Finn-agled

by Kristine Raymond

Yeah, right.

  I pushed my lobster roll aside. No reflection on Wendi’s cooking, but talk of Corollas and motives and shark sightings ruined my appetite. Not to mention the big fat lie I was sitting on. Well, not so much a lie as an omission. Yeah, that sounds better. Maybe there’s still a way to salvage this. “There’s something else.”

  “I’m on the edge of my seat.”

  “Garfunkel was acting weird Sunday afternoon. Baying, tearing up the wall and door frame, basically going nuts trying to get outside.”

  “Maybe he had to pee.”

  “That’s what I thought, but he wasn’t at the back door. He was at the front. I’ve never seen him that worked up before.” Hard to reconcile the dog I’m describing with the one drooling on my foot. “Then, just like that, he stopped, trotted into the living room and went to sleep. It’s almost like he thought someone was outside.”

  “Did you see anyone?”

  “Nooo…but I was sort of busy trying to prevent him from destroying the house.” And, almost sharing a kiss with Spencer, but Zara’s not ready for that revelation yet either.

  Gathering up her trash, and mine, she dumped it in the wastebasket and returned with two refills of iced tea. “You know, he was probably barking at a butterfly. No offense, but your pooch is a tad on the eccentric side.”

  “Okay, then. How about this? Someone tried to break into Lance.”

  Zara perked up. “When did this happen?”

  “Right before I closed up for lunch. I was getting ready to leave and glanced out the window. You know how I park Lance at the curb sometimes? Well, some guy was fiddling around on the driver’s side. He took off when I stepped outside, but there’s definitely a scratch on the door panel.”

  “Fiddling around, huh? Did the alarm go off?”

  “No. I, uh…forgot to set it.”

  “Okay. What did he look like?”

  I shrugged. “Touristy?”

  There are times I feel sorry for my best friend. This is one of those times. Sweeping her arm in a wide arc, Zara said, “Can you be a little more specific, Finn?”

  “I couldn’t see his face. He had a white ball cap pulled low over his eyes. But I can tell you what he was wearing.”

  “If you think that’ll help.”

  “Khaki shorts and a t-shirt that said ‘I found yew in Port New’ – you know, from the botanical garden gift shop over on Sycamore.”

  “Anything else? Height? Weight? Hair color? A tattoo or other identifying mark? A limp? Anything?”

  I shook my head. “No…wait! Come to think of it, he was limping. And he seemed kind of familiar, but I can’t think of anyone I know who has a leg or foot injury. More importantly, though, he damaged Lance!”

  If Dough Knots served alcohol, Zara would be ordering a pitcher right about now. “Did you call the police? File an incident report?”

  “I figured since we were meeting for lunch, I’d tell you instead.”

  Make that two pitchers.

  “All right. Let’s take a look. I assume you’re still parked in front of the shop?”

  “Are you crazy? Leave Lance unprotected? No way! He’s right over there.” I pointed to my Miata, sunlight sparkling off its polished sheen.

  “You drove half a block?” Zara dissolved into hysterics, tears rolling down her face as she cackled and wheezed, looking less like a distinguished Port New detective and more like someone on the verge of a breakdown.

  I fail to see the humor. “People are staring, you know. Wendi just popped her head out to make sure no one’s choking.”

  “I’m sorry.” Giggle, snort. “It’s just…you drove half a block!”

  Seven minutes later, still beleaguered by the occasional hiccup, Zara scrutinized the spot I was pointing to. “This? This little scratch is what you’re up in arms about?”

  “Little scratch! The paint is chipped down to the primer!”

  “Finn, that could’ve happened anywhere. The grocery store, the bank. Heck, maybe it’s a bad paint job starting to peel off.”

  She’s describing my worst nightmare.

  “What it’s not,” Zara continued, “is evidence of someone breaking into your car.”

  “Then what was he doing?”

  “I don’t know. Checking his reflection in the window? Leaning against the door to rest for a minute? Hell, maybe he was casing it, trying to see if there was anything inside worth stealing, but I can’t swear out a warrant against someone for being an ass. There has to be an actual crime committed.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m late. Duley’s waiting for me at the Newcastle estate.”

  “Fine. Go. I’m sure you have better things to do than help me.” I admit, pouting is not my most attractive quality, though entirely appropriate at the moment, don’t you think? Too bad Zara knows better than to fall for it.

  “I know it’s disconcerting that there aren’t any leads in your case, but imagining you’re being followed isn’t going to help the investigation. There’s no one after you, Finn.” Settling behind the steering wheel of her unmarked, she peered up at me with genuine concern. This is why she’s my best friend. “Are you okay? Do I need to be worried?”

  “I’m fine.” Lie number two, but who’s counting?

  “Oh, by the way. The Chief’s put a halt on all time-off until we clear some of our cases, so I won’t be able to make mani-pedis tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I understand.” More time for me to work on figuring out the code. “Next day you’re off.”

  “It’s a date.” With another glance at her watch, Zara drove away, tooting the horn as she pulled out of the lot.

  Garfunkel whined impatiently as I unlocked the door for the half-block ride back to Finn’s Finds. When we got to the shop, I paused before getting out, searching the street for a white Corolla or man with a limp. I saw neither, but made doubly sure to set Lance’s alarm.

  I’m entirely to blame for what transpired next. Had I been paying attention to my surroundings instead of daydreaming about Spencer, I would’ve seen her coming.

  The ‘her’ I’m referring to? JoBeth Halpern; my archenemy. Or do those only exist in comic books?

  Let me back up a minute. Remember when I told you the shop is closed on Wednesdays? Well, since I no longer had plans with Zara, and after staying up into the wee hours of the morning trying to crack that damn code – okay, most of that time was spent talking to Spencer, but I did manage one or two attempts after we hung up – I accepted that I’d reached the limits of my decryption abilities and further research was needed in order to complete the objective.

  A trip to the bookstore yielded two volumes on code-breaking and a hardback copy of Reneva St. James’ latest historical romance which I’ve been wanting to read for over a month. Strolling across the parking lot admiring the cover, envisioning myself as the hapless, yet determined damsel-in-distress and Spencer as my chivalrous protector, I neglected to notice the person rushing towards me, hailing me as if I were a cab. You’d think I’d be more observant, given all that’s happened lately.

  Anyway, startled at my name being bellowed from across the parking lot, the St. James novel slipped from my hand, landing in a puddle of schmutz. “Dang it!” Picking it up, I rubbed at the stain sullying the cover with my thumb, licking it first for good measure – my thumb, not the book. I should’ve used the time to make my escape.

  “Finn Bartusiak. How nice to see you. You’re looking well.”

  If I pretend not to see her, think she’ll go away? Apparently not.

  “So, I hear Spencer Dane’s back in town, looking quite yummy by all reports, and that he’s moving here for good.”

  “And?” Concentrating on the cover, I continued to rub furiously. Hey, it’s working! The stain is fading. Either that or I’ve worn the paper thin. I hate when that happens.

  Not that she ever could take a hint, JoJo rambled on. “I also hear that he’s single, and as a bestselling author, I imagine he’s rather well-to-do.”


  I finally looked up. “Is there a point to this? I need to get home and scrub my toilet.”

  The insult sailed over her head. Go figure. In her relentless pursuit to irritate me, she prompted, “Word is, you’ve been seen in each other’s company. Is it true? Are you and Spencer dating?”

  “What are you? A reporter for the National Enquirer? Why do you care about my social life?”

  Two things here – first, I know exactly why she cares, but if she thinks I’m giving up any information as to the status of my relationship with Spencer, especially considering I’m not sure that two dates (one casual and one formal), two quite extensive phone calls, and a few hours of necking equate a relationship, she’s sorely mistaken; and second, is it wrong to take pleasure in the fact that her roots are showing? I think someone’s overdue for an appointment with her stylist.

  Evidently, my remark went over exactly as intended because her penciled-in brows snapped together, forming an angry ‘V’ below her forehead. Tapping a pointed, fuchsia-painted acrylic nail into the center of my breastbone – which, incidentally, hurt like the dickens – she spat out, “You think you’re so smart with your trinket shop and witty come-backs, but let me tell you something – Spencer Dane is mine. He always has been, and he always will be. Don’t you forget it!”

  “Does he know that?”

  Her scathing retort went unheard as a white Corolla pulling into the lot caught my attention. Adrenaline surging – more flight than fight – my heart leapt to my throat, hovering there until two young women and six kids (how’d they manage to cram themselves in there?) got out and headed for the creamery next to the bookstore. My pulse slowing to normal, I side-stepped JoJo, the conversation as good as over in my opinion.

  This is why I never win the lottery.

  “He’ll choose me, Finn. He did back in high school, and he will now.” Her voice rising several notches, drawing curious glances from passersby and setting off a car alarm three spaces down (oops; I think I accidentally hit my key fob), JoJo launched a parting shot. “If you think I’m not going to fight you for him, you’re dead wrong.”

  That does it! It’s my day off, and all I want is to go home and crack open Seductive Desires. And work on the code. And, maybe, eat ice cream. “JoJo, don’t you have a divorce settlement to finalize?”

  Whoa! Someone’s been hanging out by the wharf.

  About to ask if she kisses her mother with that mouth, I was saved from poking the bear (or is it poking the hornet’s nest? I can never remember) when she spun on a single, ridiculously high, matchstick heel and stormed off – as much as a person can storm while wearing those shoes – her stilettos leaving dimples in the asphalt.

  Well, that was fun. Silencing the alarm, I strolled back to Lance, setting my books on the passenger seat before slipping behind the wheel. Shifting into drive, I stomped on the brakes when a car sped by, mere inches from my bumper, the driver flipping me off as she passed.

  It was JoJo in – you guessed it – a white Corolla.

  Chapter Ten

  “I did it!”

  “Care to be more specific?” Spencer raised his voice to be heard over the traffic noise in the background. “Which ‘it’ are you referring to?”

  “I cracked the code!” His response was lost as a horn blared, followed by the screech of brakes and a shouted obscenity that would make a sailor – though probably not JoJo – blush. “Where are you?”

  “I’m outside a restaurant trying to hail a cab. A couple of friends hosted a bon voyage dinner for me.”

  “I thought you drove to New York.”

  “I did, but it’s easier to maneuver downtown on foot, especially during rush hour. I left my car at the condo and took a cab to my publisher’s office. Now, I’m having a hell of a time finding one to take me back home.”

  “It sounds like you’re in the middle of a demolition derby field. The Clamdigger Shack sponsored one last year during Port New’s annual Fourth of July celebration. Monty Halloran flipped his GTO in the final round, right before Randy Davies smashed into it. That Pontiac spun like a top, with Monty hanging upside-down trying not to lose his cooki–”

  “Finn?”

  “Yeah?”

  “As much as I enjoy hearing about all that’s transpired since I’ve been gone, can we get back to the code? I have to meet my landlord in fifteen minutes at my condo.”

  “What? Oh, yeah. Sorry. So, I bought a couple of books on code-breaking this morning and spent the day applying different encryption techniques.” And, took a three-hour break to read a few chapters of Seductive Desires, but Spencer didn’t need to know that. “I disregarded any that incorporated numbers, because, as you well know, there aren’t any numbers in the code, and I didn’t want to waste time playing around with something that wouldn’t work. Although, there’s one that looks kinda fun. Maybe when you get back, we could–”

  “Finn, hang on a sec… Dammit! Where are all the cabs? Taxi!” What came next was garbled, then, “Never mind, I’ll walk. It’ll be faster.”

  Did he get a dog and not tell me? “Are you okay? I hear panting.”

  Spencer replied with a colorful expletive. “Sorry. That wasn’t meant for you. Trying to move anywhere in this city is a nightmare! I can’t wait to get home.”

  If an Olympic event existed for internal somersaults, my stomach would get the gold. Home equaled Port New, and Port New equaled me. Math might not have been my best subject, but that equation I can do.

  “Finn? You still there?” The ambient noise coming through the cell had decreased a modicum, and Spencer no longer sounded as if he was laboring up the side of Mt. Fuji. A sand dune, maybe.

  “I’m here.”

  “You were getting to the part about the message.”

  “Right. So, I went through the books and picked out half a dozen systems to try, and all of them were a bust. Then I came across this obscure cipher in the back of one called Seigel’s Theorem. It took me a couple of hours to figure it out, but it worked! Are you ready for this? The message reads Burns Cemetery Row 8 Plot 16 Mable Larabee. What do you think it means?”

  “I have no idea. There must be hundreds of cemeteries by that name across the country.” Silence. Either he’s thinking, or he hung up. I really hope it’s the former. My prayer was answered when he said, “Wait; isn’t there a Burns Cemetery near the Newcastle estate?”

  “Yes, in the field below. But who’s Mable Larabee? I’ve never heard of her.”

  “Did you look her up on the internet?”

  What does he think I am – an amateur? “Of course. The only thing that popped up was an obituary notice dated 1934. I didn’t know the Port New Gazette kept files going back that far.”

  “Most newspapers keep archives of old editions and then scan them online. Look, I’ve got to run. Promise me you won’t do anything until I get back.”

  “Like what?”

  His chuckle tickled my ear, sending a warm, fuzzy feeling down to my toes. “Nice try. I know you, Finn. You’re dying to check out Mable Larabee’s gravesite – no pun intended. Who am I kidding? You already have one foot out the door.”

  “I do not.” It’s both feet. I’m standing in my driveway.

  How Spencer can pull off sounding stern and gentle at the same time, I’ll never know, but it has a certain appeal. “Running around by yourself after dark in an old cemetery isn’t safe. Look, I’ve got to go. The landlord’s here. I’ll be back on Friday; Saturday at the latest. I don’t think Mable Larabee is going anywhere before then. Wait for me, okay?”

  Until the end of time. “Okay.”

  I hate lying to him so early in our relationship, but I don’t want him to worry.

  Apparently, I wasn’t convincing because he kept at it. “Promise?”

  “I promise. I’ll just hang out here tonight. Maybe give Garfunkel a bath.”

  He could’ve tried to hide his skepticism. “All right. I’ll give you a call later. Find out who won that bat
tle.”

  “I think you already know the answer to that.”

  Undoubtedly ticking off his landlord, we lingered over goodbye; me, because I love the sound of his voice, and him, because he knew the moment he hung up, I was off to do something reckless.

  I know what you’re thinking.

  Driving to Burns Cemetery alone, at night, without letting another human being know where I’m going, is insane. I couldn’t agree more, but the temptation to check out Mabel Larabee’s gravesite is too strong to resist. No way I’m waiting until Saturday.

  By the time I navigated the circuitous route leading to the spate of burial plots nestled at the foot of a hill upon which loomed the Newcastle estate, night had fallen. I’m talking, full-on, pitch black darkness. Thick clouds that threatened rain hid the waxing gibbous moon, blotting out what light it might have offered.

  A bit of history here:

  Jeremiah Newcastle settled in Port New several decades ago, bringing with him a massive inheritance he’d received from a maiden aunt whom he hadn’t seen since he was a boy. Eager to establish himself as the patriarch of his domain, his volatile and acrimonious personality overshadowed the allure of his wealth, and he remained a bachelor ’til the day he died – a week ago.

  He was somewhat of an oddity around town. Ill-tempered one minute; quasi-civil the next. Local chatter is that he blew through his fortune snapping up antiquities and artifacts at every turn, leaving him close to penniless in the years leading up to his demise – aside from the value of the house and relics within, which have been steadily dwindling due to medical bills and convalescent care as a result of his stroke.

  Hmmm…I wonder who’s handling the estate? I’ll have to ask Zara the next time I see her. What I wouldn’t give to have a look around inside.

  A multitude of adjectives have been bantered about to describe Jeremiah, but these are the most popular. Acerbic. Irascible. Reclusive. I found him to be eccentric, though come to think of it, the few times he visited Finn’s Finds, he was a bit on the crotchety side. Sad to say, I doubt he’ll be missed.