Cherry Scones & Broken Bones

by Darci Hannah

  “In general, I imagine that’s true. Thanks for the tea, Edna.” I stood up to leave, knowing that the task before me was going to be a difficult one. Bob was an old friend and a valued employee. Edna stood up as well.

  “Hold on a moment. Let me give you some cookies.”

  As Edna filled a freezer bag full of her delicious treats, I thought to ask, “Alexa Livingstone also had an unveiling. How did that one go?”

  “Fine,” she said, handing me the bag. “But you might want to talk with her, all the same. She’s terribly upset by Silvia’s death. They were close, ya know. But if anybody can shed more light on Silvia Lumiere, it would be Alexa. She was the reason Silvia came to Cherry Cove in the first place. Alexa used to own a posh interior design firm in Chicago. Very high-end kind of stuff. Anyhow, rumor is she used to commission Silvia to paint original artwork for some of her wealthier clients. Silvia and Alexa go way back. The reason Alexa’s the president of the arts council isn’t any mystery either. Her connection to Silvia secured that office.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said, thinking.

  “Of course you didn’t. You were too busy baking scones to pay much attention to anything. And speaking of lack of attention, you might want to stop by the marina and share some cookies with that boyfriend of yours if he’s come back. I heard you two had quite the tiff and he sailed off, just like that. Men! Big bunch of babies they are. Well, nothing glues a strained relationship back together quite like a peanut butter cookie. I’ll even let you tell him you made ’em yourself. And won’t he be pleased. Peanut butter’s a nice change from all that cherry-loaded gunk you serve at the inn.”

  Thirty-Six

  Although I took offense to my life’s work being referred to as cherry-gunk, Edna did have a point. Tate had sailed off yesterday in a huff, and I’d been so busy with this whole murder business that I’d nearly forgotten my promise to stop by to check on him. The marina was on the way to Bob’s house, and I could use the diversion. I eyed the bag of peanut butter cookies in the passenger seat and actually considered passing them off as my own.

  Nope. That would be wrong, I told myself. That would be lying. That would make Tate believe that I cared enough about him to bake him something other than my cherry-inspired baked goods—a treat that was second nature to me. I still cared for Tate, but I didn’t want him to get the wrong message.

  Once at the crowded marina, however, I thought differently and grabbed the bag off the front seat. Tate was undoubtedly still angry with me. The fact that the marina was hopping-busy wouldn’t help his mood any either. Edna was right—no one could stay mad when they were given thoughtful, homemade cookies. Right?

  I fully expected to find Tate hard at work, but there was no sign of the tall, blond-headed man bobbing about the many boat slips, or down by the rental hut. My eyes then went straight to his personal slip at the far end of the cement pier. My heart sank when I noted it was empty. A quick scan of the harbor told me he wasn’t moored out there either.

  “Ms. Bloom!”

  I turned in the direction of the familiar voice and saw Cody Rivers, one of Tate’s younger employees, and Erik Larson’s best friend. “Cody,” I replied with a friendly wave. “How are you?”

  The kid cast me a harried look. “Could be better. I love working at the marina. Sure beats picking cherries and bussing tables.” He flashed me an ironic grin. “However, it would be nice if my boss was here to help us out.”

  “Yes. I’ve heard. He’s out on a little sailing expedition.”

  “Rumor is, you chased him away.” The accusatory stare was a bit insulting, coming from the young man.

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” I countered, privately musing that Mrs. Cushman had obviously briefed the staff as to why their boss had sailed away in the dead of night. “He just needs some alone-time, you know, to sort things out.”

  “Right.” The boy wasn’t buying it. Tate was well-loved in Cherry Cove, especially by Cody and Erik. They were as loyal as lapdogs, but I understood. It obviously had to do with the bro-code.

  “Listen. You have my word. Nothing’s going to happen to Tate. He’ll be fine. However, because I’m genuinely concerned”—here I held up the bag of cookies—“I’d like to have a word with Mrs. Cushman. Is she in?”

  “On her yacht,” he replied, and pointed to the Boondoggle II—as if it didn’t stick out like an elephant amongst a pool of pygmy hippos as it rose and fell ever so slightly in its moorings. “But knock first,” he warned as I headed for the behemoth. “She’s entertaining a man.”

  Charmed by the thought of Mrs. Cushman entertaining a man aboard her yacht, I decided it best to proclaim my arrival. I stood beside the gangway and called out, “Ahoy the Boondoggle II,” to one of the open windows. At the sound of my voice Molly started barking. A moment later Mrs. Cushman appeared on deck and waved.

  “Whitney, why, permission to come aboard, dear. We’re just finishing our coffee.”

  I was always a bit unsettled by the magnificence of the yacht. It was a treasure trove of polished teak, brass fittings, tinted windows, and luxurious furnishings cleverly fitted into the curves of the craft like gentrified Legos. It was a penthouse on the waves, ultra-sexy and sleek. The fact that an elderly lady and her adopted dog lived aboard it never failed to delight me. In fact, the whole town had been tickled when Tate’s housekeeper had packed up her bags and left the house, only to march down Tate’s lawn, enter the marina, and climb aboard the abandoned yacht, swiftly claiming it as her own. As far as any of us knew, she’d never sailed a day in her life. The yacht hadn’t left its slip since she’d gained control of it. And anyhow, it took more than one woman to navigate a craft the size of the Boondoggle II.

  Once aboard, I followed Mrs. Cushman down a small flight of stairs to the spacious galley and eating area. The moment I did I nearly dropped my cookies.

  “Angel.” Giff smiled and languidly uncrossed his long legs. “What a surprise.”

  Was it? Obviously to him it wasn’t. “What are you doing here?” I asked. It came off as accusatory, because it was. I knew Giff was insatiably curious about the yacht; he’d been itching to climb aboard since it was abandoned in the spring. Although I knew he would have preferred a guided tour by Tate, I could see that Mrs. Cushman was doing an excellent job in Tate’s stead. But judging from the impish curl of Giff’s lips, this wasn’t about the boat. It was all about Tate. Gifford McGrady was moving in on my territory.

  “When I heard about Tate this morning, I grew concerned. Poor Cecelia,” Giff said, turning his sympathetic, puppy-dog eyes on Mrs. Cushman. “I would have thought you’d be here before now, Whitney, being the person responsible for his sudden departure.”

  Both sets of eyes turned on me. Mrs. Cushman was waiting for an explanation; Giff was waiting to see how I’d respond to the challenge, damn him.

  “There’s been a break in the murder investigation,” I told them both. “Since the inn is still shut down, and since I am the acting manager, it’s my duty to do all I can to move things along. Tate would understand. I stopped by because I thought he might be back.” Feeling the weight of their silence, my hand automatically sprang into the air, revealing the ziplock bag Edna had given me. “See? I made him some cookies.” It was a terrible lie. I’d just broken the baker’s code, claiming another’s delectable treats as my own. Dear God, what depths had I sunk to? I looked at Giff. It took all I had not to slap the sardonic grin off his face with the bag of cookies.

  Beneath the dangling bleached forelock his black eyes glittered. “Whitney, you amaze me. When did you find the time?”

  “She is amazing,” Mrs. Cushman agreed, gracing me with a grandmotherly smile. She was utterly oblivious to Giff’s sarcasm. “And that’s a nice gesture, dear. But I’m afraid I must insist that you keep the cookies. There’s been no word from Tate and he’s still not answering his phone. I’m get
ting worried. I think you should take the cookies with you and go find him. I hate to even think it, but I’m going to insist you call Jack. He should go with you too, you know, in case there’s been any funny business.”

  “What? You … you think Tate’s in some kind of danger?” I suddenly felt a wave of genuine concern. “Mrs. Cushman. Tate left on his boat because we broke up. He’s upset.”

  Her compressed smile was placating at best. “Well, of course. But, dear, you two have broken up before and he’s always been back by lunch. This is different. There’s a murderer on the loose in Cherry Cove. It would be just like Tate to take off and try to find the culprit on his own.”

  Could this be true? Could Tate have found out something about the murderer—perhaps even the person’s identity? He’d told me himself, yesterday at Ed’s Diner, that he was enjoying the investigation. That was before Jack had made his appearance. It had been an emotional day for us all. But what if Mrs. Cushman was right? What if Tate had channeled his hurt and anger in another direction—like I had—and kept digging? He’d taken his boat … or maybe somebody else had. If Tate had gotten close to the truth, he could be in real danger.

  The thought was unsettling. I looked at Mrs. Cushman. “Did you happen to see Tate when he came home yesterday?”

  She nodded.

  “What did he do?”

  “He stormed into the house.”

  “Did you see him leave?”

  She nodded again. “He drove off in his truck. He was upset. I assumed he was going to the bar to have a few beers. I heard him come back, if that helps.”

  “It does,” I told her. “Do you know if he was alone?”

  Cecilia shrugged. “I can’t say for sure. It was late, and I was getting ready for bed. The only reason I knew he was back was because Molly barked. She always barks when she hears his truck pulling in the driveway. Whitney, is Tate in danger?”

  “I don’t know. But wherever he is, we’ll find him.” I then took Giff by the arm and pulled him to his feet. “Look, no one’s more concerned about Tate than we are. Do you mind if we have a quick look in his house before we go?”

  “Yes,” Giff cried, then lowered his voice in an effort to appear calm. “That’s a superb idea. We’ll need to search his house, probably from top to bottom, incase he’s left any clues.”

  “Do you still have keys?”

  “Of course I do,” Mrs. Cushman replied, pulling a set from the pocket of her capris. “I may live like a queen aboard the Boondoggle II, but on land I still get paid to scrub that man’s toilets.”

  Thirty-Seven

  W e followed Mrs. Cushman along the maze of docks, weaving through the press of boaters and guests as she headed toward the back lawn of the Vander Hagens’ rambling, lannon-stone ranch. The back of the house faced the bay, sitting at a comfortable distance from the marina yet close enough to keep an eye on things, just the way Tate’s dad had intended when he’d built it. Once across the patio, Mrs. Cushman opened the sliding glass door. Giff strolled in without a care. I felt slightly uncomfortable as I followed him.

  “Wow,” he remarked. “Much cleaner than I expected for a muscly bachelor, although the whole lakeside, boating theme is a bit overdone.”

  “Really?” I replied, scanning the airy room that was filled with sailing memorabilia. “The man owns a marina. And in case you hadn’t noticed, the lake is right over there.” I pointed out the sliding glass doors and continued through the family room to the kitchen. I immediately noticed a sprinkle of bread crumbs on a cutting board and a knife streaked with mayonnaise in the sink. A couple of empty beer cans sat on the counter beside the cutting board as well, which, under the circumstances, didn’t seem so out of place.

  “I cleaned this place up yesterday,” Mrs. Cushman informed us. “Tate must have made a sandwich last night.” She pointed to the beer cans. “And drank a few of those.”

  “Just two?” Giff shot me a pointed look. “I admire his restraint. Whenever I get dumped I go straight to the gin.”

  “Well, that’s a good idea,” Mrs. Cushman replied. “It’s far more respectable than drowning your sorrows with these.” She held up the beer cans, tipped them over the sink to force out the last few drops, and dropped them in the recyclable bin. The enchanted look on Giff’s face faded to gentle amusement when she added, “I’m not one for the gym.” Clearly she had misheard him. “I prefer yoga myself.”

  Giff wrinkled his nose in mock distaste. “I suppose anything’s tolerable with a splash of tonic and a twist of lime.”

  Mrs. Cushman nodded thoughtfully. “Have you ever tried Jenn’s cherry smoothie? That’ll fortify a body.” Thinking, she added, “It might even help mend a broken heart. I’ll have to make one for Tate when he returns.”

  “Good thinking,” Giff said and asked her to point him in the direction of the master bedroom.

  While Giff meandered off down the back hall, I gave another thought to the two beers in the recycle bin. I took a quick inventory of Tate’s fridge as well. He was never in the habit of keeping a lot in there, but I did know that he was fond of sandwich fixings. It was his go-to meal, convenient for a late-night snack and the perfect food for sailing. I turned to Mrs. Cushman. “It doesn’t take two beers to make one sandwich, especially for a man adept at wrapping a couple of pieces of bread around nearly everything he eats. Did his fridge look this empty yesterday?” I swung the double doors wide so she could bet a better look. “Two beers might indicate he was in the kitchen longer than the time it takes to make and eat one sandwich. Could he have been stocking up? You know, preparing for a longer sail?”

  She gave a little sigh. “It appears so. There was a lot of beer in there the other day.”

  I smiled gently. “I’ll check the garage just to be sure. If there’s a cooler missing, I’ll spot it.” I headed out of the kitchen, aiming for the garage, but then decided to make a detour to the master bedroom first, strongly suspecting that Giff was in there just snooping around for his own amusement.

  I opened the door and was a little shocked to see him sitting on the unmade bed studying a framed picture. He looked up as I entered, but the impish grin never appeared. Instead I was met with a quiet, solemn expression. “This was on the nightstand. It was placed face down. Pity,” he said, turning the picture to me. “You two made an adorable couple.”

  The picture had been taken years ago. Tay had gotten a new camera and had joined us for a sail aboard the Lusty Dutchman. She’d snapped a lot of pictures that day, but this one had been Tate’s favorite. He was at the wheel and I was beside him, our heads pressed together, our happiness genuine. We looked as if we didn’t have a care in the world, and back then we hadn’t. How strange pictures are, I thought. Capturing emotions with the click of a button. I had been in love, but I didn’t remember how much until I was forced to look at my own face. It was years ago, yet nonetheless my heart clenched painfully and every nerve in my body ached with renewed sadness.

  Tate had obviously felt it too, finally understanding that our day in the sun had passed. It was over. He had laid any remaining hopes to rest. The picture sent a clear message. Tate hadn’t been targeted by the Cherry Cove killer; I had chased him away. I had broken his heart.

  I walked over and gently took the picture from Giff’s hands. I then laid it back down on the nightstand. “We shouldn’t be in here. The man deserves his privacy.”

  Giff agreed and followed me out of the room. Before we left I checked the garage. Tate’s pickup truck was parked in one of the bays, and, just as I expected, a cooler was missing.

  “Call me if he returns,” I told Mrs. Cushman. “If I don’t hear from you in a few hours, we’ll try to find him.”

  “You’re driving,” I told Giff, heading for his gently used, light gray, three-series BMW convertible. “We’ll pick up mine on the way back.” I threw the peanut butter cookies in the back se
at and buckled up. The moment we pulled out of the Cherry Cove Marina heading north, I asked, “What the devil were you doing there?”

  The picture on Tate’s nightstand had given Giff a jolt, and at least he had the decency to look guilty. “The man’s heartbroken,” he stated. “And Mrs. Cushman was worried. Is it a crime to visit the poor woman and offer comfort?”

  “Generally, no. But I know you. Your visit to the marina wasn’t about Mrs. Cushman. It was reconnaissance. You want to get as much information on Tate as you can because you’re infatuated with him. You’re swooping in on my territory!”

  With sunlight glinting off his blond highlights and the mirrored blue lenses on his black sunglasses, he turned to me and smiled. Damn him, but his teeth were blinding too. “Abandoned territory, angel. The man’s vulnerable. I thought he could use a friend, one who understands exactly what he’s going through. I used to work with you, remember? I have invaluable insight the man could use just now.”

  Maybe I wasn’t totally over Tate, I thought, staring at Giff as we drove out of town toward our next destination. Fighting the sudden impulse to squeeze his neck, I offered instead, “He’s one hundred percent hetero. You know that, right? I mean, you can’t get any more manly than Tate Vander Hagen.”

  “Angel,” he soothed, grinning at my discomfort. “Your imagination delights me. But this isn’t what you think it is. Yes, I’m curious about that Adonis, and I’m also concerned. But I’m also a wee bit suspicious as well. Think about it. Tate knew Ms. Lumiere. You told me yourself that she tried to get him to pose for her in the nude. He has access to the inn, and I’m sure he could get a black cape if he wanted one.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m not saying anything. But I’ve been thinking. Peter McClellan’s an obvious choice for a murder suspect, isn’t he? He’s got motive, access to the inn, and he’s riddled with vices. He has an alibi, but it’s not without its flaws. Tate knows all this too. Both of you stumbled on Mr. McClellan when he was holding one of his little voodoo ceremonies on the beach. You said that Tate was beyond angry when he found out that Peter was supplying young Mr. Larson with weed. After Mr. Larson’s checkered recent past that had to have been quite a blow to a man like Tate, being a mentor to the boy. Another thing to consider. He’s still in love with you. What if he was trying to protect you from Silvia’s misplaced wrath and devised a way to make that happen? He wasn’t at the inn the night of her murder, but he could have entered the building late at night without anybody knowing. He probably still has a key to the place, and nobody’s bothered to look at him as a suspect. I doubt he even has an alibi.”