, Naoma called and left a message for you. Someone broke in to Laine Manor in the wee hours of the morning. They trashed a couple of rooms before the dog chased them off. The new policewoman is over there now, and they’re trying to determine what was taken.”

  I frowned, unsure what connection Laine Manor might have to our killer’s quest for treasure. The historic home had certainly been around during Prohibition, and its enduring occupant, Geneva Laine, probably had been as well. I made a mental note to investigate that connection further. “Okay, then, who is going to kill whom and why?”

  Chloe took a deep breath. “Al’s mad at Paul for stealing his lead. Skylar wants to kill Mr. Vanderveer off in her book now, and I’m about to shoot them all. I swear it.” She pinned me with a steely look. “If you want me to work here, you can’t leave me alone until I know literally everything there is to know about Moorehaven.”

  Hilt clapped his hands and barked a delighted laugh. “That’s the spirit, doll!”

  Chloe’s glare transferred to him. “‘Doll’? This is a new millennium, Grandpa.”

  Hilt drew himself up and gave Chloe a flinty eye. “That was how Moore referred to the women he talked to. It’s Moorehaven tradition, not sexism. You really think a sexist pig would sign over a successful business to a woman fifty years younger than him? And I never married, so you don’t get to call me ‘grandpa.’”

  Chloe’s anger stuttered to a stop. “Wait, you’re telling me Pippa owns Moorehaven? Not you?” She stared up at the peacock-pane chandelier and murmured in a confused tone, “How did I not know that?”

  My ceilings have all the answers. They just never share.

  Paul cleared his throat. “Can we get back to us now?”

  I gave a decisive, business-owner-like nod and handed Chloe my notebook. “Do not lose this. It has some clues about the treasure. I’m going to ask the authors to help me solve them as soon as I get them settled and organized.”

  Chloe nodded, and I waved the authors into the front parlor and invited them to relax for a minute. Hilt and Lake joined us. Part of me worried that Mallory would drop in at any moment, searching for him. Part of me worried she’d already found him. Irritated with my ill-timed mental distraction, I shoved those parts into a broom closet in my brain and locked them there.

  I stood across from the long red couch and addressed its occupants. “Now, tell me what you learned this morning. Does anyone have any concrete leads?”

  Al blurted, “Roddy Scott was killed somewhere else and dumped in the alley. That hot new police officer is scouring the nearby area for the actual site of the attack. She says it was hard to tell, but it didn’t look like Roddy had been moved in a vehicle. No noticeable tire tracks.”

  Skylar scooted forward to the edge of the couch and held up a notepad. “I went to see that hotelier, Fallon Vanderveer. He had no comment on his town council interactions with Cecil French. He didn’t buy my cover story that I was a reporter from Eugene. He doesn’t read mystery books. In fact, he says he doesn’t really read at all.”

  “Disturbing,” I murmured.

  “So basically, he saw right through you,” Al said.

  Skylar slumped. “This is harder than I thought. I may have said out loud that I wanted to add Mr. Vanderveer to my book just so Petra could kill him. But I probably won’t. Maybe.” She brightened. “I guess that means I can make my main character fail abysmally at trying to weasel information out of someone, too. Hah, Petra’s going to hate me.”

  Paul squeezed her hand. “Then you’re doing it right. I had better luck with Geneva Laine—well, with her secretary, Maude, who apparently runs all the minutiae of life at Laine Manor. I was ready for her to turn me away, but she was grateful for the distraction from their home invasion. Turns out that the venerable Miss Laine took a d
eep and abiding interest in Devin Gilfillan. She requested a list of everyone he interviewed, even though she was already on the list. Maude gave me a copy.” He unfolded a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to me.

  I checked out the names on Devin’s list. All thirty-odd of them were either members of Seacrest’s eldest generation or their grown children. Geneva Laine was on the list, and so were Cecil French and Roddy Scott. “This makes sense. Devin is doing a documentary on the Prohibition Era.” I glanced at Paul. “What am I missing?”

  “Is there anyone you can think of who has lived here in town long enough to have a Prohibition perspective but who isn’t listed there?”

  Ah yes, the old what’s-not-there-but-should-be clue. I studied the list again. “Jordan’s parents aren’t here. The Harpers have lived in Seacrest for at least three generations.”

  That probably didn’t mean anything more than the fact that Devin hadn’t gotten to them yet. And that was probably a good thing because getting on Devin’s documentary interviewee list seemed to be like signing up for a really crappy lottery. Both murder victims’ names were on it. Maybe the young director was less earnest than he seemed. I should keep a close eye on my uncle in case he decided to wander off into a poorly lit alley anytime soon. His name was on the list, and Devin had already interviewed him. I had no guarantee that the killer had gotten everything he needed from Moorehaven when he stole the Crimson Kiss notes.