Teetotaled

by Maia Chance

  “Come on,” I called to Hermie, coaxing now.

  Raymond appeared behind Hermie. Hermie scrambled up and over the rail—

  Whack! A white dazzle of lightning hit the sailboat’s mast. Wood splintered and cracked. I smelled burning.

  “You’ve got to get off that boat!” Ralph yelled to Hermie and Raymond. “It’s gonna go down!”

  “My love!” Violet shrilled. “Hurry, my love!”

  Hermie jumped. He disappeared beneath a foamy splash. Raymond jumped, too, and came up gasping next to Hermie. Hermie dog-paddled toward the motorboat. I clung to the edge and held out a hand. Just before Hermie’s outstretched fingers met mine, Raymond slung his arms around Hermie’s shoulders. He pushed him under. They both disappeared beneath a frothing wave.

  “No!” I screamed.

  The wind hissed. Waves dashed against the motorboat.

  We waited—Ralph, Berta, Violet, and I—five, six, seven minutes, bobbing on the wild dark sea. Bitsy whined and circled, whined and circled. The yacht slipped, inch by inch, below the water.

  Hermie and Raymond never surfaced.

  I hunched over my knees and sobbed. Berta patted my shoulder. “There, there, Mrs. Woodby,” she said. “There, there.”

  “Men are so stupid,” Violet said. Her eyes were glassy.

  Ralph turned the motorboat toward shore.

  38

  I was seen by the doctor at Hare’s Hollow Hospital. I had suffered bruises, knee-scrapes, and a lump on my forehead; he gave me aspirins, a funny pink pill for shock, and a lecture to stay warm and get plenty of rest. I was grilled by the police, and then at long last, I was snug in a big plushy bed at—yes!—the Ocean Princess Hotel. The room was a business expense, Berta said so herself.

  Only after pushing aside my room service tray—chicken soup, salmon sandwiches, chocolate mousse—did I think to ask Berta how she and Ralph had found me on the stormy sea.

  I rang Berta’s room from my bedside telephone.

  “You ought to be asleep, Mrs. Woodby,” she said. I thought I heard a man’s gravelly voice in the background.

  “Who’s there with you?” I asked. “Mr. Demel?”

  “No one is with me. You must have seawater in your ear. To answer your question, this morning I was at Penn Station awaiting my Boston train when I thought, since I had arrived so early, that I would telephone Ida Shanks and beg her one last time for a tip regarding her informant.”

  “But you’d quit the agency,” I said. “And you told me you’ve always considered it beneath you to beg.”

  “It seems that my heart, Mrs. Woodby, was still with the case. And, well, I felt ashamed for having left you in the lurch.”

  “I deserved it.”

  “There is that. At any rate, I reached Ida just as she was leaving for Hare’s Hollow, where Eugene Van Hoogenband had just been arrested for bribing Senator Morris. Miss Shanks informed me—with not a little triumph—that you had given her an interview and that she had turned over her pivotal tip, that her informant had a stutter. I guessed it was Hermie, of course, and I grew alarmed. I telephoned your parents’ apartment, and the butler told me you had gone to meet someone on Long Island and that you meant to bathe or sun yourself because—the butler said—Miss Lillian complained of you having stolen one of her bathing suits. Knowing your dislike of bathing suits, Mrs. Woodby, I surmised that you meant to take drastic actions to trap Hermie.”

  “Yes, well, luckily the bathing suit never had an airing.” I should’ve asked the doctor to treat the red dents in my thighs from that suit.

  “But you were willing. To continue, after I spoke with your parents’ butler, I hurried to the Long Island Railroad ticket counter. I arrived in Hare’s Hollow and, not knowing where to look first, I went to Breakerhead, where, as I had hoped, Mr. Oliver was still speaking to newspaper reporters about his bust of Mr. Van Hoogenband. Together, Mr. Oliver and I went first to the swimming beach and then, in a stroke of insight on my part, to the marina. And indeed, a rather rough salty dog said he had seen someone matching your description board a sailboat that subsequently sailed off toward the storm. At this juncture, poor Mr. Oliver was most distressed.”

  “Then what?”

  “Mr. Oliver started the engine of our borrowed motorboat by short-circuiting the ignition, and we were on our way. We had a dreadful time finding you in that storm—” Inexplicably, Berta giggled, and I heard a slapping sound and more of that gruff voice in the background.

  “Berta?” I said.

  “We will speak tomorrow, Mrs. Woodby—the, ah, the maid with the extra towels is rapping most persistently at the door.” She rang off.

  Something was suspicious. But it was, for a change, the good kind of suspicious. I scraped up the remnants of my chocolate mousse, curled up under my silky quilt, and fell back to sleep.

  * * *

  I slept for sixteen hours, breakfasted in bed, bathed luxuriously, and at eleven o’clock, I found myself in hell.

  Scratch that. The beach in a bathing suit had once been my idea of hell, but I was finding it actually rather pleasant. The sky was Dresden blue with a few lamby clouds. No trace of yesterday’s storm. The sand was yellow and hot. The surf crashed on a medium-low setting—nothing to stir up shell shock after yesterday—and a red-and-white umbrella shaded me. I wore tinted glasses, slathers of Pond’s Vanishing Cream, and—listen to this—I wore a bathing suit. In public. Not Lillian’s thigh-strangling number, but one I’d purchased at the dry goods emporium on Main Street. My legs were scraped and bruised, but other than that, well, they looked all right. Nothing at all like blocks of cheese.

  I sipped the iced lemonade that Ralph, beside me, had brought in a canteen from the Foghorn, where he’d slept last night. We had both apologized for being jelly beans, and I had told him how I’d come clean to the world about … everything.

  Not that we’d discussed hearts or cupids or coconut icing. I’d sworn off such topics.

  Newspapers were spread out on our beach blankets, fluttering in the salty breeze. Cedric panted gently beside me. I scratched his ears.

  When I telephoned my parents’ apartment that morning, Mother had refused to speak with me. I spoke with Lillian instead, who couldn’t contain her glee when she told me that Mother had disowned me—whatever that meant. Then Mother sent Chauncey and a doorman in the Daimler to fetch the Rolls-Royce I’d borrowed—and to deliver Cedric to me at the Ocean Princess Hotel.

  “The Spratt’s Puppy Biscuits people telephoned to say that they’ve given the advertising contract to a Yorkshire terrier named Benny,” I told Ralph. “Some big cheese at Spratt’s saw a photograph in the newspaper of Cedric wedged between the bars of the tiger’s cage at the zoo.” We had all made the newspapers. I supposed that meant we were famous.

  Ralph petted Cedric. “Aw. But you know, Cedric’s not cut out for the working life anyway, is he? And his pudge, well, it saved his life. Without this tummy of his, he would’ve slipped right into that cage like a coin into a slot.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. Secretly, I was relieved that I’d be making more money than my dog. I do have my pride.

  “Did I mention you look pretty swell in that getup?” Ralph said. He flicked a few grains of sand from my thigh.

  Swell? As in, swollen? No, he hadn’t meant it that way. I smiled. “You don’t look half bad in your bathing trunks, Mr. Oliver. And I must say, I’m relieved you have that Irish skin and must stay out of the sun, because otherwise I’d feel a bit lonely under this umbrella.”

  “It’s pretty cozy, isn’t it?” Ralph leaned over Cedric to kiss me.

  “I beg your pardon,” Berta said from her canvas chair on the other side of me. “I am still here, you know.”

  “So am I,” someone else said in a grinding-gears voice. Jimmy the Ant peered around Berta. His bandy legs were hairy and pale beneath his one-piece woolen bathing suit. His glass eye lolled.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Lundgren,” Ralph said. “Sorry
, Jimmy.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  Berta, wearing a modest blue bathing suit with bloomers, rustled her newspaper. “Mr. Oliver, The Morning Chanticleer says that you are—and I quote—a ‘gumshoe par excellence.’ I think Mr. Van Hoogenband’s arrest will be very good for your business.”

  “I had two job offers over my eggs and toast this morning,” Ralph said, leaning back on his elbows.

  Berta folded The Morning Chanticleer and unfolded The New York Evening Observer.

  I sighed. I hadn’t yet had the heart to look at the Ida Shanks interview.

  Berta said, “Ida’s interview of Mrs. Woodby paints a picture of a mad, accident-prone, vampish woman who will do whatever it takes to collar her prey—”

  “I need an ice cream cone,” I said.

  “—and who, along with—and again I quote—‘her intrepid and resourceful former cook’—will be sure to crack many cases in the future.”

  I perked up. “She wrote that?”

  “Indeed, she did.”

  Ralph said, “Well, I’ll be. Ida threw you a bone.”

  “Do you know how cats keep mice alive just so they can torment them longer?” I said. “That’s what Ida’s up to.”

  “Probably,” Berta said, “but regardless of her intentions, I believe this interview will bring us the work that our one-and-a-half-inch-square advertisement failed to.”

  “Fingers crossed.” I stared out at the glittering sea. Raymond and Hermie’s bodies hadn’t been found. Not yet, anyway. Maybe it was poetic justice, the way they had gone down together. Their lives had been melded together years ago in that muddy chicken yard in France.

  “Don’t think about it, kid,” Ralph said, brushing a strand of hair from my bruised forehead. “You need a little distance first. A little rest.”

  “If Mother hadn’t lied about knowing Raymond’s mother and all that, I would’ve been more suspicious of him. She lied simply to try to marry me off!”

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” Ralph said. “You did all you could, and you did a hell of a job, too.”

  “Golly geebejabbers, am I roastin’ in this suit!” Jimmy said. He stood and offered a hand to Berta. “Tomato, how’s about a swim?”

  “I would be delighted,” Berta said.

  Jimmy hoisted her to her feet, and together they walked down to the surf.

  “What hole did he crawl out of?” Ralph asked, gesturing with his chin at Jimmy.

  “I’m not sure. But evidently, it was Berta’s photograph in the newspaper yesterday—of her competing in the Mermaid Queen Pageant, you know—that lured him out of hiding. He could no longer endure being apart from her, he said, and I guess the Feds aren’t looking for him anymore.” I poked Ralph’s warm, hard chest. Which was … distracting. “Jimmy’s lucky you’re not a Fed.”

  “Well, actually,” Ralph said, “after the Van Hoogenband bust yesterday, the Feds tried to recruit me.”

  I sat up and pushed my sunglasses to the top of my head. “What did you say?”

  “I said no. I’ve got to be my own boss. I’d hate to be tied down to anything.”

  Anything?

  “Aw, don’t look at me like that,” Ralph said. He leaned in till all I saw were his bright gray eyes. “I’m crazy about you, kid, all right? I—” He scratched his eyebrow. “—well, the funny thing is, I … this has never happened to me before, Lola, but I—aw, c’mon and just kiss me already.”

  Our lips were tickling-close, but I pulled away. Later, I knew there would be a warm, starry night in Ralph’s arms, with hot jazz, hotter kisses, and—at long last!—cold highballs. But right now, just this once, I wanted to be the one with my hands on the steering wheel. I batted my eyelashes. “What is it, Ralph? What were you going to say?”

  Ralph sighed. He sandwiched one of my hands between both of his. He frowned out at the sea. He turned to me and said, “I love you, kid. God help me, but I do.”

  I savored the moment, made it a long one, before saying, “Ditto, sweetheart.” Then I kissed him.

  Also by Maia Chance

  DISCREET RETRIEVAL AGENCY MYSTERIES

  Come Hell or Highball

  FAIRY TALE FATAL MYSTERIES

  Beauty, Beast, and Belladonna

  Cinderella Six Feet Under

  Snow White Red-Handed

  About the Author

  MAIA CHANCE was a finalist for the Romance Writers of America Golden Heart Award and is a Ph.D. candidate at the University of Washington. She is writing her dissertation on nineteenth-century American literature. She is also the author of the Fairy Tale Fatal mystery series. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Also by Maia Chance

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  TEETOTALED. Copyright © 2016 by Maia Chance. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Cover photographs: art deco background © Fears/Shutterstock; decoration © Helen Lane/Shutterstock; woman © Incomible/Shutterstock; waiter’s arm © Sergio34/Shutterstock; martini glass © Pavel K/Shutterstock

  Cover designed by Kathryn Parise

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Names: Chance, Maia, author.

  Title: Teetotaled / Maia Chance.

  Description: First Edition. | New York: Minotaur Books, 2016. | Series: Discreet Retrieval Agency mysteries; 2

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016016833 | ISBN 9781250072214 (hardback) | ISBN 9781466883598 (e-book)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Historical. | FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3603.H35593 T44 2016 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016016833

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  First Edition: October 2016