“And then?” Bryce prompted.
Sadie sighed, shook her head slowly.
“I haven’t thought about this for a long time,” she said. “We were naive, at least I was. He ran with a tough crowd, but always kept me shielded from it. Eventually, that was why we separated and divorced.”
“Because you wanted a better life,” Bryce said.
“No, it was the other way around,” Sadie said, smiling. “He wanted a better life for me, said that he was involved with family business that wasn’t good for me to be around.”
“He cared about you,” Bryce said. “He wanted you to be safe.”
“I didn’t think so at first, of course,” Sadie said. “I was young and in love and angry and hurt. But, in time, I saw that he was right. And that he’d given me a gift by setting me free.”
“Yet, you’ve stayed in touch.”
Sadie laughed. “Yes, from a distance. He knows I like puzzles, so he tosses me a case to solve now and then. I’m good at observing things.”
“So I’ve noticed,” Bryce said.
“But never mind Binky,” Sadie continued. “That’s not the reason I brought this up. Let’s talk about Molly.”
“OK,” Bryce said, his expression guarded.
“She doesn’t have the nature to be involved with something like this, at least not on purpose,” Sadie said. “I think she was just an easy decoy for whoever planned that robbery. And then it backfired. She became the suspect while the real thief got away.”
Bryce lifted his coffee mug, buying time by taking a drink. Sadie knew she’d thrown a lot at him, expecting him to trust that her motives were sincere. It would take a leap of faith for him to join forces with her. She was relieved when he leaned forward and spoke up.
“I think she’s innocent, too,” he said. “I’m just trying to figure out how to prove it.”
“Well, maybe two detectives are better than one, in this case,” Sadie said. “No pun intended,” she added.
“I think you’re right,” Bryce said. “When do we start?”
“I say right now,” Sadie said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The “open” sign on the front door of Casey’s Hardware Store swayed as Mr. Miller walked in.
“Good afternoon, sir.” The clerk smiled as he swept a broom across the shop floor. “Can I help you find something?”
Obnoxious fellow, Mr. Miller thought as he closed the door behind him. There’s no good reason to be that cheerful on a workday. If he’d wanted to be verbally accosted, he could have hung out at the inn. Thank goodness he’d gotten out of there. Any more social interaction with those guests would’ve been more than he could handle.
“Paint supplies are on sale, twenty percent off. We’ve got brushes and rollers on one side of Aisle 6, with drop cloths, rags and masking tape on the other side. Good time to stock up if you have any projects coming up.”
“I don’t,” Mr. Miller stated. He peered at the clerk’s nametag. “Casey,” just like the name of the store. Probably the owner.
“We’ve got a special on garden tools, too. Buy two trowels and you get a cultivator for free.” Casey lifted a hand and made a claw shape.
“No, thank you,” Mr. Miller said.
Didn’t the flat tone in his voice make it obvious to the man that he didn’t need suggestions? When he was ready to make a purchase, he would – not before and not after.
Mr. Miller wandered up and down the aisles, methodically covering one side of displays before turning back to peruse the opposite side. Each time he rounded a corner, he encountered a new category of merchandise – bathroom fixtures, tools, outdoor equipment, camping gear, and on and on. The variety of products unsettled him, just as it did when he visited any store. He could never work in a place like Casey’s. The sheer thought of keeping that much inventory tidy and orderly practically gave him hives.
He paused in the picnic supply area. As with every other department in the store, there were too many items. Barbecue sets served a purpose, he could see, but why should there be two dozen kinds, decorated with everything from fake antlers to sports team logos? Whatever happened to plain old functional tools?
He moved on, pausing in front of a section devoted to fishing gear. Now that was something he would enjoy – sitting on a boat, floating on a lake, alone, no one to bother him. That image was comforting. He wondered why he hadn’t yet taken up fishing. Well, there was the part about killing the fish that he found messy and disconcerting. But, aside from that, the solitude of the sport appealed to him.
“How much for the containers with latches on them,” Mr. Miller asked. From a center aisle, he pointed back down the row of fishing supplies.
“The tackle boxes?” Casey paused his sweeping and looked up. “Those aren’t on sale.”
“That was not my question. I asked how much they cost.”
Casey frowned, taken aback by the customer’s brusque manner. “The tackle boxes are twenty-nine dollars.”
Mr. Miller vanished down the aisle of fishing gear and reappeared moments later with two tackle boxes, one in each hand, which he placed on the front counter. Casey set the broom aside and took a place at the cashier’s stand.
“I’ll take these two,” Mr. Miller said, pulling several bills from a bi-fold wallet.
“Good choices, there. Double-sided latches, deep trays and worm-proof compartments. Those’ll last you a long time – great quality. Good idea to buy a back-up, too.”
“Only one is for me.”
“Ah, you must be giving one as a gift. Very smart,” Casey said, his eyes lighting up. “People don’t realize how a common item can be just as exciting as something fancy. Not that I’d give my sweet Eleanor fishing gear as a surprise, but that’s because she doesn’t like to fish. Otherwise, I’m sure…”
“How much do I owe you?”
“Fifty-eight dollars plus tax,” Casey said, ringing up the purchase on the store’s register. “I’ll run two receipts – one for you to keep and one for our weekly raffle.”
“I’m just passing through,” Mr. Miller said.
“The drawing ends this evening,” Casey said.
“I’m checking out in the morning.” Mr. Miller took his change and receipt, picked up one tackle box in each hand and left the store.
“You could win twenty dollars,” Casey shouted after him. He shook his head, tossed the duplicate receipt in the raffle jar and went back to sweeping.
****
The racket that greeted Mr. Miller as he stepped into the inn was unendurable. So much chattering! Even if he hadn’t needed to run up to the hardware shop, he would have wanted to hide out in his room. How could people even gather their senses together when surrounded by such verbal disorder? This was why he preferred to stay in motels and chain hotels when he traveled. He could get by with a room key and a pair of earplugs. He didn’t bother anyone and no one bothered him. Exactly the way he liked it. This was the first and last time he’d stay at an annoyingly friendly place like Cranberry Cottage Bed and Breakfast. Fortunately, he was certain he wouldn’t need to.
He climbed the stairs, doing his best not to cause the boards to squeak. Even if they did, the boisterous crowd below would likely drown out the sound. He locked himself in his room and placed one of the tackle boxes on the bed. The other remained in the trunk of his car.
Pulling his briefcase out, he set it next to the tackle box and opened it. He moved the thin notebook onto the desk along with a crisp sheet of formal stationery. He set his favorite pen next to it in preparation for the letter he intended to write before checking out of the inn. From a zippered compartment, he took out a pair of thin, latex gloves. No self-respecting detective would travel without those. Besides, he’d learned his lesson the day of the robbery.
He pulled a nail file from a second pocket and jimmied the bottom panel of the briefcase and lifted it towards him, exposing the hidden compartment that had served him well on this trip. Lined up carefu
lly, side by side, were banded stacks of hundred dollar bills.
Sixty thousand dollars, he thought, as he began to transfer the bills into the tackle box. It was a lot of money. More than he’d ever seen at one time. More than enough to boost his retirement funds and help him start a new life. And, as far as he was concerned, the sooner he got rid of it, the better.
He hadn’t even been looking to change his life until that day at the bank in Tallahassee. Boring had always been acceptable to him. He’d never craved the limelight, never minded his Friday night frozen dinners in front of television. Why, if he’d been looking to live on the edge, he would have stuck around the bank after looking in the front window and seeing the customers on the marble floor. After all, what could be more exciting than haphazardly walking in on a bank robbery? That was the stuff of movies. He could have watched from the front window and still gotten away.
Instead, he’d fled around the corner like a scared kid and then doubled back when he saw the suspicious car parked in the alley. How was he to know that the thief would careen around the corner at that very second, heading for the getaway car? But that’s the way it happened. One minute he was backing away from a suspicious scene inside the bank. Sixty seconds later he was standing in an alley, a thief knocked out cold on the ground, a getaway car fleeing and a bag of money in his hands.
What could he do?
His first instinct was to stand still and wait for the authorities to come. It wouldn’t be that hard to explain, would it? That he just happened to be in the alley, accidentally knocked out a thief, scared off a getaway car and stood around waiting for help? As if that would be a believable story.
His second instinct was to drop the money and take off. But that could have been a problem, since his fingerprints were now on the bag. And the thief could wake up at any moment. She could blame him or – worse – do away with him altogether.
So he followed his third instinct. He ran.
Only hours later, watching the news, did the enormity of the situation sink in. He sat on the couch in his doublewide trailer, the bag of cash on his lap and a chicken potpie on top of the bag. His eyes were glued to the television set and it wasn’t even his usual episode of Jeopardy. What was this girl thinking, holding up a bank like that? Or were there two girls involved? It was hard to tell by watching the security tapes, even with the news channels playing them over and over.
He was certain he’d only crashed into one girl when he tried to turn back in the alley. At least there was only one girl on the ground when he stood up. Newscasts indicated the same theory, that only one person had pulled off the robbery, that the other girl had been an innocent decoy. The story had gone back and forth for days stretching into weeks. The girl was arrested, the girl was released, the girl was innocent, but had left town. He watched each newscast with renewed curiosity, night after night, the bag of cash on his lap, a different frozen dinner on top.
Now, moving the money from his briefcase to the tackle box, he counted his blessings. He was only a small-town detective, after all. This was a big case, much bigger than chasing runaway dogs or finding out who was stealing newspapers from driveways. The payout he would receive for finding this bank robber would make life easy for some time. And the best part of it all was he didn’t even have to go claim it. He could solve the crime, get himself out of trouble and get compensated without speaking to anyone, other than the bare minimum conversation he had to endure when passing other guests at the inn.
He snapped his briefcase closed and locked it, placing it next to the desk. Closing the tackle box, he latched it tight and paused to consider his options. He cracked the door to his room slightly. Hearing guests still tossing around mindless chatter downstairs, he closed it again.
Hours passed before the ruckus of the wine and cheese hour quieted down. Stepping into the hallway, Mr. Miller descended the stairs and paused in the front hallway, hearing only silence. He borrowed a flashlight from a front hallway utility closet and left the building, tackle box in hand.
The inn had a clear view of the pathway that led to the Cottage Suite and rear garden, but Mr. Miller’s destination was on the opposite side of the building. Secluded and dark, there was little chance of being watched. To play it safe, he kept the aim of the flashlight low and took cautious, quiet steps.
He’d checked out the property thoroughly when he first arrived, making a mental list of twenty potential hiding places. Narrowing the possibilities down, he’d arrived at a final decision between two locations, one inside the inn and one outside. His initial leaning was toward the library. Access to it during the middle of the night seemed a safe bet, especially if he locked the door behind him. He could always say that he couldn’t sleep and was looking for something to read. But the discovery of the tackle boxes at the hardware store that morning had swayed him toward another option.
Tackle box in hand, he walked around the far side of the building, stopping halfway to the back, in front of a metal tool shed. Setting the box on the ground, he flipped the latch to the side and pulled one door open. This was the part that had been the hardest when he had first inspected the shed. Haphazard stacks of pots, tools, dirt-covered gloves and hose nozzles littered the warped shelving, all out of order. The chaotic display unnerved him, but it didn’t matter. The task wouldn’t take more than a minute and then he’d finally be free.
He pulled a bag of potting soil forward, flinching as an ant ran across the side. He found the thought of grabbing the bag with his hands revolting, even with the latex gloves on. It was bad enough that he’d have to scrub his hands after he removed the gloves, not only to get rid of any grime, but in case any pesticides or chemicals had settled inside. After a short struggle to move the bag forward, he placed the tackle box behind it and pushed the bag back into place with his foot. He inspected the arrangement. It was perfect. The bag hid the box. The box hid the money. And the money was where it belonged, with the thief, where it should have been all along.
He returned to his room and sat down at the desk, where his favorite pen and stationery waited. Only one brief letter and a good night’s sleep remained before his mission would be complete.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Molly cleared the last of the Monday morning breakfast dishes from the table and carried them into the kitchen. Bryce followed, mug of coffee in hand.
“What will the guests think of you being in the kitchen?” Molly said.
“I’m not worried about that,” Bryce laughed. “But if you are, we can arrange a clandestine meeting under a water tower or maybe with a bottle of wine and blanket out on the bluff.”
Molly smiled with her back to him. He was breaking down her defenses, whether she wanted him to or not. Not only was he attractive, but he seemed like one of the good guys. It had been a long time since she felt she could trust anyone. It felt good, comforting. For the last few months, she’d wondered if she’d ever be able to trust anyone again.
“I’m just giving you a hard time,” Molly said. “I don’t think the guests will care or even notice. Susie and Dan have their newlywed bliss out in the barn suite, Sadie is undoubtedly on her way shopping again and Mr. Miller is checking out this morning. No one’s concerned with what I do after breakfast. This is the time I usually get my office work done, and after checkout, I run errands. Guests don’t pay much attention to where I am or who I’m with.”
“Any arrivals tonight?” Bryce asked. He emptied his coffee mug and set it on the kitchen counter, leaning over the sink and looking out into the backyard.
“None,” Molly said. “We’ll just have Sadie and the Jensens for the wine hour, since Mr. Miller is leaving this morning. And they all check out tomorrow.”
“Any new guests tomorrow?” Bryce asked. He turned away from the window and leaned back against the counter facing Molly. She felt herself blush. She’d been so caught up in the tension of the bank robbery that she hadn’t realized until now that the other guests were checking out; Bryce was stayi
ng a few more days; no other guests were due to arrive until the following week. She would be alone in the inn with possible trouble, and not the robber-chasing variety.
“I take that as a ‘no.’ Then I think a dinner out is in order,” Bryce said. “How about tomorrow night?”
“To discuss the case, you mean,” Molly said, though she knew the invitation had little to do with the case.
“Of course,” Bryce said. His voice was calm.
Molly made the mistake of glancing at him. If she hadn’t, she could have missed the teasing grin on his face. The man knew exactly how he affected her. How many women had fallen under his spell in the past? She hated to even guess.
“I was thinking about trying that restaurant called Ocean,” Bryce said. “It seems to be the hip place to go around here.”
“Well, I don’t know if anything around here would be described as ‘hip’ exactly,” Molly laughed. “But Ocean may be as close to ‘hip’ as it gets in Cranberry Cove.”
“You recommend it to guests,” Bryce pointed out.
“Yes, I do,” Molly said, “because of the feedback I receive when my guests dine there. The comments I get help me to recommend restaurants, stores and interesting sites to future guests. I haven’t been to Ocean, but Susie and Dan went there and said it was great.”
“Interesting couple,” Bryce said. “I’ll bet honeymooners make reservations at the inn way in advance.”
“They usually do,” Molly said. “Though Susie didn’t. She only called a few days ago. She told me there was some kind of last minute change in their honeymoon plans. She was delighted I had an opening.”
“I imagine she was.” Bryce’s tone was nonchalant. “Well, some people are quite spur-of-the-moment, I suppose.” Molly barely heard him and passed the comment off as unimportant.
“I keep guest books in the rooms where visitors can write down their impressions of the inn and the area. They write down what they liked, what they’d recommend to other guests. It’s sort of a bed and breakfast tradition. Quite a few visitors have left positive comments about Ocean.”
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