Smugglers & Scones

by Talbot, Morgan C

  Paul gave her a kiss. “You’re brilliant, Skylar. You’ll be as sneaky as Al someday.”

  Al held up his hands. “Whoa, whoa. The world really doesn’t need more than one of me, guys. You see this shiner?” He pointed to Dragon’s gift. “Kinda hard to accessorize with. Stick to stumbling across corpses, Skylar. The dead don’t hit you.”

  She smirked at him. “They do in my book.”

  He bowed his head in courtly acquiescence.

  According to the clock on the wall, Officer Tavish, for all her faults, had woken us with only a quarter hour to spare. I would have hated to miss the chance to confront Devin. It wasn’t hard to show up at a fire if you were the one who set it. What a brazen murderer he must be to stand around and watch from the outside as it burned, hoping it took us with it. “Are we going to have backup? I mean, like, an actual police presence in case he gets violent? Because that sounds like a good idea to me right now.”

  Everyone glanced around innocently. Apparently, no one had thought of that. Lake slid his eyes toward the front porch, and I nodded. Officer Tavish still sat in her cruiser in my parking lot, probably with a pair of binoculars and maybe some parabolic listening equipment.

  I took a deep breath. “I need a volunteer to go out to the policewoman in the cruiser in the parking lot and ask her to come in and stay out of sight so we don’t spook Devin when he arrives.”

  All three authors jumped to their feet. Despite Lake’s frown, I couldn’t help grinning. Maybe their team effort would weird her out, and she would be less aggressive on my home territory. “Go, do your thing. I need to find some clothes to wear.”

  The authors scrambled for the front door.

  “I’ll come with you,” Jordan said to me. “I need to tell you something, anyway.”

  I nodded, and as I passed Lake, still wrapped in his own blanket, I told him to ask Uncle Hilt for yet another set of clothes. “And you get to do the laundry tonight, mister.”

  Lake smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Once we were through the pantry’s false wall and safely ensconced in my octagonal turret room, Jordan practically threw herself on my not-quite-made bed, startling Rex, who scrambled to the floor and padded out in a huff. Jordan’s eyes flashed wickedly at me. “First things first. Are you or are you not entirely naked under that blanket, Miss Huddle-together-for-warmth?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  In response, Jordan lunged at me and tried to pull the blanket off my shoulders. “Yes, I would!”

  I yelped and scrambled, laughing, around the bed, trying to escape her. “Get off, you nosy perv!”

  Jordan obligingly stopped and flopped on the bed, trying to catch her breath despite her laughter. I took the opportunity to pose and flash her my damp bra and panties. “I’m nearly disappointed. Would’ve made a better story.”

  “It almost went that way,” I confessed. “It’s just, all that fear and adrenaline and cold water really takes it out of you. Us. We were getting into it, and then we… fell asleep.”

  Jordan put a hand on her chest and gave me puppy-dog eyes. “You two are the most adorable couple ever. And the sleepiest. But seriously. If you wanna get with that, get with it now. His ex is scary.”

  I nodded, but I wasn’t sure what my next move should be. And it would have to wait until after tonight. “What did you want to tell me?”

  Jordan rolled up onto one elbow on my bed. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you found out today. About Moore and Graciela. I actually left work early.”

  I gasped out loud. Jordan literally had never left work early, or even taken a sick day, in all the six years I had known her. “I’m so sorry, Jordan. I didn’t know these crimes would connect to you and your family history. I never meant to upset you. I hope you can forgive me.”

  Her expression was eager. “Are you kidding me? It’s not upsetting. It’s fascinating. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and I couldn’t concentrate on work, so I left to go investigate. And guess what I found?”

  I paused in my search for warm, dry clothing, flooded with insistent questions. Did Moore and Graciela secretly get married? Is there a will? Is the treasure right here in Moorehaven? “Don’t keep me in suspense! Tell me already.”

  Jordan produced a slim volume from her oversized purse. Its old green cover was worn with age but not faded. “This is my grandmother Angelina’s diary. I found it in the attic, in the trunk of her keepsakes. Well, actually, I found about three dozen diaries. Maybe more. But this was the last one she wrote, the one she was using when she passed away.”

  I pulled a thick, fuzzy sweater over my head and folded its loose turtleneck down then shivered. “Wow, that’s amazing. Did she leave some clues in it or something?”

  Jordan shook her bright pomegranate hair. “Not exactly, but in a way. Her last few entries mentioned a recurring dream. She said she used to have the dream when she was a little girl, but she kind of outgrew it. And then, toward the end of her life, it came back.”

  I fetched a dry pair of panties, stretched my way into a pair of black tights, and pulled some sweats on over them. “Did the dream have something to do with the treasure?”

  “She didn’t seem to remember one, but in context, it kind of sounds like that’s what was happening. Here, let me read it to you: It always begins the same way, with me floating down a dark stairwell. My mother is there, and she is very worried, but not about me. I’m always afraid because she is afraid, but we’re not alone. There’s a nice man with a handsome face, and he has a little girl with him. To me, of course, she is very old and mature. The girl tries to make me laugh as we walk under the stars. I remember her pointing them out and saying funny names. But I was always still a little scared. It was very dark, and we walked and walked. Finally, we reached the booming room. My mother gave a funny-looking box to the man with the nice smile, and then she wasn’t scared anymore. The dream always fades with a good feeling, but I never like it because so much of it is filled with fear. I wish I knew what any of it meant. This dream must be pulled from my memories—a relic of my earliest days. But if it is, it’s almost the only memory I possess of my real mother. I wish I knew why she was so frightened.”

  I sat for a moment with a pair of nubbly socks in my hand, absorbing the riveting story. “That sounds like the speakeasy. That means Graciela really was there, and the treasure must be, too. It’s just really well hidden. I hope it survived the fire.” Another thought occurred. “Maybe that’s why the killer only burned wet blankets. He must also think the treasure’s down there somewhere.”

  “That makes sense. I guess the man who helped Graciela was Raymond Moore.”

  I tipped my head in doubt. “Maybe not. Graciela came in with rumrunners, if that part of the story is true. I’m not sure she would trust anyone who wasn’t in the smuggling business. And as far as I know from all the history we have around here, Moore only drank at the speakeasy. He didn’t help with the smuggling. Besides, he never had any children. Confirmed loner, that one. Just like Uncle Hilt.”

  “Now that’s idolization at its finest. But if it wasn’t Moore, who was it?”

  I pulled on my socks and wiggled my toes in their new, comfortable, warm environment. It felt so good to be warm and dry, practically euphoric. I shivered happily. “We may never know. Who do you think the other girl was? She’d be very old. Like almost a hundred. But Seacrest has plenty of folks from that generation. And Devin did interview a good two dozen residents. Maybe one of them was that girl or has an idea who she could be.”

  The doorbell rang in the distance. Jordan sat up straight. “Is that him? Is that the killer?”

  “I’m not sure. But Devin does believe he’s descended from a mobster in Los Angeles, like you actually seem to be. If he thinks that treasure belongs to him, he might do whatever it takes to get his
hands on it.” I stood up and headed for the door, feeling an angry mix of emotions in my gut. I wasn’t sure at all that my professional smile would be able to cover my fear and fury at sharing a room with the man who might have tried to kill me today.

  Jordan clasped my wrist. “Pippa. You got this.” Her eyes stared confidently into mine, and I warmed at her trust in me. Then her other hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God, Pippa. It just hit me. These missing paintings, whatever they are, they belong to my parents now, don’t they? This missing treasure. It belongs to my family. I need to go tell my parents.”

  I squeezed her hand. “It probably does, yeah. Go on ahead. It’s probably safer outside than in. But don’t worry. If you inherit millions, I’ll still come over on Sunday afternoons in my yoga pants and watch terrible movies and eat crappy snacks with you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go see if we have a killer in our midst.”

  21

  “The best whisky is free whisky.”

  Raymond Moore, 1929

  When I got to the other end of the hallway, the others had already let Devin in, and they were nowhere to be found. I bade Jordan good night and watched as she slipped out into the damp evening. Then, irritated and worried, I searched my own bed and breakfast until I found everyone in the library. Devin sat at the end of the large table in the middle of the room and was warming up his laptop, seemingly at ease. If he was worried about betraying his crimes to us, or if he was surprised to see me alive and well, he didn’t show it. Maybe he was one of those smiling psychopaths, unfettered by guilt. Maybe he wasn’t our guy at all. Al, Paul, and Skylar formed half of the semicircle behind him, and Hilt, Lake, and Mallory comprised the other.

  Wait, what? She’s supposed to be our secret weapon. Why isn’t she hiding?

  Officer Tavish must have sensed my gaze because she flicked her eyes up and smirked before returning her attention to the laptop.

  Oh, I get it. The only way she could be more obvious was if she peed on Lake to mark her territory.

  Lake stood stiffly, eyes locked on Devin’s screen, as if intently ignoring Mallory. I decided to do the same. Our purpose here was more important than my feelings, which at that moment, was saying a lot.

  As I approached the cluster of people, I noticed that none of them were standing within reach of the man in the chair. Even Svetlana kept her distance as she peered down on us all from atop a nearby freestanding bookshelf.

  “Okay, here is the first video I ever shot. Basically B roll for voiceovers, introduction, credits, stuff like that. Just panning over the town from scenic spots, basically. No people.” The guy didn’t seem nervous or guilty. But then, psychopaths never do.

  “Skip ahead.” Lake’s voice was tense as was his posture.

  I stood beside Hilt, not wanting to crowd Lake or force Mallory into some sort of turf war over her man. But Skylar waved me over by her, standing nearly behind Devin as he sat. I joined her, trying to seem extremely interested in the video and not at all interested in Lake.

  “Here’s Cecil French, one of the first we interviewed.” Devin clicked play, and the room went silent except for the words of a dead man.

  Lake let out a sad sigh at the sight of his deceased boss, and I brushed the backs of my fingers against his in sympathy. My chest went alternately tight and deflated as I heard Cecil answer questions about his job and his life in town. He got cagey when Devin tried to ask about his father’s rum-running. He made no mention of his father ever bringing a woman to shore, but it was obvious Cecil knew much more than he let on.

  We skimmed through the interviews of a handful of local oldsters whose recollections did not touch on anything involving the murders. Then came Roddy’s interview. The easygoing club owner had no trouble bragging about the speakeasy in his basement. Off camera, Devin’s voice reflected his excitement. I tensed up. I could feel the confrontation coming. On the laptop screen, Roddy hesitated for a second before refusing Devin’s request to look at the speakeasy. Devin tried to wheedle a little, but Roddy stuck to his guns and claimed the place wasn’t very safe.

  “So when did you go back to film the speakeasy, Devin?” I asked.

  Devin shook his curly black head, eyes still on the screen. “I’m sorry to say I never got the chance.” His tone wavered between a young man’s unfamiliarity with death and an eager filmmaker’s regrets. “It was on my to-do list, but then Mr. Scott died, and of course, I wasn’t going to pressure his widow. I’d still like another chance, but I don’t know how much damage it took during the fire or how long the repairs will take. Even then, I’m not sure if putting in a formal request with the town council will get me anywhere.”

  My surprised look was reflected in the eyes of my friends and guests.

  Hilt jumped in. “You mean for us to believe you never got down to that speakeasy, where Roddy’s murder took place? You think we believe that?”

  Confused, Devin gestured at his laptop screen. “You don’t have to believe me. You can look through all my footage right here. You won’t find any of the speakeasy because I was never down there. I even have some pretty embarrassing footage of me whining to the camera at the fire tonight about how badly I wanted to get in there, and now I’m all frustrated because it looks like I never will. Here, look.” He played the clip, which showed his face lit from the side by flickering red fire engine lights. He spoke—ranted, really—directly at the camera, clapping his hands onto his head in distress, and he kept looking toward On The Rocks with anguish. “My project’s gonna suck without that footage,” his on-screen self bemoaned. “This is the worst thing ever.”

  On-screen Devin’s eyes showed me the truth. He really hadn’t been down in the Lantern. And his worst worry didn’t involve murder—only the quality of his film school project. Devin was no killer. He was nothing more than a slightly insensitive college kid. I’d been one, myself.

  My plan was not going as I had envisioned. My worst-case scenario when I heard Skylar had slipped Devin a note involved some kind of dog pile to keep him from escaping. In the last half hour, I’d added the hiccup of Mallory Tavish “accidentally” handcuffing me to the murderer. But I hadn’t really envisioned that we’d completely get the wrong man.

  “Show us all your clips,” Lake said roughly. “Every last one.”

  The young producer hesitated. “Is something wrong here, guys?”

  Mallory spoke up and flashed her badge. “Do as he says, Mr. Gilfillan.”

  “Okay, you got it.” Devin opened the folder that contained all his video segments, labeled by date, interviewee, and location. None of the words or thumbnails showed anything related to On The Rocks or its speakeasy basement except for Roddy’s interview. “That’s all I have, I swear. If you guys tell me what you’re looking for, I might have caught some of it somewhere in here, but I’ll need some more direction. Please. I just want to help. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  To my chagrin, Lake pulled Mallory a few steps across the room, his hand just above her elbow. My own elbows twitched with jealousy. They whispered furiously for several seconds then returned to the group.

  Mallory straightened her shoulders. “Mr. Gilfillan, we’re looking for evidence of a murderer. You’ve been all over town researching the Prohibition Era, and so has the killer. You’re still very much under suspicion, so we’re going to need to take a look at all of your footage right now. And you’d better hope we don’t find incriminating evidence in there. In fact, you’d better hope we find clear-cut evidence supporting someone else as our perp.” She waved him out of the chair and jabbed a finger at Paul. “You know how to operate this video stuff?”

  Taken aback, Paul blinked for a second then studied the screen. “Looks pretty straightforward. Click and play.”

  “Then get to it.” She shifted her gaze to the baffled and ever-more-worried Devin. “You, with me. I need a ful
l statement.”

  I stepped forward. “You can use the…” But Mallory was already dragging Devin off to the sunroom.

  Paul had already begun playing the next interview. I couldn’t focus on it or on Mallory. Instead, for no good reason at all, I shot a dark look at Lake, which didn’t help anything whatsoever.

  He sidled closer and put a calming hand on my arm. “Don’t worry. If there’s one good thing about Mal, it’s that she’s obsessive enough to be a great cop. She’ll find out if Devin had anything to do with the murders in town, and if he did, she’ll drag him in kicking and screaming. Nothing stops her from getting what she’s after.”

  I swallowed hard and didn’t ask, And what do I do if she’s after you? Instead, I said, “If it’s really not him, who is it? It has to be someone connected to this treasure hunt and Prohibition.”

  “Guys, look at this.” Paul gestured for us all to gather around. He backed the video up about twenty seconds and let it play again.

  I recognized my front parlor from the night of Paul’s book signing. The camera was focused on the conversation between Roddy and his dozen listeners, which included myself, but it was playing the very last seconds of that exchange. The group broke up into smaller groups, and I heard my voice as I announced that Paul Sheen would shortly begin his reading in the library. The camera stuck to Devin’s right shoulder for a few seconds, then Devin addressed the camera lens. “You want one of those pastry things? I could eat. I’ll get you something.” He moved out of frame, and the camera panned aimlessly across the room, landing on Roddy as he stood in the doorway between the front parlor and the hallway.

  “Hey, come here.” Roddy beckoned to the camera. “Have you guys filmed the gallery yet?”

  In response, the camera zoomed in down the hallway, as if traveling beneath the broad arch at the end of the corridor.