“She’s not saying anything. Detective Pearson treats me like I’m a bug that’s carrying a communicable disease. And she’s right, too.”
“Do you have an alibi for the time of the murder, around seven thirty Saturday night?”
“Yes. I was on a blind date at the Sebastian Beach Inn.”
Liz removed her arm from Francie’s shoulder. “Can you prove it?” Liz remembered Minna saying that the date had been canceled because the guys were a couple of geeks. “If you can, then there’s no need for a lawyer.” Could Liz be wrong about Francie? Just because she looked like TV’s Gidget, with her large, trusting brown eyes and perky, cheerful persona, that shouldn’t exclude her from being a suspect. Why was she lying about the date? If Francie was Regina’s killer, there had to be more to the picture.
Liz said, “Why don’t you take a quick shower, and I’ll get the coffee and cake ready. Pierre’s coffee and baked goods are the perfect balm for what ails you.”
Francie looked down at the center of her chest and laughed. “Do you think I should incorporate this mustard stain into one of my new fabric designs?”
“Only if you add ketchup. Ketchup and mustard: the condiment choices of midcentury housewives everywhere. When I was small, on Pierre’s day off, Aunt Amelia made me her version of spaghetti by adding ketchup and butter to the pasta.”
“Yuck,” Francie said with a smile. “Sounds like Chef Pierre was a good influence on your love of cooking, but Amelia, not so much. We’re all are products of our formative years, aren’t we?”
At the mention of her childhood, Francie then quieted, and her eyes lost their momentary sparkle.
“Okay, get!” Liz said. “Wait until you try Pierre’s Bienenstich cake.”
“His what?”
“Meet me in the kitchen and I’ll translate.”
Francie got up, then trudged down the hallway to her bedroom.
Liz collected the cake and coffee carafe and headed to the kitchen. Under a Felix the Cat wall clock whose tail ticked away the time, she placed the coffee and cake on the counter. She glanced around, feeling like she’d stepped into one of Aunt Amelia’s episodes of Leave It to Beaver or The Donna Reed Show. Perfect, 1960s-television homemakers June Cleaver and Donna Reed had nothing on Francie. She removed a couple of jade-colored mugs and two matching cake plates from the clear glass-fronted cupboards, then found spoons, forks, and a cake server and placed them on the white enamel table with a black-and-white checkerboard border. As she put the coffee carafe and cake in the center of the table, her mind reeled from the lie Francie had told of her purported alibi for the night of the murder. Didn’t she know Agent Pearson and the Brevard County Police Department could check her alibi and prove her wrong? She heard the door to the bathroom shut, and soon after, the sound of water running from the shower, then she crept down the hallway to Francie’s bedroom.
Her pulse quickened and her stomach did a little flip-flop when she walked inside. Sneaking around a new friend’s bedroom didn’t make for calm nerves. The room was neat and tidy, the bed made. It was covered in a chenille bedspread with matching shams. In the center of the bed was a sleeping feline. Francie’s sixteen-year-old tortoiseshell cat, named Turtle, for obvious reasons, was so content he didn’t even open his eyes. Liz was happy the cat wouldn’t witness her violation of Francie’s privacy.
Liz hurried and checked the dresser and nightstand drawers. She quickly glanced in Francie’s closet, finding only her vintage-style dresses, jumpers, blouses, and shoes, Sweaters were at the top, enclosed in clear plastic bins and organized by color. If something incriminating was hidden inside one of the bins, Liz wouldn’t have time to check. She then did a quick search under the bed. Turtle opened one eye, gave her a dirty look for disturbing his peace, then closed it. She couldn’t find anything that might prove or disprove Francie’s innocence.
As she moved toward the door, she observed a small trash can under the nightstand. Inside was a framed photo, the glass smashed into spiderweb fissures. She pulled it out and looked down at a framed photo of four people in front of Castlemara. They were surrounded by palm trees, and in the background was the glittering Atlantic. She recognized two of the people: Francie’s mother, who had come into the emporium a couple of weeks ago, and Regina’s father, Percival Harrington II. The other woman in the photo looked familiar; she had Regina’s eyes, hair color, and sour expression, and heavy gold and precious-stone jewelry hung from her neck and ears. On her right hand was the same ring Liz had seen Regina wearing on the day she’d first met her. Liz assumed the unidentified woman in the photo must be Regina’s mother, likely leaving the unidentified man to be Francie’s father, who had passed away a few years ago. She grabbed her phone from her pocket and snapped a couple quick pics. She put the photo back in the trash can, then stepped from the room just as Francie exited the bathroom.
Francie gave Liz a quizzical look and Liz stumbled with her words. “I uh, left my, uh, phone in the car.” She held it up for Francie to see. Unfortunately, she held up the side of the phone showing the photo she’d just taken. Quickly, she put the phone in her pocket, where it felt like it was burning a hole into her thigh.
“Come into the kitchen,” Liz said. “Everything’s ready.”
“I’ll be right there, but let me put on a pair of matching slippers. You’re right. A shower made me feel much better, along with your confidence that David Worth won’t prosecute me for throwing a rock at his car window.”
She almost corrected Francie that it wasn’t just the rock shattering the window, it was more the threat written on the note to someone who had been murdered just hours later. As they passed, Liz hoped she wouldn’t notice her no-doubt flushed, guilt-ridden face.
Five minutes later, Francie came into the kitchen, just as Liz was adding an extra “spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down” to her coffee. Mary Poppins had gotten that one right, and after a bite of bee sting cake, Liz might forget that sweet Francie was still a murder suspect.
“Thanks for coming over,” Francie said. “You’ve really turned things around for me. I couldn’t get up the nerve to set foot at the Indialantic after what I’d done. It was my bad luck I threw that rock the same day Regina was killed. Oops. That didn’t sound right.” She took a forkful of cake. “Oh my God. What is this delightful creation?”
“Bienenstich cake. Bienenstich is German for ‘bee sting’.”
“How did it get its name?” she asked, picking up the wedge Liz had served, then stuffing half in her mouth.
“Pierre says it’s one of two things, either the creator of the cake was stung by a bee when he was working on the honey-and-almond topping. Or, when the dough for the brioche was put in the oven it swelled up like a bee sting often does.”
“Which one do you think it is?”
“I would pick the second. I hate to think that the chef who created this recipe endured any pain, because it’s such a luscious cake.”
Francie nodded her head, and crumbs fell onto her plate.
When they’d finished, Francie got up and washed the cake plate and carafe and put them into a shopping bag. Liz knew it was a signal to leave, but she had one last question relating to the photo in the trash. “You said your parents were friends with the Harringtons. Did you ever hang out with Regina when you were young?”
“No one hung out with Regina. She was almost ten years older than me and attended private school. She was too good for the likes of us locals, even though her great-grandfather used to live in a shanty on the Indian River Lagoon. I might have been in the same room with Regina when I was younger, but she never once glanced my way, let alone talked to me.”
“Do you have any idea who would have killed her?”
“I believe it was a robbery. Plain and simple.”
Not so simple, Liz thought as she got up from the table. Francie handed her the shopping ba
g with the clean carafe and cake plate, then walked with Liz to the front door.
Francie said, “Maybe Regina got what she had coming to her because she murdered her father. I talked to one of the staff on Percival II’s yacht about the day he was killed. He had a heart attack, but mysteriously the medicine that might have saved him was missing from his jacket pocket. He told me Regina was right next to her father, looking, or should I say pretending to look for his meds. I wouldn’t doubt it if she swiped them so she could inherit his riches. I guess the joke was on her, because she didn’t receive anything.” She put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry, that sounded crass.”
Liz didn’t have a response for that one. All she could think about was why Francie had been questioning Percival II’s death with his yacht staff. “Well, I’m glad you’re better. I hope to see you at the emporium tomorrow.”
She pushed against the screen door and stepped onto the porch. Coming toward them up the walkway was Agent Pearson. Liz brushed past and said, “Good to see you, Detective. I have to run.” Then she booked it to the Blue Bomber, wishing she’d put the top down so she could hop over the driver’s door and slide into the seat for a quicker getaway. Instead, she opened the door, got in, started the engine, and drove like a bat flying out of a Dark Shadows crypt.
Chapter 32
As Liz cruised north on A1A, her hair blowing in the breeze from the open windows, she was pleased with herself for getting Francie into the shower and a better frame of mind. However, she wasn’t too proud of herself for snooping in Francie’s bedroom. Liz needed to share with her father what she’d learned about Francie and have him ask Agent Pearson if she had an alibi for Saturday night. Minna had told Liz a completely different version of Francie’s whereabouts at the time of the murder.
Instead of turning into the Indialantic, Liz kept driving north toward the Melbourne Beach Public Library, where her seventh-grade teacher, Mrs. Ingles, now the assistant director, might help Liz gather some info on Francie’s family connection with the Harringtons, along with the history of the sunken treasure ship San Carlos that had netted Percival Harrington II the jewels that were to be eventually stolen from his daughter’s neck and ears.
The ocean view out the car’s windows was like no other. The temperature was in the upper seventies and the wind was mild. Liz turned on the radio. Betty’s old DeVille didn’t have a CD, cassette, or even an eight-track player. Usually, Liz alternated between a pop station and a country station. She liked all kinds of music, from opera to New Age, but since her ordeal with Travis, her new favorite was contemporary-country. She liked it for its simplistic message—enjoy the little things in life and don’t put up with a good-for-nothin’ man. As she pulled up to the library, a country singer crooned about a two-timing man and Liz thought about Captain Netherton. She parked and turned off the ignition, realizing that she’d never made a complete suspect list. Before talking to Mrs. Ingles, Liz would find a quiet corner in the library and use the note function on her phone to create one.
A short time later, she finished the list and e-mailed it to herself. Before she got ahead of things, she would first visit her father and bring him into the loop. Maybe she would learn more about the investigation because of his ties with his new gal pal, Charlotte. If he felt obliged to keep what he knew to himself, she would present her theories, then watch his face. Fenton Holt had an obvious tell when playing poker. Aunt Amelia and Liz called it the famous, one-sided Elvis lip-curl. After seeing her father, Liz planned to pick up her new bundle of joy. She hoped Bronte hadn’t changed her mind.
Twenty minutes later, Liz was inside Mrs. Ingles’s office sharing a cup of Earl Grey and a couple of Scottish shortbread biscuits from the open tin on her former English teacher’s desk. It looked like the same tin Mrs. Ingles had had on her desk years ago. Whenever Liz saw a red-plaid cookie tin, she thought fondly of Mrs. Ingles.
“It’s so great to see you again, Elizabeth. I heard you’d moved back to the island. We’re lucky to have you. Hope you’ll do a book signing for your next award winner?” Mrs. Ingles’s hair might have grayed and thinned, and her face might be overrun with wrinkles from baking in the hot Florida sun, but her clear Isle of Skye–blue eyes remained as warm and bright as ever.
Liz laughed, “That would mean I’d have to write it first, Mrs. Ingles.” Liz would never call her anything but Mrs. Ingles, and Mrs. Ingles would never call Liz anything but Elizabeth.
Mrs. Ingles searched Liz’s face, concern showing in her gaze. “All in good time, I’m sure.”
She’d always encouraged Liz to become a writer, and Liz would be forever grateful. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about the Harringtons. I’m sure you heard about Regina Harrington-Worth’s death?”
“You mean murder, don’t you?” She handed Liz another shortbread biscuit from the tin and Liz took it, even though she was still full from two slices of bee sting cake.
“I want to show you a photo. Maybe you can tell me who everyone is?” Even though Liz had pretty much guessed who was who, she knew Mrs. Ingles might add valuable insight into the past, seeing as she’d lived on the island all of her life. Liz handed her the phone.
Mrs. Ingles expertly put two fingers on the screen, then expanded the image. Librarians seemed pretty tech savvy nowadays. Liz was determined to add Aunt Amelia to that group.
“Celia Harrington, nicknamed Cece, is on the right, to her left is her husband, Percival II, then we have Mark Jenkins and his wife, Tina,” she said, sticking her nose closer to the screen. “Mark and Percival started the historical society together. Cece was barely seen in Melbourne Beach. She was more into Vero Beach high society.”
“Do you know who is still alive? Any juicy rumors or scuttlebutt about the people in the photo?”
“Tina Jenkins is the only one still alive. As for scuttlebutt…” She raised her right eyebrow. “There is one small rumor that my brother-in-law told me when he was working with Percival II on one of his treasure-salvaging expeditions.”
Liz leaned forward, worried that Mrs. Ingles might see the saliva pooling in her mouth. “Yes?”
“Well, I guess it can’t hurt now, because they’re both dead. There were rumors that Mark and Cece were having an affair. I think if you look closely at the photo, you can see Mark looking directly at Cece, not his wife. Mark was much better-looking than Percival II.”
Liz took back the phone, and sure enough, there seemed to be a definite connection between the two. It was like Francie’s father and Regina’s mother shared an intimate secret. “Speaking of treasure salvagers, can you point me in the right direction on any news or photos about Percival II’s score on the San Carlos? I’ve been to the treasure museum, but the researcher in me wants to learn all I can about him and his finds.”
“This past February, we held a retrospective of his life, including numerous photos that were displayed in the showcases at the entrance to the library. We also made everything available online.” She pulled an empty pad of paper toward her and scribbled something on top. “Here’s the IP address, where you’ll be able to see everything. It was a great tribute.” She handed Liz the piece of paper.
Liz stood, took the paper, then snatched another biscuit.
Mrs. Ingles smiled. “Take the whole tin. I have another. Oh, and I’ll ask my brother-in-law if he has anything interesting relating to the San Carlos. Now you have me intrigued.”
Liz walked over to Mrs. Ingles and gave her a hug.
She looked up at Liz. “You know, now that I think about it, something strange did happen on the first morning of Percival II’s retrospective. Someone had opened one of the show cases—we didn’t keep them locked back then—and stole a few photos. They weren’t anything special, from what I could see. Just a couple of photos of Percival II’s salvaging ship and his crew from the day they discovered the cargo section of the San Carlos.”
“Are you a
member of the Barrier Island Historical Society, Mrs. Ingles?”
“Yes. A lifetime member, my husband and I both.”
Liz stepped toward the door and said, “It looks like I came to the right place. Thank you, teach. I promise not to be a stranger.”
Mrs. Ingles closed the biscuit tin and handed it to Liz. “You know we’re reading Let the Wind Roar in our book club on Tuesday nights. Stop in. Everyone would fall on the floor in a faint if you did.”
“I might do that, just to see the fainting,” Liz said, grinning, as she walked out of the office.
Fifteen minutes later, Liz was parked at the rear of the hotel. She strolled toward her father’s office. Lining the walkway were waxy green bushes sprouting a profusion of delicate white jasmine. To her right, a huge roseate spoonbill with bright pink wings, like a flamingo’s, foraged the lagoon’s shoreline for aquatic treats. Liz took a deep gulp of the cleansing, scented air and knocked on the office door. She’d forgotten her keys and longed for the good old days when locking a door at the Indialantic by the Sea Hotel was considered a travesty.
Her father answered with a worried look on his face, which quickly changed when he saw Liz. He was clean shaven and smelled of citrus. His dark hair had a touch of gray and his unlined face made him look ten years younger than fifty-six. Aunt Amelia thought her nephew looked like a cross between Cary Grant, Rock Hudson, and Gregory Peck; Liz just thought he looked like “Dad.”
Liz stepped inside. Light jazz played in the background. She glanced at his desk, covered in papers, and felt a stab of guilt for not coming by to help with the filing.
“I’m so happy you caught me,” he said. “I was on my way to the kitchen to make a sandwich. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having. Do you mind if I use your computer to print out something I want to show you?”
Death by the Sea Page 19
