“That old building has been in our family for generations, but Roddy’s decided to donate the basement to the town.”
“What? Why’s that?”
“Well, the bar used to be a grocery store, back in the day. And the basement used to be, well, a speakeasy.” She looked down, embarrassed.
“No way. Really? That’s so cool.”
“Is it? I always thought it was a terrible thing, a secret I couldn’t tell anyone, and now Roddy’s gone and spilled it to the town council. He wants to turn it into some kind of museum. I think he’s doing it for the tax break or something.”
“Maybe he is,” I said, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a terrible idea.”
She sighed. “Gwen agrees with him—her one flaw, as usual. The town council already voted to accept the donation last week. Now, it’s only a matter of time and finding people qualified for that kind of restoration project. I don’t know what to think. All my life, I’ve been hiding that speakeasy’s secret, mostly because Mom hated it. My brain doesn’t exactly turn on a dime. I’m already bracing for the backlash.”
Jordan hovered behind my shoulder like some kind of observing angel. She was definitely up to something.
“Well, there might not be any backlash at all. People might genuinely love the idea of a speakeasy museum. Do you want me to take a quick informal poll tonight? If it’s Roddy’s idea, I’m sure he’ll be willing to talk about it with my guests and the public there. I can ask him about it, and see what the reaction is. I know the property is his to manage, but if it’s going to go poorly with public perception, he should know sooner rather than later.”
A look of surprised approval crossed Emily’s face. “That would be helpful, yes. It really could just be me. All I know is pastry.” She picked up a blueberry muffin. “You love me, don’t you?” she asked it. “Yes, you do.”
Jordan and I chuckled, and she nudged my shoulder and showed me her phone. “I need to get back to work. Thanks so much for the grub, Emily. I’ll see you later.”
I walked out into the gusty morning with Jordan, who wore a Cheshire Cat grin. “You nailed it,” she said.
“Nailed what?”
“Your audition.”
Aha. I was getting closer to learning what she was up to. “What are you talking about?”
She only lifted her chin another fraction of an inch. “You’ll see. Tomorrow. Have a great day!”
Jordan trotted across the street, and somehow, the wind didn’t seem to touch her perfect hair or her trusty cream suit. I paused to watch her until she slipped inside the hotel’s main doors. Jordan and I shared everything, but now she had a secret, and she was teasing me with it. I was pretty sure that went against Girl Code.
5
“I’ve been doing television interviews since before you were born, son. And I still can’t get over the notion that if I pick my nose in front of the camera, it’ll be the top news story the next morning.”
Raymond Moore, 1950
When I got back to Moorehaven, Skylar and Paul were still out, but someone else was in. Two someones, in fact. The young documentary producer, Devin Gilfillan, sat in my front parlor with Hilt, chatting while his cameraman fiddled with a small camera atop a tripod that sat on my coffee table. Rex stood by and helpfully sniffed everything.
And all the furniture still sat where it had been earlier this morning. Hilt hadn’t started moving it yet. And he seemed so pleased to be the center of attention that I didn’t figure he’d get started on that anytime soon. I stifled a groan of irritation and headed down the hallway, past the Shelf, the small parlor, and the hostess station.
I poured a glass of water in the kitchen, left Hilt a big note on the fridge informing him of Farmer Frances’s fresh crop of blueberries, and headed upstairs. I knocked on the door of the Cobalt Suite, and Lake called for me to come on in. When I swung the door open, he was sitting on the bed, propped against a stack of all the extra pillows from the closet shelf with the remote pointed at the TV.
“Hey, look!” He waved the remote at the screen. “Some British soccer game. Cool, huh?”
I smiled politely and set the water down on the nightstand. “Thought you might be thirsty. How’s your head? Need any more Tylenol?”
“Yeah, actually.” He shook out a couple more white caplets and gulped them down.
“You’re sure you’re feeling okay? You’re not hiding some giant crack in your skull to appear all manly or anything?”
He chuckled and gave me that adorable half grin again. “Nope. Honest. I’ve been through worse, if you can believe it.”
“So this is where you get to say, ‘This is nothing’?”
“Well, waking up dizzy and confused in a capsizing boat wasn’t nothing—especially now that I know Cecil was on board, too—but yeah, it’s not my ten out of ten on the pain scale, Nurse Winterbourne.”
I tipped my head at him. Nurse Winterbourne was way better than Nurse Ratched. “In that case, how about earning your keep with a little light housework?”
Five minutes later, Lake and I were ready to rearrange furniture in the front parlor, having ushered Hilt and his paparazzi into the sunroom and prompted Rex to retreat down the hallway in disgruntlement. Through the open doorway, I heard snippets of Devin’s explanation of the documentary he was filming. “My grandfather always wanted to live in Seacrest. He said it was because of…”
“You want the tables with the couch?” Lake asked over the young producer in the next room.
I nodded. “Just be very careful with those Tiffany lamps. They’re Aunt Felicity’s.”
“Whose?”
I clarified the important part. “They’re very old and expensive.”
“Gotcha.” He set the lamps on the floor while he shifted the end tables around. As he moved, I studied his gait and belatedly noticed the slight limp Jordan had commented on. I hadn’t noticed it before because apparently, my attention had fixated on his handsome facial features. And also his butt. And most of the parts in between. Down, Pippa!
Devin’s voice drifted out again. “I took the semester off from film school to take care of him—his heart, you know—and we rented a little place last month. I didn’t know his heart was so bad, though. Maybe the move was a bad idea after all. See, he died a couple of weeks ago. I wasn’t even there.”
“That’s rough, kid,” Hilt said. “But I’m sure he knew you loved him.”
“I only wish he’d gotten to see the final…”
“In the corner?” Lake asked, hands on the enormous red couch’s arm.
I nodded, and we shoved it across the thick carpet. Puffing like I’d just sprinted across town, I stepped back to critique our work. “Another six inches to the left, I think.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lake put his long arms and legs to work and effortlessly slid the hulking couch another half a foot toward the north wall, where it kissed up against one of the end tables without even jostling its Tiffany lamp. Once the furniture was as far out of the way as possible, leaving plenty of floor space for mingling, Lake and I flopped onto the couch for a breather.
Well, I needed to catch my breath. Lake seemed almost unnaturally calm and healthy, despite his recent brush with death. In the sunroom, Devin asked Hilt questions about his early life in Seacrest. I had questions I wanted to ask Lake, too. But I needed to be sure he trusted me, or I wouldn’t be able to trust his answers.
“Let me get you some juice or something,” I offered.
“You got any more of that OJ from this morning?”
“Coming right up.” I headed down the hallway, hearing my uncle’s rumbling voice in the background as he related how he and Raymond Moore had fallen into their strange, if brief, friendship.
When I returned, Lake was sitting with his elbows on his knees, ear c
ocked toward the door to the sunroom. He accepted his glass. “Did your uncle really know Mr. Moore?”
I sat beside him and clinked my glass against his. “Yes. He’s not making that part up. I can’t speak to some of the other things he’s saying, but he really did retire as police chief at the age of forty and start paying out a little too much in the local bars. He met Moore in there, and they had some strange things in common, so they kind of became soul mates. A year later, Moore died, and my uncle was surprised to find out that he’d inherited Moorehaven.”
Lake took a long drink. “You never know what kinds of things can happen when you meet someone new. I hiked into town a month ago, ran into Cecil at Mozzie’s sandwich shop, and landed myself a job and a place to stay by nightfall. Next thing, I was running fishermen out for rockfish on the weekends with the odd whale-watching tour as the grays head back north. I turned in for the night last night, and next thing, I saw a beautiful woman with a voice like a siren and a throwing arm like a major league pitcher. She gave me a place to stay and even made me scones.” His warm hand slid over mine and squeezed. “Thanks again for saving my life.”
I squeezed back. Lake was a handsome, disarming charmer. But then, many mystery-novel villains were charming, too. “Oh, you know, the things I have to do to keep my authors entertained.”
Lake’s eyes were brilliant cerulean as he leaned closer. “I hope no one’s watching right now.”
My tummy fluttered. “Why is that?”
His lips curved into a soft smile. “I don’t really want an audience.” He angled in farther, and his head dipped down, bringing his lips toward mine. I sat up straighter to meet his kiss. The world went dim as my eyelids lowered to half-mast.
“Thanks, Hilt,” Devin said. “We’ll let you know when—Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
The bright world crashed in again as Lake and I jumped apart like guilty teenagers. With Operation Smooch aborted, I stood up, pasted on a gleaming smile, and smoothed my slacks for no reason at all. Devin and his cameraman, Kyle, clustered in the sunroom doorway, wearing awkward expressions. I was thankful for the small mercy that Hilt was probably trapped behind them, unable to see me kissing a possible killer. I’d hate to inconvenience Naoma with my unscheduled obituary, though Wallis, the local florist, would love the new business.
Still seated on the couch, Lake cleared his throat.
I took charge. “Thanks for coming by, you two. Can I get you some refreshments before you go?”
Devin declined, saying he was fine, but Kyle shyly asked if he could have some juice, probably having spotted the nearly forgotten glass in my hand. I shared a warm look with Lake then had Kyle follow me to the kitchen. I could feel the icy chill from Hilt’s gaze as I left the room, but he wasn’t looking at me. His arctic judgment was aimed at Lake.
Kyle leaned on the island with both elbows like an eager twelve-year-old and admired the kitchen. “This looks great in here. You’ve kept the old framework, but the appliances are updated for convenience. I’m really digging that brick arch over the original oven. How old is this place?”
“Moorehaven was built in 1891 by Felicity Moore, Raymond Moore’s great-aunt. The same year as Laine Manor was built—big white mansion on the hill? And you’re right. The beams and bricks are all original.”
“Does it have a cellar?”
I nodded. “It’s nothing special, though it’s typical for its time. Made to hold coal, wood, the laundry room, dried herbs, and dairy products.”
Kyle nodded and took a sip of juice. “Devin’s wrong, you know. His grandpa isn’t descended from that old crime boss like he thinks.”
I tried to hide my confusion. I hadn’t been listening to most of Devin’s chat with Hilt.
“I did some digging for the documentary, you know? They’re not related after all. But I can’t tell him that. I think it would break his heart all over again. We didn’t expect Jerry to die so quickly. I mean, he was sick, but it was a chronic thing. At least he passed peacefully. And we’re making a great documentary about Seacrest during Prohibition, so somewhere, ol’ Jerry must be grinning like a fool. He was a great guy. Well, thanks for the juice. I’d better catch up with Devin. I’ll probably see you around town.”
“No problem, Kyle.” I headed to the front door to show Hilt’s guests out. Someone knocked against the stained-glass window just as I reached the door, so I opened it to see who was on my porch.
There stood Chloe Braxton, in ripped jeans and a thrash metal band tee, with her dark-dyed hair and nose stud, the college dropout I was supposed to interview today. Way too late, my brain reminded me what I’d been forgetting all day long.
6
“Everyone’s got skills no one knows about. You oughta hear me in the shower. I do a mean ‘Bye, Bye Blackbird.’”
Raymond Moore, 1927
“So, Chloe, how old are you now?”
The willowy young woman shifted in the emerald-green chair across from me in the small parlor and swept a long, dark strand of hair from her eyes. “Nineteen in January.”
“Are you allergic to cats?”
“No.” She perked up out of the expertly crafted teenage boredom she’d walked in with. “You have cats here?”
“Rules of the charter. Raymond Moore had two cats. Whenever one died or ran away, he’d replace it from the local shelter. He gave the cats names of characters from his books, and we carry on that tradition. Right now, we have Svetlana from The Alabaster Guile—I call her Svetta—and Rex from The Brass Artifice. Do you have any job experience in the hospitality industry?”
She nibbled at a nail whose dark polish was chipped back to the nail bed and stared at a reproduction painting of three women riding horses across the moors. “Yeah, I worked at the hotel last summer. Made beds, brought new towels, that sort of thing. It’s not rocket science.”
That was a yes in the experience column, but an iffy maybe in the attitude column. “How about phones?”
Chloe’s fine, dark brows drew together in confusion. “You mean just answering them all day? No. I haven’t done that.”
Not a good sign. An extra pair of hands would be helpful, but what I really needed was an extra pair of ears to answer the phone so I could get all my other tasks done. “Well, what other job experience do you have?”
She shrugged carelessly. “The usual. Small-town tourist stuff. I’ve worked in a couple of souvenir shops, the ice cream shop, the coffee shop, candy shop, pizza shop, and half the seafood restaurants in town. I did some trim repainting a couple of summers ago. On summer weekends, sometimes I’d kid-sit on the beach north of town so parents could go party or whatever. Everyone trusts the daughter of a town councilman around here.” Her last sentence came out thick with sarcasm.
Maybe Chloe wasn’t a very good worker at much of anything, but everyone kept hiring her because of her father’s position. I suddenly wasn’t sure whether I wanted to be in that boat—or whether I wanted to risk not being in it. Small-town politics could turn vicious in a heartbeat, and I didn’t want Moorehaven to be on the receiving end of a sudden plot twist.
Someone knocked on the parlor door. “Come in.”
The door opened, and a makeshift fan formed from local business menus fluttered into view, clasped in a large male hand that was too young to be Hilt’s—Paul’s probably, judging by the cheeky wave the fan gave. Though the big Moorehaven sign outside only advertised breakfast, authors made their own hours. Hilt had long ago found that the best way to keep overly focused writers alive was to order takeout from one of the local restaurants for lunch and dinner. I checked my watch. Sure enough, already lunchtime.
“Have you guys picked a favorite?” I asked.
Paul and Skylar stepped to the doorway but paused on the threshold, as if they didn’t want to intrude. “Paul says I need to try Mozzie’s
sandwiches,” Skylar said.
Chloe stared at her expressionlessly through her black eye makeup.
“But you look busy. Let us go pick up the order.”
I stood up. “No, no, I have an account at Mozzie’s. He knows to put it on my tab.”
Paul edged a foot on to the green carpet. “Come on, Miss Winterbourne. You can’t do everything yourself. Why don’t you call in the order, and we’ll go pick it up so you can stay here—and wait one second, is this a new author?”
One of Chloe’s brows rose at his stream-of-consciousness question. Paul’s keen look shifted to me as I explained, “Chloe is here to interview for an internship.”
He nodded in interest. “I didn’t know Moorehaven had an internship program.”
I bit my lip. I wasn’t sure Chloe would be a good fit for Moorehaven, despite her mother’s desire to get the girl out of her attic room. “We might not. It’s just something I’m considering.”
The phone rang at the hostess station. Chloe, having just heard she might not get the job on a silver platter after all, shot me a look that clearly said, challenge accepted. She stalked past me, zoomed around the L-shaped counter, and snatched up the phone. I was too shocked to stop her.
“Good afternoon, Moorehaven Bed and Breakfast Inn. How may I help you?” Chloe’s voice had modulated from a snippy emo tone to a low, rich, exquisitely empathetic voice that could have come from a thirty-year-old gospel singer. She nodded and pinched the phone between her shoulder and her ear as her hands searched my countertop, finally coming up with my message pad—dusty from lack of use because the phone calls were almost all for me.
She wrote a couple of lines. “And can we have a lunch order waiting for you when you arrive, Mr. Daulton? We’re just about to place an order at Mozzie’s sandwich shop. Are you familiar with their menu?” Chloe scribbled some more. “Excellent, Mr. Daulton. We’ll see you in half an hour. Drive safely.”
Smugglers & Scones Page 6
