by Dana Dratch
I spooned a good-sized helping of eggs onto a paper plate, crumbling the bacon over the top. Then I broke up a couple more pieces for good measure. Lucy was growing, too.
With any luck, Nick might have left us a stray galette for dessert. Even if I had to turn the kitchen upside down to find it.
Chapter 45
Just after we’d cleared the breakfast dishes, Baba had decided that, with Alistair out for the count, it was a good time to prep some goulash and scour the kitchen.
For his part, Marty was in the backyard with Lucy, working on her training. She knew “come,” “sit,” and “stay.” And she could kind of “heel,” when she felt like it. But “no” was still offensive to her delicate canine ears.
I heard a polite knock on the door.
Ian.
I opened it to find him holding a very large bouquet. Wild pink roses.
He smiled. But his eyes looked tired. I assumed that running the inn single-handedly—along with whatever else he might have been doing—meant some long hours.
“By way of saying ‘thank you,’” he said, proffering the bundle wrapped in brown paper. “Thought these might give you and your grandmother a bit of a lift. So how’s my little guy this morning?”
“You just missed him. Had a nice big breakfast and nodded off. But come on in. You can still take a peek. He’s in his crib.”
My living room, as usual, looked like the aftermath of a hurricane. Dog toys and baby toys were scattered everywhere. A stack of Aunt Margie printouts had toppled and spilled onto the floor next to one chair, creating a slippery river of copy paper. Marty’s blanket, sheets, and pillows were neatly stacked on one end of the couch. On the nearby table sat his forgotten half-filled coffee mug and a potato chip bag. Empty save for a trail of chip crumbs and salt.
Ian took it all in with barely a second glance. “So how many have you got staying here now?” he asked, smiling.
“Counting me, five. Worried we’ll give you some competition?”
I swear those blue eyes twinkled.
“Have a visit with Alistair. I’m going to grab us some coffee and set up on the porch. It’s a little more tidy, and we’ll be able to talk. If I’m lucky, I might be able to scare up a few of Nick’s cookies to go with it.”
My brother had practically chained himself to the oven the past few days. When he wasn’t at Ian’s cranking out goodies for the bakery, he was in our kitchen testing new recipes. And while this morning’s galette hunt had yielded only one misshapen lemon-coconut tart—split three ways, thank you very much—I’d also discovered a secret stash of brown butter cookies.
“That sounds marvelous,” he said, looking genuinely grateful. “Thank you.”
So if Ian was the one with a body in the basement, how come I felt like such a monster? How could I tell him everything was fine, when his father was getting ready to leg it out of his life forever?
When I stepped onto the porch with a tray, Ian had already settled into one of the plastic lawn chairs. Smiling broadly, he looked more relaxed than he had even a few minutes ago. His eyes were a beautiful clear blue.
And he was right. Alistair did look like him.
“He was asleep,” Ian said, beaming. “He looked so peaceful, so content, that I didn’t want to disturb him.”
“Yeah, he pretty much has two speeds. That one’s a lot easier to handle. Speaking of which, has my mother been behaving herself?”
“The woman’s a delight,” he said. “Honestly, she’s perfectly lovely. Your father was . . .”
I looked at him.
“Your father was the love of her life, apparently,” he added quickly. “I don’t imagine it’s been easy for her.”
“No, I’m sure it hasn’t been. For any of us.”
Dad had left on one of his business trips almost ten years ago. Only this time, he didn’t come back. Heart attack.
It was a knockout punch that nearly splintered our family. ’Til then, I hadn’t even realized how fragile those bonds were.
But glacially slowly and steadily, we’d been knitting them back together, like bones healing after a shattering break. Nick showing up at my door last month? Moving back after years in Arizona? For me, that had been the final piece of the puzzle.
Maybe that’s why I hated to see Ian lose his dad.
I plunged ahead. “I put out some feelers on Harkins’s situation. And I do have some good news. He’s healthy, and he’s fine. But he has a few things to handle before he can come home.”
“Are you sure? Did you see him? Where on earth is he?”
“Yes, he’s fine. But Ian, you’re going to have to trust me on the rest of it. I don’t know his exact location. He doesn’t want me to—or you either, for that matter. He’s got a problem, and he’s dealing with it. Until he does, he doesn’t want to come back. And unfortunately, I don’t know when that will be. I don’t think he does, either.”
“His problem—is it medical?” Ian asked “Is it legal? Is he in jail? Does he need a solicitor?”
I shook my head. “He’s perfectly healthy. And he’s not in jail, or even in custody.” Not yet, anyway.
Ian sat back, clearly perturbed. His eyes seemed darker now. “Does this have anything to do with the paintings I found in his room? Or what you thought you glimpsed in the freezer?”
The last thing I wanted was for Ian to go back to that freezer. Assuming he hadn’t put Simmons there himself. But he already knew about Harkins’s “colorful” past. Some of it, anyway.
“The paintings are his. But I’d leave them alone. He’s got a plan. I don’t know what it is, but he needs time. And he is one of the good guys. You can be sure of that.”
Ian took a deep breath and leaned forward. “I never doubted it. But I want to help him. I have resources he can utilize.”
I chose my words carefully. “He knows what he’s doing. But it’s a ticklish situation. He needs to be away from the inn—and from you—for your own good. And his. He’ll come back when he can.” If he can.
“Do you know who’s after him?”
“Ian, I’ve told you everything I can.” Now tell me how Simmons ended up in your freezer, I wanted to say.
“This isn’t some damned news story,” he said, chewing the last word. “This is my father!”
Contrary to every natural impulse, I paused. And measured my words. Gabby and Daisy and Alistair were depending on me to get this right. I couldn’t afford to blow it.
“Believe me, I know that,” I said steadily. “It’s more than that to me, too. You asked me to make inquiries, and I did. You asked me to see if I could get leads on where he went, and I did. Sort of. I still don’t know exactly where he is. I know what he’s doing. And I know why. Or at least, his side of it. All I can say is that there are some very good people depending on him. And I can’t tell you more than that.”
I didn’t bother to add that I was sorry. That sounded pathetic, even in my head.
During our short conversation, Ian had morphed in front of my eyes—like a shape-shifter in a horror movie. From the happy, relaxed innkeeper-slash-father who’d first shown up with flowers and gratitude to the cryptic cypher who’d demanded answers about his father. But even that was preferable to his current incarnation. He was taut. Face hardened into an inscrutable mask. Mouth in a grim line. Though he was completely still and deliberately calm, I sensed barely contained emotion. Anger. His eyes were dark.
I wouldn’t want to be his enemy, I thought, as he sat poised in my lawn chair like a coiled spring.
Chapter 46
It was a pretty good bet that Ian wouldn’t be bringing me any more flowers. I was just relieved he left Alistair at my house. Or, more accurately, with Baba.
I’d have to give Nick a heads-up, too. At this rate, I didn’t know how much longer he might be welcome in Ian’s kitchen.
Which, from my perspective, was just fine. The faster I could get my family away from that cursed inn, the better.
I neede
d some cleaning therapy. I grabbed the basket that was home to Lucy’s toys and started tossing them into it from all over the room. I even scored a three-pointer from the corner. After restacking the growing tower of Aunt Margie letters, I grabbed Marty’s sheets and blanket and dumped them into the washer, along with the pillowcases. The pillows went into the cedar chest in my closet. I splashed some liquid soap into the washing machine, slammed the door, and hit the button. Then I snatched up the potato chip bag and carried it to the kitchen trash.
Baba was stirring a bubbling pot on the back of the stove. I squeezed her shoulders and kissed her cheek.
“He is angry now, but he will stop,” she said simply.
“I don’t think so. Not this time. And I’m not sure it really matters anymore. Not to me.”
She turned and gave me a long look and smiled patiently. I wondered what she saw. The granddaughter with a messy home and an even messier life?
“You are not keeping the father away,” Baba said carefully.
No need to explain anything. Baba hears all. Baba knows all. And she has a lot better grasp of English than people think. Which works to her advantage.
If we could ever get her on Wheel of Fortune, she’d clean up.
“No. But Ian’s father is doing something dangerous. He needs Ian kept out of it. And Alistair. He’s Harkins’s baby.”
Baba smiled. If she was shocked, or even surprised, she didn’t show it.
“The man Harkins is going up against is dangerous,” I admitted. “He’d come after Ian if he knew about him. Luckily, he doesn’t. Same with Alistair. Even Nick doesn’t know this. And we can’t tell him.”
“This bad man will go to boardinghouse?” Alarm crept into her voice.
“Not himself. He might send someone. But he’s looking for Harkins, and Harkins isn’t there.” And Blair doesn’t know the art is there. Yet.
Baba nodded.
“Baba, I didn’t lie to Ian. But I didn’t tell him everything either.”
Her dark eyes scanned my face. Waiting.
“Ian’s father. When this is over, he might not be able to come home. He might have to stay away for a long time. Maybe forever.”
She took my right hand in her two strong ones. “You did not make this. You helped him. With little baby. With telling him the father is alive. Telling him the father loves him.”
I nodded.
She squeezed my hand. “Sometime that is all you can do.”
Chapter 47
A couple of things were bugging me. And so far, the only mysteries I’d solved were the legend of the ghost baby and the puzzle of who was wrecking Ian’s inn. And, technically, Rube had cracked that last one.
I’d found Ian’s father. But since he was going to disappear soon, I couldn’t exactly put that in the “win” column. Ditto the puzzle of Alistair’s parents.
And nobody seemed to be missing Simmons. As far as I could tell (and I’d checked), no one had even filed a missing person’s report. If Nick’s sources were to be believed, the people who knew him best were more likely to be dancing a jig.
So was he still in the freezer? I wanted to know. But not badly enough to visit that basement. Not while the inn was the nexus of all weirdness.
And what of the freezer’s original occupant, one Mr. Raymond Bell? I’d done some online sleuthing but learned very little. There was a man by that name living in Brooklyn. Bushwick. The age was about right. He didn’t have a Facebook page. But his Twitter page marked him as a total sports fanatic. Especially football, golf, and boxing. He’d bragged about hitting Vegas a couple of times a year for major bouts. His LinkedIn profile listed him as a “business tech consultant.”
Was that what hit men were calling themselves these days?
My head spun.
Regardless of what Baba said, there had to be a way I could help Daisy and Harkins. And Ian.
Then there was Marty. He’d straightened everything out with his doctors. And the cops. He’d even had the banks send over new credit and debit cards. And we were all on a first-name basis with his physical therapist.
But he couldn’t handle stairs yet. And Helen was on the warpath. So he was still on the sofa. The weird thing was, I didn’t really mind.
Although last night had been a bit of a surprise.
By the time Trip and I finally got home from the safe house, it was late. We’d each polished off our coffee and the galettes on the front porch. Talking quietly, so that we wouldn’t be overheard.
Afterward, Trip grabbed his coat and tie, said a big good-bye to the room, and took off for home. I plunked down in a living room chair.
Marty and Nick were sitting on the sofa, each with a beer in his hand. Watching Collateral.
“I thought that was only on cable,” I said.
“We have cable,” Nick said.
“Uh, no, we don’t. And if you’re ‘borrowing’ it from the neighbors, they’re gonna find out. It’s not like using their hose to wash your car.”
“Relax, kid, it’s all on the up-and-up,” Marty said. “My treat.”
“Marty, I can’t ask you to do that. Besides, it’s summer. We don’t want to be parked inside in front of the TV. It’s bad for the brain.”
“You tell ’em, Mom.”
“OK, that’s beyond mean.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Nick said. “Today’s outing was Historic Georgetown. And I heard she made the tour operator cry.”
“Oh jeez, really?” Any minute now, Ian would be posting a NO VLODNACHEKS ALLOWED sign on the front door of that inn.
“That mother of yours is a firecracker,” Marty said. “Is she seeing anybody?”
“Look, I know you mean well,” I said. “And this is very sweet. But I made a conscious decision when I moved in—no cable.”
“Poverty is not a lifestyle choice,” Nick said.
“No sweat,” Marty said. “If you want, I can call and have it disconnected tomorrow. I just had the cable company turn it off at my house and turn it on here. While I recover. I’d be paying for it anyway. This way, at least it’s not going to waste.”
“Oh. Well, when you put it that way . . .”
Nick grinned. “He’s got everything. Executive deluxe package. Before you walked in, we were watching soccer from Romania.”
“Cool it, kid,” Marty said. “Something I learned after a few contract negotiations: the secret is to clam up after they say ‘yes.’”
Small wonder that this morning I wanted to help Marty solve his Helen problem. If she was really trying to kill him, she had to have some kind of a motive. And since they didn’t seem to have all that much regular contact, it was probably money.
But she wasn’t in the will. That left property or insurance. Marty swore the only thing he owned was his house. And that was mortgaged to the hilt.
It was possible Helen didn’t know that. Or didn’t believe it. It was also possible that Marty’s house had gone up in value without his being aware of it. Although he seemed like a pretty savvy guy.
I grabbed my laptop and hit the county records. In the old days, answering my questions would have taken more shoe leather and another batch of Nick’s baked goods. These days, all you needed was a computer and a little patience. And I had very little.
Five minutes later, I confirmed Marty’s story. According to the county appraisers, Marty’s house was worth about $5,000 more than the total of both his mortgages. Plus or minus $5,000.
That left one viable motive that I could think of: life insurance.
That one was a lot trickier. I’d worked on a couple of stories that involved insurance scams. So I already knew there was no catch-all database to search for policies. I also knew there was more than one way to get information.
I looked up a number in my personal address book, snatched the phone off its cradle, and dialed.
“Hi, this is Alex Vlodnachek. Is Walt there?”
“Hi, Alex, it’s Effie. He’s in the break room. Hang o
n a sec.”
A good friend of both my parents, Walter Hampstead had been our family insurance agent since I’d been in diapers. And he’d been a great source when I was working on those insurance scam stories. Walt lived and breathed the business. But he also felt that there were a few areas where the industry could do a much better job. So I hadn’t had to twist his arm too hard to get his help.
I hoped he’d be as willing this time.
“Alex, how’s my favorite girl reporter today?” His idea of a joke. As far as I knew, I was the only reporter he knew. Male, female, or otherwise.
“Well, Mom’s here for a visit, and everyone’s still alive. So that’s good.”
“How is Eleanor? I haven’t seen her since the Christmas party.”
“Doing great. She just got back from a trip to Europe with Annie. And I don’t think they missed a single art museum.”
“Oh, don’t tell Dolores,” he said, referencing his second wife. “She’s on a campaign to get me to go.” He dropped his voice. “I don’t want to spend the better part of a day locked in a flying tin can. Scares the beejeebers out of me.”
I wasn’t afraid to fly. But the idea of six hours trapped on a plane with my mother had given me serious pause.
“But I’m sure that’s not why you called,” he said. “What’s up? Working on another story?”
“Favor for a friend, actually.” I wasn’t going to lie to Walt. Not if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. “We think one of his relatives might have an insurance policy on him. Would it be possible to check?”
“I take it he didn’t give permission?”
“Definitely not,” I replied.
“Does this relative have a fiscal responsibility for your friend? Bills? Burial expenses?”
“Nope. He’s got all that handled.”
Walt sighed a heavy sigh. “This is the part of the business I hate. Just hate. Use it the right way, insurance is a fantastic tool, but in the wrong hands . . .”
“Just like medicine,” I said.
“What’s the friend’s name?”
“Marty Crunk. Martin. He works in the newsroom at the Sentinel.”
