by Eve Calder
“And you can’t exactly do that from Denver,” Kate said softly.
“No, you can’t. So how did you end up here? You’re a pastry chef from Manhattan. And I hear you pretty much turned that bakery around. And now you own it. But why did you move here in the first place?”
“The town turned the bakery around,” Kate protested. “I was just a witness. And Sam wanted someone to share the work, so he made me a partner. Junior partner.”
“Right. But what brought you here?”
“It wasn’t that I didn’t like Manhattan. I did. But I didn’t like the way I was living there. The only time I saw the sun was on my way to work. And all I did was work. I’d heard so much about Coral Cay. The food. The island. The people.”
She recalled the tattered file folder she’d kept for years. With magazine and newspaper clippings. Anything related to the island, the resorts, the restaurants, or the food. Too nerdy? Definitely.
“I wanted to come here on vacation and see it,” she continued. “Maybe move here later if it turned out to be everything I believed it was. Then one day I realized that that magical someday vacation was never going to happen. If I ever wanted to see Coral Cay, I was just going to have to drop everything, get in my car, and drive there.”
“And you did, and the rest is history,” he said, smiling.
“And I did, and my car broke down on Main Street,” she countered. “And then the rest is history. So, you know, basically your typical relocation story.”
“Somehow, Ms. McGuire, I don’t think anything about you is typical,” he teased.
In spite of the cool breeze coming in off the water, Kate could feel her face go hot. And she could smell his aftershave. Citrus with a hint of spice. Masculine and warm.
“It’s funny I should run into you,” Kate said finally. “Maxi and I were planning on dropping by the vet clinic this morning.”
“Wellness visit for young Oliver?” he asked.
“Trying to re-home a puppy,” Kate said. “A little Parson Russell Terrier. We were wondering if you might know of someone looking for a dog who could give him a good home?”
“How old is the little guy?” Jack said. “And do you know the reason he needs a new home?” The knit of his brow and tone of his voice told Kate she’d touched a nerve.
“No idea how old he is—I’m guessing about three months, maybe. A friend of mine got him at the pound. For a gift. It’s kind of a long story.”
Jack shook his head. “I always hate to see that. Surprising someone with a living creature as a present. Not a good way to go. Better to get someone a gift certificate to a local shelter. That way, they can go down, meet the cats and dogs themselves—and see if they bond with one. Tell you what, bring the little guy in this afternoon. I can give him a quick exam to make sure he’s healthy—on the house. And I can probably give you an idea of just how old he is, too. Then we’ll see what we can do about finding him a home. A good home.”
“That would be great. I really appreciate it.”
“So, if you don’t mind my asking, who is this person who’s going around gifting animals? Because I wouldn’t mind having a friendly chat with them. Just to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
“This was just a one-time aberration,” Kate said. “And you’d only be wasting your breath. I can guarantee you this is someone who honestly never listens to anyone.”
Chapter 55
Later that morning, as Kate turned the CLOSED sign to OPEN, she saw Rosie Armand waiting on the front porch of the Cookie House.
Turned out in a beautiful tan silk suit with a patterned designer blouse, and dangling a vintage handbag from her elbow, the antique store owner looked cool and elegant.
Kate opened the door wide.
“I hope you don’t think I’m being rude,” Rosie said, peeking into the shop. “But there’s something a little weird about those praline sandies.”
“I’m so sorry,” Kate said. “I guess they don’t taste like the ones your mother makes.”
“No, that’s the strange part,” Rosie said. “They taste exactly like the ones my mom makes.”
Seeing Kate’s puzzled expression, she grinned.
“You’ve got to understand,” Rosie explained. “New Orleans is a place that thrives on diversity. Nobody does anything the same way as anyone else.”
“Like jazz,” Kate said.
“Yes! Even no two recipes are alike. Remember I said every family has its own way of fixin’ pralines?”
Kate nodded.
“One of my cousins puts hot pepper in hers. Just a little, mind you. Gives ’em a kick and takes the edge off the sweet. But that’s her thing, and nobody else makes ’em like that.”
“But the cookies I baked from Harper Duval’s recipe,” Kate said, “which is really his mother’s recipe…”
“Look and taste exactly like the ones my mom makes. I mean exactly. Would you mind if I checked out the recipe? I mean, does that violate some kind of baker’s code?”
“I think I can make an exception,” Kate said smiling. “Besides, now you’ve got me curious. Come on into the kitchen. You can pour yourself a cup of coffee, and I’ll pull the recipe out of my file box.”
“At least Harp’s come around on the Gentleman George project,” Kate said, as Rosie settled into a chair at the bakery’s kitchen table. “When he stopped in here yesterday to pick up his contest cookies, he told me he wants to help. He’s even going to see if Caroline might have left behind any history books that could be useful.”
“I found a little nugget on George my own self,” Rosie said, grinning. “Annie is great with genealogy, and she’d gotten a document dump from the area that includes Marleigh Hall. And it is a pile. So we split it up. Anyway, in my stack there was a reference to George Bly’s birth year—1559. I realize it’s not much. But I’m insanely proud that I found it. I got to make my own little mark on Barb’s Gentleman George board.”
“Rosie, that’s fantastic,” Kate said. “And you have every right to be proud. Claire gave me a book of family correspondence that was assembled at Marleigh Hall. In the front there’s a family tree. And even that doesn’t give his birth year. Or his death year. Just question marks for both. Henry, on the other hand, lived a very well-documented life.”
“Hey, I guess that’s what happens when you’re sailing the high seas,” Rosie said. “No time for paperwork.”
“OK,” Kate said, pulling a three-by-five card from a small white metal recipe box. “Here we go. He actually included a recipe—some of them don’t—and this is it. It was on the back of his entry. I recopied it onto this card, so that I have it for the bakery. But I didn’t change anything.”
Rosie frowned as she scanned the card. “This is it. This is my mother’s recipe. Word for word. Ingredients, instructions—everything the same.”
Kate paused, perplexed. She worked in food. Similarities in recipes were common. And cooks and chefs bickered constantly—and bitterly—about who developed popular dishes first. Or whose version was superior. But exact matches? Those were rare. And suspicious.
“Could he somehow have gotten it from her?” Kate asked finally.
Rosie laughed out loud. “Sorry, you don’t know my mom. If you did, that would be funny. No, she definitely wouldn’t share. I’ve made these with her for years. And I had to practically get down on my knees and beg her for a copy of this. But she finally wrote out the recipes to some of her specialties for me. In a little yellow address book—about yea big,” Rosie said, holding her hands about half a foot apart. “It’s one of my prized possessions.”
“Could she have gotten the recipe from Harp’s mother?” Kate asked. “Maybe they knew each other.”
“No, Mom got this one from her mother,” Rosie said, taking a last glance at the card and handing it back to Kate. “Thanks for letting me look, though. Even if it didn’t really answer my question. I guess it’s just going to remain one of life’s little mysteries.”
Chapter 56
When she finally had a break between customers, Kate walked into the kitchen and topped off her coffee. Then she grabbed the phone and dialed the flower shop.
“Flowers Maximus, this is Maxi.”
“Good news on a couple of fronts,” Kate said. “I finished the treasure chest cake, and it looks awesome. Like something straight out of a pirate legend. I even topped it off with doubloon cookies, foil-wrapped chocolate coins, and a couple of those lollipop rings that resemble rubies—so it looks like there’s treasure spilling out of the top. If you want, I can come with you to the resort to help with the party delivery. And I ran into Jack Scanlon this morning. He’s willing to give the puppy a wellness check and help us find him a new home.”
“The checkup would be a good idea, but I don’t think we’re going to need to find him a home,” Maxi said, yawning.
“Why not? What happened?”
“Here’s something I didn’t know. Bringing your family a puppy makes you the best mom ever. Taking that puppy away from them the next morning? Not so much.”
“Oh geez,” Kate said.
“Peter and I were up all last night talking about it. He fell for the little guy pretty hard, too. And we’d been considering getting the boys a dog for a while. Now that Elena’s getting bigger—and she understands the need to be gentle with a little puppy—we think we’re ready. So we’re keeping him.”
“Maxi, that’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you. Now Oliver will have a little brother.”
“You haven’t heard the best part,” the florist said. “My little pirates put their heads together on a name. They want to call him George.”
Chapter 57
That morning, as a steady stream of customers poured into the Cookie House, Sam worked the counter, while Kate decided it was time to give the kitchen a good scrub. “Cleaning therapy,” one of her CIA instructors called it.
So when the phone rang, she was more than ready for a break. She half expected it to be the resort. She just hoped they didn’t need pirate cookies to go with the pirate cake. Or that they hadn’t cancelled the party altogether.
“The Cookie House, this is Kate.”
“Find my heart, and you will spy my treasure.”
“Harp?”
“Supposedly the last words of our pirate friend. All oral history, apparently. But that’s the line that launched the age-old search for his lost treasure. This particular nugget is from a dusty little tome entitled Gentleman George’s Lost Hoard. I found a couple of Caroline’s books, but this one from the 1890s is particularly illuminating. Apparently, in the early seventeen hundreds, they even turned his story into a drinking song. Performed in only the best establishments, of course.”
“Well, of course.”
“Anyway, I brought the books over to the shop intending to drop them off at your bakery. But I haven’t been able to put a foot out the door all morning. For reasons beyond my comprehension, my store has been deluged with customers.”
“I know what you mean. We’ve been swamped, too.”
“Pirate fever, I’m afraid. Anyway, I can’t get away. But if you happen to be passing by, you could pick them up.”
“Sam’s working the counter. As soon as I finish in the kitchen, I can take a break. I’ll be over within the hour. While I’m at it, do you need anything for the shop?”
“Two loaves of Sam’s sourdough would be lovely. And a few of those sandies, if you have any left.”
Kate remembered her visit from Rosie this morning. Should she ask Harp about the recipe? Perhaps that was a question better posed in person. When she could gauge his reaction.
“Don’t worry, I think I can find some. See you soon.”
Chapter 58
Harper Duval was right. Tourists were out in record numbers. The normal end-of-season push? Or had word of Gentleman George’s lost treasure spread more quickly than they’d anticipated?
There were so many people on the sidewalk, it was difficult for her and Oliver to walk side by side. At one point, the dog simply stopped, stood stock-still, and let the crowd flow around him.
At the doorway of In Vino Veritas, the pup hesitated. He looked up at Kate, a question in his eyes.
“Just for a minute, I promise. We have to drop these off,” she said softly, balancing the bags of bread on the box of cookies, to reach for the door handle. “Then we’re out of here. I promise.”
Was it her imagination, or did Oliver look doubtful?
“Honest. Come on.”
Harp’s shop was, as promised, full of people. But it was still less crowded than the sidewalk out front. Seeing her, the proprietor rushed over and rescued the parcels from her arms.
“This way,” he said. “It’s a little less crowded toward the back. And I can set you up with a good cup of coffee for your troubles.”
Despite the throng, Oliver remained quietly Velcroed to her side.
Harp looked down as he passed an antique china cup to Kate. The aroma gave it away: chicory coffee.
“I’m sorry I don’t have any refreshment for the little fellow. I could get him some water, if that might suit.”
“Don’t worry,” Kate said hurriedly. “We’re in the middle of his walking time. We’ll be out of here in a few minutes.”
“Let me just nip into the back and get you those books.”
On the floor, Oliver stretched out, relaxed, by her feet. The door opened, and Kate looked up to see Ben Abrams at the front of the store. She waved, and he returned the gesture.
The brawny detective was surprisingly graceful at cutting through the crowd.
“Is it always like this right before the festival?” Kate asked.
“Not like this,” Ben said. “Pirate fever. Isn’t a metal detector available for sale or rent within fifty miles. Your friend Gentleman George made the national news. You know anything about that?”
“No. Why would you think that?” Then it hit her. “Oh no, Evan.”
Ben nodded. “Can’t prove it. He denies it, of course. But the smarmy smile says otherwise.”
“Ben, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s not your doing.” The police detective shook his head. “That ex of yours is a real piece of work. Just to be on the safe side, we’re stepping up patrols past the flower shop, in addition to your friend Manny’s security guys. And the CCTV. But if you see anything, even if you’re not sure, don’t hesitate to phone it in. I’d rather err on the side of caution.”
Kate nodded. “Of course. I’ll let Sam know, too.”
“Good. Hey, is Harp around? I needed to have a quick word.”
“In the back, getting me some books. On Gentleman George, ironically.”
Ben grinned.
Seconds later, the shop owner appeared, carrying a stack of books. “Some of these are a bit tattered, I’m afraid, but they came that way. And this one on top is the one I was telling you about.” He stopped short when he noticed Ben Abrams.
“Harp, I need to speak with Caroline,” Ben said quietly. “Do you know how I can reach her?”
“What’s this all about, Ben?”
The detective looked around the crowded store. “Maybe we should step into the back.”
Harper Duval went still. “All right,” he said finally. “This way. Kate’s my guest—she comes, too.”
Kate felt that familiar knot in her stomach. She didn’t really want to be part of the conversation. But she remembered the exchange with Amos. Maybe Harp needed a friendly face there, too.
“Would that be OK?” she asked Ben.
He nodded.
They walked into Harper Duval’s back room, which was almost like an extension of his store. Same dark wood, marble counters, and brass fixtures. Same smell of sandalwood and spices. The shop owner slipped a pocket door closed, giving them a modicum of privacy.
But to Kate it felt claustrophobic. Oliver’s shoulder, tight to her knee, was comforting.
Ben
leaned against one wall, his arms crossed. “Do you know a man named Joel Drummond?” he asked.
“Of course, he was Caroline’s brother,” Harp said, turning to face him. “Why?”
Ben focused on Harp, softening his tone. “It’s possible that the skeleton found behind the flower shop is him. I need to inform your wife and arrange for some tests to prove it one way or the other.”
“But it can’t be him,” Harp said, startled. “Joel died years ago. Like my wife, he had problems with alcohol. But unlike Caroline, he never managed to beat it.”
The detective cocked his head to one side. His manner and body language telegraphed “relaxed and friendly.” But he was laser-focused on Harp. “Well, a man claiming to be Joel Drummond approached the family’s trust fund manager just after the New Year. He said he was on his way to Florida to visit his sister. But when he got back to Boston he wanted to come in, meet with the manager, and reassert his claim to a share of the trust. They scheduled an appointment for April, but Joel never showed.”
“So the manager never met him?” Harp asked.
Ben shook his head. “Nope.”
“If he had, he’d have discovered that the gentleman was a fraud. And I’m guessing your con man got a very understandable case of cold feet. We’ve had quite a few ‘Joels’ pop up over the years. Though none of them has ever been audacious enough to go directly to the trustee. That’s a nice touch.”
“Either way, we have to rule Joel Drummond in or out. Which means, I need to talk with Caroline.”
“You do realize this little maneuver will be the end of my marriage?” Harp said glumly.
“How so?” Ben asked curiously, shifting his weight from the wall.
“Caroline knows her brother is gone,” Harp said. “She’ll think I cooked up this whole plot in an attempt to force her back to Coral Cay. Back to me. And she’ll be so angry that she’ll take that opportunity to finalize our divorce. I don’t want that.
