“Did any of you see Devin around town?”
Everyone shook their heads.
I turned to Hilt and Lake. “Did either of you ever see Devin’s Grandpa Jerry in the flesh? His grandpa’s final wishes could just be a story he’s telling to weasel information out of people.”
I got a “Nope” from each of them.
Paul added, “He sold it really well at the signing event. If he’s lying, he must be some kind of psychopath to do it so well.”
Skylar took his hand. “If we find Devin, what should we do? Follow him? Take pictures?”
Lake finally spoke up, and my tummy lurched at the sound of his voice and the weight of his frank gaze. “Tell him some story to get him to come in here voluntarily, and we can chat with him; see what he lets slip.”
“What about the cops?” Al asked, completely out of character for his usual rogue self. “That new cop is hot.”
Lake’s brows drew down, and my hopes rose. “I’m sure she’s very busy investigating the burglary at Laine Manor. Let’s see what we can accomplish without her first.”
“What kind of story should we tell him?” Hilt asked.
I addressed the authors. “Yeah, guys, what kind of story?”
Paul and Al glanced at one another. “Pictures,” Paul said.
“Right there with you, buddy.” Al’s grin was nearly manic as he nodded like a bobblehead.
It was bound to happen. If my mystery authors spent much time socializing with each other, they began to brainstorm and problem solve. Like college roommates, whose periods synchronized after a few months, mystery authors’ brain waves would sync up. Their communication was so pure and complete that they could just look at one another, offer up a single gesture or word, and an entire concept would be transmitted through the ether from one mind to the other. It was a beautiful thing to see. It was also very frustrating because my brain was never on the receiving end of those brilliant ideas. I always had to ask these creative geniuses to slow down and revert back to the Stone-Age method of speaking out loud in order to communicate with me.
“Share with the room, guys?” I asked.
Paul said, “His footage. Have him bring in a copy and tell him we want to look at it to see if his lens caught anybody acting suspicious in the background at the book signing. Who knows? Maybe it did. Maybe his cameraman caught him scoping out the stairs to the gallery.”
“That’s a great idea. Which one of you wants to do that?”
The authors sized each other up, then Al graciously nodded toward Paul. “You go ahead this time. I’ll hit up the library to see if I can find any kind of forgotten basements other than the speakeasy, where a treasure hidden almost a century ago could still lie undiscovered.”
“Where were you guys, anyway?” Skylar asked me.
I summed up what we’d learned from Hilt’s buried memories at Sebastian’s, but added that we weren’t sure what the riddle about the treasure meant yet.
“You have a psychic in Seacrest?” Skylar squealed.
“Just for pets,” Hilt interjected. “Seriously, doll. Don’t bother.”
Crestfallen, Skylar looked back at me. “What should I do then?”
I thought of the killer’s latest move. “Why don’t you head over to Laine Manor? It’s the big white house on the hill across the river. If we can understand what the killer took, it might help us figure out what he’s going to do next. For all we know, he’s found the treasure, and he’s about to blow town. The police should be there, and if I know Naoma, she’ll be there, too, trying to get as much information as possible. See if you can lend her a hand.”
Thrilled with the idea of visiting a fresh crime scene without actually being in danger, Skylar said, “Just let me grab my coat.”
Paul and Al rose to head out, too, and I followed them back into the hallway, where I found Chloe waiting at the hostess station with bright eyes.
As the door closed behind my authors, I said, “Crap, I forgot to ask them to help me with those clues!”
“We can handle it, can’t we? I mean, how hard can it be? I’m no Hobbit, but I’m decent with a good riddle.” Chloe held up my notes. “I blame my dad, who’s the daddest dad ever with the corny brainteasers.”
Lake and Hilt crowded around with me and studied my terrible handwriting. “You think you can solve the riddle Raymond Moore wrote in his notes?” Hilt asked.
“I think we can,” she clarified.
“If she really carried it herself,” Hilt mused, “it can’t be too heavy.”
Chloe eyed him. “Yeah, no more than a hundred pounds or so. You know, the average load-bearing capacity of a desperate mother.”
I clapped a hand over my wicked grin. “You want some ice for that burn, Hilt?”
He raised his hands in surrender. “I only meant it ain’t a fully loaded cargo container.”
“And it says here that it’s ‘rolled,’” Lake said. “Coins? Paper money?”
“Doobies,” Hilt suggested, trying to get out of Chloe’s doghouse. She forgave him by cracking a pity-smile.
“Marijuana was legal during Prohibition, wasn’t it?” I asked.
“Yeah, actually,” my uncle said. “Gotta give the people at least one vice.”
Lake dragged his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Well, what else do we roll?”
“Sleeves,” I said.
“Cigars,” Hilt offered.
Chloe said, “Posters.”
I blew out my cheeks and played off of Chloe’s suggestion. “Anything paper, I guess. Documents? Deeds, maybe.”
Lake frowned. “You think this Graciela had property up here?”
“Maybe,” Hilt countered, “the deeds were for property in California.”
“Do you really think that mobsters came up from Los Angeles and killed the real Graciela, the way they killed the Gracie character in the book?” Chloe asked, wide-eyed. “Maybe they took the deeds and the baby. Maybe there really is no treasure here in Seacrest.”
That thought silenced all of us. Finally, Hilt spoke. “Well, if that’s the case, we’re gonna have one severely disappointed killer and a lot more dead folk.”
Our creativity spent, we wandered into the front parlor and sat. Almost immediately, my tummy rumbled, so I got back up and headed for the kitchen, returning with blueberry scones and coffee on a nice, big tray.
Lake immediately reached for a scone. “How did these escape getting eaten at breakfast?”
I smiled and handed out plates. “This was a bonus batch.”
We munched, sipped, and tossed out a few more ideas, but none of them seemed any more plausible than the others. Eventually, the phone rang. Chloe jumped up, but I was much closer to the hallway, so I waved her back into her seat.
At the hostess station, I began my usual spiel. “Moorehaven Bed and Breakfast Inn—”
“It’s me, Skylar,” the young author practically shouted in my ear. “You won’t believe what’s going on over here at Laine Manor. Officer Tavish found a bunch of Miss Laine’s paintings ripped out of their frames and stuffed under a hedge at the edge of the property. Nothing else seems to be missing except a little cash. What do you think it means?”
I blinked. Why only paintings? Laine Manor must have plenty of easily transported valuables. And then why discard them once you’ve stolen them? “Does Officer Tavish have a theory?”
Skylar groaned. “She won’t say a word except for the pat line, ‘I decline to comment on all ongoing investigations at this time.’” Skylar mimicked Mallory’s cool tone with eerie skill. “You should’ve seen the look on Naoma’s face.”
I could imagine it—a cross between having just sucked on a lemon and having been slapped. “Stick with Naoma. If anyone can learn any more, it’s h
er, and you can study her technique.”
Skylar agreed enthusiastically and hung up.
My eyes drifted to Paradiso Fugace, my favorite painting. I was thankful the burglar had not returned to Moorehaven and taken it, reproduction or no, but I couldn’t figure out his motive for burgling Laine Manor. And again, why only its paintings?
My brain scattered its focus, pursuing any idea that made sense, and I found myself remembering some of my favorite heist movies.
“I said, did you learn something?” Hilt waved a hand in front of my face.
I snapped out of my reverie and met his eyes. I didn’t think my eyelids could open any wider. “I think I have it.”
“Have what?” Lake leaned on the hostess counter.
I looked from him, to Chloe, to Hilt. “That was Skylar. The only things stolen from Laine Manor were paintings, but they weren’t the right paintings because the burglar stuffed them under a hedge and took off.” Without looking away, I raised my hand and pointed at Paradiso Fugace. “You know what they do with paintings in the movies when they steal them out of museums? They cut them out of their frames, roll them up, and stuff them in some kind of protective case.”
Lake lurched forward, all eagerness. “They roll them up. You think the treasure could be a painting?”
I nodded eagerly. “Moore loved art, so he always included paintings in his books. That’s why these reproductions are here. But if the real-life treasure was a painting, he couldn’t use the same thing in Crimson Kiss, not when he changed so many other aspects of the story to protect the truth from millions of readers. He’d have to throw in some kind of red herring.”
“The case that set Gray on Gracie’s trail in the book was a forged painting,” Hilt said. “But the real treasure was gold bars.”
I gestured broadly. “There you go. He changed the treasure to keep it safe, to keep the real woman, Graciela, safe.” My eyes widened. “And the baby. There was no baby in the book. If there really were mobsters chasing Graciela, they might have hurt her child. Moore left the baby out entirely. Who knows what else he changed to keep them safe?”
Hilt’s voice had gone rough with emotion. “Raymond Moore wasn’t only protecting Graciela’s treasure. He was protecting her legacy. If the baby survived, he’d be, what, ten or twelve years older than I am. Probably had a family somewhere.”
Chloe glanced from face to face. “We have to find out who this Graciela is. But the authors have already left. What should we do? Where should we start?”
I could almost smell warm, sweet peaches-and-cream scones. “Leave it to me. I know just the thing.”
I grabbed the phone and called Naoma Jassley. “I need a favor,” I said when she picked up on the first ring. I explained my request, and Naoma said she was just finishing up at Laine Manor, and she’d get right on it, and that she’d bring the other members of Glaze and Gossip into the loop as well.
“Emily was never on the best of terms with her brother,” Naoma continued, “but she’s grieving in her own way—baking like a mad thing. We’re giving her space for now. I’ll call everyone else, though. Five heads are better than one, right?” She chuckled. “I’ll let you know as soon as I have something. This investigating stuff is right up my alley.”
“Is Skylar still there with you?”
I heard the smile in Naoma’s voice as she replied, “Li’l puppy won’t leave my side. Cute kid. She’s got potential. And you want me to let her play shadow.”
“If you don’t mind, that is. She’ll be up for most anything you ask her to do.”
“I can work with that. I’ll be in touch.”
I thanked her and hung up.
Lake pulled me aside and studied me with a concerned expression. “Is everything okay?”
I couldn’t manage a proper sentence to sum up my worries in regard to the crazy ball of string that was our relationship, so I stuck with one word. “Mallory.”
His face flickered through a dozen expressions before settling on sympathy. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. What did she do? Did she scare you?”
Brave face, Pippa. “She tried.”
His smile was the sun. “You’re amazing. Not many people land on their feet after a run-in with Mal. That intensity is just one of her issues. But she’s got a death grip on the concept of boundaries in her own way. Hold your ground, and you’ll be okay.” He gave my hand a comforting squeeze.
I nodded, but I wasn’t confident of much of anything at that moment. “She found you, too?” I forced the words out.
“I gave her an exasperated headshake from across the street. She gave me a jaunty salute and kept driving. I’ll have to deal with her at some point. But right now, I have something really important to ask you.” Lake took my hands in his and gently caressed them with his thumbs. “Pippa, do you have any more of those amazing scones?”
I laughed and let him have the very last one I’d been saving in the pantry for a midnight snack.
We dispersed from the hostess station and found actual tasks to accomplish around Moorehaven. Lake lent Hilt a hand in some minor roof repairs on the garage, and I showed Chloe my list of local contacts, in case an author should ask for a local expert to consult with on a plot point.
An hour passed and then two. Finally, my cell phone rang. It was Jordan. Adrenaline rushed through my system. “What have we got, Jordan?”
“Graciela. I have Graciela. But I also have a really big question for you.”
I blinked. “Okay, shoot.”
“Naoma told me your theory, that Moore was protecting this Graciela from the mobsters who killed her father. Kind of like in the book.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“My question is this: Pippa, are you telling me that Raymond Moore, the international best-selling author, was in love with my great-grandmother Graciela? That he changed the treasure from a painting to gold bars to protect my grandmother Angelina from being hunted down by the same men who killed her mother? Are you telling me—Pippa, are you telling me that I’m descended from the mafia?”
18
“I don’t mourn the deaths of my characters. They may not have deserved their deaths, but then again, life isn’t fair. I just tell it like it is.”
Raymond Moore, 1919
I listened to Jordan freak out for a good twenty minutes before she let me get a word in edgewise. When I did, it took only the tiniest nudge to guide Jordan toward looking into her own past for the sake of the investigation.
I could hear the gears turning in her head. Finally, she said, “I’ll have to talk to my parents about this. They know a lot more about Grandma Angelina than I do. She died when I was only eight. And I think they still have a lot of her keepsakes up in the attic—even a thing or two that belonged to Graciela herself. But whatever I find, Pippa, I want you to be there when I go through it. You deserve to know as much as I do, and I’m not really sure I want to learn anything like this by myself. And no, before you ask, my parents don’t count, especially if they knew any of this and never told me.”
After I wished her good hunting and hung up, I felt it was time to run an errand I hadn’t made time for yet.
As I headed for the coat stand, Lake emerged from the parlor and grabbed his jacket. “Do I still have to tell you where I’m going? Because if I do, I’ll be at Blade and Boom for a while.”
“And where will you be if you don’t have to tell me where you’re going?” I inquired with a pedantic grin.
Lake took a second to figure out my silly wordplay, but he got there. “Shh, don’t tell anyone, but I’m really going to get a hot fudge sundae. And then I’m gonna eat it at Blade and Boom.” He gave me a cheeky look and tugged on his coat. “You want one?”
Hot fudge, crunchy toppings, sharing a long-handled spoon with Lake… I blinked away my delicious fant
asy. “Rain check?” I hoped I didn’t sound like I was begging.
“You got it.”
Lake started walking toward the marina. I headed out on my trusty bike with its oversized basket. I stopped by Callendine Floral on my way. As I stepped into Wallis’s shop, the glorious scent of masses of bouquets filled the air, like a small shop of eternal spring. Wallis looked up from behind the counter, where she was arranging a bouquet of hydrangeas and lilies. She gave me her best condolence smile.
“Afternoon, Wallis.”
“Good afternoon, Pippa. Looking for anything in particular today?”
I nodded. “Something for Emily and Gwendolyn. I’m going to stop by and see them both. What do you recommend?”
Wallis kicked it into high gear, swanning around the edge of her counter in a graceful stride that carried her effortlessly to her most expensive bouquets. Her expression shifted into full mourning mode, complete with downturned mouth, drooping eyebrows, and tipped head. In a voice that bordered on a stage whisper, she said, “I have a lovely spread with roses and lilies, but I think Mr. Vanderveer already sent over one each of those. But I do have this lovely white poppy arrangement or a tasteful vase of marigolds and golden lilies.”
I opted for a living pot of white chrysanthemums for Emily. She had several in her window already, and I knew how she loved matching her décor. Gwen’s favorite colors were warm tones like gold and brown, so I opted for the vase for her. A tiny muscle under Wallis’s eye twitched, probably because I had chosen less expensive options than she wanted, but she said nothing, carrying my choices to the register.
As she rang me up, a thought occurred to me. “Wallis? Did you sell any funeral flowers for an older man about two weeks ago? Jerry something. His grandson is Devin Gilfillan.”
Wallis gave me a slow, mournful nod. “Oh, yes. I remember the young man well. He was in a kind of daze, and he couldn’t afford much, so I sold him a simple wreath for the graveside and let him borrow a stand for free, as long as he returned it at his convenience.”
Smugglers & Scones Page 17