by Darci Hannah
Mom put the plates in the dishwasher and turned around. “Also, and I don’t mean to pry, dear, but have you given a thought as to what you’re going to do about Tate? Cecilia Cushman called this morning and said that the Lusty Dutchman is gone. Tate must have sailed off last night and hasn’t returned. He’s an expert sailor, so she’s not overly concerned, but she is worried. It’s not like him to abandon his business without a word to anyone. I know you two had a falling out, but it’s not the first time. And he’s such a dear young man. Why don’t you visit the marina after you drop off that painting with Jack? I know that you’re a great crime-solver, dear. But you’ve done enough. Let Jack find the murderer. After all, that’s his job. My goodness, you’re twenty-eight years old. I was married and had two children by the time I was your age. Now that you’re back in Cherry Cove, you really need to give some thought to settling down. Your father and I aren’t getting any younger. We’d love to have some grandchildren before we’re too old to enjoy them.”
I loved my mom, but she was utterly oblivious to the struggles of my generation. Millennial dating was complicated. I wanted to settle down too. But I also wanted a career and financial security. I wanted to travel more and spend more time with my friends. Most of all, however, I wanted to find the right man to settle down with, and at the rate I was going that was never going to happen. Why did she have to remind me of all this now? Didn’t I already have enough on my plate? Although I cared about Tate and always would, my first priority was the inn. An empty inn during the height of the tourist season wasn’t a great way to build financial security. I needed to clear my name. I needed to get Jack to clear the inn so that we could begin calling our displaced guests and filling rooms again. Most of all, however, I needed to find Silvia’s murderer. Staring at Mom as she openly nudged me toward Tate only made me realize how much I wanted the satisfaction of finding the person who’d shoved one of my scones down Silvia’s throat. I deserved nothing less. Strictly for Mom’s benefit, I acquiesced.
“I’ll stop by the marina,” I promised, then said, “Have Giff call me when he’s up. I don’t have time to wait around here all day for sleepy-heads and prima donnas.”
Twenty-Eight
W ith a covered portrait of a naked man in the back of my Escape, I headed for my gran’s house, hoping she’d be able to give me a little more insight into Lance Van Guilder and why she had thought to mention the name Silvia Lumiere to him last night.
Grandma Jenn lived in a charming little cape cod less than a mile from the orchard. It was also on the way into town. She’d grown up in the old Victorian mansion that was now the Cherry Orchard Inn. After selling it to my parents, she decided to move into something smaller, something new and all her own. Although she made daily visits to the inn and was still an integral part of the business, I had to admit Grandma Jenn thrived in her cozy little house. I loved it too. It was light, airy, and smelled of everything good from my childhood.
I parked in the drive and found Gran on the back deck with Mrs. Cushman and her little dog, Molly, the adorable West Highland terrier she’d adopted when moving aboard the Boondoggle II. After being thoroughly greeted by a happily wagging tail and rapid-fire puppy dog licks, I joined the ladies on the deck. Gran and Cecilia were still in their yoga clothes, both enjoying the warm morning sun and refreshing cherry smoothies. They were Gran’s specialty. The fact that she used vanilla ice cream as the base made them closer to milkshakes than fruit smoothies, but her secret was safe with me. Besides, both ladies looked as if they could use the calorie boost.
“Darling!” Gran called, shortly after Molly accosted me on the lawn. She smiled and waved me over to join them. “What a surprise! We’ve just come from Hannah’s class and needed a little fortifying. She’s a great instructor but seemed a little on the warpath today.”
I smiled in greeting and took a seat. “That’ll be because she’s had a falling out with her new man.”
“Hot Jesus?” Mrs. Cushman inquired from the rim of her cherry ice cream smoothie. She set down the tall glass. “Of course we all know his name is really Peter, but at the marina we call him Hot Jesus.” She tossed me a wink that took all the muscles on half of her face to achieve. “We also know Hannah’s nuts about him. It’s all she can talk about. At yoga it’s all ‘Peter this’ and ‘Peter that.’ We thought it was cute until she named a yoga move after him.”
“The Hot Jesus,” Gran added with a twinkle in her vibrant blue eyes. “Or HJ as we like to call it. It’s essentially a warrior one pose with a hyper-extended back bend.”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” Mrs. Cushman interrupted. Her kind brown eyes hardened beneath her soft silver curls. “It’s blasphemous!”
“And quite impossible at our age, dear.” Both older ladies were in agreement there. “However, I don’t need to tell you that Hannah’s remarkably flexible. But she’s also very encouraging to those of us who aren’t so bendy anymore. It’s what makes her a great instructor.”
“She really is,” Mrs. Cushman agreed. She then locked eyes with me. Resting her elbows on the table, she leaned forward. “Seems that falling out’s all the rage with you young people. First you and Tate, then Hannah and HJ, and Jenn’s just told me about Tay and her handsome knight. It must be something in the water.”
“Cecilia’s just filled me in on Tate,” Gran said, manufacturing a grandmotherly look of concern. Although Gran was very fond of Tate, I knew for a fact that where my love life was concerned she was firmly on team Jack. Gran continued. “Apparently, he’s cast off on a solo adventure aboard the Lusty Dutchman.”
If they thought the news would be a shock to me, it wasn’t. Mom had already filled me in on Tate’s abrupt departure. The truth was, the Lusty Dutchman was the place Tate felt most at home. Over the years, I had spent my share of time aboard that boat as well, and most of that below deck. Just thinking about it made me blush. However, unless he was engaged in a wildly passionate night of wave-rocking lovemaking, which I doubted was the case, it wasn’t like Tate to just unmoor ship and sail off in the middle of his busiest season at the marina. I was struck with a pang of white-hot guilt, because I knew that his sudden departure was a direct result of the careless way I had treated him yesterday. I might not have been madly in love with Tate anymore, but I still cared deeply for him.
I reached across the table and took hold of Mrs. Cushman’s hand. She was a dear older lady whose regard for Tate went far beyond her humble housekeeper status. “He’ll be okay,” I assured her. “He’s just gone off to think. He likes to drop anchor near the islands.” And I should know, I thought bleakly as erotic memories began to flood in. I cleared my throat and pushed them aside. I then gestured to the lake just visible at the bottom of Gran’s heavily wooded backyard. Far out in the bay, on the other side of the point beyond the lighthouse, was a string of five small, uninhabited islands. “It’s quiet out there,” I told them. “And peaceful. I’ll tell you what. If Tate hasn’t returned by this evening, I’ll go out there myself and bring him back. There’s one island in particular he’s very fond of. I’ll bet he’s there now, gathering his thoughts.”
My promise was enough to placate Mrs. Cushman, allowing me to question Gran about what had prompted her last night to ask Lance if he knew Silvia Lumiere.
“Well, because I thought he did,” Gran stated matter-of-factly. “At first I didn’t recognize him, but then I remembered an incident last Thursday night. Silvia was holding court, as usual, on the patio with Fred, Edna, Alexa, and that knot-artist fella, Jeffery. It was after dinner. The sun was setting, you see, making it hard to make out the newcomer’s face. In fact, he was more of an outline against the setting sun, but I clearly saw a young man with a striking build and a mane of shoulder-length, well-conditioned hair. He didn’t come from the inn, just walked onto the patio from the back lawn. Silva was shocked to see him, and I could tell he was very upset about something. He was addressing her.
He wanted to confront her, but Silvia wouldn’t give him the time of day and waved him away like a pesky fly. Fred got up and escorted him off the patio. Eventually he left. I nearly forgot all about it until dinner last night. When Tay introduced me to Lance, I thought he looked familiar but I couldn’t be sure. That’s why I asked about Silvia.”
“So you were working off a hunch?”
Gran nodded.
“Pretty good hunch,” I told her.
“He’s all right, though, isn’t he?” Gran looked genuinely concerned. The fact that I gave a noncommittal shrug didn’t help any.
“He used to work for her, Gran. I don’t think anybody who ever worked for Silvia Lumiere came away without scars of some form or another.”
After leaving Gran’s house I picked up Erik and headed for the Cherry Cove police station. If I was being totally honest with myself I would have acknowledge that neither the sullen Erik Larson nor the painting of a buck-naked Lance Van Guilder was the reason I was sweating. Nope, the sweat beading on my brow and trickling down my spine was entirely due to the fact that I was about to face the man I’d been stalking for weeks, flirted with, had finally worked up the nerve to invite on a group date, and then offended to the point of open disgust. Sure, I was still miffed that he had marked me as his prime suspect yesterday for the murder of Silvia Lumiere. But I felt that was a small hurdle to leap—a tiny bump in the road that could be overlooked once he came to his senses. I now had a car full of evidence in my favor, yet somehow the thought of facing Jack was a bit more terrifying than being a murder suspect. What I didn’t know was if I would ever be able to look him in the eyes again. I gripped the wheel tighter, building courage as I turned into the police station parking lot, thinking that maybe Mom had been right. Maybe Tate and I really did belong together.
“Looks busy,” Erik remarked, pulling me back to the task at hand. It was just after ten thirty in the morning and already the beach parking lot was full. The streets teemed with cars, jet skis and motor boats frolicked in the bay, and every patio table at Swenson’s ice cream parlor next door was occupied. It was a stark contrast to the emptiness of the inn, so much so that I felt a sudden flash of anger and purpose.
I pulled Erik with me through the group of tourists blocking the front entrance to the police station. With phones and cameras pointed at the roof, they were antagonizing Thing One and Thing Two—or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, the cacophony was astounding. Children and adults called to the goats and laughed. The horned, disruptive duo screamed and leapt around their lofty vantage point. Clearly they were loving the attention. Since I had a soft spot for Jack’s kids, I cast them a wave before ushering Erik through the front doors. I had strategically left the pornographic painting in the car, believing the boy had suffered enough without having to witness that expertly painted train wreck.
I was surprised to see Jack’s mom, Inga, behind the front counter. She was on the phone bobbing her head as the person on the other end talked. She looked up, saw us, and cupped her hand over the mouth piece.
“Come on back,” she said. MacDuff, aware I was in the building, shot through the gap below the front counter and sat at my feet. His whole back end was wiggling as he looked up at me with his big brown eyes. Unable to resist, both Erik and I knelt and gave the dog a big hug.
“I love this dog,” Erik said, allowing the slobbery tongue to land on his unshaven, boyish face. I knew what a comfort MacDuff could be and gave the boy space as he hugged the dog.
“Jack’s on his way back,” Inga informed me and lifted the flip-up countertop, allowing us to pass through. “Tourist fender bender,” she said. “Busy morning. Why don’t you two take MacDuff and wait in the kitchen. I’ll call Jack and let him know you’re here.”
Fifteen minutes later Jack came strolling through the door dressed in his police blues. It had been only one day, but I’d nearly forgotten how good he looked. Guarded and a little skeptical, Jack took off his cap, ran a hand through his lush ginger hair, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He then pulled up a chair and turned his honey-colored gaze on the two of us. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting? Guilty conscience? Confession? Startling new revelation, perhaps?” His remark was as biting as it was condescending.
Rising to the challenge with a bold stare of my own, I said, “Startling new revelation, actually. And a bit of a guilty conscience as well. Last night Mr. Larson here made a visit to the inn to inform us that he’d left out a few important details from his earlier statement. I thought we’d drop by this morning and fill you in.”
Jack’s eyes shifted to the young man. “You lied to me?”
Erik paled. “I didn’t mean to, Officer MacLaren, sir. Honestly.”
“Just hear him out,” I advised. “You’ll understand why in a minute.”
As Erik spilled his sorry tale of sexual misconduct and flagrant abuse of inn property, I watched Jack closely. Professionalism battled disbelief and ultimately lost the moment when Erik described the eerie black shadow he and Kenna had witnessed sweeping up the staircase at two in the morning.
“Whoa. Back up a minute.” Jack looked sharply at Erik. “You’re telling me that after a mythically long romp in an elevator you two came out only to witness a black shadow sweeping up the staircase … like in a ghostly sighting?”
“No,” I said, speaking for the boy. “He was obviously light-headed. What he means is he witnessed someone walking up the stairs wearing a black cape. The point is, Jack, it couldn’t have been me. I was fast asleep at two a.m., and I don’t own a black cape. You can search my room if you don’t believe me. And clearly it wasn’t Erik. As he’s just explained he was otherwise detained. Kenna can attest to that. Also, earlier in the evening we discovered that one of Silvia’s room keys was missing. Aside from the Pine Suite occupied by Peter McClellan, the inn is empty. We should have both sets of room keys for every room, but we only have one for Silvia’s. We’ve talked to Peter. He doesn’t have it and has no idea who might. Silvia might have lost the second key, or it might have been taken for the purpose of entering the building after hours. Whoever called the elevator while it was turned off between floors was obviously trying to sneak up to the second floor unnoticed. When the elevator didn’t come, they were forced to use the stairs.”
Jack leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I’m impressed, by both of you, actually. Erik, for coming clean with what was undoubtedly a difficult tale to tell, and you, Whitney, for not having killed the boy for what he’s been doing to your elevator. Truthfully, you should be thanking Mr. Larson. Erik, I’m going to need to call Kenna to confirm what you just told me.
Jack excused himself to make the call. He returned a few minutes later and took a seat. “Okay,” he began, looking relieved. “Kenna’s confirmed Erik’s story. Erik is now off the suspect list, having left the inn with Kenna at two in the morning. She also had a more concrete description of this mysterious black shadow. She said that not only did it sweep up the stairs, but she felt it was rather tall. Much taller than Ms. Bloom, to be exact.”
“Exactly!” I said, looking vindicated. “So I’m off the suspect list too, right?”
One corner of Jack’s mouth lifted. “Not exactly. But it does move you down a few notches. We also have a new timeline. We now know that Ms. Lumiere was murdered after two and before five in the morning. I’ll call Doc Fisker with these details and see if he can confirm the new timeline. Thanks for coming in.”
Jack was about to dismiss us when I reached across the table and touched his hand. It might have been a mistake. The move shocked us both. I quickly let go, as if burned. “Before you dismiss us, I have another piece of evidence you’re going to want to see. It’s in the back of my car.”
“I’ll get it.” Erik sprang to his feet, clearly itching to get out of there.
“No. I’m sorry, Erik, but this is strictly a matte
r for Officer MacLaren.”
Twenty-Nine
“What on earth is that?” Jack was holding the door as I lugged the large, cloth-covered painting into the police station.
The moment I’d insisted that what I was about to reveal was for Jack’s eyes only, Inga had been quick to volunteer to drive Erik home. She took MacDuff with her, telling Jack that she’d had enough of answering phones and fielding tourist inquiries about leash laws and dining recommendations for one day. Jack regarded his mother’s declaration with suspicion but nodded all the same. She then gave me a hug, placed a kiss on her son’s cheek, and told him that he could pick up MacDuff when he came by for dinner. She turned back to me. “Or …” A sly grin fluttered across her lips and was suppressed. “If you have new plans for dinner, just give me call. You can always pick him up tomorrow.” This was punctuated with a wink. That made Jack blush. I blushed a little too, but found Jack’s high color—particularly the bright crimson on the tips of his ears—achingly adorable. Inga turned and ushered Erik out the door, leaving us with her parting request of, “Play nicely, now,” as if we were still children. Her quick departure hadn’t escaped either of us. But it was a little suspicious. It also made me wonder if perhaps she’d received a call before my arrival—one from Grandma Jenn giving her the heads-up on the situation between her son and me. I loved my gran, but I also knew that she meddled as she pleased.
“And you call yourself a detective,” I said, slowly shaking my head. “It’s a painting.”
He nearly grinned as he locked the door behind me. He then turned the sign, indicating that the station was now closed, and led me through the police station and across to his living quarters on the other side of the building. I set the painting down on the kitchen table. Jack stood across from me and eyed the black cloth.
“Intriguing,” he remarked with a touch of cynicism. “Ms. Lumiere was a painter, after all. I’ve already seen the contents of her room. I’m going to assume, since it is a crime scene, that this wasn’t taken from there?”
