“Competitive in what way?”
“Oh, you know, the usual stuff – clothes, attention, boys…” Betty's voice trailed off before picking up the beat again. “Mostly we just had fun – making up games, trying on jewelry from our mother's top dresser drawer when she wasn't looking, reading, dancing, laughing.”
“I've wondered sometimes what it would have been like to have a sister. Or brother, for that matter.” Mist was lining up produce, taking inventory. Potatoes to cube and roast with rosemary and garlic. Carrots to shred for fresh carrot cake. Different types of squash to steam with slices of tomato and onion.
“You're an only child?”
“Yes, raised by my grandmother after my parents were killed in a car accident when I was young.”
“I'm sorry.” Betty paused. “I didn't realize.”
Mist smiled. “Don't be sorry. Life happens as it's supposed to.”
“You really believe that, don't you?” Betty couldn't help but be envious of Mist’s serene attitude toward life.
“Yes, I do.” As always, Mist's voice was soothing. “We aren't always happy with what life gives us, but it's all part of a universal balance.”
Betty smiled. It was so like Mist to approach life’s challenges metaphysically. She finished emptying the last box, setting out large packages of dried pasta and two restaurant-sized cans of tomato sauce.
“Pasta tonight?” Mist eyed the supplies on the counter, already running a selection of spices through her head.
Betty nodded. “Yes, nice and easy. It'll feed a lot of people. Pull out one of those big pots. No, make that two - one for the pasta and one for the sauce.”
Mist put out three, figuring an extra for the squash medley, as well. “We should start the sauce now. I'll add spices. It should simmer for a while. Is there bread? The bakery should still have some from this morning. I’ll make garlic bread.”
“Good idea,” Betty said. “Go on down and see what they have. We can put the rest of the supplies away in the storage pantry later. Right now I just want to get tonight's dinner started.”
“Perfect. Thanks for letting me help cook, Betty. I don't feel like myself without a kitchen.”
Betty laughed. “Don't worry. Townsfolk will be chipping in when they come eat, and they'll sure chip in more if you're cooking, instead of me.”
“I'll see if Paige wants to go to the bakery with me.” Mist left the kitchen, headed upstairs. Betty kicked up a few more dance steps as the radio moved into Bill Haley's “Rock Around the Clock.”
Mist was back quickly, sticking her head in the kitchen. “There was no answer when I knocked on her door. Maybe she's up at Clive's.”
“That would be my guess,” Betty agreed. “Her rental car is out in front, so she can't be far.”
“I'll stop by Clive's after I pick up the bread. I want to see how he's doing, anyway.” Mist disappeared from the kitchen, and Betty heard the hotel’s front door shut behind her. Betty turned the radio volume up and starting slicing squash and onions.
* * * *
The frontage of the gem gallery looked almost neon in the late afternoon sun. Bright as the paint was when the sun was high above, it was just short of blinding when the rays hit it from a low angle. Inside, things were much calmer.
“No tourists today?” Mist asked, finding Clive alone at his desk. The worktables looked untouched and the floor, swept clean. Clive's gloomy expression answered her question.
“Won't be many until next spring,” Clive said. “Fall never brings people in, and winter's right around the corner. Had some flurries just the other day. Summer's the only money-maker and the next one’s a far stretch ahead of us.”
Mist pulled a chair up next to his desk and sat. “How do you get by between summers, Clive? Seems you thrive on the activity and sales this place provides. I don't mean just financially. You seem happiest when the gallery is busy.”
Clive smiled, touched by Mist's concern and impressed with her powers of perception. “I can usually make ends meet by stretching the summer earnings over the year. Lots of business owners in tourist towns get by that way. Not impossible, as long as you keep life simple. Then I have jewelry sales and rent….” He stopped short; he didn’t want Mist to worry about the café not generating rent anymore. “And you're right, I like it when this place is busy. Smiling travelers, happy children and all that. Time flies by. And it keeps me from being lonely, I guess.”
“I thought as much,” Mist said, her voice light. “There's often something tender hidden in someone's heart when that heart is wrapped up in a gruff exterior.”
“I don’t know anyone with a gruff exterior,” Clive said. It was more of a bark than a comment.
“Who was she?” Mist's question was posed so softly that Clive wasn't sure she'd spoken at all. He stalled before answering.
“It was a long time ago.”
“Sometimes the past and the present are the same.” Mist stood up and walked to the front window, looking back toward the hotel and, beyond that, the ruins of the café. “Then again, sometimes they're not.”
Clive sighed, shook his head and picked up a stack of bills, shuffling through them. There were days when he was comforted by Mist's odd manner and philosophies, but this wasn't one of them. Sometimes she hit too close to home.
“How's our reporter friend doing?” Clive asked, eager to change the subject.
Mist turned back to face the gallery interior. “I saw her this morning, but not since. Betty and I made a supply run, hoping to keep this town fed for the near future, at least. I thought maybe Paige would be here. We could use help preparing dinner.”
“Sorry, I haven't seen her. She must have enough information about sapphire mining, not that she ever seems to run out of questions.” Clive laughed. “But the supply run sounds promising. What's on the menu for tonight?”
“Pasta,” Mist answered simply before her mouth lifted into a soft upward curve. “Pasta and sunshine.”
“Now you're messing with me,” Clive accused.
Mist smiled. “Yes, I am. But not about the pasta. See you anytime after six.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Paige inhaled slowly to the count of five and exhaled in the same manner. She counted breaths until she felt her fear ease. Focused breathing always helped her fight panic attacks, and the one she was currently having felt overwhelming. She struggled to her feet and leaned against the tunnel wall for support. She groped the muddy surface to get her bearings. There had to be a way out.
Which direction led back to the hotel's basement? She clicked her flashlight on, grateful she'd saved battery life by turning it off earlier. A swing of light to her left revealed the dead end wall. The opposite direction would let her retrace her steps.
She aimed the light at the tunnel's ceiling, inspecting the crossbeams above. The thick wood was firmly embedded in the solid dirt overhead. Switching the flashlight's focus to the area around her feet, she could see the dusty traces of tracks, just as she'd seen at the opposite end of the tunnel. They ran the length of the interior, obscured by dirt that had built up over a century.
She then ran the flashlight beam over the walls, which were a solid mix of mud and timber, just like the rest. She began to make her way back toward the collapsed basement floor of the hotel. Betty and Mist would be back from their supply run by now. Surely, if she screamed loud enough, they would hear her.
She continued to shift the light as she walked. Each section of the tunnel was identical until she reached a spot approximately twenty yards from the dead end behind her. There, the texture of the wall became rough. She brushed clumps of dirt to the ground. Beneath the crusted surface, a slat of wood appeared. And then another alongside it. One by one, she uncovered additional wooden boards until she realized what she'd discovered. There was a door built into the wall. Her spirits lifted. This had to be the way out.
Attacking the surrounding area, she worked at getting the door open. Dirt wedged itself
beneath her nails, rendering them as caked and dirty as the rest of her body. The thought of a hot shower flitted across her mind, another thing to anticipate once she got out. If she got out. Quickly, she discarded the last thought. This was no time for pessimism.
It was hard to tell if she was making progress, but she continued to dig. The wooden slats held their positions. She gathered her strength – what little she had – and threw one shoulder up against the wood. Still nothing. She repeated the process, alternating shoulders, then resorted to kicking the wood. When that failed, she scoured the ground and found a flat rock about the size of her fist. Using it to dig around the edge of the slats, she finally felt one move. Encouraged, she wedged the rock between that slat and the next, applying leverage until the loose one gave way. As she suspected, the area behind it was hollow. It was just what she'd hoped for. She'd found a side passage.
One by one, she pried the slats out until an opening formed that was wide enough for her to step inside. Eager to hurry toward the exit, she climbed through and took only a few steps before she bumped her already throbbing head against another barrier. She reached up to touch her forehead, but she hadn’t hit it hard enough to cause more bleeding.
Regrouping, she picked up the flashlight again and aimed its beam in front of her, expecting to find another muddy wall. Instead the light landed on a row of slender packages, each an inch or two thick, approximately three feet in height, covered in butcher paper, with twine wrapped around them. They sat on a makeshift shelf, set on two barrels, which brought their top corners to Paige's own height.
Looking closer, Paige was able to make out numbers on the edge of each package, scrawled in handwriting that looked oddly familiar. Exhaustion and her aching head made it harder for her to remember where she’d seen this handwriting before. But after a minute, it came to her: the penmanship matched the writing in Silas Wheeler’s diary.
As eager as she was to rip open one of the packages, she was even more anxious to get to the exit. Her body ached from bruises, cuts and exhaustion. Her ears pounded so fiercely she couldn't tell whether the sound was an underground echo or came from inside her own head. Grasping one of the butcher-papered objects, she pulled it forward and leaned it against the dirt wall to the side. Yanking another one off the shelf, she added that to the first. Slowly, she moved the packages until she'd cleared the board and was able to remove it. When she stepped between the barrels, she found herself in front of yet another makeshift shelf, also holding a row of packages. How many were there? She'd pulled at least a dozen off the first shelf and the second was even more heavily stacked.
She pushed on, her arms growing shakier with each package she moved. How long had she been trapped in the tunnel? When had she last eaten? Time had blurred. Her strength was fading.
Once she had moved and stacked the packages from the second shelf, she lifted the board, set it aside and prayed she wouldn't find yet a third shelf full of packages. To her relief, she didn't. But, ten yards or so later, she came to something worse: a solid wall. She had reached another dead end. As if that wasn't bad enough, she soon had a new problem. The flashlight flickered, dimmed, flickered again and then went out altogether.
The darkness that now surrounded Paige suffocated her. Panic filled her lungs and muddled her mind. Was there no exit at all? How would she find out without being able to see? She began to feel light-headed, and a familiar and unwelcome prickly heat ran up her arms and neck. She was on the brink of fainting. Her breathing became shallow and she dropped to the ground, hung her head forward and took slow, deep breaths. Eyes closed and neck relaxed, she focused. If she wanted to get out, she had to remain conscious and coherent.
The dizziness that had sent her to the ground began to ease. She stood up and opened her eyes even though she knew she wouldn’t be able to see anything in the blackness.
She clicked the flashlight's switch again. Still dead. She would have to feel her way back through the tunnel to the section under the hotel cellar.
Testing the ground around her with one foot, she found it clear. She took one cautious step after another, checking the ground in front of her for obstacles. When she reached the wall, she placed her palms against the dirt surface and appraised her surroundings from memory. She would have to maneuver around the packages without falling. After that she could move forward.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Susan was hunched over paperwork, debating whether to run a story on urban renewal or recent advances in pollution deterrence, when Brandi sashayed into her office.
“The ad department says they're getting slammed with requests to run display ads in the edition that'll be out during the convention,” Brandi said.
“Good, I like to hear that. When they're happy, I'm happy – mostly because they leave me alone.” Susan's gaze never left the draft layouts on her desk.
“But I'm also getting calls from individual jewelers,” Brandi added, looking down at the gold metallic strapped pumps she was wearing. Maybe purple lace-ups would have been a better choice for her black leather skirt. The shiny gold just didn't go with the silver studs that ran the length of the skirt's side seams.
“OK,” Susan replied. Her vague tone made it clear she was paying about as much attention to the conversation as Brandi, who contemplated a shimmering toe while waiting for direction. Maybe silver flats would have been the best option.
“Brandi?” Susan coaxed her to continue. It wasn't unusual for Brandi to lose her train of thought mid-stream.
“Alan, at Al's A Gem, doesn't want to run a large ad without Yogo jewelry in stock,” Brandi said. “And Simon, at Stoned in Manhattan, has a few loose Yogos in his stash, but they aren't set. So he's holding out altogether unless he can get ready-to-sell pieces in.”
“Simon has a few loose screws in his stash, as well,” Susan commented, without looking up. “I dare say he named his store appropriately.”
Brandi watched Susan set aside one layout and pull another in front of her, unsure what her next step should be. “So, I can't get these jewelers to commit to ads when they don't already have Yogo jewelry in stock. They want international guests from the convention to buy on the spot.”
“What about Sid?” Susan asked. “It was his idea to go after this article to begin with.”
Brandi was glad to have an opening to pass on a piece of positive news. “No problem with Sid's Jewelers. They committed right away to a large display. It's just the others I'm having trouble with. They all want more Yogos in stock first.”
“Then go find some.” Susan raised her head slightly and peered over a pair of reading glasses. “If anyone can track down jewelry, Brandi, I'd think it would be you.” Her glance fell on a set of rhinestone bangles that stacked up along Brandi's arm.
Brandi giggled. “A jewelry hunt! Count me in!” Her bracelets jangled as she clapped her hands.
“I knew I could count on you,” Susan replied with an all-business tone. “Bring those ads in, one way or another. I want this advertising angle to work. It'll buy us new avenues for articles in future issues.”
Brandi practically skipped back to her desk, diving right into her task. Maybe eBay. Maybe Amazon. She wrapped one hand around her bracelets and twisted her arm back and forth. Where would a person find jewelry, other than a jewelry store?
As if anticipating Brandi's confusion, Susan's voice suddenly soared across the office.
“Wholesalers, Brandi. Try wholesalers.” A pause followed. “And check in with Paige to see how the article's progressing.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Betty had just finished drying dishes when the phone rang. The turnout for dinner had been large enough to go through ten pounds of dry pasta, two number ten cans of tomato sauce and seven loaves of bread. Mist's sourdough slices had been the hit of the evening, steaming hot and bursting with the combined flavors of butter, garlic and Parmesan cheese.
“Hello, Betty? It's Jake, Paige's friend from Jackson.”
&nbs
p; Betty rubbed both hands with a kitchen towel, phone propped between her chin and shoulder. She wasn’t surprised he was calling. She'd seen the sparks between them when he came up to Timberton to surprise Paige.
“Yes, Jake. Good to hear from you.” Mist popped her head into the kitchen because of the sound of the ringing phone. Betty shook her head, indicating that the phone call wasn't from Paige.
“Betty, I'm sorry to bother you, but is Paige around? I've been trying to reach her, but her cell phone keeps going to voicemail.”
“I wish I could tell you she was here,” Betty said. “But we haven't seen her. Mist checked down at Clive's, and I've checked the hotel messages. We thought she’d be here for dinner.”
“That’s odd.” Jake sounded puzzled. “We had a painting checked out by an art appraiser. I heard from the guy and wanted to fill her in, but she hasn't returned my messages. She was expecting me to call.”
“Jake, I don't know what to tell you. She didn't say she was going anywhere. Besides, wouldn’t she have taken her car?”
“Her car is there?” Jake's tone became serious.
“Yes, right out in front of the hotel.” Betty was growing more concerned as the conversation continued.
“Really, it hasn't been that long,” Betty continued. “We saw her this morning before we ran out to pick up supplies. When we returned this afternoon, we figured she'd gone for a long walk, or was hiding out somewhere to write. There didn't seem to be any reason to worry.”
“Did you check her room?”
“Mist knocked on her door earlier and didn’t get an answer. She figured Paige was sleeping or working. Or up at Clive's, which she wasn’t. But I used my master key to check inside the room when she didn't come to dinner. She's not here. Mist and Clive just went back up to his place to check there again.”
Paige MacKenzie Mysteries Box Set Page 34