by Darci Hannah
Jack quietly told them about Tate and wisely took the tray from Mom’s hands, lest she drop it on the hard planks beneath her feet. The news was hard to swallow. Tate had killed Silvia Lumiere, then had taken his own life when the world seemed to be crumbling around him. Mom had a hard time believing what Jack was telling her, which was natural. Dad, however, seemed more hurt than saddened by the news.
“Dear Lord. Dear Lord, I better call his parents,” Mom offered as Dad stormed off toward his boat.
“Better hold off on that a bit longer, Mrs. Bloom. At least until I have all the details. I’ll call you tomorrow. If you still want to make the call, I’d be grateful.”
After Jack had answered all Mom’s questions to the best of his ability, Giff escorted her inside. I walked with Jack to his Jeep. He opened the door, letting MacDuff jump in first, then turned to me.
“I have to admit, this evening I wasn’t too keen on boating to the island with you and the others. Tate had run off and part of me was actually grateful. As I drove here, so many different scenarios played out in my mind as to how the evening might go, some good but most were disastrous for me, given your history with Tate. But never in a million years would I have imagined this. I’m at a loss, Whitney. I don’t know how to make sense of it all, and that seldom ever happens to me.”
I took his hand and said the only thing I could. “It would never have worked out badly for you, Jack. I never would have let it.” And just to make my point I placed a gentle kiss on his lips. It was all the encouragement Jack needed. A heartbeat later I was in his arms. The kiss I’d been fantasizing about ever since taking up residence in Cherry Cove was upon me, but the circumstances were hardly ideal. Neither of us could shake Tate from our heads, and we both knew it. At least Jack had tried. But the kiss came too soon, too suddenly, and it ended shortly after it began. “I’m sorry,” he whispered and released me, failure and sadness clinging to him like an unshakable parasite. He then got into his Jeep and drove out of the parking lot.
I just stood there, my heart aching as I watched his taillights fade in the darkness.
“For what it’s worth, I approve,” came a soft voice from behind me.
I spun around only to find Giff standing there. “Two hours ago, I was firmly on team Tate, purely for my own selfish reasons. But Officer McHottie, he’s a real solid kind of guy, angel.”
A fresh stream of tears began then. I couldn’t help it.
“Oh Whitney. You know I hate it when you cry.” But as he spoke, I could tell tears were forming in his own eyes. “Come. Let’s get you inside. It’s been a long day, and not a good one.”
Forty-Four
Giff and I had always worked well together. He’d been a dream of a coworker when I’d been in advertising with his witty remarks, his silly antics, and his creative mind. Giff was never afraid to voice his thoughts, no matter how crazy they might sound. And I appreciated that. Especially now, when I didn’t want to think about Tate, or that note, or the senseless death of Silvia Lumiere. It was late, but I couldn’t sleep. Giff couldn’t either. Instead he came to my room with a bottle of cherry juice and a head full of questions. It was just the distraction I needed.
“If you think about it, it really makes no sense,” he said, handing me a glass. He sat on the bench of my vanity and took a sip of the fortifying tart juice as he studied our suspect board. With the glass still in hand, he stood and pointed to a name. “Fred Beauchamp,” he remarked. “The man had a key to Silvia’s room. He lied about it, too, as well as sneaking back into the inn through the kitchen door. Silvia toyed with his emotions. And that portrait she’d painted of him? Utterly abominable! If anyone had a reason to want Ms. Lumiere dead, it would be Fred. So what’s his connection to Tate?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Look, angel. You know I think the world of you, but I know men. I didn’t want to say anything back there, mostly because I didn’t want to appear the insensitive ass. But, honestly, you’re hardly the type of woman that would make a man end it all, especially a man like Tate.”
“What?” I stared at him as anger and incredulity collided. “He wrote it in his note!” I stated, heatedly. “It was in his own hand, albeit sloppily written. And what do you mean by I’m not the type of woman? Hello, Gifford! Men like me.”
His answer to this was a sardonic arch of his brow. “I’m not saying they don’t, princess, but you and Tate were hardly dating. Your rekindled relationship was merely smoke and mirrors, thanks to Officer McHottie. However, I don’t doubt that you upset the poor man. You two had a long history together and when a long-term relationship ends, it’s crushing. Consider this as well; he’s a sailor. Why would he abandon his business, including that gorgeous boat of his? What I’m getting at, sweetheart, is the fact that Cherry Cove is a small town. Everyone around here seems to know about you and Tate. What if somehow Fred learned about your breakup and decided to use Tate as his scapegoat?”
I sat a little higher at the end of my bed contemplating the validity of what Giff was saying. The wheels in my head engaged. “You think Fred might have something to do with Tate’s disappearance? For your theory to work, Fred would have had to have known that Tate had sailed to that particular island. Mrs. Cushman was aware that he had sailed off but had no idea where to. Also, Fred would need a boat or access to one.”
“We can easily check that out,” Giff replied. “According to Mrs. Cushman, Tate sailed off Sunday night. Who else knew about it?”
“Mom knew and so did Grandma Jenn.” I pursed my lips together as I mentioned another name. “Edna Baker knew about it as well.”
“There you have it!” Giff declared, looking triumphant. “You’ve just named the four women upon which the Cherry Cove gossip mill is built. So we can pretty much assume that everyone in town, and very likely the whole peninsula, knows that the spurned owner of the Cherry Cove Marina hoisted sail and took off to some nearby island to lick his wounds.”
“True. I’ll give you that. But even if Fred went to the island with an intent to frame Tate for the murder of Silvia Lumiere, he’d still have to convince a man twenty-years younger, five inches taller and with a whole lot more muscle to write that note.”
Giff gave a meditative nod of his head. “Tate is quite the specimen. Normally I’d say you’re correct, but even our Vikingesque friend is no match for a gun. With a gun pointed at his head, he’d write the note.”
“Fred’s a potter. He doesn’t look the type to own a gun. Also, doesn’t it strike you as a little odd that Tate just happened to have a black cape with him? Tate doesn’t own a cape. I’d almost bet my life on that fact.”
“Peter!” Giff turned from the suspect board with dark eyes blazing. “I don’t know why, but Silvia’s death always seems to lead us back to Peter McClellan. Think about it, Whitney. Peter disappears on the island as soon as we land, ditching his fear-stricken girlfriend. We all pair up, you and I getting Hannah by default, and begin searching the island in different directions. But the island is deserted. Tate’s sailboat is also empty, and then voilà! Peter appears on the beach and magically finds the cape and the note.”
I had to admit, it was strange. Out of habit and impulse, I pulled my iPhone from my jeans and called Hannah. It was just after eleven o’clock. She’d still be awake.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Hannah.” As Giff anxiously looked on, Hannah answered.
“Sorry to bother you so late,” I said, “but I have to ask you a question. Is Peter’s wizard cape at your condo?”
“Oh no!” she cried on the other end. “You seriously still think Peter had something to do with all this?” There was no doubt Hannah was angry.
God help me, I didn’t want to keep pushing, but for the sake of murder I had to. “Please, Hannah,” I begged as my heart began to pound painfully against my rib cage. “I just need you to check
and see if Peter’s cape is at your place.” I waited in silence as fear began to plague my nerves.
“Dangit, Whit! Normally I’d tell you no. But under the circumstances … because it’s been a difficult night for us all, I’ll check.” I held my breath until her voice came back over the phone. “Yeah. I got it right here,” she said. “Now, do me a favor and erase Peter from your suspect board. I’m serious, Whitney.”
“I will. I promise. But first can you please put him on the phone.”
A moment later a distinctive, “Dude,” floated out of the speaker. “Like, what is it now, Whitney?”
“Just a quick question. When we got to the island you disappeared. Where’d you go?”
“Um, like, I’m not exactly sure where? It was dark and woody. But if you want to know why I skedaddled off, that’s easy. Since Hannah had stayed on the beach I like decided to find a quiet spot for a poop.” He lowered his voice. “I had to go. It’s something I prefer to do in private. Anyhow, by the time I came back to the beach, like, everyone was gone. Then I saw the cooler. I figured from all the beer cans on the beach that there likely were more in there, but I was wrong. Vander Hagen drank it all. All that was in there was some black material and the suicide note. Really sorry about that, Whitney. I didn’t know it was a cape either because it was the same material Silvia uses to cover her portraits for her unveilings. But when I held it up, poof! It was a cape.”
“Wait. You recognized the material?”
“Yeah. Though it’s hardly scarce. You can buy it at any fabric store. Silvia bought bolts of the stuff.”
“So you’re saying that the cape was handmade?”
“Totally. Machine stitched. A really sweet job too. Vander Hagen has skills. Okay, well, I’ve got to go. Can’t keep m’lady waiting.” I thanked him before he ended the call.
Giff looked intrigued. “Okay,” I said, thinking. “I’m sorry to inform you, but Peter’s not our guy. It’s been confirmed. His cape’s at Hannah’s place. But he did mention something very interesting. He said that the one he found in the cooler was handmade.” I turned to Giff, a terrible thought dawning on me. “Holy cobbler!” I cried. “Bob Bonaire saw Tate at Shenanigans last night, remember?
“Bob has a boat,” Giff chimed in, looking excited. “A really nice one at that. It’s the kind of boat that could run out to the island and back under a half an hour.”
“No,” I said, getting off the bed. I walked over to the suspect board and picked up a marker. “Not Bob. It was something Bob said—about a group of women from a book club. They were talking with Tate, trying to cheer him up. And one of those women was Alexa Livingstone.” I wrote her name on the board, a name that until now had been overlooked.
“What? You think it was that stunningly rich woman who adored Silvia? Whitney,” he chided, although I was happy to note that the wheels of his mind were also spinning.
“She’s an interior designer. Peter said that the cape was sewn, not bought, and I’d bet my life Alexa knows her way around a sewing machine. Also, she has a very large boat and seemed in a hurry to cast off.” As I spoke, a press of thoughts and images of Alexa came tumbling into my head.
“I saw her in Tay’s shop this morning while you were still sleeping.” I told him. “Jack and I had gone in there to talk with Lance about that portrait of him we found in Silvia’s trailer. Alexa was there. It’s where she learned that I was no longer a suspect in Silvia’s murder. A while later Jack and I found her at Fred’s pottery studio. That’s when we found Silvia’s room key dangling by the back door. Alexa didn’t look to be in too much of a hurry when we found her there. What changed that suddenly made her anxious to motor off to Mackinac Island?”
“She could be in mourning,” Giff pointed out, clearly not happy with the way the conversation was going.
“Or she could be hiding something … like a portrait! Peter said her unveiling went fine, but I sure got the feeling Alexa didn’t want us to see her portrait.” Jumping to my feet, I grabbed my car keys off the dresser and turned back to Giff. “Come hell or high water, my friend, I’m going to see that portrait.”
Forty-Five
Our plan, hastily devised in my car as we raced down the deserted highway, was simple. Giff was to create a diversion by going to the front door while I snuck around back and climbed aboard Alexa’s mini-yacht. He was to flirt with her, something he’d been shamelessly doing earlier in the day. It wouldn’t come as a huge surprise to her, I reasoned, when he showed up on her doorstep at midnight with a bottle of cherry wine in hand. She’d be flattered.
“That’s a terrible idea,” he said, shaking his head as he stared at me.
“It’s a brilliant idea,” I countered. “She already knows you like her.”
“Correction. I like her money. The whole possibility of her being a murderer, however, has ruined the romance for me. For instance, what if she invites me in?”
“Then you go in.”
“You’re a monster.”
“Look, you don’t have to stay long, just long enough for me to get on that boat and have a look around. There must be something wonky going on with that portrait. I’m sure of it. All along, Giff, I’ve had the feeling that Silvia’s murder is directly connected to her paintings. You’ve seen them for yourself. There has to be a connection there.”
“Why don’t I climb aboard the yacht and you give her the wine? You know I have a better eye for art than you do. And we both know how you love wine.”
I turned onto the long drive and cut the engine, coasting silently to a stop on the far side of the three-car garage. Once the car was parked, I turned to Giff and whispered, “Because you’re a handsome devil and a shameless bootlicker. Now go. I’ll buzz your phone when I’m ready to leave. If there’s something amiss we go straight to Jack. Got it?”
“Got it, boss.”
I watched as Giff quietly walked down the brick walkway toward the front door with a bottle of wine taken from the inn. Once he was on his way, I snuck around the side of the garage and headed toward the back yard. I was struck with a terrible thought—if the yacht was gone, the portrait would be gone with it. I held my breath as the yard and lake opened before me, then slowly released it.
The yacht was still moored to the dock.
Feeling emboldened, I ran for it, as swift and silently as I could. However, the moment I hit the back lawn the darkness gave way to a burst of blinding light. It had the same effect as a bomb going off, only without the noise. I had tripped the floodlight sensors, something I hadn’t even considered. I should have stopped and crouched behind a bush. It would have been the smart thing to do. But I couldn’t stop running. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, my heart was pumping double-time, and I felt like a super-charged superhero as I bounded for the yacht. The moment I leapt aboard I crouched low, frantically trying to catch my breath. A moment later I got to my feet and peered over the railing to see if anyone had detected me. Aside from the bright lights, all was still and silent.
My heart slowed to a pace just above normal. It was time to get to work. I pulled out my phone and hit the flashlight app, then entered the main living quarters of the boat. Like the house that towered over the back lawn, the craft was spectacular. The smartly fitted furniture and seaworthy décor were done in shades of light blue and white with accents of gold. The wood was lighter than the on the Boondoggle II, but just as finely polished. Alexa’s manageable yacht appeared both elegant and livable. It was impressive, and the thought struck me that if I should ever be so lucky, this would be the exact yacht I’d have. It was regal and sexy; it was just the thing Jack and I needed to sail the Great Lakes.
Yep, just my hot cop boyfriend and me … and his dog. Possibly the goats as well. Nope. Not with this décor. I’d have to put my foot down about the goats. It would be MacDuff, Jack, and me sailing the fresh water in our boat. As I studied the room, the fantas
y took life in my mind. How great would it be? How hot would Jack look captaining such a huge craft? I would bet there was a rockin’ master bedroom aboard her too. I was just about to go there in my mind when Jack’s face popped into my head. And it wasn’t his handsome, smiling face either. It was his angry face—the exact stern, unbending look he’d have if he ever found out that I was here, illegally trespassing on a wealthy woman’s yacht. That face was a real fantasy-crusher.
However, all thoughts of Jack faded the moment my light touched on a gilded frame. Reality struck. Not only would I never be able to bake enough cherry pastries to afford a yacht as grand as Alexa’s, but there was no doubt in my mind that I’d found Alexa’s commissioned portrait.
It was still on its easel but had been turned to the wall. The long black cloth that had once covered it was also gone. I walked across the elegant room and turned the portrait around. Then, with my light shining on the glossy, oil-covered canvas, I stared.
For a brief moment I felt the presence of the painter beside me. It was a whiff of a scent, a vision of the mischievous pixy smile. The light I cast on the portrait seemed to grow brighter, then fade as I stared at yet another work that was as brilliant as it was masterful. Before me was a four-foot portrait of Alexa Livingstone, with every nuance of her form and personality laid bare for the casual observer. It brought to mind my earlier conversation with Char and Todd.
It was during the high tea reception for Silvia Lumiere. Alexa Livingstone, as head of the Cherry Country Arts Council, had just come to the microphone to introduce the guest of honor. Todd had described her portrait sitting. He had called her the White Lady, then proceeded to describe how the tall, elderly woman, still pretty in a manufactured way and wearing an outdated white gown, had arrived for her portrait. She had chosen to stand beside the trunk of a gnarled old oak, and I couldn’t help but notice how the two shared a striking familiarity. They were both tall, a bit weathered, and yet proud and wise with age. Alexa’s eyes were still vibrant and sharp. A compliment to the handsome woman if ever there was one. I searched every corner of the canvas, thinking there must be some mistake—some travesty hidden in the purposeful brushstrokes. But the longer I searched, the more I realized that Silvia Lumiere had painted a masterpiece for the only woman who dared call her a friend.
