I squeezed her hand, stole another doughnut hole, and rejoined the crowd.
“What was it like down there back then?” Skylar was asking Roddy.
Roddy smiled even wider at the sight of such a pretty questioner and rubbed his hands together before he answered. “Well, the speakeasy was called Epicurus’s Lantern. Diogenes used his lantern for wisdom—the old town library was called Diogenes’ Lantern back then, just like the new one is today—so during Prohibition, Seacrest expanded the theme. Rumrunners would zip in from the sea in a boat small enough to fit up the river.”
He glanced around and noted several tourists listening. “For those of you who don’t know, Seacrest’s Silver River runs through a thirty-foot gorge here in town. Because it’s an estuary, the tide can push the flow of water in the other direction when it’s high enough. That’s worn down a lot of rock over the millennia, so there’s this channel, see. And the rumrunners marked a certain spot that was right near the water’s edge at high tide. There’s an old iron ring in the wall of the gorge. You can still see it today if you know where to look. The rumrunners would tie their boats in place and drop crates and barrels over the side of the boat. My club is on top of the cliff right next to that spot, and from the basement, there’s an access tunnel to the river. Covered up now, of course. My grandfather would smuggle his booze into town without ever meeting the men who supplied him, which suited everyone fine, in case anyone ever got arrested.”
“And did anyone? Get arrested?” Al Daulton asked.
Roddy chuckled. “Seacrest made an excellent rumrunners’ paradise because we didn’t even have a paved road out of town until 1930. We were just an isolated town with a bright little lighthouse on the long, dark coastline. When there were storms, the rumrunners would shelter here in town on their way to Los Angeles or Canada.”
I noticed several locals nodding proudly, and I was sorry Emily had been taught not to embrace her town’s history.
Paul spoke up, perhaps not wanting to share quite so much of his limelight with a mere smarmy club owner. “Not many people focus on the Pacific rum-running during Prohibition—possibly because most of it was Canadian whisky, not rum—but I couldn’t help stumbling across this town’s unique perspective on Prohibition when I stayed at Moorehaven to write Prince of Night, especially since Moore himself made so much use of the Prohibition Era in his Hilton Gray novels.” He smiled and tipped his head toward me, acknowledging my small role in connecting him to that knowledge. “I read all of his Los Angeles-based noir novels in college, and from then on, I knew I had to be a thriller writer. And then, of course, I had to write my novels here in Moorehaven. It just wouldn’t be right, otherwise.”
I stepped out of the circle and gestured toward the A. Raymond Moore Memorial Library, a large room tucked securely on the northern side of the building. “And on that note, in a few minutes, Mr. Sheen will be reading us the first chapter of his latest book in the Moore Library. If everyone would like to grab a last snack and make their way in?”
Paul smiled and led the way, and the room gradually emptied as guests trailed into the library. Naoma walked slowly in front of me, scribbling in her notebook.
“Getting some good tidbits?” I asked her.
She nodded without looking up. “I’ve got two stories now: the signing, and the donation. Fascinating, don’t you think, that Roddy kept the speakeasy a secret until he could give it away?”
I frowned. “A romantic perspective, Naoma. Surely several old-timers remembered the speakeasy was there.”
Naoma’s smile was smug. “Yes, and I’ll get all their reminiscences in the weeks to come. I won’t run out of speakeasy material until Christmas!”
I followed her into the library and stood at the back in case anyone needed anything. Up front, Paul had gotten comfortable in an antique turquoise rocking chair with cloche upholstery and was just cracking open his book.
“‘This novel is dedicated to my ex-wife,’” Paul read from the book’s dedication page, “‘for leaving me and driving me to write darker. To Roderick Scott, for his myriad inspirations. And to the kind and efficient staff at Moorehaven Bed and Breakfast Inn, for making sure I ate and drank regularly during the creation of this story.’”
I smiled and accepted the polite applause. Paul began reading, lowering his voice to a gravelly, more dramatic tone. He had a knack for capturing the narrative cynicism of his investigative mobster character, Artemis Bellisi. And it was having an effect on Skylar, who rested one hand at her throat and eyed him hungrily.
Ten minutes later, when Paul finished reading his first chapter, I was feeling more cynical, myself. I had no idea how authors did it, making up entire people and managing to make them feel intensely, completely unique. My skill set was far more practical and far less interesting. Luckily, I made absolutely killer breakfasts.
I ushered everyone back to the front parlor for the signing portion of our evening. Naoma snapped several pictures for the Register as Paul scribbled his name on the title pages of his novels and smiled up at various loyal readers, chatting easily with each.
As some people took turns getting books signed, others moved past the food tables, picking up tiny sandwich segments from Mozzie’s sandwich shop or desserts from Emily’s table.
Lake approached me with a plate bearing two turkey sandwich slivers and offered one of them to me. “I got seconds. Are you hungry? All this organizing must have given you an appetite, but I didn’t see you get any food.”
Emily’s doughnut holes were only a memory, and who could resist such a handsome man offering me such delectable tidbits? I lifted the sandwich delicately with my fingertips. “Feeling better?”
He tipped his head and gave me a look that said not so much, no. “No headache but no new memories, either. I’m consoling myself with these sandwich bites.”
I took a tiny bite of the turkey sandwich. “Have you thought about Blade and Boom? Are you going to stay on?”
Lake studied the floor, going still with focus. “The police chief thinks I had something to do with Cecil’s death. I didn’t. But somebody did, and that’s very not cool with me. I’m a drifter. I don’t stay long anywhere, especially if there’s trouble. But I knew Cecil, and despite what everyone thought of him, he was a great boss. He knew his business, and he treated his customers and me right. If someone actually killed him, I feel as though I have to stay and help somehow. Blade and Boom is shut for now. I don’t know if or when it will reopen. I guess that’s up to Cecil’s lawyer. He has the will.”
My eyebrows lifted. “Oh, that must be Mercer Braxton. He and Cecil didn’t get along much, but everyone knows Mercer is a skilled attorney, which is a good thing because he’s the only one in town.” Lake sounded sincere in his admiration for Cecil French—a rarity in Seacrest. Most of me hoped that he could find a way to stay in town.
Lake nodded. “I’ll give him a call in the morning, then, and see if he can tell me who owns the business now or what. Thanks, Pippa. If you’ll excuse me, thirds are calling my name.” He returned to the sandwich table, where Chloe watched hungrily as he loaded up his plate. Poor girl. I’ll make sure she gets some of the leftovers.
While Paul sat in the corner, signing books, Devin made the rounds through the crowd, shadowed by his cameraman, and asked questions here and there of the locals. Instead of annoying my guests, Devin’s presence seemed to give the event more weight. Several people improved their posture and tried to use bigger words when the camera was on them. Mozzie managed to fling a piece of turkey from his sandwich as he gestured grandly, and Wallis used “fantabulous” in the most depressing way I’d ever heard.
Al Daulton tapped me on the shoulder. “Great shindig, Miss Pippa. I’m glad I made it here in time to attend.”
I smiled and tipped my head, flattered. “Was your trip down from Portland smooth?”
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He nodded. “As silk. No traffic backups anywhere. It’s the kind of trip that makes you wonder if you’re in a romantic comedy or something because literally nothing goes wrong.”
Jordan’s voice spoke breathlessly near my shoulder. “Clearly, you haven’t read or seen a romantic comedy in a long time, Mr. Daulton.”
I spun. “Jordan! You made it! I’m glad you’re here. You remember Mr. Daulton from previous visits.”
The two exchanged polite pleasantries. Luckily, Al hadn’t caused too much of a ruckus in the Seven Vistas lobby when he’d pretended to take Jordan hostage with a revolver made of licorice, but only because he’d tried it at two in the morning. She had forgiven him—eventually.
“Go get some food, and there’s punch.”
“You don’t need to tell me twice.” With a flash of fresh lipstick and a swirl of her bright red hair, now down past her shoulders in a smooth sheet, Jordan made her way toward the comestibles.
“Hey, Miss Pippa. Is it possible to take a look at Moore’s notes for some of his novels?” Al asked.
“Sure thing. Anything up in the gallery is free to look at any time you want. I was up there earlier, switching out notebooks and the like to match the display more closely to Paul’s Prohibition-Era book.”
He shifted his weight to the other foot. “No, I mean to actually handle the book, look through all its pages for uh, for research purposes.”
I put on a sad face, though I dealt with the question on a regular basis and from people far pushier than Al was being. “I’m sorry, no, not unless we have a special occasion where the books are brought out for supervised display. And that’s a decision that’s out of my hands. The trust makes the rules.” Which was mostly true. The trust did make the rules for Moorehaven in some regards, and the decision was most definitely out of my hands. But it was Uncle Hilt who demanded that Moore’s personal writings be kept under lock and key, or at least under lock and glass. I usually shifted the documents in and out of the glass case for different occasions, but Hilt kept the keys to the case and storeroom. He had known Raymond Moore personally, and I wasn’t about to argue with him regarding the man’s personal writings.
“Do you have his notes on The Crimson Kiss out?”
“I do. It’s one of the better matches to Paul’s novel.”
“Good to know.” Al nodded and moved off to get his own copy of Prince of Night signed.
Jordan wafted back over with her mouth full of éclair. She leaned in conspiratorially and asked through her food, “Did Roddy have any comment on his thing?”
“He did. But he told half the room, so half the town will know about it in the morning. I think everyone likes the idea of a speakeasy museum.”
She nodded encouragingly. “No, that’s good. Good job.”
“At what? Getting Emily a clear answer?”
“Nuh uh.”
I squinted at her accusingly. “You’re being awfully mysterious, even for Seacrest.”
But Jordan only smirked and popped another éclair in her cakehole.
The evening wrapped up around eight o’clock—gotta love small-town nights—and I ushered the last guest out into the foggy night at a quarter past. I sighed and leaned against the cool stained glass with the back of my head. Paul, Skylar, and Al were still chatting in the front parlor, but Lake, Chloe, and Hilt stood in the hallway with me.
“Great job, everyone,” Hilt said. “And Lake, since you seem up to shoving my furniture around, you can help put it back in the morning.” His tone brooked no argument. “These creaky bones need to lie down now, so I’ll say good night.” He ambled over to the side hallway and vanished.
I sighed. Uncle Hilt made sure that old age, and his in particular, had its privileges. On top of that, the doghouse Hilt had sent Lake to was looking pretty permanent. “Typical. He heads off when it’s time to clean up. Come on, Chloe. Lend me a hand with the leftovers, and then you can call it a night.”
Lake held out his arms. “Hey, I have hands. Besides, leftovers are a bachelor’s best friend.”
“Hey. Starving teenager much?” Chloe interjected.
I nodded and led the way into the front parlor. “They’re also a starving writer’s best friend. If you don’t claim what you want right now, everyone else will eat it up during midnight writing sessions or something.”
“I heard that,” called Al as we passed the chatting group of authors on our way to the food tables. “And, as usual, Miss Pippa is correct. We writers are an opportunistic bunch.”
Paul nodded. “I subsisted on Ramen and pizza for three years while I was shopping my first book around. Those little sandwiches over there are the food of the gods.”
Lake shamelessly stuffed his mouth with two of the leftover sandwich slices before I could even count them.
I headed to the kitchen for storage containers. When I reentered the front parlor, everyone was taking a bite of something or other from the remaining food. Chloe held desserts in each hand and was munching on a mouthful. Lake tried to stuff his mouth fuller than hers, and she laughed so hard she sprayed crumbs. She yelped and tried to catch them, making Lake laugh, too. Paul and Skylar nibbled together, off in their own world. Al observed all with a smile.
I filled my containers slowly, allowing my authors and Lake to snatch a couple more apiece before I snapped the lids on tight. Chloe followed me to the kitchen, silent and sullen despite her newly filled tummy. As we stored our containers in the fridge, I asked, “Is something on your mind, Chloe?”
She huffed and leaned back against the island, bracing her hands on its butcher-block top. To my surprise, her topic for venting had nothing to do with catering all evening. “I just hate my dad sometimes. He’s so controlling. Our house is a museum, almost literally. Every room has all this old stuff in it. I can’t even eat at our dining room table in case I spill. What am I, four? Dad keeps everything ‘period’ because he opens the house for tours on the weekends. Even in the winter, when there are like zero tourists, I can’t sit in my own front room, and God forbid we have a TV anywhere in sight. It’s so stupid!” Chloe made frustrated claws with her hands. “Now he’s making me work—for free—in another near-museum. Look at all this Tiffany glass and these antique chairs and paintings you have. Me, I hide in my room with my meals because my dad started filling the pantry shelves with spot remover when I moved back in.”
“Actually, Chloe, this job was your mom’s idea.”
Her slim brows drew together. “What? No way.”
I nodded. “You probably don’t remember, but when I moved to Seacrest six years ago, your mom played tour guide for me because she was good friends with Hilt. She heard that Moorehaven is doing better now that we’re using some of my ‘modern’ ideas like having a website and a Facebook page, and she wanted to make sure you got to get out on your own a little bit. And honestly, I’m happy to have you. You’re great with the phones, and I can always use an extra pair of hands—and another brain. Plus, you live here in town. You know Seacrest, and you can direct new writers to anything they’re interested in learning more about here in town.”
Chloe shifted and bit her lip. “So this isn’t a pity job?”
“Nope. Unless you consider that your mom took pity on me.” I pried open the pastry container and offered it to her. “Why don’t you take another one of these mini maple doughnuts for the road, and tomorrow, I’ll start showing you the ins and outs of running a bed and breakfast.”
Chloe’s light fingers snatched one of the delicate pastries, and she flashed me a quick grin before inhaling it. “Deal. See ya tomorrow.”
I watched her slip out the front door with a smile, feeling almost entirely content. Today had been a very good day. But a narrow, suspicious slice of my mind still worried about what exactly Lake had been holding and shouting aboard the Mazu—a
nd why.
8
“Bookstores are far more frightening places when you have a dog in the fight. Why do you think I give my characters guns?”
Raymond Moore, 1932
Chloe didn’t show up until nine the next morning, long after breakfast had been cleared away. She missed the pop quiz on characters’ secret vices, too, including the part where Al confessed that he’d always envisioned his gritty, time-traveling hero, Dieter Pike, wearing 1930s silk stockings under his long trench coat and pinstriped slacks. I didn’t say anything as Chloe hung her coat on the wall rack, though. Such generosity on my part had to come from the fact that I’d almost had the place to myself for half an hour. Lake and Al had headed out early, and Skylar and Paul had retreated upstairs, ostensibly to get some more writing done. The cats had gone out into a rare burst of sunshine to explore the grounds for unwary mice.
Chloe smoothed her long dark hair back past her shoulders and took a deep breath as if bracing herself for a terrible task.
“Morning, Chloe,” I greeted her as I stepped out from behind the hostess station.
“Morning.” Her eyes flicked to her right. “Sorry I’m late. I was binge-watching this English mystery show on Netflix—you know, to get in the right mood for working here? And next thing I knew, it was three in the morning.”
I grinned at her modern enthusiasm. “I know how that goes. Which show?”
Her forehead wrinkled in concentration. “It looked like Poyrot, but everyone kept saying it Pwarro.”
My heart soared. “Oh, Poirot, with Peter Suchet! You know, he played Agatha Christie’s detective character for twenty-five years. If you want to read the original books, we have them in the library.”
Smugglers & Scones Page 8
