“This is Blake Gunner.”
“Blake. I lost your card, so I didn’t have your cell phone number. I remembered you said you co-owned a bed and breakfast in Port Scuttlebutt. It wasn’t too hard to figure out from there. The Drunken Sailor is definitely a name I won’t soon forget.” There was a smile in her voice.
He looked at Shelby and shrugged. He still had no idea why Ashley Rockford was calling. “Did you call for a reservation? We still have a room available for the weekend if you’d like to come down.”
“I appreciate the offer, Blake, and I promise one of these days I plan to take you up on it. I would love to see The Drunken Sailor in person and meet your wife, but I’m calling on another matter.”
“All right.”
“I found a packet of letters from Dalton Guthrie tucked away in Sadie’s desk drawer. Stuff he wrote to her from prison. Thought maybe they’d give you a clue as to his whereabouts. I haven’t felt up to cleaning out her things until now. It’s hard to realize she won’t be back.”
“Actually, we met with Guthrie since you and I spoke,” he said, realizing that was a nice way of saying he’d taken the man prisoner and tied him to a chair. “He may need your expertise in the near future. He has gotten himself into a bit of trouble, but he’s also being cooperative in helping us. He wants to see Sadie’s killer brought to justice as much as we do. So maybe with your help he can get a break.”
Ashley was silent for a moment. When she spoke her voice registered surprise. “He didn’t kill Sadie?”
“No. He loved her. They were going to get married. It’s a long, complicated story.”
“But you found her killer?”
Blake’s gaze shifted to Heath. The killer? Sadly, they had the bumbling sidekick. Capturing Bart Linder was up to the FBI now. But sharing that information wasn’t something he was going to do. The FBI’s operation depended on an element of surprise. He hoped and prayed they didn’t let Bart slip away. “We’re still working on it.”
She started to ask more questions but he cut her off.
“Did you read the letters?”
“I…yes. Some of them.”
“Did Guthrie mention his cellmate or anyone else by name?” he asked. It would be nice is some of Dalton Guthrie’s confession could be corroborated.
“I don’t think he gave a name, but he talked about someone who promised to get him a job once he was out. You aren’t suggesting that innocent marijuana man may have killed Sadie?”
“I’m really sorry. I can’t get into it right now. But I promise to fill you in once the case is resolved.” He shifted the phone to his other ear. “There is one thing you might be able to help us with though.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you know a Houghton attorney who goes by the name, Rocky?”
She laughed, but she didn’t really sound amused. “All too well.”
“Excuse me?”
“My ex-husband. Quentin acquired the nickname during law school. He’s always imagined himself as unbeatable and likes to regale people with a much-embellished story of his tough scrappy rise to where he is today.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Agent Roper sent two more federal agents to take Heath into custody that afternoon. The FBI managed to arrest Linder, Quentin Rockford aka Rocky, and three other men later that night. Four young women between the ages of seventeen and twenty-four were rescued. Everything had gone as planned… mostly.
One of Roper’s men was shot during the process and airlifted to a hospital, and somehow Heath’s cabin was set on fire and burned to the ground before a fire crew arrived and doused the flames. Most of the material evidence against Heath was lost in the process, and given that he was set to testify against Linder, he would probably get off lightly in the end.
Blake and Shelby spent the following weekend preparing their offices. The couches, chairs, and artwork Shelby ordered online arrived in record time, so they unpacked them and arranged the waiting area.
Tavis O’Brien had the desk delivered from Nonesuch to the boathouse by two high school boys with a trailer and muscles to spare. Blake got into a discussion with them about local football and ended up deserting Shelby for the afternoon while they went outside to the beach to play a game of flag football. When she looked out the window she saw four more young men had dropped by to join the fun. Blake’s reputation as the best running back ever to play for the Port Scuttlebutt Barges had preceded him.
Alice stayed close to home the days after her abduction experience and Tucker made a nuisance of himself whenever he could get away from the store. Nuisance was the word Mr. Booth used, not Alice. She seemed to be quite happy he was hanging around.
Sunday afternoon, everything was in its place. Shelby stretched out on one of the red couches with a contented sigh. She was tired but happy. They’d solved their murder case. The boathouse renovations were done. The offices were furnished and ready for new clients. She smiled up at Blake and quoted, “Can one desire too much of a good thing?”
He sat, cradling her head in his lap. “I hope not. Because I know I can never get enough of you.” His extraordinarily blue eyes held hers for a long moment as he stroked his hand over her hair, a tender touch that sent a shiver of anticipation along her skin. That calm, clear gaze that made her feel loved and cherished slowly darkened to molten desire.
She licked her lips, and he accepted the invitation. He lowered his head and covered her mouth in a slow, deep kiss. His hand moved down the leg of her jeans and…
A loud knock at the door interrupted their celebration. They both jerked upright as though they were teenagers making out in a parent’s home. Shelby giggled, nervously straightened her blouse and stood.
Blake expelled a breath. “See what I mean. I can never get enough of you.”
Farley Jones stood outside on the dock waiting impatiently. He held his cell phone and was pretending to look absorbed reading email. “Oh, there you are,” he said as though he’d looked all over town before coming right to where they lived.
“Hello, Farley. What must we do for you?” Blake asked, not bothering to hide his dislike of the man. The frown between his brows may have been simply because of the interruption but Shelby felt sure it was because of who did the interrupting. His half-uncle wasn’t even half-liked around Port Scuttlebutt these days. And the fact that he’d gotten away with conspiracy to commit murder the year before, made him even more toxic in Blake’s eyes.
His beady eyes darted past Blake to the rooms beyond. “Aren’t you going to invite me in to see your new offices?”
Blake reluctantly stood back and allowed him to enter. Shelby watched with pride, knowing Port Scuttlebutt had helped raise a kind, generous, and forgiving man.
“Wow. This looks great. After that fire last summer, I didn’t think this place was even salvageable, but Pete Dugan managed to do wonders.” He peered toward the private door that led to Jack’s place on the lake end of the boathouse. “I heard you even fixed a place for your grandfather to stay. Nice to know he won’t be cluttering up the beach anymore. Homelessness is a blot on our community.”
“Okay. Enough small talk. What did you come here for?” Blake crossed his arms, a frown forming between his brows. “Don’t tell me you’re here as Evelyn’s messenger again. I’m not interested in another lunch date. I don’t want to see her.”
Farley’s self-satisfied smirk was a sign that he was pleased. He loved the fact that his mother didn’t have Blake wrapped around her finger. Anyone who defied Evelyn Jones was worthy of his respect. “I told her you wouldn’t accept her handouts, but she sent me anyway.”
“You mean the queen mother isn’t requesting Blake’s presence at the castle?” Shelby teased, trying to lighten Blake’s mood.
He looked at her and rolled his eyes.
“Actually, she wanted me to show you something.”
<<>>
They ended up down on Union Street, standing in front of the old Jones Savings
& Trust. The two-story building had a flat roof encircled with an elaborate cornice and a crenelated parapet. The variegated rough-cut sandstone edifice stood proudly as a reminder of who built this town. The Jones name meant something a hundred years ago and according to Evelyn, still did.
The building bore a For Sale sign, nailed over a boarded up window, but apparently there were no takers. It had been on the market as long as Blake and Shelby had been in town. Farley stepped beneath the recessed and arched portico and took a set of keys from his suit pocket. Large double doors inset with etched glass imbued a touch of glamour to an otherwise utilitarian business. Banking was mundane; straightforward numbers equaling dollars that grew or shrank according to your investments or frugal ability to save a penny. This building still had a sense of style that most of Port Scuttlebutt lost somewhere along the way. If it ever had any.
Farley inserted the key into the lock and turned it to the right. A solid click indicated the deadbolt pulled back and he held the door open. “After you.”
Blake took Shelby’s hand as they entered. The air inside smelled of dust and mildew. Farley found the light switches. “I had the electricity turned back on this morning,” he said.
A huge chandelier graced the vaulted ceiling, sending sparkles of light over the walls despite dust-covered crystals and chains. A long desk, separated into teller windows was covered in a thick layer of dust and grime. Rodents had roamed free for far too long, leaving trails of excrement and nesting materials in cracks and crannies.
A curving staircase with intricately carved balustrades gave access to a balcony that overlooked the desk and front doors. Farley explained that the offices of the president and other bank officials were once on the second floor where they could better monitor activities below. Richly ornate pendant lanterns adorned the walls. They had been updated for electricity years before the bank closed, but Farley said the original sconces had been oil lamps.
Shelby could imagine this room a hundred years ago. Filled with people going about their business, laughing, talking, and greeting friends and neighbors. Flickering oil-burning wicks throwing shadows over the room and faces and blending with the filtered sunlight that made it through the glass doors. She moved beneath the chandelier, stepping and spinning with an imaginary dance partner until she’d stirred up a cloud of dust and began to cough.
“This place certainly needs a thorough cleaning,” Farley said, running a finger along the top of the desk. He squinted at the far wall where a cobweb-covered portrait of a white-haired man hung prominently displayed in an elaborate gold frame. “It would take a lot of work and updates to make it usable.”
“Usable for what?” Blake asked, eyes narrowed. He put an arm around Shelby and drew her close to his side. “Why did you bring us here?”
Farley turned from his perusal of the portrait. He pushed his pelt of Trump-like hair into place and forced his lips into a smile, but his eyes remained hard. It reminded Shelby of a line from Julius Caesar. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings. Farley hated that he was seen as subordinate to Evelyn. His mother had kept him under her thumb for far too long. He longed to be revered as a man who held sway, not only as the self-proclaimed mayor who had blackmailed his way into a position that didn’t exist, but as a legitimate powerhouse. But just as his great-grandfather’s portrait overshadowed the bank, he was over-shadowed by a woman larger than life.
“This piece of Jones property has been sitting empty and useless for far too long. Our family is proud of our history but circumstances beg that we change with the times. Our town needs new ventures and businesses to spark growth. Our teenagers need excitement and organized activities to keep them from turning to drugs and alcohol. To get this tiny burg on the map, we need to work together. Changing and growing together as a community is so very important. Therefore, we can’t forget the arts.” He stretched his arms in an all-encompassing arc and announced in a booming voice as though he were ringmaster at the circus. “Port Scuttlebutt’s new community theatre!”
<<>>
Blake and Shelby stood at the front door of the Jones’ mansion once again. Blake felt like one of those characters, hat in hand, coming to beg a favor of the mistress. He managed to smile when his grandmother’s maid opened the door.
“Good morning, Marie. How are you today?”
A small dimple formed in her cheek as though her smile refused to stay completely hidden. She dipped her chin and stood back for them to enter, then started down the hall, expecting them to obediently follow behind.
Shelby tucked her hand into Blake’s arm and winked. “You certainly have a way with women.”
They entered the sitting room where Evelyn sat in her throne-like white armchair awaiting their arrival. A large oval window backlit her, erasing lines and age in a subtle glow. She held a leather-bound journal on her lap. As usual her posture was that of a ballerina, perfect, straight, and balanced. Knees to the side, ankles primly crossed, chin lifted just so. In a deep cerulean blue dress with long sleeves and a rounded neckline accented by a perfect string of pearls, Evelyn Jones fairly glowed with power. The deeper hue reflected in her normally glacial eyes, making her gaze almost warm.
“Hello, Grandmother,” Blake greeted her. He may as well have said, How much do you really want a relationship with me? At their first official meeting, she’d specifically instructed him to call her Evelyn and had never said otherwise. Even at eighty-three she refused to be pigeonholed by age.
Evelyn ignored his bait. She motioned for them to sit on the couch, her glance resting on Shelby. “I’m glad you could come by to discuss our new theatre project. You have a huge task before you, my dear. This community has never been involved in such an endeavor. I believe it has the potential to bring us all together, not only as a community but as a family.”
Blake realized his grandmother’s words were meant for him as well. He offered an olive branch. “Your gift of the bank building is very generous. People come together where there is mutual love and trust. Shelby is good at fostering those feelings in others. She’s talented, energetic, and loves everything about the theatre. You couldn’t find a better director for your playhouse. Other than Shakespeare of course.”
Shelby put a hand on his arm. “What Blake means to say is, I would love for the chance to direct local theatre. It has been a dream of mine for some time.”
“You’re awfully young to take on the burden of so much responsibility alone. What if things go poorly? What if the community refuses to join in, as you would like? What if they blame you for a terrible opening night?”
“That’s all part of the experience. I have no doubt I’m up to the task,” Shelby said, refusing to come down from the high she’d been on ever since Farley showed them the bank and announced his grandmother’s plan to offer it as a community theatre.
Evelyn tapped two fingers lightly on the cover of her book. “As sole benefactor of this community outreach, I plan to oversee things and ensure all is going well.”
“I understand,” Shelby said, her sweet face so expectant and hopeful that Blake knew if his grandmother shot her down now he would never speak to her again.
Instead, she said, “I used to act myself, you know.”
“Really?”
“Before I moved to Port Scuttlebutt and married Andrew Jones, I was in a traveling stage production of Much Ado About Nothing. I played Beatrice. My parents were none too happy at my professed love of acting. They wanted me to settle down and have lots of grandbabies for them to enjoy. It was the fifties after all. But I was twenty-three and there was nothing they could do to stop me. I eventually let go of the dream and married Farley’s father.” She touched her lip with one finger. “Sometimes I think I may have made the wrong choice.”
“It’s never too late to live your dream,” Shelby assured her. “Now’s your chance. Seize the moment.”
“Oh, I don’t know. People have a certain perception of the t
ough old matriarch in the big house on the hill.”
Blake laughed. “You fostered that perception. Perhaps you should foster a new one. A softer, gentler matriarch.”
“What’s gone and what’s past help should be past grief,” she quoted and looked toward the door where the maid suddenly appeared. “Marie, bring tea and cake. This is a celebration. Shelby has her theatre and I have my grandson.”
Blake sat back, watching the new camaraderie between his grandmother and his wife. Was Evelyn really revealing a softer side, a side that desired relationship and family, or was this even now a ploy to manipulate and control his life? He wanted Shelby to have everything she’d always dreamed of. He hoped it didn’t turn into a nightmare.
<<>>
Monday morning Blake was up early already dressed to leave the house. Shelby opened her eyes a crack and groaned at the brightness of the overhead light. He told her he had something important to take care of, kissed her forehead, shut off the light, and grabbed his wallet off the desk. She was too tired from their busy weekend to do anything but mumble goodbye and roll over, falling immediately back to sleep.
The comforting smell of baking bread woke her two hours later. Alice usually spent Mondays baking a batch of cinnamon rolls and a couple loaves of fresh bread for the week. If they had guests, she baked two more. It was a good day to stay indoors if only for the awesome smells. Shelby rolled out of bed and got in the shower.
The muscles in her shoulders slowly started to relax as she stood under the pulsating spray of the showerhead. A loud thump in the bedroom got her attention. She pulled the corner of the shower curtain back and stuck her head out, listening. She’d closed the door to keep the steam in the bathroom, so she called out.
Much Ado About Murder (Double Barrel Mysteries) Page 23