Smugglers & Scones

by Talbot, Morgan C

  “Did he return it?”

  “Yes, poor boy. He thanked me quite profusely. He and his grandfather were new in town and hardly anyone had gotten to know them well, so he appreciated my small kindness. Here you go, Pippa, and here’s your receipt. Come again soon.” She said her final words as if I’d ordered the flowers for my own impending funeral.

  God forbid.

  I tucked the vase and pot of flowers in my basket, using my rain hat and my scarf to hold it securely. I biked a couple of blocks over to Glaze and Gossip and found Emily behind her counter, plucking oversized raisin-nut muffins from their tins on her back counter and placing them on cooling racks with a good six dozen others.

  She turned at the tinkling bell. “Oh, Pippa. Hi. I… well, I can’t seem to stop.” She waved her mitted hands helplessly at the muffin invasion.

  I placed the potted mums on her broad windowsill and stepped around the counter to embrace her in a long, gentle hug. She slowly sagged against me and heaved a sorrowful breath.

  “Why don’t you send a couple dozen over to Moorehaven? We all need to eat over there, and it’ll be less baking for me.”

  She stood back with a sad smile. “You’re a sweetheart. Thanks.” She cast her gaze around the kitchen as if surprised to find herself there. “I’ve made tarts, gluten-free cookies, muffins, éclairs, cream puffs, and more varieties of doughnuts than I can shake a spatula at. They’re just filling delivery boxes in the back room. The only thing I can’t make are chocolate cupcakes. They were Roddy’s favorite. I’m not sure I’ll ever bake them again.”

  I reached for her nearer oven mitt and squeezed. “That’s okay, Emily. That’s okay. We’re here for you. Come over anytime. Don’t be alone if you don’t want to. My guests are always distracting—unless they’re actually writing. In which case, you’re stuck with me and a rousing game of backgammon.”

  Emily’s smile was brief. “Thank you. I might come over sometime. Your front parlor is so nice.” She leaned her mitts on the counter. “I want you to find this bastard, Pippa. We were already looking for clues about Cecil’s killer. Now he’s taken my brother. You find him, and you catch him. I don’t know that new policewoman. But you, I trust. And who knows? Maybe I’ll make a giant chocolate cupcake and smash it all over his face.”

  I leaned in. “I’ll find him, Emily.” With the Glaze girls and my mystery authors, I’d find him.

  I left Glazin’ West with a couple of free raisin-nut muffins in a bag and pedaled off up the gently sloping hill until I arrived at Gwen and Roddy’s house near the center of town. Well, just Gwen’s house now. The 1960s split-level home was beautifully maintained, its landscaping full of broad leaves rather than flowers. In such a small town, it was important to me to offer my sympathies for my grieving acquaintances, but on the off chance that Gwen knew something that could help catch her husband’s killer, I had to see her. For all our sakes.

  I parked my bike on the walk and rang the doorbell. After a couple of minutes, it opened slowly to reveal Gwen, wearing black sweatpants and an oversized black T-shirt, which went with her long, straight Cher hairdo. She had dark circles under her gray eyes but no red puffiness to indicate she’d recently been crying. In the background, I heard Don McLean’s “The Day the Music Died.”

  “Pippa. What a lovely surprise. Let me take those for you.” She reached for the vase of marigolds and lilies, and I handed it over. “You want to come in for a minute?”

  I followed her into the kitchen, past the platinum records she and Roddy hung as décor, where she put my vase with a collection of other floral donations, cards, and balloons. They filled the white tile top of her bar counter from one end to the other. “I was just visiting Emily. She’s dealing by baking everything in sight. Here, she sent you a muffin.”

  “That’s sweet of her.”

  We ate our muffins in silence. As I pressed my finger against her tile countertop to get the last of the crumbs, I said, “Roddy will be missed by everyone who knew him.”

  “He was a good guy. A great business partner. I don’t know how I’ll go on without him.” She sighed in a way that appeared lost but not truly mournful.

  I’d done okay with Emily, but the number of newly bereaved widows I had consoled numbered zero. “Things like this take time…”

  Gwen didn’t hear me. “I’m thinking of selling On The Rocks.”

  “What?”

  “That club was Roddy’s dream, not mine. I’m good at business. But a place like that, it has to be your passion. And it’s not my passion. I should sell it to someone who can’t live without music. You know anyone who wants to move to a tiny speck of a town on the Oregon Coast and run the only club in town?”

  I managed a half smile. “No. You have any offers?”

  She shook her head sadly. “For a club with a historic speakeasy in the basement, now owned by the town?” A tentative smile flickered across her lips then faded. “I’m in no rush to go. I have friends here. But my soul, you know. It can’t stay here forever. Not without Roddy.”

  Sadness blossomed at the thought of tragedy chasing her out of town. “I understand. If I hear of somebody looking to buy the club, I’ll definitely send them your way. What about Blade and Boom?”

  She frowned. “What about it?”

  I hesitated. Surely Mercer had told her? “Cecil left it to Roddy, and I assume you’ll inherit it.”

  Her expression cleared. “Of course. I forgot all about that. Yes, I suppose I’ll sell that, too. I’m not really a boat person. It’s not the same without Roddy here. I mean, there’s Emily, but… Everybody’s going to find out she’s only Roddy’s half sister, now, aren’t they? I think it would be easier for her if I left, so I don’t remind everyone of that old scandal. The rumors that Cecil was Roddy’s father were a daily part of our lives. It affected every decision we made. I tried my best to protect Roddy from any recurrence of those rumors—even though they were true.”

  “Is that why Roddy kept the speakeasy to himself until he donated it?”

  “Of course. Since he wasn’t actually descended from Jorik Scott, he never really felt he deserved to own On The Rocks or the Lantern and its historical significance to Seacrest. I think Roddy saw donating the speakeasy back to the town as a kind of apology, a way to move past the rumors. But he didn’t owe anyone anything. You can’t be guilty of being born who you are. It’s not a crime!” Her eyes flashed.

  “You’re absolutely right.” I eased into my first investigation question. “Do you remember where Roddy was yesterday afternoon?”

  She nodded. “He was at City Hall, signing a bunch of paperwork for the speakeasy transfer. He made it all official before he died, and now his dream can come true. It’s not right that he won’t be around to see it. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s just good to have proof that he couldn’t possibly have broken into Moorehaven that morning. A certain notebook of Moore’s was stolen, and it seems to be related to Cecil’s murder.”

  Gwen gave her Cher-style a decisive shake. “Roddy would never kill his own father. He was a lover, not a fighter.”

  I nodded along. “Did you happen to overhear what that documentary guy was asking Roddy at the club the night he was attacked? I have a witness who says it seemed a little unfriendly.”

  Gwen dropped her gaze, and I worried I’d been too blunt. “I was a little drunk, to be honest. I don’t remember much. No, wait. That was the guy who was asking to see the Lantern, the speakeasy. He wanted access. And Roddy told him again it’s not safe down there. Yeah, I remember now. That discussion happened right behind me, right before my fourth gin and tonic. Roddy was dead half an hour later. Maybe if I hadn’t been so boozed up, I could’ve seen something, or done something. But I couldn’t even tell you when he left.”

  “I’m so sorry, Gwen.” Maybe part of her wil
lingness to leave Seacrest involved leaving her guilt behind. “Did Roddy ever believe the treasure was real?”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Probably more than most. He’s read The Crimson Kiss, too, like most everyone in town. But if the treasure were hidden in Epicurus’s Lantern, don’t you think he would have found it by now? He’s had years to search that speakeasy.”

  I leaned forward, forearms on the white tile. “Did he search it? Did he ever actually look for the treasure that you know of?”

  Gwen shrugged. “A couple of times, after closing, when we were a little drunk and giddy. We’d go down there and tap on the bricks, stomp on the floor, that sort of thing. We found a few false bricks that had cigars or marijuana stashed inside. Brick ashtrays, Roddy called them. But that’s it. Well, and obviously, the water tunnel.”

  An idea nudged me. “Have the police found the original crime scene yet?”

  “I don’t really want to know, but I know that eventually, I will be told where my husband died. And that will be one more reason I don’t want to stay in Seacrest.”

  I shifted, approaching the delicate subject I had in mind. “How would you feel, Gwen, about me taking a look around down there? Probably just to cross it off the list of things I’ve checked into.”

  She shook her head quickly, and her long curtains of black hair swayed and jerked. “No, it’s a real mess down there. Piles of debris, pitch-black, easy to trip over something and hurt yourself. I couldn’t let you go down there alone.”

  I bit my lip, thinking. I couldn’t ask her to go down with me. Then I thought of the perfect investigative partner. “What if I took a big, strapping sailor with me? Would you let us explore the Lantern together?”

  Gwen cracked the first smile I’d seen from her. “He’s a good-looking guy, that Lake Ivens. You two should definitely spend time sneaking around in my basement together. Here, take my extra keys. The sheriff told me they couldn’t find Roddy’s set.”

  As she fished around in a junk drawer, I wondered if the killer had taken Roddy’s keys to gain access to the speakeasy. One more reason to take Lake down into the unknown with me.

  Gwen handed me an old plastic key chain fob with a pair of keys on it. “The one with the D sticker is for the deadbolt on the metal door down to the speakeasy. The other’s for the doorknob. You can get into On The Rocks with the spare key hidden in a magnet box on the back of the dumpster.”

  I pocketed the keys. “Thank you, Gwen. I’ll return them when we’re done.”

  With a new lightness in my chest and a flutter in my tummy, I pedaled back down to the marina, eager to see Lake again.

  19

  “The best adventures are the ones you’re not looking for, the ones that grab you before you can come to your senses and run away.”

  Raymond Moore, 1944

  The tidy little Blade and Boom Sea Tours office sat near the lip of the river cliff, marking the spot where the estuary bowed out from the river’s channel and carved the snug Seacrest marina from the sturdy basalt peninsula that supported Seven Vistas and Moorehaven. The marina only covered about one square block, but the opportunities it brought our town did more to draw in tourists than any set of downtown shops could. Thousands of small American towns had quirky shops. But only those blessed enough to sprout on the edge of the continent could lead adventurous hearts onto the sea itself.

  I biked my way through a heavy mist, and by the time I arrived at the marina, my hair was dark with a thick layer of dew. I stopped right by the business’s front entrance, a white metal door faded with weather and age and sporting a couple of dents. A friendly blue-and-white-striped awning hung over the door and kept me from getting even wetter. A sign over the door said Come On In, so I did.

  In my six-and-some years in Seacrest, I’d never taken a boat tour. Locals never see the tourist sights unless they’re showing out-of-town guests around—and with Uncle Hilt’s phobia, that had never happened. I stepped inside, into a small but neatly maintained waiting room. Several salmon-colored padded chairs lined the walls, and an up-to-date magazine rack held a variety of sporting magazines next to a raised bank of English ivy that waved its eager vines toward the ceiling. “Hello? Lake?”

  Lake stepped into view at the other end of the short hallway that led deeper into the building. He wore long blue rubber gloves and carried a sponge in one hand and a spray bottle in the other. “Pippa? What’s up? Change your mind about that sundae?”

  “Not yet, but keep asking.” What a generous guy, cleaning up an office he wasn’t sure he’d ever work at again. “Nice gloves. How’s it going in here?”

  He shrugged with a smile. “Not bad. Want to see?”

  I followed him back to the desk area, passing a small rack on the wall that held several sets of boat keys and their buoyant foam fobs. The room opened into a space filled with two desks and several filing cabinets. The larger desk, which faced me as I walked in, must have been Cecil’s. It was still a complete disaster, with paperwork and old coffee cups everywhere, even on top of its high shelves. To my left sat a table, which was Lake’s current target for cleaning, and past it, in the corner, a smaller desk, which was also neat and clean.

  “Nice. Your desk?”

  He nodded. “Cecil contracted with a couple of local boat owners to take tour groups out. But they’re more for seasonal work when this place is crammed with tourists. They have day jobs, in other words. Me, I was willing to work right away and for not much money. And I’m also not terrible with paperwork. So Cecil let me borrow this desk and help him out with the books for a little extra cash. He really was a decent boss. He loved this business, and he loved the ocean. I’m not ashamed to say I’ll miss him. And… I know what they say about speaking ill of the dead, but… I think cleaning was against Cecil’s religion.”

  I took the spray bottle from him and set it on the clean table. “Then how would you like to come take a break with me and explore an abandoned speakeasy?”

  His blue eyes brightened. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Impulsively, I leaned forward, stood on tiptoe, and kissed his cheek, just as he had mine at breakfast.

  His eyebrows waggled in pleasure. “I gotta say, this is definitely gonna make my top ten most interesting first dates list.”

  I giggled and headed for the door. “It’s started misting, so you might want a hat.”

  He grabbed a knit hat I recognized as Hilt’s and a pair of big, sturdy Maglites from a bottom drawer. I moved my bike into the front room. He locked the door behind us, and we took a brisk walk up the street. We crossed the bridge over the full and frothing Silver River, where the estuary had just shifted to an outgoing tide.

  The chaotic water seemed a good representation of the craziness we’d all been going through since Cecil’s death. “Have you had any more luck with your memory of that night on the Mazu?”

  Lake shook his head. “I suppose it could come back at any time, but I can’t live my life hoping to understand things someday. I need to focus on now because now is where I’ll always be.”

  His philosophy made me smile. “Sounds like a solid plan.”

  “Yeah, it really hit home with me.” He mimed a knock to the head with his knuckles. I took his hand, and after another block paralleling the river toward the sea, we arrived at On The Rocks.

  With a grimace and a muttered apology, I tiptoed into Roddy’s metaphorical chalk outline—now free of blood—in the alley and felt around behind the dumpster, smearing my chilled hand with God knew what until I found the magnetic box that held Gwen’s extra key.

  The club was dark and quiet. Even if Gwen had been planning to open it that evening, it was still a couple hours until sundown. Dim light spread across quiet tables and the golden wood of the bar, catching dust motes midspin.

  “You ever wonder how old dust is?”
Lake nodded toward the floating fragments.

  “No, not really. I’m more concerned with how much of it is shed human skin.”

  He made a face. “Um, eew.”

  I gave him an innocent shrug. “Hey, not my fault. The things my authors tell me, like they just found the coolest thing ever. Gah. I can’t forget half of their creepy details.”

  “Like what?”

  I shuddered. “Do you know how many ways I know to kill someone without leaving a mark?”

  “How many?”

  “No, I’m not going to tell you. Then you’ll think I’m creepy, too.”

  “But—”

  I waggled my index fingers, half at him, half at myself. “No, no. Speakeasy now.”

  Radiating morbid curiosity, Lake trailed me to the back hallway, where the double-locked mesh door led down to the old speakeasy basement. I pulled Gwen’s keys from my pocket and twisted them in their locks, then I gave the heavy black door a soft push. The past beckoned, a deep shaft of lost history tinged with tragedy and an as-yet-undetermined dark motive. There could be treasure below. Or a killer. I hefted the solid Maglite.

  “Are we gonna do ‘ladies first,’ or would you like me to clear the way of spiderwebs and bats and stuff?” Lake whispered near my ear.

  I realized I’d been standing in the entrance for several seconds without going down.

  “Sorry.” I flicked on my flashlight, illuminating a short, dark, wooden hallway that ended in black space and the glimmer of a metal railing. “Just caught up in the adventure.”

  “This is gonna get adventurous? Okay, top five first dates.”

  “This is not a first date. Probably. Probably not a first date.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  I wasn’t sure. The specter of his ex-wife hovered at the edge of my intentions, and she packed way more than a flashlight.