by Zara Keane
Wincing at the strain on my pants, I bent down and laced up my running shoes. Once that was done, I pulled my hair into a tight bun, grabbed my running belt with its filled bottle of water, and ran out of the cottage, ignoring Bran’s plaintive whine to be allowed to come along. The last thing I needed during the Runathon was Bran causing havoc, and I was pretty sure that dogs and parades were a bad mix.
A glance in the direction of Sergeant Reynolds’s cottage showed me he’d already left for Smuggler’s Cove. I heaved a sigh of relief. With the island’s chief of police otherwise occupied, I intended to break the speed limit in my effort to bust butt and get to the race on time. I leaped into my car, gunned the engine, and took off in a shower of gravel. Thankfully, my temperamental vehicle didn’t give me any trouble on the drive from Shamrock Cottages to Smuggler’s Cove. I hit the gas pedal hard, only slowing to a more sedate pace once I hit the outskirts of the town.
The starting point of the Runathon was down by the harbor, right in front of the library where my aunt Philomena worked. I parked in the first free spot I could find, and jogged the rest of the way. The town was packed with islanders and tourists, all turned out for the Runathon and the St. Patrick’s Day parade that would follow.
In front of the library, Philomena and Julie stood at the starting line with the other Runathon participants. I ran over to join them, out of breath before the race ever started. “Hey,” I gasped. “I just made it.”
“Whoa.” Julie stared at my outfit. “What happened to your running pants? Either they shrank or you’ve put on seven kilos since yesterday evening.”
I scrunched up my nose and sighed. “Noreen happened to them.”
Philomena put a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. “She mentioned she was going to do her washing at your place.”
“Yeah, she did.” I tugged at the seat of my pants. “This was the result. I couldn’t even fit underwear beneath them.”
“The tumble dryer?” Julie asked sympathetically. “That’ll do it.”
“Okay, on your marks…” A voice blasted through a megaphone and the Runathon participants took their starting positions.
“Good luck,” I said to my cousin and aunt.
“You, too.” Julie smiled at her mother and me. “We’ve got this.”
A second later, the starting pistol blasted, and we were off. When we approached the Movie Theater Café, a group of familiar faces was gathered outside to cheer us on. Mack, Lenny, Sister Pauline, and the Spinsters waved to us. Uncle John and Noreen raised their glasses of green-tinged water when we jogged by.
After my initial panic to get to the race on time, I settled into a steady jog. By the time we reached the school, I was chugging along comfortably.
“Hey, Maggie.”
I glanced to my left and my jaw dropped. “Sergeant Reynolds? I didn’t know you were running today.”
“Sergeant O’Shea and the reserves are on duty. I said I’d participate in the race unless I was needed.”
I slowed to a pace that would allow me to chat comfortably. “Any news on Marcus?”
“He’s behind bars, but he’s clammed up and is refusing to talk.”
“Ouch. Have the charges against Carl and Gerry Logan been formally dropped?”
“Yeah. That happened early this morning.” Reynolds pulled a face. “Marcus was traveling under a fake German passport. We’re still trying to figure out his true identity. Interpol’s on the case.”
“Can you think of a connection to the dead guy?”
“I can guess at one. According to Interpol, Alex Scheffel went to prison after a big heist in Berlin, and most of the diamonds were never recovered. The German police always suspected Scheffel was a minor player in the operation, and didn’t have the brains to carry out a job that complex on his own. My hunch is that Marcus—or whatever his real name is—was Scheffel’s accomplice.”
I turned this information over in my mind. “Why would they meet on Whisper Island? And who was the third man with them on the surveillance footage?”
“That I can’t answer. Maybe Marcus has the missing diamonds, and Scheffel came after him. As for the guy in the red baseball cap, he might have had nothing to do with Scheffel or Marcus. He might have simply appeared on camera at the wrong time.”
I didn’t buy this theory. I’d watched the footage several times, and I could have sworn Marcus had spoken to the guy.
Before I could explore this theory farther, Reynolds’s phone beeped. “Hello?” A moment’s silence. “Okay. I’m on my way.” He disconnected and looked at me with an expression of regret. “A fight broke out down at the harbor, and the lads need my help. Looks like I’ll have to wait for another time to display my jogging skills.”
“Maybe we can go jogging together some time,” I said, hearing the hopeful note in my voice and cringing.
His slow-burn grin melted my embarrassment. “Sure. I’d like that. See you around, Maggie. Good luck with the race.” And then he turned around and ran back in the direction of the harbor.
I sped up and rejoined my aunt and cousin. Philomena was red-faced from effort, but jogging onward with dogged determination.
Julie was fit enough to speak. “Where’s Reynolds?”
“He had to go back to break up a fight.”
My cousin laughed. “That’s St. Patrick’s Day for you. Some of those eejits started drinking at midnight.”
We reached the spot where I’d abandoned my car and ran past it, heading in the direction of the beehive huts that dotted the cliffside on this part of the island. I allowed my gaze to wander, soaking up the gorgeous landscape that appeared to advantage on such a sunny day. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a flash of red. A man crouched behind one of the beehive huts, wearing a red baseball cap with an identical logo to the one I’d seen on the surveillance footage. My stomach lurched, and a surge of adrenaline shot through my body. This had to be the third man.
23
“Maggie?” Julie stared at me, her brow creased with concern. “Are you feeling sick?”
“I’m fine. I just need to check something.” Without waiting for her response, I left the pack of runners and took off down the hill. A ripping sound came from behind me, but I didn’t stop to check what it was.
A chorus of gasps and wolf whistles followed my progress down the hill toward the beehive huts.
“Maggie,” Julie yelled over the crowd. “Your pants.”
My hands flew to my backside and met bare skin. “Aw, heck.”
The extra pressure from my increased speed had proved too much for my shrunken running pants, and they’d voiced their objection by splitting to reveal my bare butt to the world.
Before I could deal with my clothing situation, the man behind the beehive hut moved. In an instant, I recognized him. I sucked in a breath as Jack Logan crept around the hut and snuck inside, his red cap pulled low as he’d worn it in the video. I glanced back at the road, but the pack of runners had already passed. Moving slowly, I darted behind one of the other beehive huts. What if I was wrong about Jack? What if him appearing on the video footage was a coincidence? He’d been at Lisa’s birthday drinks. Maybe he hung out with the crowd from the hotel on a regular basis.
I reviewed the info I’d gleaned about the dead man, Alex Scheffel, and the diamond heist he’d been convicted for in Germany. Scheffel and Marcus both spoke German, and they’d both appeared on the hotel’s surveillance footage on the night Scheffel had been murdered. How was Jack Logan connected to them? The conversation I’d had with Günter about Marcus’s odd accent replayed in my head. What had he said about speaking his native tongue? He knew two people on the island who spoke German well enough to chat with him?
My hands shook as I removed my phone from my running belt and texted Günter. He must have had his phone in his hand, because his response was instant.
Jack Logan speaks German. He’s not perfect, but he lived in Berlin for a while and speaks it well enough to ho
ld a basic conversation.
My thumbs flew over the keyboard. Tell Sergeant Reynolds that Jack was the man in the red cap. He’ll know what I mean. I’m sending you my GPS coordinates.
Günter’s reply was swift. I’m on it.
I slipped my phone back into my running belt and hunkered low, my heart pounding. It leaped when a twig broke beyond my hiding place. Carefully, I leaned to the side and peered around the hut. Jack Logan emerged from the beehive hut I’d seen him hiding behind earlier. In his right hand, he clutched a metal case that was caked in mud. After glancing from side to side, he slipped up the hill.
I raced around the other side of the hut I was hiding behind. Checking to make sure Jack wasn’t looking in my direction, I darted across to the hut Jack had exited and ducked my head low to enter. The small space was claustrophobic. I blinked until my eyes adjusted to the darkness and whipped my phone back out and switched on its inbuilt light. I swept the light around the interior of the hut and spotted what I’d expected to see: a freshly dug hole roughly the size of the box I’d seen Jack carrying. I bent down to take a closer look, but there was nothing of interest left to see.
I stood and made my way back out of the hut. On the hillside, Jack had almost reached the road. My pulse raced as I contemplated my next move. I checked my phone for messages. There was one from Reynolds.
We’re on the way. Stay where you are. Don’t approach Logan!
I snorted. Jack Logan might be a criminal and a diamond thief, but I didn’t think he’d be much of a match for me if it came to arm-to-arm combat. If Jack happened to have a weapon, on the other hand, things might get trickier. I was still debating whether or not to obey Reynolds’s order when I heard a car engine start. To my horror, my wreck of a car sped past with Jack at the wheel.
That low-down thieving swine. Burning with anger, I raced up the hill, totally forgetting my split pants situation. Back on the road, I scanned the terrain for potential help. The only vehicle in the vicinity was a green tractor, which was making its laborious progress over a field. I waved my arms above my head and ran toward my only source of transportation.
When I neared the tractor, my jaw dropped. The Two Gerries sat squashed onto the driver’s seat, a bottle of poteen between them.
“Well, hello, Miss Maggie.” Gerry One’s voice sounded unnaturally high. “Aren’t you supposed to be jogging in that race?”
“Your grandson is a killer,” I announced and swung myself up and into the cart the tractor was dragging behind it. “And he stole my car.”
Gerry One squinted at me. “You must mean Jack. The other lads wouldn’t be involved in those sorts of shenanigans.”
“I do mean Jack, and you need to hit the gas. He’s getting away—in my car.”
Gerry Two gave me a once-over. “Either I’ve had too much to drink, or you’re half naked.”
I put my hands on my hips and glared at him. “Yes, I’m letting it all hang out today. Now get with the program and drive.”
Gerry One hit the gas, and the tractor lurched forward.
“How fast can this thing go?” I shouted above the roar of the engine.
“Not very,” he yelled back. “When I get her up to full throttle, she can go forty kilometers an hour.”
I slumped back into the trailer. Forty kilometers was around twenty-five miles. Traveling at that speed, we’d never catch up with Jack. The tractor roared across the field and onto the road where it slowly gathered speed. We soon caught the tail end of the Runathon runners, and I spotted Julie and Philomena still going strong. They looked startled to see me up in the trailer. I shaded my eyes and scanned the area for any sign of Jack and my car. “Look,” I shouted and pointed at car tire tracks in the field next to the road. “He must have detoured over the grass to avoid the runners.”
At the upcoming fork in the road, the runners weaved to the right, and we hung left in the direction the tire tracks stopped and turned into muddy skid marks on the road.
“By Jove, I see him,” Gerry Two yelled excitedly. “He’s come to grief in that wreck of a car of yours.”
Sure enough, my car had skidded into the ditch at the side of the road. Smoke billowed from under the hood, and a patch of oil streaked across the road.
“I knew that snake had sold me a bad car.” I pounded a fist against my palm. “I’m getting a refund before he flees the country.”
“He’s running,” Gerry One said. “I see him up ahead. And he’s not half as fast as the joggers in the Runathon. I always told him he needed to exercise more, but he was too busy playing with his fancy car to listen. The young don’t listen to their elders anymore.”
I exchanged a loaded glance with Gerry Two. “You do know he’ll be arrested when we catch up with him?” I asked Gerry One. “He’s in a whole pile of trouble.”
“That spoiled brat tried to blame Carl for his misdeeds,” Gerry One shouted. “And me. He was always a bad lot, but when he came back from Germany, I was willing to give him a chance. He’s my grandson, after all. But this is the last straw. I’m not having anyone frame Carl and me for murder, not even my own flesh and blood. Let’s go get him.”
24
The engine roaring, the tractor raced down the road toward the fleeing Jack. In the distance, I heard the wail of a police siren. Reynolds was on his way.
Jack ran ahead. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost his red baseball cap, and his sparse hair did little to conceal his pink scalp. Suddenly, a long line of people wearing running gear streaked across the road, blocking Jack’s path. Julie, notable in her hot pink T-shirt, gave me a thumbs up.
Jack, recognizing that his escape route was blocked, turned and headed back in the direction he’d come from. Gerry One swung the tractor around, so that it and the trailer neatly blocked the road.
Jack, close enough now that I could see his red, sweaty face, swore and attempted to leap over the ditch. I hurled myself down from the trailer and took off after him. The Runathon runners took their cue from me, and a trail of brightly clad joggers streaked across the field Jack had chosen as his latest escape route.
Suddenly, one of the runners broke out of the pack and gathered steam. My jaw dropped when I recognized Philomena in her fluorescent orange running suit. She ran behind Jack, took a flying leap, and tackled him to the ground. Seconds later, Julie joined her mother, adding hot pink to the rolling mass of people.
I increased my speed and reached them just as Jack managed to crawl out from under them. I hurled myself on top of him, fists flying. “I want my money back, you rat. You sold me a wreck of a car, and then you had the temerity to steal it.”
“I needed a getaway car less noticeable than my Porsche,” he whined.
“The fact that it broke down on you just when you needed it to drive a few miles is poetic justice,” I yelled, “but I still want a refund.”
“I’d say paying you back is going to be the least of Mr. Logan’s worries,” said a dry voice behind me. “I like the bare-cheeked look, by the way. Are you starting a new running fashion trend?”
I rolled off Jack and jumped to my feet. Sergeant Reynolds stood grinning at me, beside a goggle-eyed Sergeant O’Shea. My cheeks burned under their scrutiny. For the first time since the adrenaline of the chase had kicked in, I was squirmingly aware of my naked behind.
“She’s running around the island half naked,” the older policeman said, outraged. “We ought to charge her with indecent exposure.”
“Given that Ms. Doyle has just helped us to apprehend a probable murderer, I’d say her bare buttocks are the least of our concerns.” He winked at me, and my cheeks grew even hotter.
Reynolds dangled handcuffs in front of Jack Logan. “According to your German police record, you know the drill.” Snarling, Jack held out his wrists, and Reynolds snapped the manacles into place. “I got a call from Interpol. It turns out your pal Marcus is Marco Trezzini, a Swiss citizen from Ticino. According to Interpol, Trezzini was on the run for embezzling funds
from his company but has no record for jewel heists. Care to share how he came to be involved with the murder of your former partner in crime, Alex Scheffel?”
“I’m not saying a word,” Jack snarled. “You’ve got nothing on me.”
I kicked the metal box on the ground on the spot Jack had been lying. “Oh, yeah? Then you won’t mind if we take a look inside.”
Jack emitted a choking sound.
I raised my eyebrow at Reynolds, but he nodded. “Go ahead and open it, but use gloves.” He tossed me a pair of rubber gloves, and I slipped them on. The clasp on the metal box gave on my third attempt. I flipped open the lid and inhaled sharply even though I’d known what I’d see.
A collective gasp sounded from the gathered crowd. We all stared at the diamonds sparkling under the sunlight.
Reynolds turned to Jack. “Still sticking to your story that you know nothing?”
Jack’s nostrils flared. He looked from me to his grandfather, who was standing at the edge of the crowd, glaring at his grandson.
“Don’t look to me for help, boyo,” Gerry One said. “And don’t expect me to visit you in prison. Whatever about you trying to stitch me up for a crime I didn’t commit, I can’t forgive you for trying to frame Carl.”
Jack flushed an angry red that spoke more of embarrassment than shame. “I don’t care what you country bumpkins think of me. I was the only member of the family who made something of himself. You’re over eighty and still living in the same ramshackle house your grandparents built.”
Gerry One jutted his jaw. “I’d rather be honest and live on a low income than be a rich crook.”
Reynolds jerked Jack forward. “Let’s get moving. Show’s over, folks. Thanks to everyone who aided today’s arrest.” He cast me a look and winked. “Later, Maggie.”
The aftermath of Jack Logan’s arrest proved to be anticlimactic, as was often the case after high-octane situations. Philomena and Julie dragged me back to Smuggler’s Cove, where they found clothes for me, before we returned to watch the parade wind its way through the town. Later, we ate fish and chips by the harbor and drank more than I was used to in true St. Patrick’s Day fashion.
