by Kylie Logan
Then again, the chanting and the drumming that went along with the fires might have had something to do with why they gave the neighbors fits.
Still, once a month. Full moon. We’d learned to cope, and a couple of times, some of us had even been coaxed into joining in. For the record, I’m a lousy chanter and a not-half-bad drummer.
Now, Kate and I closed in on Chandra, who stood with her back to us in front of a fire with little flame and a whole lot of smoke, and while we were at it, I glanced up at the sliver of moon just inching over the horizon.
The closer we got, the harder it was to breathe. The air was thick with smoke, and the smoke was ripe with . . .
I took a couple of careful sniffs and waved a tendril of heavy, gray smoke away from my face. “What’s up?” I asked Chandra. “I think you’ve got your dates wrong.”
She sucked in a screech of surprise and whirled to face us. Yes, the light of the fire was behind her but Kate had left a single lamp on in her house directly across the street, and its light revealed the tears that stained Chandra’s cheeks.
“Uh, wrong? Oh, no, nothing’s wrong.” As if it weren’t already too late, she dashed the back of one hand across her cheeks to wipe away the tears. “I’m just . . .” She stepped a bit to her right and that made it just a little harder for me to get a gander at the fire.
“Just cleaning up some stuff in the yard,” Chandra said and sniffled. “You know, twigs and branches and such.”
“Stinky twigs and branches.” Kate waved a hand in front of her face. “It smells like burning hair.”
It did, and, curious, I leaned to my left, hoping for a better look at the fire.
Chandra took another step to her right.
“So you two . . .” Chandra closed in on us and Kate and I had no choice but to step back. “You two were out.”
“At Tara,” Kate told her. “The Twins have Bea’s highboy.”
Since Chandra is so tenderhearted and since I’d made no secret of how much I was looking forward to owning the piece of furniture, I expected a little more from her than “Oh.”
“We’re back now.” Not that I had to tell her, since she was looking right at us, but it never hurts to state the obvious in awkward situations. “And we’re going to have pizza.”
“And wine,” Kate added.
I poked a thumb over my shoulder toward my house. “You want to—”
“I can’t.” Chandra tried for a smile but it was feeble and watery. “I’ve got things I have to do, and—”
“We could bring the pizza and wine over here,” I suggested. “Pull up some chairs, sit in front of the fire. I might even have some marshmallows around.”
Chandra loves roasted marshmallows—the crispier, the better.
She shook her head. “I’m really tired, and like I said, I’ve got things to do and . . .”
And we got the message.
Even if we didn’t like it.
Kate put a hand on Chandra’s arm. “You want to talk?” she asked, and while she did, I moved ever so casually a tad to my left to try for a better look at the fire.
It wasn’t as big as Chandra’s ritual bonfires, and though there were twigs and branches and a couple pieces of driftwood piled in the fire ring, not much of it had caught the flames. But then, there was something wadded up beneath the pile of wood, and that something was preventing the fire from really getting started. A lick of flame flared for a second against the object and a puff of smoke rose. The blaze erupted and just as quickly went out again, and a new, stinky cloud of smoke belched from the fire ring.
From here it was impossible to tell exactly what that object in the center of the fire was, but it looked soft, and though I knew the combination of night and fire and smoke was playing tricks on my eyes, I was pretty sure it was blue and white.
If I didn’t know better, I would have said it was a sweater.
• • •
I slept with all the windows closed that night. But then, though the flames never shot up higher than we had seen them when we were over at Chandra’s, that smell Kate had described as “burning hair” only intensified as we sat on my front porch and finished the wine. When the wind shifted and the smoke came our way, along with more of the odor, we finally gave up and went inside to eat our pizza, and when Kate left, I locked the front door behind her and thanked whatever angels watched over innkeepers—if I’d had guests that night, I would have had a heck of time explaining away the actions of my crazy neighbor and the smell that seeped through the neighborhood and lodged in everything from my hair to my clothes to my bed linens.
Fortunately, by the next morning, a fresh breeze from Canada had whisked the stink away, and when I got up just a little after the sun climbed over the lake, there was no sign of Chandra outside. Or of feeble flames or stinky smoke, either.
The good news? I had a call on my voicemail from two couples who were already on the island and had stayed at Tara Saturday night. They had assumed that with people heading back to the mainland at the end of the weekend, rooms would open up there on Sunday night, but much to their “dismay” (that was actually the word the woman who left the message used), Tara was booked solid and they weren’t ready to go home.
Was it possible for them to book two rooms with me that Sunday night?
Let’s pretend I didn’t whoop and do a little happy dance there in the kitchen while my coffeepot worked its magic. That would be too pathetic for words.
I waited until I had my act together enough to sound professional rather than desperate, called and told them they could check in any time after three, and sat down to work out a menu for the next day’s breakfast.
I was just trying to decide between quiche and shirred eggs when my front doorbell rang.
Hank Florentine didn’t look any happier that Sunday morning than he looked any other time. In fact, there were bags under his eyes and his uniform was as wrinkled as if he’d slept in it.
“Coffee?” I suggested.
Without a word, he followed me into the kitchen.
I poured and I figured I didn’t have to ask; as long as he was there and looking like what the cat dragged in after a rough night, I got out some eggs, cracked them in a bowl, and scrambled.
Hank held his coffee mug in both hands and breathed in deep. “You’re a saint, Bea.”
“I don’t think so.” I dumped the eggs into a frying pan. “But I know a hungry man when I see one.”
He worked a kink out of his neck. “Saturday night drunks!” He grunted his opinion of them. “On top of this murder investigation, it was the last thing I needed. Spent the night at the station and haven’t eaten since . . .” He checked the time on the microwave and made a face. “Called Chandra about six yesterday evening so I could ask her to stop somewhere and pick up some dinner for me, and I’ll tell you what, I thought the woman was going to faint dead away on the other end of the phone.”
“Because you asked for dinner?”
He shook his head and grunted while he took a drink of coffee. “I never even got as far as asking her. All I did was say that it was me and I was calling from the station and I swear, she started hyperventilating right then and there. I thought for sure she was going to pass out and I’d have to send EMS over to her place.”
The eggs were done, and Hank watched with genuine reverence in his eyes while I loaded them onto plates. “I swear, Bea, she acted like I was going to accuse her of robbing tourists at the ATM.”
“And after you told her you wanted her to bring you dinner?”
Hank scooped up a forkful of eggs. “That’s the weird part, because after that, she was just fine. Right as rain. Or at least as right as she can ever be. Brought me soup and a sandwich, and she didn’t even stop anywhere to pick them up. Made them for me herself.” His gaze drifted in the direction of Chandra’s house. “She can be
a dear woman.” He snapped to and gave me a scowl. “But she can be a crazy lady, too. Don’t ever forget that.”
I wasn’t sure if he was reminding me, or himself, but I didn’t point it out. I thought about the bonfire, and the sweater I might—or might not have—seen smoldering in it. “You don’t need to tell me.” I’d popped some English muffins in the toaster, and when they were done, I went to retrieve them. “I know all about Chandra’s crazy tendencies.”
“Well, here’s to her.” Hank raised his mug. “I couldn’t live with her, that’s for sure. But I guess I can’t live without her, either. And she does make a darned good bowl of chicken, lemon, and rice soup.”
I clinked my coffee mug to his, finished my eggs and muffin, and refilled our coffee. “So what’s up?” I asked Hank, because let’s face it, I knew this wasn’t a social call. Hank didn’t make social calls. “What’s happening with the case?”
“Vivien’s murder?” Of course he knew that was what I was talking about, but for all I knew, he had plenty of other cases going on and he needed to make sure. When I nodded, his grumble pretty much said it all. “None of it makes any sense,” he said.
I knew how he was feeling because that was exactly what I’d been thinking.
“Alex?” I asked.
“His friend John says they were together, all right. But I don’t know, Bea—do you think he really can be as happy about the breakup with Vivien as he says he is?”
This, I didn’t know. “What about his story about how Vivien didn’t want his money? That she didn’t need it?”
“Funny you should ask.” Hank slipped a piece of folded paper out of his pocket. “I had a look at Vivien’s finances. Without giving too much away to a civilian . . .” His gaze held mine for the briefest of moments, sending a silent message. He knew I’d never talk about the details of a case to anyone who wasn’t authorized, but he had to be sure. A lift of my coffee mug told him I was good to go.
“Truth is,” Hank said, “Vivien didn’t have two nickels to rub together.”
I thought about this while I took a drink of coffee. “So why did she tell Alex he didn’t have to pay for the tools?”
“Maybe she was trying to get back together with him,” Hank suggested.
“Maybe. Though now that Alex has come out as gay, that doesn’t seem likely.”
“Unless she didn’t know.”
“Alex doesn’t seem shy about telling anyone.”
He agreed with a nod. “Then maybe Vivien didn’t have money yet, but she knew she was getting some from somewhere.”
“Did she have any big home sales pending?”
Hank bit his lower lip. “Nope. None that I can find.”
“Then how about Estelle’s estate? If Vivien stood to inherit—”
“She did,” he told me. “But not the whole thing. Vivien got the house and the contents, but the bulk of Estelle’s estate went to a food pantry over on the mainland. It was a lot of money but I’m not surprised. Estelle, she was a nice lady.”
“She was.” It was true, and I tried not to obsess about how Estelle could have been just the teeniest bit nicer and slipped a note in the highboy about who should buy it when she was gone. Estelle had been sick, I reminded myself; she had more important things to think about than my home decorating needs.
“Well, that would explain it,” I said. “Vivien was selling the contents of Estelle’s house and she eventually would have sold the house, too, I bet. So she knew she had money coming. Maybe that’s what she meant when she told Alex she didn’t need him to pay for the tools.”
“Maybe,” Hank conceded, and we both knew what it meant—the Alex line of the investigation was at a dead end.
“So who gets Vivien’s estate?” I wondered.
Hank knew I’d ask. “Cousins,” he said, and he was ready with the names. “Originally, of course, her will stated that Bill Barone would inherit, but after he died, Vivien had the will changed. She never had any children but there are cousins outside of Akron, six of them, and her will states that they’ll split up her estate.”
“Worth killing for?” I asked.
“I can’t think of another woman I could have breakfast with who could ask that question with a straight face.” Since Hank grinned, I knew he didn’t hold this against me. “It’s a nice amount and there will be more, of course, once Estelle’s house and furniture are added in, but it’s far from a fortune. Don’t you worry, though, we’ve checked into all six of those cousins. Two of them are in Cancún at the moment and have been for at least a week, so they couldn’t have killed Vivien. The other four . . .” He consulted another piece of paper he produced from his pocket. “A nurse who was on duty Friday all day. A butcher who was right where he was supposed to be at the grocery store where he works, and two elderly females . . .” He squinted at the paper to read his own writing. “They’re both in nursing homes, and I talked to the directors, who assured me they’re not going anywhere and they sure couldn’t have been here on the island on Friday.”
“So what about Cody?” I asked him, setting aside the idea of Vivien’s family.
Hank made a face. “Cody Rayburn doesn’t look like he’s got the brains God gave a goat, but I’ll tell you what, the whole time we looked into Vivien’s allegations about Cody stalking her, there wasn’t much we could prove. He’s a sneaky little so-and-so, and clever, too, in a smarmy sort of way.”
“So he could be covering up for a murder.”
“It’s possible.”
“And the story about him only being at Estelle’s because he was looking for his ring?”
Hank’s mouth twisted. “What do you think? I don’t believe a word that comes out of Cody. Like I said, sneaky.”
“And looking guilty.”
“Maybe.”
I knew Hank wasn’t being coy, just practical, but I couldn’t help but puff out a breath of frustration. Maybes didn’t do much for my mood. “Then what about Zane Donahue?”
“You tell me. You’re the one who talked to the man.”
“Who insists he had every right to be angry at Vivien because she never disclosed the burial mound,” I told him. “He also admitted that it was him I saw near Estelle’s on Friday evening. He says he was only there because he had a taste for ice cream and had just finished a cone.”
Hank’s eyebrows slid up his forehead. “The Frosty Pirate? It hasn’t been open since last week.”
I spared one wistful moment thinking about chocolate peanut butter. “I know.”
“Interesting. What else you got for me?”
I was tempted to tell him that I was sure the Champion Twins were our killers, but Hank is nothing if not a professional. I knew he’d ask about the whys and the wherefores of my theory.
Because they have my curly maple highboy didn’t seem to fit the bill.
Hank’s phone rang and while he took a call from the station, I cleaned up the dishes, and when I was done, I grabbed some of the strawberries I had in the fridge and sliced them into little china bowls decorated with pink flowers and greenery. I knew better than to add extra calories to my diet, but all this thinking and getting nowhere led me to make excuses and my excuses led me to the container of heavy whipping cream.
I splashed cream over the berries, handed a bowl to Hank, and kept one for myself.
“I’m going to stop here every Sunday.” He actually smiled.
“Anytime,” I told him and glanced toward the phone he’d set on the counter. “Something you need to handle?”
“Nah. Boaters fighting over a berth. I sent a couple officers. You know, Bea, when I came to the island and joined the department, I never thought it would be anything like this.”
It was as close as I’d ever heard him come to revealing personal thoughts. “What were you expecting?” I asked.
Hank shrugged. “Hel
ping tourists find their way to Commodore Perry’s monument. Assisting little old ladies across the street in weekend traffic. Watching over the kids at the park on the swings. You know, island stuff.”
“And instead you got people fighting over berths at the marina.”
“And murders.” This time, he didn’t shrug; he shook his shoulders as if he could get rid of the memories. “We’ve got to figure out what happened to Vivien, Bea. We can’t let something like this go unpunished. It’s wrong, and it’s bad for the island, and dang, I like this place. It’s home.”
“Agreed.” Done with my strawberries, I grabbed his empty bowl and mine, and when I was done rinsing them out, I sat on the stool next to Hank’s at the breakfast bar. “What do you want me to do?”
“Well, if you’re not too busy . . .” He realized what he had said after the words were already out of his mouth and the tips of his ears turned crimson. “What I mean is—”
“I know what you mean. I’m not too busy because I don’t have any guests. But not to worry, I’ve got four people checking in this afternoon.”
“Four. That’s great, Bea.”
It was not great, it was okay, and for now, okay would have to be enough. Since Hank was doing his best to be sincere, I didn’t point this out to him.
“So maybe until this afternoon . . .” He finished the last of his coffee. “I’m going over to Vivien’s. I was there on Saturday and took a look around, but I don’t know, I think I must be missing something. Some idea of who might have been angry enough to kill her. Some sign that points us in the right direction. I wondered if you’d come along. You know, just to take a look. You’re a writer. You’ve got a great imagination and a good eye. Maybe something will jump out at you.”
I grabbed a light jacket and followed Hank to the door, and sure, I was eager to help.
Even if I didn’t like the thought of something jumping out at me.
10
There is nothing quite so peaceful as South Bass Island on a Sunday morning.