“You just want to film a happy reunion. Wait a minute, is your phone okay? Did it get ruined in the storm?”
Scooter took a waterproof pouch out of one of the pockets of his cargo shorts and pulled his cell out. “It looks fine. Hang on. I can call Melvin rather than have Thomas try to reach him with the VHF.” After punching in the number and waiting for it to ring, he looked at the screen. “Nope. No service. Must be the storm.”
“I hope Thomas gets through to him,” I said.
After a few anxious minutes, the artist returned carrying a pile of towels. “Melvin’s glad you’re okay. While they can see the storm over Destiny Key, he said that the weather is perfectly calm where they are.”
“How is that possible?” I asked.
“Strange things have been known to happen on this island,” Thomas said. “Things people can’t exactly explain. Odd weather patterns and other things.”
“Like ghosts?” Ben asked.
“Well, there are some interesting legends about that,” Thomas said.
“Ghosts aren’t real,” I said.
Ben snorted. “And all the aliens you always talk about are?”
“Sure,” I said. “You really need to come to one of my FAROUT meetings one of these days.”
“Remind me again what FAROUT stands for?” Ben asked.
“The Federation for Alien Research, Outreach, and UFO Tracking. We just had a really interesting presentation about the latest scientific proof of the existence of alien life.”
“I’m not sure everyone would agree with you that there’s real proof,” Ben said.
“Scooter does.”
“You do?” Ben asked Scooter.
“I, uh—” Before my husband could finish what he was going to say, a bright flash of lightning shone through the windows, followed by a loud clap of thunder.
“That sounded like it was right overhead,” I said.
“It was pretty close,” Thomas said. “Tell you what. You folks look like you could use a drink. Why don’t you finish toweling off, then I’ll get you some dry clothes and you can join the others in the drawing room.”
I startled as another clap of thunder boomed. “They’re getting closer,” I said.
“We’ll be fine,” Scooter said, putting his arm around my shoulder.
“You should be happy you’re not on a sailboat,” Ben said. “Masts are like lightning rods. Lots of boats in Florida get struck every year.”
“That’s very reassuring,” I said, a tad sarcastically.
Three more thunderclaps took place in quick succession, then all of the lights in the entryway went off.
“Power’s out,” Thomas announced. “Let me see if I can find a flashlight. You would think it was nighttime already given how dark it is with the storm. I know there’s one in the console table here somewhere. And then I’ll turn on the emergency generator.” We listened as he rustled through the drawers. “Ta-da!”
As he turned the flashlight on, the front door crashed open. Thomas swept the beam of light toward the entryway, illuminating a man dressed all in black leaning on a cane.
“What are you doing here, Gregor?” Thomas asked.
“I was invited,” he replied. “Now, fetch me some dry clothes and a brandy.”
* * *
“This is unacceptable.” Gregor looked down at the white Hello Kitty t-shirt he was wearing. It was at least two sizes too small for him. I was surprised that he wasn’t also complaining about the over-sized purple and orange striped pajama bottoms he had on, especially since he had to hold them up with one hand so they wouldn’t fall down.
Thomas shrugged. “Sorry. That’s all I had.” He had loaned all of us dry clothes and hung up our wet ones to dry. Personally, I would have preferred Gregor’s t-shirt to the one I was wearing. Giraffes weren’t really my thing. Something about their long necks always unnerved me.
“Give me an outfit like theirs,” Gregor said, pointing at Ben and Scooter, who were wearing plain t-shirts and sweatpants. “An outfit that fits properly and doesn’t have a childish cat on it.”
Thomas bit back a smile. I had a feeling he might have selected Gregor’s clothes with a certain sense of vengeance in mind. “It’s either what you’re wearing or your wet clothes. Your choice.”
Gregor shuffled toward an armchair by the bay window, holding his cane in one hand and his pajama bottoms with the other. The rest of us were already sitting down in the large drawing room, sipping on brandy. Everyone except Mrs. Moto, that is. She was lapping up milk from a saucer, looking no worse for wear after her swim.
While Gregor continued to complain loudly, this time about the quality of the liquor Thomas was serving, I surveyed the room and its occupants—the participants in the artists’ retreat. There were two small couches arranged parallel to each other in front of a large marble fireplace. Victoria and Anabel were sitting on one, Olivia and Sawyer on the other. Ben had perched on the armrest next to Sawyer and was whispering something in her ear while she giggled periodically. Olivia was oblivious to their conversation, focused on editing videos on her laptop.
Victoria looked warily at Gregor, then averted her eyes. I could only imagine what was going through her head. This was the man who had told Chief Dalton that she was mentally unstable and had destroyed her own paintings. Anabel squeezed Victoria’s hand, then fixed a steely glare on the Russian.
“The others have explained how they ended up at Warlock’s Manor,” Anabel said. “But why are you here?”
Gregor tugged at his t-shirt, trying to stretch it out, then gave up. “It is no concern of yours.”
Thomas took a sip of his drink, then said, “If you’re at Warlock’s Manor, it certainly is my concern.”
“Fine,” Gregor said. “I will tell you. I went to see an art collector. A very important client. A very rich client. He wants to buy a painting from a man in Paris with whom I am acquainted. I arranged the deal.”
“And earned a nice little commission in the process,” Thomas said bitterly.
Gregor took a sip of a brandy and made a face. “How do you drink this swill?”
“I’m worried about Thomas’ blood pressure,” I whispered to Scooter. “Look how red his face is.”
Thomas gulped down the rest of his brandy. “You still haven’t explained why you’re here. You said someone invited you.”
“Did I say that?” Gregor said with a brittle smile. “Perhaps I misspoke. I had time before the return ferry. I decided to stop here for a visit beforehand.”
“How did you get to the house? Do you have a car?” Scooter asked. “Maybe you can drive us to the public beach and someone from one of the other boats can send a dinghy for us.”
“No, I do not have a car. I borrowed a golf cart from my client. But the road is now impassable. There is a large tree blocking the way. ”
“He’s telling the truth,” Thomas said. “I talked to the ferry operator on the VHF. The whole island is shut down. No cell phone service, and no way on or off until the storm passes.”
“And when will that be?” I asked.
Thomas shrugged. “No idea. Like I said, Destiny Key is an unusual place.”
“It is late and I am exhausted,” Gregor said, placing his glass on an end table. “You may prepare a room for me now.”
“You expect to stay here tonight?” Thomas asked. “After the way you’ve treated me?”
“This is not your house,” Gregor said. “I am sure the owner would be honored to know that I stayed here.”
I exchanged glances with Scooter. Did Thomas expect us to go back out in the rain as well? As if he were able to read my mind, Thomas turned to us. “I didn’t mean you guys. There’s a bunkhouse that you can stay in. Then we can work out in the morning how to get you back to your boat.” He sighed. “You can stay there too, Gregor.”
“Bunkhouse? Bunk beds?” Gregor shook his head. “No. That will not do.”
“Well, we’re all full up here,” Thomas said.
He pointed at Sawyer and Olivia. “The girls are sharing one of the larger guest rooms. Victoria and Anabel each have one of the smaller ones, and I’m in the master suite. I’m sure you don’t expect any of us to give up our rooms to you.”
Gregor slowly tapped his cane on the floor while he considered what Thomas said. “Fine. I shall stay with Victoria in her room.”
“With Victoria?” Anabel asked, nearly spitting out her drink.
“It’s okay. He can stay with me,” Victoria said weakly.
“Him? Why would you let him stay with you?” Anabel asked. “Wait a minute. Is this the boyfriend you were talking about? The man who dumped you and—”
“Dump her?” Gregor protested. “I did no such thing. Tell them, my kroshka.”
Victoria stared at the floor without saying a word while she rubbed her wrist.
“What do you think a kroshka is?” I whispered Scooter.
“Maybe it’s Russian for stegosaurus,” he replied.
“Explain to them that it was nothing,” Gregor repeated.
Victoria lifted her head and sat up straight. “You did break up with me. I have the text to prove it.”
He waved his hands in the air. “You are overreacting as usual.”
“It’s true. I saw the text,” I said.
“It was a lovers’ tiff,” Gregor said to me. “She is, how you say … high-strung. She has an artistic temperament.” He looked at Victoria. “But our tiff is over now, is it not, my kroshka?”
Anabel rose to her feet and walked over to the side table where the crystal liquor decanters were located. “You aren’t going to share her room,” she said over her shoulder. “I won’t stand for it.”
“I don’t want him to stay with us either,” I whispered to Scooter.
Gregor stood, steadied himself on his cane, then slowly made his way to the couch Anabel had vacated. As he sat next to Victoria, he looked around the room. “She knows I love her.” Then he gently took her hand in his and kissed it dramatically.
Victoria’s face lit up as she leaned into him.
“You think one kiss is going to make up for what you did?” Anabel said, waving her glass back and forth so forcefully that brandy sloshed out of it. “You told the police that she was mentally unbalanced.”
Gregor shook his head. “I did no such thing.”
“Yes, you did. I should know. Tiny is my…” She struggled to find the right word to define her relationship with the police chief. “He’s my ex. He told me what you said.”
“I was there too when the chief filled us in,” I chimed in.
“You Americans,” Gregor said playfully. “Never can take a joke. I was not serious.”
“People like you give the art community a bad name,” Anabel said loudly. “The way you treat women is shocking. If I were you, I would think twice before walking down a dark alley alone.”
Ben and Sawyer looked at each other in shock. Even Olivia looked up from her computer as Anabel’s voice became more shrill. No doubt she was wishing that she had her video camera handy to record the drama.
Thomas said soothingly, “It’s late. Maybe we should all turn in.”
Olivia held out her glass. “How about another drink first?”
“Not for us.” Gregor rose and poked his cane at Victoria’s leg. “We will retire now. Come, my kroshka.”
Victoria stood and followed him to the doorway. As she passed Anabel, she said softly, “It’s okay. You don’t need to worry.”
After Thomas refilled everyone’s glasses, Ben said, “I don’t want to crowd you guys in the bunkhouse. Why don’t I sleep on one of these couches?”
“They’re tiny,” I said. “You wouldn’t fit on them.”
“It’s fine, Ben,” Scooter said. “Stay in the bunkhouse with the admiral and us. Speaking of, where did that cat disappear to now?”
“She’s napping next to me,” Olivia said, moving her computer to one side so we could see two pointed ears peeking out from underneath an afghan.
A loud crash reverberated throughout the drawing room, startling Mrs. Moto. She clawed at the blanket she was wrapped in, then tore out of the room.
Thomas looked out the bay window. “I think we lost another tree.”
“I better go check on the admiral and make sure she’s okay,” I said.
As I followed the calico out into the hallway and started to climb the staircase, I heard Victoria and Gregor speaking on the floor above me about her destroyed paintings. She seemed to be distraught, so I paused on the landing to give them some privacy.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t about giving them privacy, although their conversation was kind of private. It was more that they didn’t know I was listening. I really had Victoria’s best interests at heart. Given the way Gregor had treated her, I wanted to make sure she was okay.
As I leaned against the wall, I heard Victoria ask Gregor why he told Chief Dalton that she had destroyed her own paintings.
“We do not want him poking around in things that are not his business,” Gregor said. “Small-town police officers are idiots. All they are good for is giving out parking tickets.”
Part of me agreed with Gregor’s assessment. If it hadn’t been for my invaluable investigative expertise, none of the recent murder cases in Coconut Cove would have been solved. The only way a murderer would have been caught is if she or he tried to drive out of town and was stopped for exceeding the speed limit.
“So you don’t think I’m crazy?” Victoria asked.
Gregor made soothing sounds. “No. You are not crazy. You are my beautiful kroshka. I know that you did not destroy your paintings.”
“Who do you think did it?” she asked.
“I have an idea,” he said.
“Tell me,” she said. “Who did this?”
“Not yet. First, I must find out more. You trust me, no? While I am here at Warlock’s Manor, I will confirm my suspicions.”
“You mean it was someone here on the retreat?”
“Perhaps. You are very talented. Perhaps someone was jealous of your talent. Perhaps they were jealous that you are my one and only kroshka. Now, wipe your tears and come to bed.”
As I heard the door to Victoria’s room close, I was left with two questions—what was a kroshka and who had ruined Victoria’s paintings?
* * *
Early the next morning, I felt a sharp pain on my chest. Not the kind of pain that signals an imminent heart attack, but rather that of a very demanding feline who normally weighs a dainty eight pounds, but somehow feels more like thirty-five pounds when she’s pressing her paws into you. She accompanied each stab of her paw with a shrieking yowl.
“Just stop already. I heard you the first time,” I said as I pulled the covers over my head. “But it’s not time for breakfast.”
The sharp pain on my chest disappeared, only to be replaced by sharp pains on my neck and face as Mrs. Moto walked over me. She then settled down on the top of my pillow. I turned on my side and tightened the covers to create a protective barrier around myself.
The admiral was not to be deterred by my pathetic attempt to get some more shut-eye. In the face of my non-compliance with her wishes, she decided to carry out ‘Operation Feed the Poor Starving Cat.’
First, she snaked her paw in between the sheet and the pillow and tapped me on my head. When I didn’t respond, she extended her claws and tugged at my hair. I curled up in a ball and tried to ignore the fact that she was turning my already normally frizzy hair into an even bigger rat’s nest.
When she became bored with that part of her campaign, she moved on to the bounce and pounce phase. As you can imagine, it involves a lot of bouncing and pouncing on the human target, especially their feet. I asked Mrs. Moto how a cat who is supposedly starving to death can find the energy to keep up this level of attack, but her only response was to chew on my toes before leaping back onto my chest.
She sat quietly for a few moments. Naturally, that made me suspicious. I pee
ked over the top of my covers. Her emerald green eyes bored into me. It was unnerving, almost as though she was trying to speak to me telepathically. Even though I couldn’t hear her thoughts, I was pretty sure I knew what she was saying. “Hey, two-legged creature. Show me how powerful you are. Use your opposable thumbs and open up a can of Frisky Feline Ocean’s Delight, pronto.”
When I didn’t respond (verbally or telepathically), she padded up my chest and lay down on my face. I wasn’t sure this was a smart strategy on her part. Suffocating your human makes them less likely to feed you. It’s hard to operate a can opener when you’re suffering from oxygen deprivation.
“Just move your paw a little to the right,” a voice said. “That’s it. Perfect.”
It was hard to make out who was speaking with all that fur pressed against my ear. I reached up and pushed Mrs. Moto to the side. As I brushed cat hair off my face, I noticed Scooter beaming at me while holding up his phone. “Don’t tell me you’ve been filming this,” I said.
“Of course, I have. I’m recording a vlog—a day in the life of Mrs. Moto.”
I ran my fingers through my hair, attempting to untangle it. As I caught sight of myself in a mirror on the wall, I groaned. “You better edit out the parts with me in it. I look like a mess.”
Scooter leaned down and kissed me on my forehead. “You look gorgeous.” Mrs. Moto meowed loudly. “See, she agrees too.”
I quickly propped my pillows behind me and sat up in bed before my pesky feline could try to settle back on my face. “Where’s Ben?”
Scooter pointed at the upper bunk on the opposite side of the room. “He’s still snoozing away.”
“I can’t believe he could sleep through all the commotion this one has been making,” I said, scratching Mrs. Moto behind her ears. “What time is it?”
Scooter looked at his phone. “Around six. No wonder she’s hungry.”
“I’m pretty hungry too. Breakfast is at eight, but I don’t think I can wait until then. Why don’t I take her up to the main house? Thomas said I could feed her some of the leftover ham in the fridge. I’ll see if there’s something else I can snack on as well. Do you want anything?”
Dead in the Dinghy Page 6
