by Nic Saint
“No, of course not. She’s not thinking that far ahead, but I am,” she assured him. “And I see plenty of babies in your future, Sam. Us Flummox women are very fertile, you know. We breed like crazy.”
"That's… great to know," he said with a quick glance at Pierre, who was apparently enjoying this conversation a lot more than he was, at least the part he could hear. "Um, why don't we talk about this later? We're dropping by the house anyway, Pierre and I."
“You’re coming over?”
“Yeah, we need to talk to Cassie about one of your neighbors.”
“What happened?”
“He died. Murdered. Maybe you knew the guy? Yehudi Brevity. Wall Street banker. Axed to death.”
“Axed to death. That sounds painful.”
“I’m guessing it was. So did you know the guy?”
“Never met him, I’m afraid.”
“Thought as much,” he grunted. Cassie and the girls had only moved in a couple of weeks ago, so it was doubtful they’d made the acquaintance of their neighbors yet. Though Cassie might. She was a very sociable person.
“Oh, wait, was he the millionaire?”
“I guess he probably was.”
“Was he the fashion tycoon? Was his name Kardashian?”
“Yehudi Brevity, Strel. And he was a banker, like I just told you.”
“Oh. Right. No, then I didn’t know him. The only neighbor I’ve met so far is Gresham Seeming, and he’s still alive, cause I just saw him.”
He sighed. “I’ll see you later, Strel.”
“Wait. Do you know how to dive, Sam?”
“Um, I do,” he said cautiously.
“That’s great!” she exclaimed. “We may have a little job for you.”
“Okay,” he said with an inward groan. When the Flummox sisters roped him in for ‘a little job,’ more often than not there was trouble ahead.
He disconnected and stared through the windshield as the squad car ate up the miles. They were doing a tour of the neighboring estates and had just returned from a visit to town, trying to locate the ‘Tom, Dick and Harry’ Brevity was so chummy with. Of course nobody had ever heard of these guys, who were apparently so keen on fishing. Obviously it was a ruse.
Which begged the question: what was Brevity doing on those so-called fishing trips where he never caught a single fish? And was this in any way connected to his murder? For all they knew he could simply have gone on a bender from time to time and didn’t want to tell his housekeeper about it.
“I’m beginning to think there’s something really suspicious about this guy’s life,” he said.
“Why do you think that?” asked Pierre, his hands firmly on the wheel.
He shook his head. “If the guy was as rich as all that, why didn’t he throw lavish parties to entertain his rich friends? Why did he lock himself up like that? Almost like a recluse. Nobody ever saw him. Like a Howard Hughes.”
“Except for his fishing buddies Tom, Dick and Harry.”
“Yeah, that’s another thing that bugs me. Why would he lie to his housekeeper?”
“Because housekeepers talk, Sam, and he obviously didn’t want her to go blabbing about his private affairs to anyone who would listen. He was a banker. He knew discretion.”
“But what was he doing on the days he allegedly went fishing?”
“We’ll find out soon enough,” said Pierre.
He was a diminutive man, Sam's partner, and they worked well together. Sam's customary gruffness was offset by Pierre's calm demeanor. He was the good cop to Sam's bad cop, the quiet and unassuming partner to Sam's brashness, and over the years they'd become friends as well as partners.
Pierre didn’t seem to have much of a personal life. He’d married early on, but his wife had left him, and now he was a bachelor and seemed to like it that way. Though he was fully supportive of Sam’s budding relationship with Edie, to whom he’d taken quite a liking. Pierre’s favorite of the triplets was Ernestine. Too bad she was already spoken for by that damn lawyer Spear Boodle. Estrella was still a free agent, but it was unlikely that she and Pierre would ever hook up, their personalities way too different.
“So… after we talk to Cassie, what should we do next?” asked Sam. They were under considerable pressure to find out who killed Brevity. The mayor himself had told Sam that he needed answers fast or else he was off the case.
“There’s another neighbor we can talk to,” said Pierre. “Gresham Seeming. He’s a retired MIT professor and might have known Brevity.”
“Oh, Strel just mentioned him. He’s over at their house.”
“Two birds with one stone.”
“I just wish the local police had been more helpful,” Sam grumbled. They’d talked to this Virgil Scattering, but he’d been of no use at all. Hadn’t even known much about Brevity apart from the fact that he lived in town. So far they’d gotten nowhere with anyone. Even the body or the crime scene hadn’t yielded any clues so far. Cause of death was pretty obvious, and they had the murder weapon, but no fingerprints or any other trace of the killer. The crime scene had been wiped clean with lots and lots of bleach, apparently. A very hygienic killer, which was odd, after such a brutal murder.
The weird thing was that both the housekeeper and the gardener had been on the premises when the murder took place, and yet they hadn’t seen a thing. The murderer had taken a considerable risk attacking Brevity like that. And taking his or her time to sanitize the scene and clean up after himself.
Unless the staff was in on it, of course, or even responsible, but somehow he doubted that. What was the motive? Why would they kill their employer?
“We need to crack this case, Pierre,” he muttered now, slumped in his seat, his feet up on the dash. “If not, the mayor is going to have our badges.”
“He can’t do that,” said Pierre, glancing over. “Can he?”
“He can and he will,” muttered Sam, staring out the window.
“Well, then we better get a move on,” said Pierre, and stomped his foot down on the accelerator.
The car made a sudden lurch, and Sam yelled, “Hey!”
But Pierre was right, of course. The sooner they talked to Cassie, the better. He didn’t know what it was about the woman, but somehow she and those granddaughters of hers had a knack for sleuthing. He hadn’t forgotten how they’d nabbed the Invisible Choker. Oh, sure, they were a pain in the ass, but more often than not they were helpful, too. He just hoped they would work their particular brand of magic again, and expedite this investigation.
Apparently, his and Pierre’s employment depended on it.
Chapter 9
I was in the kitchen, thinking how I could convince either Spear or Sam or both to dive for treasure and not tell a soul. Both men were likely to bridle at this particular part of the mission. Spear was a law-abiding lawyer, while Sam was a law-abiding cop. What this job needed, I saw, was a lawbreaker. Someone who wouldn’t balk at doing a slightly illegal thing, while at the same time being honest enough not to swindle us out of the treasure.
So they had to be crooked, but not too crooked. A crook we could trust.
I racked my brain trying to think of someone amongst our acquaintances who answered to that description. And then it hit me. Johnny and Jerry, the two former gangsters who now worked for Chazz Falcone, the real estate tycoon, and, not coincidentally, future father-in-law of our cousin Fee Bell. Which made Johnny and Jerry practically family. Which meant they could be trusted to steal for us, but not steal from us—an important distinction.
And as I thought some more, suddenly another candidate for our treasure hunting endeavor ambled into the kitchen. Skip Brown, the first and only Flummox, Inc recruit, looked much the worse for wear. His pimpled face was pale, and his hair stood up on one side, as if he’d skipped the shower and had come straight down from his room.
“Hey, Skip,” I caroled, pushing a plate with chocolate croissants in his direction. Skip is an ex-baker, though he was always a better con
sumer of bakery products than he was a producer. Skip is an eater, not a baker.
“Hey,” he said a little morosely now, and scratched a fresh pimple that had popped up overnight. He has this theory that if only he can get tan enough, his pimples will magically disappear. So far he’s been proven wrong.
“Rough night?” I asked.
He slumped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. “There was a party downtown,” he muttered in a hollow voice. Then he peered through his fingers, located the chocolate croissants, fished one out and shoved it into his mouth and chomped down.
“And? Did you score with the ladies?”
He gave me a pained smile. “You know there’s only one woman for me, Strel.”
I rolled my eyes. “You can forget about that, Skip. I’m much too old for you.”
He frowned. “We’re exactly the same age!”
“Biologically, maybe, but mentally I’m at least a decade older.”
“I don’t care about your mental age,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Well, you should.” The truth is, I like Skip, I really do, but he’s not exactly boyfriend material. Besides, he works for Flummox, Inc, and I’m a firm believer in not mixing business with pleasure. Or sleeping with the help.
“I’ve got a job for you, Skip,” I said now, and he groaned.
“What is it now? Chasing ghosts in Aruba? Saving the White House from destruction? Or are you going to clone me again and then kill me?”
I laughed what I hoped was a careless laugh. It was true that we’d put Skip through his paces already, but that was life at Flummox, Inc for you: it never got boring. “No, I want you to dive for treasure,” I told him.
This time he looked up with something resembling animation on his face. “Treasure? What do you mean, dive for treasure? You mean…”
“Yep. An actual treasure chest, hidden inside an actual shipwreck.”
“And what’s inside this treasure chest?” he asked, cocking his head.
I laughed. “What do you think is inside the treasure chest, dummy?”
“Gold,” he said, his eyes now shining with renewed fervor. “And silver. And diamond rings and necklaces, and royal diadems and priceless pearls.”
“All that and more,” I confirmed, nodding seriously. His boyish enthusiasm was fun to watch, and I didn’t want to destroy his excitement by bothering him with the truth, namely that I had no idea what was inside this chest.
“So when are we going?” he asked. “And where is this shipwreck?”
“Wait. First I need to know if you can dive.”
“Of course I can dive,” he said.
I stared at him, and finally he cracked. “All right, I took one lesson when I was twelve! But it’s like riding a bike! You never forget, right?”
“Right,” I said, mentally jotting Skip’s name down on my list of potentials. The more I thought about this, the more convinced I became that we needed Johnny and Jerry. I just hoped those crooks could dive as well as they could crack safes, pick pockets and burgle houses. Or else we were sunk.
Chapter 10
“I think you should reconsider,” Ernestine said.
“And I don’t,” riposted Edelie stubbornly. She didn’t understand why her sisters were so obsessed with her private affairs. If she wanted to break up with Sam Barkley, what was it to them? If they liked him so much, why didn’t they hook up with him? No. Wait. That was a bad idea.
“Look, you’re making a big deal out of nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” she insisted. “He forgot our anniversary.” And when she reminded him, he laughed. Laughed! As if he figured she was joking. Well, she was dead serious. One month is a long time. It’s a milestone for any relationship. Especially for her, as she’d never been with any guy as long as that. Was it too much to think it would mean something to him, too?
Well, it obviously didn’t, which told her all she needed to know about Sam Barkley and how he really felt about her. The fact that he now used her own sisters against her told her something more: that he hated the fact that she’d broken up with him. He probably wanted to be the one who broke up. Guys were like that. All male ego and pride and stuff.
“Look, I told Sam all I wanted to say, and there’s nothing more to talk about,” she said with a shrug.
“But breaking up with him just because he forgot this stupid anniversary?” said Ernestine, rolling her eyes. “That’s just crazy, Edie!”
“It’s not crazy. It’s definitely a thing,” she said adamantly.
“I’ve never even heard about it, and obviously Sam hasn’t, either. He probably thought you were kidding.”
“Yes, that’s obviously what he thought, which just goes to show how little he cares for me or for our relationship.”
“Come on, Edie,” groaned Ernestine. “Snap out of it already, will you?”
“I’m not snapping out of anything. There’s nothing to snap out of because I never snapped into anything. I’m just seeing Sam in an entirely different light now. The cold light of reality. And frankly I’m glad I found out what kind of a guy he really is before the wedding and not when we were sipping daiquiris on our honeymoon.” Oops, she hadn’t meant to tell Stien about that.
“Wedding?” she asked excitedly. “Oh, my God, did he propose?!”
“No, he did not! I’m just talking metaphorically.”
“Oh. Pity. I like the guy. He’s one of those rugged sweethearts.”
“A rugged sweetheart with no heart,” she muttered, and she made to return to the pages of her Edgar Allan Poe, who conveyed just the kind of mood she was in. Now here was a guy who would have remembered to give his girl a one-month anniversary present. He’d probably gotten her a raven, but then ravens had a certain charm, hadn’t they? If Sam had offered her a raven she’d have accepted it. Though earrings would have been even better.
"Look we don't have time for this, Edie," said Ernestine, giving her a look of exasperation. "We've got a job to do, all right? You can't sit here moping. We have a business now. A responsibility to our customers."
She looked up at this. “You’re not talking about that Captain Suggur again, are you? Strel already told me all about that. It’s a load of crap. The guy is probably looking to steal this treasure. Besides, how is he going to pay us? He’s a ghost, Stien. Ghosts don’t make good clients. They don’t pay.”
“We’re going to negotiate a percentage of the treasure as our fee.”
“Fat chance. I don’t believe for a moment that there is a treasure. He probably made that up to get Strel’s attention. Ghosts are tricky like that.”
“Look, I googled the guy’s name, and his story checks out. There was a Captain Hayes Suggur, and the Albion did get wrecked and was lost with all hands back in April 1776 off the coast of Happy Bays in a freak storm. It’s all right here,” she said, showing her the page she’d googled on her smartphone.
“Let me see that,” she muttered and quickly scanned the story. She had to admit Ernestine was right. The story checked out. “There’s no mention of a treasure here, though. No word about the cargo the Albion was carrying.”
“But the rest is all true. So it stands to reason the treasure part is true, too. Or at the very least worth checking out.”
“Mh,” she said with pursed lips. She hated to admit she was wrong, but it looked like she was. “I guess you’re right.” She stared at her sister for a beat, then made up her mind and closed the book. Edgar would have to wait for another moment to regale her with his tales of woe and sorrow. Right now she had a job to do. So she scrambled to her feet, dusted off the seat of her black jeans, and said, “Okay. We’ll have a look at that treasure. But I’m not talking to Sam and that’s final. So stop bugging me about him, all right?”
“Too bad,” said Ernestine. “He’s such a great guy.”
“Great guy or not, he’s obviously not boyfriend material,” she said, though in her heart of hearts she had to admit she was hurting a
fter the breakup.
She liked Sam, too. Liked him a lot. And the fact that he’d mocked the seriousness of their relationship had cut to the bone. Well, at least she wouldn’t have to see him anymore. He was in New York, and she was down here in Happy Bays right now, where he didn’t have jurisdiction so no excuse to come down and make a nuisance of himself.
And it was as they were descending the stairs that she thought she heard his voice. Which was impossible, of course. She shook her head. She really had it bad for the guy, if she was hearing his voice everywhere. But when next they swept into the kitchen, she almost ran into the solid wall of Sam’s chest, and as she gaped at him, he grinned back at her. “Hey, there, honey.”
Chapter 11
Johnny Carew and Jerry Vale weren’t used to being summoned, or at least not by anyone else but their employer, Chazz Falcone. Johnny, stocky and square-faced, was relegated to driving duties as usual, while Jerry, rat-faced and scrawny, sat brooding in the passenger seat. He didn’t like this, but since Estrella was Felicity Bell’s cousin, and as such Chazz’s future family, since his son Ricky was engaged to be married into the Bell family, they had no other choice but to comply when Estrella summoned them to Hartford Manor for an ‘emergency meeting’ on ’a very interesting proposition.’
They knew all about the Flummox sisters’ propositions. The last time their paths had crossed they’d ended up in prison, accused of an act of terrorism. Jerry just hoped that at least this time they wouldn’t meet the same fate. They might be ex-cons, but that didn’t mean they liked the pokey.
Chazz didn’t seem to mind, though, even though he should. The Flummoxes had singlehandedly sunk his plan to become the next American president. It didn’t seem to bother the tubby billionaire one bit. In fact Jerry had the sneaking suspicion the man was secretly relieved he could let this cup pass from him. He reminded Jerry of a sleepwalker who suddenly wakes up, wondering how they ended up in someone else’s bed. Or the Oval Office.