Toad in the Hole

by Paisley Ray

  “Nine years,” Travis said. “That’s not a good run for a horse.”

  “Does the vase open?”

  Travis muscled the top, but it was sealed. I offered him my pike.

  “This is trespassing and destroying private property. We could get arrested, you know.”

  I bit my cheek.

  Handing the pike back to me, Travis spit into hands and rubbed them together to give it another go.

  “Maybe it doesn’t pull off. Try twisting. Righty tight lefty loosey.”

  He stopped lifting and wrenched it anti-clockwise. We both heard a grind and a pop noise before a puff of dust wafted in the air.

  “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” he said.

  “Go on,” I said. “Reach in.”

  “Oh no. I couldn’t. This is your chase.”

  “There’s ashes in there. Dead horse or whatever Walzy’s Way was. You’re the mortician in the making. Consider this one field practice. You’ll thank me later.”

  Travis shook his head. “This is your moment. You need to do the honors.”

  I peered inside the urn and saw gray dust, similar to the stuff you shovel out of the fireplace. That’s what I told myself as my hand sank into the soot.

  “Feel anything?” he asked.

  My arm disappeared up to my elbow and I swirled my fingers, siphoning through chunks of unidentifiable and ash. “Ohhh,” I said, as my fingers siphoned lumpy bits.

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure; there are hard bits in here.” Pushing deeper, I couldn’t suppress a wry grin from beaming on my face.

  “You found it? Show me.”

  My chalky forearm emerged. Travis’s forehead nearly touched mine as I unclenched my fist. “There she is.”

  “Are you sure it’s a gem. It looks like a rock you might find in a river bed.”

  “If you were in an urn for fifty-something years, you’d look a bit crusty too.” I rubbed it on my shirt tail to remove some of the soot that encrusted it.

  It was a euphoric moment.

  “Hold it right there,” a stern British voice scolded. Three uniformed police officers holding flashlights stepped into the mausoleum. They all wore navy blue nylon raincoats and baseball caps with a checkered braid. This wasn’t good.

  “You two are trespassing.”

  Travis looked to me.

  They had us on that technicality. Up until this moment, my tour of England had been like a scavenger hunt, and after all we’d been through, if there was somewhere I could’ve hidden the amethyst I would’ve considered it. I knew it wasn’t mine, but I’d been injured, frozen, drenched, and scared shitless in the hunt. I felt like I had a claim to it and wanted to clean it up and admire it for a while—show it off to GG and Edmond at least.

  “Inspector Maxwell Muldane with Scotland Yard,” the leader said, and flipped an ID that I didn’t bother reading. “Ms. O’Brien, Mr. Howard, I need you both to come with me to the station.” He reached out a hand, “Ms. O’Brien, I’ll be having that gem you just dropped into your pocket.”

  I’d broken into a mausoleum and as appearances went, it looked as though I was about to swipe a gem I was pretty sure belonged in the scepter at the Tower.

  “Are you arresting us?” I asked.

  “That, O’Brien, remains to be seen and depends on your cooperation.”

  “Do we get a phone call?” Travis asked.

  “You’re not in the States,” the detective said without flexing anything but his mouth.

  Inspector Muldane reached out a hand and I released the lofty gem to him.

  “It’s a beauty,” I mumbled.

  Slipping it into a baggy, then an inside zip-pocket of his coat, he didn’t examine it, just replied, “Indeed.”

  Outside the mausoleum, near the castle driveway I could see two patrol cars and that damned black Range Rover. Clearing my throat, I asked, “How long have you three been here?”

  Without looking at Travis, I felt the heat of his face flare.

  “Long enough,” Inspector Muldane said.

  NOTE TO SELF

  Contemplating my prowess versus the lure of a cemetery.

  Amethysts are fickle stones. One minute you have them in the palm of your hand, the next they find a new owner.

  CHAPTER 28

  Smugglers Cove

  Cupping my hand, I fanned the air on top of the bowl of goo toward Travis’s nose. “Eat up,” I said.

  “Oh Rachael,” Edmond said. “If you make him eat those jellied eels, he’s not going to keep them down. I doubt anyone could keep them down. They look disgusting.”

  I didn’t really plan on making him eat the chunks of eel that floated in yellow-tinted gelatin, but he didn’t know that.

  GG lifted a dainty cocktail fork. “Really. You three need to expand your taste buds and try something that’s not deep fried or cooked to death on the grill.” Poking the eel, she landed a piece on her fork and popped it into her piehole. The corners of her lips curled in a smile and she moaned, “Ummmm,” as she chewed.

  She was a showman.

  “Argggg,” we all gasped. Cringing, I turned and looked out the window of The Ship Inn, a pub nestled at the base of the cliffs of Robin Hood’s Bay. We’d spent the morning exploring Whitby Abbey, its adjoining cemetery, and the cobblestone town of touristy knick-knack and fudge shops. On our journey south toward GG’s Yorkshire home, we’d stopped for lunch in the infamous smugglers town where a network of subterranean passageways were said to exist.

  Travis couldn’t bring himself to take a bite of the eel. I didn’t expect that he would. For someone studying Mortician Science, he was surprisingly squeamish about the food he consumed.

  “I’m not going to miss the cuisine in this country,” Travis said.

  Once the whole cemetery bust and Scotland Yard questioning had passed over, I’d enjoyed what was left of our vacation. Staying at my grandmother’s century-old stone cottage turned out to be as amazing as I’d imagined. Down a long drive, in the middle of nowhere England, I did notice the motion sensor at the gate, and the security system control box in a kitchen nook. We were safe there.

  The four of us castle-crawled through North Yorkshire, Northumbria, and all the way up to Edinburgh. We walked Hadrian’s Wall, and if some building ruins were left after being sacked and pillaged by the Romans or the Vikings, we’d visited it. In between all our running around, we helped GG clean some paintings she brought out of storage before hanging them on the walls to give her holiday home a fresh look. Once we agreed to the terms of friendly wagers, I broke down and played Travis in backgammon most evenings.

  “I can’t believe it’s our last day,” I said.

  GG snubbed out a cigarette. “I have some news.”

  Mid-sip of his pint, Edmond leaned into the table. “Regarding?”

  “The amethyst Rachael and Travis discovered.”

  Coyly, as though I wouldn’t notice, Travis pushed his jellied eel aside. “What kind of news?”

  “I have it from a connection in London.”

  For mid-afternoon there was a steady crowd inside the pub. The chatter and laughter muffled our conversation. “Scotland Yard?”

  “Other sources, dear. The gem in the urn. It was real. It’s been cleaned and inspected and I imagine it will be re-set in the royal scepter.”

  “Does it belong to England? I mean do the Turks have any claim to it, or was Ahmed Sadid on a personal treasure hunt?” I asked.

  “My dear, England has never had—nor does it need—permission for the treasures she keeps. With the fake removed and replaced by the real gem, the most important thing for the Brits is that there’s no chance of disgracing the crown with the story of the Duke of Windsor planting a fake amethyst into the scepter before he abdicated. Nice and tidy, this whole to-do has been put to bed.”

  “He had Wallis; he’d made his decision to leave the royal life behind. Why’d he do it?” Edmond asked.

  “Maybe he was practical joker,”
Travis said.

  Edmond leaned back and crossed his arms. “That’s a lot of trouble to go through for a practical joke.”

  “If it was a practical joke, he never came clean. Took the laughs to the grave,” I said.

  GG stared off at the choppy sea beyond the glass windows. Straightening her napkin, she said, “It’s my guess that there must have been rifts, threats going on within his inner circle and at court. No one around him could have been all too pleased with him having an affair with a married woman.”

  “It’s not like that sort of thing never happens. I don’t see what the big deal was,” Travis said.

  Edmond let out a throaty humph. “A divorcée and American.”

  Tapping her cigarette case with a soft shell pink polished nail, GG said, “My guess is simple. He removed the amethyst and hid it as an insurance policy. To make sure he and Wallis would be left alone.”

  “Why didn’t he remove the big one? The Cullinan diamond?” Travis asked.

  Edmond leaned forward. “Fake diamonds are easier to discover than fake amethysts. He wanted something that would nettle his adversaries, not send them into a complete tizzy.”

  Pulling the slim plastic tab, GG crumpled the cellophane packaging from a fresh pack of smokes. “I’ve been trying to put my finger on how the Turks and Scotland Yard knew we were here.”

  The drumming of Edmond’s fingers danced on the table. “Sneaky Turks don’t let anything go. Those buggers have been after that stone since it was unearthed back during the Crimean War.”

  Split double doors that led to the kitchen made a sweeping noise and dishes clattered behind them. “So Ahmed wasn’t bullshitting that he suspected all along that the amethyst in the Tower was a fake and that the real one was at large,” I said.

  “That’s what my sources surmise.”

  “When did you find all this out?” Travis asked.

  “I’ve been digging around ever since Edmond stumbled upon the boys from the Yard here in Yorkshire at my house while you two were at the reenactment.”

  “Yeah, thanks for telling them where to find us,” Travis remarked.

  “My dear, they were going to catch up with us eventually and besides, we have nothing to hide.”

  “Finding the gem saved them some footwork,” Edmond said

  “I didn’t know whether it was there or not. It was just a lucky hunch.”

  “Admit it, Rach, there was more to this trip than luck.”

  Travis was trying to keep on my good side so I’d forget the eels. His finesse was working.

  I drank from my half-pint glass, finishing it before the bubbles went flat. “Losing the oyster brooch to a couple of thugs wasn’t lucky.”

  “The thugs had the brooch less than five minutes when Scotland Yard pulled up and confiscated it,” Edmond said before he began to snicker. “The police opened the oyster and followed the coordinates to a dead end. They tore up some poor chap’s barn. It was just north of Allerton, between Marton cum Grafton and Aldborough.”

  “They’re lucky Sonny’s meddling handwork kept them in the UK,” I said.

  GG took a deep drag from her jewel-encrusted cigarette holder. “After that, they went looking for you again. The Yard wanted to see what you knew and almost found you on the canal in Stratford-upon-Avon.”

  I didn’t appreciate being reminded that I’d swum in the dark, icy canal for no real reason.

  “The authorities have the brooch, which while valuable, was just the key to the real treasure, the scepter’s amethyst,” Edmond said.

  I didn’t have either and I grimaced.

  “But how did Ahmed find Rachael at Allerton?” Travis asked.

  “He’s smart and cunning,” Edmond said. “And the real deal with diplomatic immunity and all. My guess is he was able to get GG’s address and that he followed the cops to Allerton, where he tracked Rachael down.”

  GG rested her hand on mine. “You, my dear, may choose to believe that you fly by the seat of your pants…”

  “I can attest to that,” Travis began, before I kicked his ankle under the table.

  The creases around my grandmother’s eyes smoothed and after all the time we spent together on this trip, a seriousness I’d never heard emanated from her. “Rachael, like me, you are drawn to art and it to you. It’s a gift that’s in your blood and it comes with consequences.”

  NOTE TO SELF

  In a split second, my grandmother’s woo-hoo prophecy reminded me of my mother.

  Personal message from Paisley Ray

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  Anachronisms

  Horse Chestnut trees drop spikey green conkers in the fall, not the summer.

  The journey by narrowboat to Stratford-upon-Avon from London would take closer to twelve days, not three.

  Sneak Preview

  THE RACHAEL O’BRIEN CHRONICLES

  JOHNNY CAKES

  A Novel

  by

  PAISLEY RAY

  “A dame that knows the ropes isn’t likely to get tied up.”

  ~Mae West

  AUGUST 1988

  CHAPTER 1

  Fair to Middlin’

  “JOHNNY CAKES was looking for you,” Francine said, her eyes intent on the cast iron skillet that popped and sizzled as she scraped it against the electric burner.

  I’d been inside Sheila Sinclair’s house just off campus two seconds, max. The sun outside shone bright; inside the space felt sleek with floor-to-ceiling mauve, black appliances, and a mid-century leather sofa sectional. I dropped my duffle bag just outside the kitchen saloon-style swinging door. My head was pounding from lack of sleep and my skin tacky from the motel bar soap film that clung from an early morning shower.

  Francine had a cryptic way of making implications. I assumed her greeting was code for one of my past dating disasters. Junior year, I’d determined, was going to be different. With my redneck stalker digested into swamp muck, and having left the crazy Turk and the troublesome Asprey oyster brooch in England for Scotland Yard to deal with, my romantic interests scattered off the radar. This year was going to be normal. I’d have no bigger college concerns than cramming for tests and experimenting with hangover remedies.

  Roger’s knees butted against the wall at a breakfast bar opening, his focus steadied on the frying pan. He wore a matted fur something or other around his neck. I stared at him. The belted blanket garb that draped his bare arms and legs had me wondering if the fleabag hotel where I’d spent the night had futzed with my brain. Or had Francine and her boyfriend kicked their relationship up a notch? Maybe they were into some kind of role-play that I didn’t have any business asking about. Flashing the signature gap between his upper front teeth, he said, “Hey Rach, you’re wrecked.”

  Perceptive guy. Then again, if you dared to date Francine Battle, a Bayou-bred, opinionated handful, you had to be on your toes. And a little crazy.

  “Me and my car engine.”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “On an incline, sandwiched in by the Appalachian Mountains, about ten miles before I crossed the West Virginia state line, my Galaxie coughed fumes that smelled like burnt toxins before the transmission blew steam.”

  Francine rolled her neck toward me and acknowledged my presence with a scowl.

  Being inconvenienced and parting from funds I’d planned on consuming at bars and on extras I’d need living off campus, I was in no mood for the chilly Louisiana shoulder my temperamental roommate aimed at me.

  “That blows,” Roger said.

  “Owning that clunker just made a big ding
in my bank account. I need to trade the pea green shit can in for something reliable.”

  Scoping out Francine and Roger’s get-ups, I had to ask, “What are you two wearing?”

  Roger stopped spinning an empty juice glass and it became lost under his carrot size fingers. “We dressed up last night. Posed as apostles at da Vinci’s last supper.”

  “What?”

  “Which one was I, Francie?

  Facing the stove, she said, “Simon the Zealot.”

  “Oh yeah, and Francie played Jesus.”

  I stared at the bare skin on Francine’s neck, below her morning yellow shower cap. “Since when does Jesus have a scaly tail drawn in black marker? Did you run out of paper while playing Win, Lose or Draw?”

  The aged pan Francine handled started to smoke. The air smelled of new carpet, mixed with stale cigarette smoke and skillet-warmed butter. “Merde,” she spat, as she scurried to add another generous pat of butter. Once she had the pan under control, she poked flat golden cakes with a spatula and turned the heat down. Stomping her slipper feet out of the kitchen, she buzzed around the corner toward the powder room. We heard the light switch flick and after a beat, she shouted loud enough for the neighbors two doors down to hear her. “Lord have mercy! When the tarnation did this happen? Roger!”

  Dutifully, her boyfriend disappeared and I looked past the kitchen to a slumbering body that was tucked into the sofa cushions. Plastic cups littered every surface. “This house has been partified. Did you throw some kind of church supper thing?”

  From behind the open powder room door I could hear Roger mew an apologetic tone. “I don’t know, babe. I thought the snake was on you before I arrived. Figured it was a biblical accessory for our costumes, like a Garden of Eden thing.”

  “We were apostles, not Adam and Eve. Why would I have a scaly snake drawn on my back and more importantly, how would I put it there?”