Enchanted Island Mysteries : Serena & Grant

by Jenna St James

  He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not thirty yet.”

  I shrugged and grinned. “Probably close enough for her. Besides, serves you right for throwing a wrench in the questioning plan. I don’t see why we can’t save time and just question the Nights next.”

  “I have a suspect in mind,” Grant said exasperatingly. “My next step is to eliminate the others. So next I want to talk with Laverne Swindell. I don’t care if she’s next door or thirty miles away. She’s next in line.”

  “Fine,” I huffed, snapping my seatbelt on. “We’ll go fifteen minutes in the opposite direction then swing back this way later.”

  “Glad you see it my way.”

  I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest. His reasoning, while probably spot on, would cost me precious time away from the bakery.

  Fifteen minutes later, Grant turned left onto Bewitched Drive and then made a right onto Haunted Lane. I frowned when I realized he knew exactly where to go.

  “How did you know she lived around here?” I asked.

  “I recognized the street name when I pulled her information last night. My grandparents live around the corner on Mystic Drive.”

  “That’s right. I’d forgotten.”

  Laverne Swindell lived in a two-story mint green house with white shutters and a black door. Snow-covered bushes surrounded the façade, while a cobblestoned sidewalk led to the front. There was no porch, just a straight shot into the house.

  Grant lifted his hand to knock on the door then winced. “Do you hear that?”

  I looked around. “No. What?”

  He inserted a finger in his ear then wiggled. “I guess it was nothing.”

  In the distance, two dogs barked, and I couldn’t help wonder if they were hearing the same thing Grant was.

  This time when Grant lifted his hand, he knocked heavily three times. We didn’t have long to wait before the front door opened and Laverne Swindell stood in the archway dressed in a red and yellow kimono.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Ms. Swindell around town, but I would bet the bank the last time I’d seen her she didn’t look near as lovely as she looked this morning. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head, and her fifty-something face was sans makeup, wrinkle free, and glowing.

  Flickering a dismissive gaze my way, she slowly looked Grant up and down, licking her lips. “Well, hello there. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Grant cleared his throat. “Ms. Swindell, my name is Detective Grant Wolfe. This is my civilian partner for the day, Ms. Serena Spellburn. I need to come in and ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind?”

  “You may enter.” She took a step back and we stepped inside the foyer. “Is this about Mr. Tinker being murdered and my family’s charm being stolen from us years ago?”

  “This is about Mr. Tinker and the theft of Mrs. Songbird’s Yule Log.”

  “I know nothing about it,” she said. “I wasn’t even aware of the incident until my cousin contacted me about an hour ago.”

  “Then I guess we won’t take up much of your time, Ms. Swindell.”

  “You can call me Laverne.” She shifted, and her robe slid down one shoulder. “And you can take up as much of my time as you like, officer.”

  “Detective,” Grant corrected. “Where were you yesterday afternoon between two and five?”

  “I had nothing to do with the murder or the theft. But I will say Portia Bearer—the girl who stole that charm from my family centuries ago—had no right to it. Maybe this is just karma coming back finally. You ever think of that?”

  “Ma’am, I’m not going to ask you again,” Grant said. “Where were you between two and five yesterday afternoon?”

  Laverne crossed her arms under her chest, jutting her breasts up and out. It was all I could do not to laugh outright at the look of pure panic that crossed Grant’s face. I’d tried to warn him. “I was alone here at my house most of the afternoon. Then I drove to The Craft & Candle to pick up my standing order.” She waved her hand in front of her face. “Unfortunately, this beauty isn’t one hundred percent natural, and I must pay an exorbitant amount of money to the Wartons to keep me looking this way.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what products she used, because I had to give it to her…she looked fabulous.

  “What time were you there?” Grant asked.

  She sighed. “Detective, I have no idea.”

  “Surely you can look at your receipt and see, can’t you?” Grant asked. “Aren’t times usually stamped on receipts?”

  Her nostrils flared, and I could tell she was angry, but somehow the fake smile stayed plastered on her face. “I’m sure you’re right. I bet the time is stamped on the receipt. How smart of you to think of that.”

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing at her obvious attempt at snark. If Grant was affected by her words, he didn’t let on.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t think of where my purse is right now.” She fluttered her lashes. “Maybe you can stop by later tonight. I’m sure I’ll have found it by then. Or if you have to work the parade and lighting ceremony tonight, maybe I can buy you a cup of hot cocoa?”

  Grant gestured to a brown leather purse sitting under an antique entry table at the end of the hallway. “Would that be the purse down there?”

  Laverne scowled but didn’t bother to turn around to see where Grant pointed. “Wait right here.” She pivoted, her sheer kimono curling around her legs, and marched down the hallway, her head held high.

  “She’s lovely.”

  I snorted. “Yeah, she’s always been a little bit of a spitfire. I tried to tell you. But I have to say, she does look amazing. I’ve got to find out what cream of Liza’s she’s using.”

  His eyes ran over my face. “You look amazing just like you are. You don’t need any of that stuff.”

  I felt my face flush. It was the first time Grant had outright complimented me since we spent time together during Samhain. I had waited for him to make another move after that, for him to ask me out, but he never did. “Thank you.”

  He opened his mouth, and I could tell he was about to say something else, but Laverne came stomping back up the hallway. She stopped in front of him and thrust a piece of paper at him. “I made my purchase from The Craft & Candle at three-forty. Satisfied, Detective?”

  He didn’t say anything, just removed the paper from his face. “And where did you go after you left The Craft & Candle?”

  “Home. I came straight home.” She threw up her arms. “See, there’s no way I could have killed Mr. Tinker and stolen my family’s charm back.”

  “I never said what time Mr. Tinker was killed,” Grant said. “Is there anyone who can verify you were home around four o’clock?”

  “I live alone, Detective Wolfe. Who would be able to verify that? My cat? Because if you can find a way to communicate with her, you’re more than welcome to ask her.”

  I snorted, then slapped my hand over my mouth. “Sorry. It just struck me as funny.”

  He turned to me. “So as crazy as this island is, you’re telling me it’s not possible to communicate with a cat?”

  I shrugged. “Not as far as I know. Laverne? Do you know anyone who—”

  “Of course not!” she snapped. “I was being sarcastic.”

  I grinned. “My bad. Sorry, Detective Wolfe, I’m afraid the witness was being sarcastic and it’s not possible to question her cat.”

  Grant’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile. “In that case, Ms. Swindell, I believe that’s all the questions I have for now. I’ll be in touch if I have any more.”

  We hadn’t taken three steps out of the house before the front door slammed shut.

  “Hit a nerve?” Grant mused.

  “Seems that way. Or maybe she’s just miffed you didn’t fall at her feet like she wanted.”

  Grant grunted.

  I hopped inside the Blazer and buckled my seatbelt. “Now are we going to the Night house?”

&
nbsp; “Yes. I want to know what young Kyle was doing at Tinker’s Antiques yesterday afternoon.”

  “By the way,” I said conversationally, “I actually think my cousin, Shayla, can communicate with animals. Animals and plants.”

  “Plants?” Grant shook his head. “Never mind. Of course she can.”

  Chapter 8

  Fifteen minutes later, we were once again passing the Songbird place, and I was trying not to curse under my breath at the ridiculousness of driving back and forth like we were.

  “So I take it the Night house is around here?” Grant asked.

  “Yes. You’ll go around this curve up here and then take a right at the next driveway.”

  Unlike the Songbird’s rutted driveway, the Night’s driveway was paved smooth. Also unlike the Songbird’s small stone cottage that was set back deep in the woods, the Nights had knocked down the trees around them and built an imposing stone castle complete with turrets and climbing ivy. The only thing missing was a moat.

  Grant whistled. “Is this original too? Like the Bearer cottage?”

  “Yes, for the most part. The Nights have lived on this land for over three hundred years, just like the Bearer family on theirs.”

  “How old is Kyle, do you know?”

  “Around Brenna’s age,” I said. “About twenty-three or so.”

  “Mom? Dad?”

  “Dad. Kyle’s mom died about three years ago from cancer. I remember because Tamara and I had just moved back to the island.”

  “What does dad do?”

  “He does something with stocks or trading or something like that,” I said. “Big money. The Nights have always been wealthy though.”

  Grant pulled to a stop in the circle drive and shut off the engine. “More modern than Mrs. Songbird’s cottage.”

  “Oh, yes. There have been extensive renovations over the years to keep the castle up-to-date but still keep the authentic look of the castle.”

  Grant rang the doorbell, and a few minutes later the front door was opened by a tall, thin man with a drastically receding hairline. With a loud sigh he stepped back from the door and ushered us inside. “I figured you were bound to show up sooner or later. Let’s get this over with.”

  “Are you Mr. Night?” Grant mused.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Detective Grant Wolfe, and this is Serena Spellburn. She’s—”

  “I know who Serena is, Detective Wolfe,” Mr. Night interrupted. “Her family goes back generations on this island, just like mine.” His mouth turned up on one side. “I can’t say the same for your family, Mr. Wolfe. That’s unfortunate.”

  The sting hung in the air. I wasn’t quite sure what to say to ease the awkwardness, but luckily Kyle Night did that for me.

  “Hey, Dad,” Kyle called from the top of the stairs, “I thought I heard…” He trailed off when he saw us standing in the spacious foyer.

  “I’m sure they’re here about the murder of Mr. Tinker,” Mr. Night said, “and the disappearance of the Yule Log that originally belonged to our family before stolen by the Bearer family.”

  Kyle swallowed, and I swear I practically heard the gulp from where I stood. “Yes, sir.” Kyle quickly descended the stairs and stood in front of us. “It’s a shame what happened to Mr. Tinker. He was a nice old man.”

  “You knew him?” Grant asked.

  Kyle shook his head emphatically. “No. I mean, yes…but no not really.”

  “Mr. Night,” Grant said, “could we maybe go someplace to talk?”

  Mr. Night sighed. “Fine. And you can call me Archibald.”

  Grant frowned and looked down at his notebook. “I thought your first name was Vlad?”

  “Technically, yes,” Mr. Night said.

  Kyle laughed. “Every Night son is named Vlad. Heck, I’m probably like Vlad the thirtieth. We always go by our middle names. You can call me Kyle.”

  Archibald motioned for us to follow him farther inside the house. We crossed the expanse of the tile floor into some sort of fancy sitting room. The dark furniture looked old and yet oddly delicate. Not really the kind of thing I thought Mr. Night would go for, which meant they were probably family heirlooms.

  “Please sit,” Archibald said. “Can I get you two something to drink?”

  “No, thank you,” Grant said. “We won’t take up too much of your time.”

  Kyle strolled over to the fireplace and leaned against the edge, hands in his pockets. He had yet to make eye contact with anyone in the room.

  “Good, because I don’t have much time to spare. I’m a very busy man.” Archibald hitched the front of his pant legs and sat down on the black and red velvet settee. “Let me just say for the record that I had nothing to do with Mr. Tinker’s murder. I quite liked the man. But as far as the Yule Log is concerned, I am not the least bit heartbroken over its disappearance. Those murderous Bearer women hunted down my kin and killed us without provocation. As far as I’m concerned, they get whatever comes their way.” He spread his hands wide. “Now, ask your questions.”

  “Actually,” Grant said, “my questions are more for your son than you.”

  Archibald’s head snapped back. “My son? What does Kyle have to do with this mess?”

  “I have a witness placing your son at the scene of the crime yesterday.”

  “What?” Archibald stood and faced his son. “What is this nonsense?”

  Kyle cleared his throat. “It’s not nonsense, Father. I was at Tinker’s Antiques yesterday around three. I was—I was looking at jewelry.”

  “Why?” Archibald seemed totally nonplused.

  “For a Christmas present.”

  Raw sorrow passed over Archibald’s face as he sank back down onto the settee, and I had to blink back the sudden onslaught of tears. “Son, that makes zero sense. Why would you be looking at jewelry? Your mother has been dead now for three years.”

  “I just was,” Kyle whispered.

  “Did you purchase anything?” Grant asked.

  Kyle shook his head. “I didn’t see what I was looking for.”

  “Which is?” Archibald demanded.

  “I’ll know it when I see it,” Kyle said.

  “What time did you leave?” Grant asked.

  “Around three-fifteen.”

  “But you didn’t purchase anything?” Grant pressed. “You don’t have a receipt showing what time you left?”

  Kyle averted his eyes. “No, I’m sorry. But I can tell you when I left, Mr. Tinker was in the back helping the other customer.”

  I felt rather than saw the change in Grant’s demeanor.

  “What other customer?” Grant asked.

  “Ms. Warton. She was in the back of the store looking for something. At least I think that’s what she was doing.”

  “So you’re telling me,” Grant said, “when you left the store at three-fifteen, Mr. Tinker was alive and talking with a Mrs. Warton in the back of the store?”

  Kyle’s face turned red. “Well, actually Ms. Warton isn’t married. She never was. Um, but yeah, she was in the store. She came in around three.”

  “And what is Ms. Warton’s first name?” Grant asked.

  Kyle’s eyes widened. “I’m not sure, maybe Linda or Lila.”

  “You mean Liza Warton?” I asked.

  Kyle nodded emphatically. “Yes. I hadn’t seen her in almost a year, so it was kind of a surprise to see her. I said hi when she walked by, but she didn’t acknowledge me.”

  Grant stood, and I followed suit.

  “Thank you for your time,” Grant said. “Right now that’s all I have. If I need to ask any follow up questions, I assume you will speak with me?”

  Kyle pushed himself off the chimney. “Of course, sir.” He glanced up at the ceiling before making eye contact with Grant. “I am truly sorry for what happened to Mr. Tinker, but I’m even sorrier for what happened to the Yule Log. I know how much that log means to Mrs. Songbird.”

  “Excuse me!” Archibald exclaimed as he
leaped from the settee. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for that woman! Her kind killed our family. Don’t you ever forget that.”

  Kyle’s neck turned pink and his eyes dropped to the floor. “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter 9

  Back in the Blazer, I clicked my seatbelt and waited for Grant to say something as he pulled out of the circle driveway.

  “Well, that was awkward,” Grant said.

  I chuckled. “Yes, it was. And it’s only going to get worse for the Nights and Songbirds.”

  Grant glanced over at me. “Whaddya mean? And why are you smiling?”

  My mouth dropped open. “Oh, c’mon? Tell me you don’t see what is going on there?”

  Grant frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Brenna and Kyle?”

  “What about them?” he asked. “You mean the fact they’re going to have to carry on the centuries-long feud?”

  I laughed. “No! I mean they’re in love. It’s a true Romeo and Juliet story.”

  “What? No way.” Grant frowned. “How did you get that?”

  I snickered. “Have you never been in love before, Detective Wolfe?”

  And just like that, the air seemed to leave the car.

  “Grant?” I whispered.

  He cleared his throat. “No, Serena, I’ve never been in love before.”

  An awkward silence filled the car, and we drove on for a few more miles.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just assumed—you know?”

  “What? That I’ve been in love before?”

  I let out a soft snort. “Well, yeah. I mean, you’re almost thirty.”

  He laughed dryly. “How many times do I have to tell you I have another year or two before I hit thirty? But I get what you’re saying. Do you know where Liza Warton lives?”

  “Yes. Go back to the main road and turn left.”

  He was silent a few more seconds. “Have you? Been in love, I mean?”

  I sighed and looked out the window. “Once.” I scoffed. “Or at least I thought I was. Cameron was a fellow chef at the school Tamara and I attended. He was what I thought I wanted. A fellow chef, smart, funny…human.”