“I suppose she does.”
“Well, whether she keeps it, sells it, hires somebody to run it, or whatever, the first time she sees what she’s inherited, it should look nice.”
“That’s thoughtful of you.”
He tipped his head in a considering gesture. “Although, I don’t think it would be right to take down Cecil’s sailor girls. They add such atmosphere.”
I’d seen Cecil’s posters once. Printed in the 1940s, they showed scantily clad, wholesome-looking American girls wearing what was supposed to represent Navy uniforms as they did vaguely nautical things like hold ropes or steer ships’ wheels. The words on the posters were meant to encourage WWII naval officers, but I’m pretty sure the girls’ perky curves did more encouraging than the text did. “I think you’re teasing me, but I can’t be sure. Either way, I do agree with you. Those posters are pretty tame by modern standards, anyway.”
His eyebrows rose in pleased surprise. “I’ll tell Lillian, Betty, and the others that you approve.”
Approve? I wouldn’t go that far. “If you want lunch with us, and especially if you find anything else interesting in the office, be back here by twelve thirty.”
He agreed, and within five minutes, he was out the door. I was torn between wishing him a productive day and wishing he’d eagerly rush back to have lunch with me. But I couldn’t hold his hand through every task—much as I wanted to. Besides, I had an exciting amount of research to do that day. I grabbed a notebook for scribbling and entered the Moorehaven library.
The room held a first edition of every book Moore had ever written, including every language it had been translated into. Every copy was signed. I was glad our burglar hadn’t bothered to steal them. Though they were under tabletop glass in the center of the room, one quick whack of a crowbar and the thief could have made off with tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of books.
The treasure must be worth more than that—if it’s really real.
The shelves themselves held ordinary copies of Moore’s books, a few copies of each, as well as books by Moore’s favorite contemporaries. My favorite contemporary author of A. Raymond Moore was Dame Agatha Christie. Moore had personally purchased every one of her novels, and I had read them each at least once in the past six years. The two authors had exchanged dozens of letters during WWII, when Mrs. Christie was a nurse in London and Mr. Moore was working in Intelligence. I still had many of them, and they were among my favorite treasures in Moorehaven.
I let my fingers skim lightly across Christie’s novels as I walked toward the Moore section. I plucked a copy of The Crimson Kiss from the shelf and headed to the sunroom to read it.
The Crimson Kiss had been a departure for Moore from his big-city settings, but according to his critics, he’d managed to bring the noir flavor of 1930s Los Angeles to a small, coastal town with skill and aplomb. I was hoping he’d managed to leave clues to the whereabouts of the actual treasure, but there was only one way to know: I had to read the entire book with an eye to any clue that might translate into the real world.
From somewhere among the library shelves, both Rex and Svetlana trailed me into the next room, hopped onto the warm windowsill, folded their paws under, and slitted their eyes in self-satisfaction.
Snuggling down into the overstuffed sofa, I gazed at the outdated cover art, a hand-drawn image of the back of a man’s trench coat and the brim of his fedora. His right hand clutched a revolver, and his figure was silhouetted against the blazing light from a speakeasy door at the bottom of a staircase. Inside the door, I could see the short, beaded skirt and bobbed hair of a beautiful young woman. A fine, generic noir cover, protecting the Lantern’s location as well as whatever truths Moore had buried in his novel.
Just before noon, the doorbell rang. Tourists in rainy April? I slipped the bookmark into my place, closed the novel, and got up. The cats’ blatant disinterest told me they would not be following me to the door. On my porch stood a tall, efficient-looking female police officer in a dark-blue uniform. Her brown hair was pulled into a tight, thick bun at the back of her crown. Her cheekbones were prominent, but not quite gaunt, and her brown eyes held no warmth.
“Can I help you?”
“Officer Tavish, Seacrest PD. You are Miss Philippa Winterbourne, correct?”
I tried to keep my eyebrows out of my hairline. She looked like she had walked off the set of a New York City police procedural show. “Please, call me Pippa.”
She only stared at me.
“Or Miss Winterbourne, if you prefer. Are you Chief Craig’s new officer?”
She inhaled through her nose, a whip crack of breath. “I am. I need to ask you some follow-up questions regarding the death of Cecil French.”
“Sure thing. Would you like to step into my parlor?” Said the spider to the fly. Why am I nervous?
“No, thank you.” Officer Tavish slid the notebook from her breast pocket. “This shouldn’t take long, Miss Winterbourne. Now, you said that you pulled one Lakyn Ivens from the ocean at around three Friday morning?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you didn’t see another person in the water at that time?”
I shook my head. “The fog was really thick. I could barely see the boat, and I actually couldn’t see Lake at first. I called out for survivors, and he replied. If he hadn’t, I’m not sure he would have made it.”
“I’m sure he’s very grateful.” She had that neutral, official tone of voice down to a science.
“Have you learned anything else about the crash? It wasn’t Lake’s fault, was it?”
Officer Tavish glanced at her notepad as if looking for the answer to my question. I was just about sure she wouldn’t answer my question when she said, “The wreckage has been analyzed. We currently believe that Mr. French was murdered around eleven on Thursday night. The four-hour gap between his death and the boat crash does have us confused, however. There was hardly any fuel left in the tanks, indicating that the boat had been traveling somewhere. Perhaps the killer used it to deliver contraband.”
I recalled a passing comment Lake had made at breakfast. “Oh, Lake said something about the crash that might help you. He said the Mazu liked to pull to the right. Maybe the killer intended for the boat to head out to sea, removing all trace of his crime. Even if the boat had been found, Cecil’s and Lake’s injuries could have been explained by a fight, or even an accidental fall.”
Ms. Tavish arched an eyebrow at me for what seemed like far too long. “Watch a lot of crime shows, do you?”
I felt my brows draw together, no doubt making an unfortunate set of wrinkles between them. “Didn’t anyone tell you what Moorehaven is?”
She studied me the way a senior looks at a freshman on the first day of high school. “It’s a bed and breakfast. What more do I need to know?”
My ire was rising, but I did my best to keep it out of my voice. “Moorehaven is the home of Raymond Moore, the world-famous crime novelist. The only guests our charter permits are mystery authors. I’m not a cop or a detective, but I literally spend every waking hour hanging out with people who figure out clever ways to kill people and clever ways to catch killers. We deal with fiction here in Moorehaven, but that fiction is inspired by reality. Just because it doesn’t make sense yet doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
Officer Tavish’s pen had been scratching notes, but it paused, poised over the paper, as I finished speaking. “I’ll take that under advisement. Now, do you know the whereabouts of the boat pilot? I have some more questions for him.”
“Lake has a room here at Moorehaven. Special circumstances, medically necessary. He’s down at the marina at the moment, or you could wait for him to return. It’s almost lunchtime.”
The policewoman’s jaw muscles bunched. Okay, maybe she’s not a lunch person.
“Wh
at is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Ivens?”
“Um, well, he kissed me on the cheek at breakfast this morning.” Holy Hannah, why did I say that out loud? Mouth, shut up! I definitely don’t want to tell her the whole “I slept with him” thing. Oh, my God. Mouth, do not say that.
“So you know him well.”
“What? No, we’d never really met. I saw him around town, though.”
“And yet you say he kissed you this morning. Do you think he has romantic intentions toward you?”
“I-I—you know, I don’t know. No idea.” I took a deep breath and willed my spine to return. “Is this relevant to your investigation?”
Her professional gaze bored into me. “I’ll be the judge of what is and is not relevant to my investigation, Miss Winterbourne. Thank you for your time. I’m sure I will see you around.” That sounded more like a threat than a social nicety. Not the best way to end a first meeting.
As she turned away, tucking her notepad into her pocket again, I decided to end our first meeting on a friendlier note, in case she was heading to Blade and Boom to terrorize Lake with her grumpy attitude next. “Wait. Since you’re Seacrest’s newest resident, let me officially welcome you to town. What’s your first name, Officer?”
Her sturdy shoes stopped, and she glanced back at me. “Mallory. Mallory Tavish. But my married name used to be Ivens.”
My gaping carp impression returned with full force. When I could speak, I managed to make things even worse. “Oh. Um. Well. Maybe you can tell me, then… Does he know anyone named Kamanova? Because he mentioned the name… one night… um…” I told you not to go there, Mouth! You are so fired.
Officer Tavish went still, looking like a terrifying combination of a Southwest College campus security guard the night he’d caught us TPing his squad car and my junior-year roommate the night she found out I’d “borrowed” her favorite white clubbing racer-back and returned it with a pink stain from the left boob down to the hem.
“Kamanova doesn’t exist. And neither does whatever you think you have with Lakyn Ivens.”
16
“Cats are quiet, clean, and they don’t pester me for walks when I’m writing for hours on end. Best of all, my nosy neighbor hasn’t visited in a couple of decades now: she’s allergic.”
Raymond Moore, 1950
Lake had an ex-wife. Lake had an ex-wife. Lake had an ex-wife. And she had just moved to Seacrest, and she was the new police officer, and she really freaked me out, and Lake had an ex-wife.
So much for reading The Crimson Kiss. I glanced up from the page and checked the clock. I’d been rereading page 141 for a good hour. Rex had long since fallen asleep, and Svetlana complacently licked his shoulder.
An hour! I bolted into a sitting position. Lunchtime had already begun, and I hadn’t even taken—
Uncle Hilt appeared in the doorway. He offered me a plate with an unwrapped sub sandwich on it. “Got your favorite from Mozzie’s. Don’t worry. I took care of the lunch order. Everyone else is eating. Something on your mind?”
“The new policewoman just came by to ask some follow-up questions. She’s a little intense.”
Hilt leaned against the doorframe. “Intense like Al?”
“Worse. Creepy intense. Stalker intense.”
Hilt’s bushy brows lowered. “That was an interesting choice on Jimmy’s part.”
I pulled my knees up onto the couch and hugged them. “Do you think he knew when he hired her?”
“Knew what?”
“That she followed her ex-husband to Seacrest.”
“Whoa, there. Who is her ex-husband?”
“Lakyn Ivens. AKA Lake. His ex is our new cop, Hilt. Mallory Tavish. I can barely process that, let alone figure out how I feel about it.”
Hilt’s face settled into Thoughtful Mode, and he didn’t respond for a while, so I knew that when he did, I probably wouldn’t like it. “I’ve never interfered in your personal life, Pippa, such as it is. So I’m gonna say this once, and then I’m gonna leave it alone. I’ve never really cared for that young fellow Lake. He just washed into town like a piece of driftwood, and it sounds like he’s itching to wash back out again. That’s not the kind of person you give your heart to if you ever want to see it in one piece again. And now, his trouble is washing into town, too. If he does bolt, she’ll probably follow him again. And then Seacrest will need to start the hiring process all over again. The way I see it, it’ll do you no good at all to get involved with the drifter whose complicated relationships could cause the stress-related death of our police chief.” He held up his hands and dipped his head. “There. I’ve said my piece, and I’ll leave you to your decision.”
I set my book down and hugged my uncle. His old, wiry arms slipped around my shoulders, and he patted me awkwardly on the back.
“You may be right, Uncle Hilt. Lake said he wanted to stay in town and find out who killed Cecil, but if Mallory is chasing him, he may change his mind. And maybe he should. I don’t know. But this is a huge complication, and honestly, I barely know him. I don’t know what I might be getting into.” I just want Moorehaven to be okay. And Lake. And me. And whatever we have between us.
“You’ll figure it out. You’ve always had your head on straight, Pippa.”
“Thanks,” I said, but my mind retreated to that one horrible memory it always fled to when someone called me competent—because they couldn’t know. It was my secret. My head’s always on straight, Hilt, except for that one time when my college roommate killed herself, and I spent months spiraling down into depression and uselessness. My parents had no idea what was wrong with me. I hadn’t been sure, myself. In retrospect, I’d decided it was survivor’s guilt. In the end, Hilt had saved me when no one else could and without ever knowing why I needed saving. No matter what anyone said, I always felt like I was struggling to repay that favor. And I can only do that if I do have my head on straight.
Hilt pulled back and nodded toward the book on the sofa. “Any good clues yet?”
I reached over and picked up my notes. “I’m almost done, but I just can’t concentrate on the book right now. However, I do have some interesting facts.” I flipped through various pages as I listed things off. “According to Moore’s plot, the woman in the story is named Gracie, the burlesque-dancing daughter of a powerful Los Angeles crime boss. When a mob war broke out, she took her father’s most precious treasure and fled, hoping he would escape and join her later. Gracie took refuge in a coastal California town and hid the treasure. But her father was killed in Los Angeles by his rivals, and then they came after her and the treasure. Hilton Gray, PI, figures this out and chases after the killers because he needs Gracie alive for his own big case. He falls in love with the mob princess, but there are too many bad guys, and he can’t save her. They gun her down, and her last words whisper the location of the treasure, but Gray is heartbroken, so he murders all the thugs and blows town, leaving the treasure where it lay. The book ends without Gray ever revealing where the treasure was hidden.”
Uncle Hilt nodded. “This is the book where the treasure is cold hard cash, right? No, wait. This is the one with the gold bars.”
I double-checked my mental library of Moore trivia. “Yeah, gold. Critics and fans basically knew that Moore was using Seacrest as the basis for his coastal California town in the story, so after the book came out, Seacrest was flooded with treasure hunters. But seriously, where would anybody hide that much gold? This little place must have had, what, three or four hundred residents back then?”
“Maybe less. Um, fewer. Dang authors rubbing off on me.”
With slow realization, I pointed at my uncle. “You. You knew Moore, and you’ve read his notebooks more than anyone alive. Do you remember what he said about that treasure? Was it real? Was it really in Seacrest? Was it even really gold? Because there’s
a guy wandering around town, killing people to find it, and if it’s really not here at all, we’re all in a lot of trouble.” Especially you, if the killer ever learns how much you know. We gotta stop this guy.
Hilt’s face adopted an expression of intense concentration. “I must have read Moore’s Crimson Kiss notebook half a dozen times, cover to cover. I know he talked about the treasure, and even his note-taking was different than on any of his other books, almost like he was afraid to commit too much to the page. Always remembered that strange aspect of this particular book’s notes.”
“But what did he actually write down?”
Hilt shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, Pippa. I didn’t memorize the dang things. I can feel the information floating inside my brain, but I just can’t get my hands on it. It’s been too long since I read his notes. I’m real sorry.”
I lifted my chin. “No. No, we’re not giving up on this. Come with me.”
I handed Hilt his jacket in the hallway, tucked my notebook under my arm, and headed down the block. My great-uncle stalked after me, peppering me with querulous questions all the way to the corner. I stopped in front of one of the shops in the strip mall with the carved wooden sea creatures theme and pointed to its sign: Sebastian Nyquist, Pet Psychic.
Baffled into silence, Hilt stared at the sign then at me.
“Sebastian does hypnosis. You know how busy he gets every year, calming all the tourists’ overwrought toy dogs and such and getting to the bottom of their fluffy little troubles. He can help you remember what the notes said about the treasure.”
Hilt guffawed, and a gust of wind carried his wheezy laughter down the street. “You have got to be kidding me. You know I don’t believe in that silly mumbo jumbo.”
I crossed my arms and glared. I didn’t particularly believe in psychic abilities myself, but we only needed a little prompting for Hilt’s memories. I’d have dragged Lake to see Sebastian if I thought it would do any good in helping him remember who killed Cecil. But between Lake’s head trauma and his stubbornness, I’d given that up the second I thought of it. Hilt’s memories were intact, just… faded. And I was out of ordinary options. “Are you really telling me that you won’t try this simple little thing when there are literally lives at stake?”
Smugglers & Scones Page 15
