The Curious Case of the Missing Figurehead: A Novel (A Professor and Mrs. Littlefield Mystery)

by Diane Noble

  Nothing concrete came to her. Just shadows of events, real or possibly imagined. She remembered being forced into a car, not an ambulance.

  He came over to the gurney and unfastened her restraints. She groaned and rubbed her temples as she struggled to sit up. Then, touching the back of her head, she winced. Goose egg. Someone had clobbered her.

  Emeril reached for her and grunted under her weight as he helped her to the ground. Another figure, this one in a Julia Child mask, came up as if to guard her, the glint of his eyes showing through two holes in the mask.

  They’d parked the ambulance near the library, but the noise at the Encore, just visible through the trees, quickly drew her attention.

  She gasped. At least two dozen ambulances and half as many fire trucks, lights flashing, sirens blaring, swarmed in the lot beside the dinner theater. More were lined up on University Avenue. Police and sheriffs’ vehicles wailed near the entrance. She had to get to El, find out what happened, help her …

  Julia grabbed her elbow. “Not so fast. You’ve got some work to do for us first.”

  Emeril handed Hyacinth her purse. “We thought you’d have your keys in there. But you surprised us. No keys except to your house and your car. So we figure, there’s gotta be a code to get us past the security alarms.”

  Julia stepped forward. “You don’t want to know what’s going on at the dinner right now. But let me warn you, it’s not half as bad as what will happen to those you care for—Elaine Littlefield, her daughter, Katie, and her granddaughter, Chloe Grace—if you don’t cooperate.”

  Hearing the names of those she loved brought a chill to her heart.

  Hyacinth closed her eyes for a moment. She went to the center of her soul, where no human could touch her, where she could commune in an atmosphere of love, where she knew she was safe, no matter what might happen to her physically. Be still and know …

  “All right,” she said when she looked up. “I’ll do as you ask.” The same guards still stood by the door, and she prayed they weren’t distracted by the goings-on at the Encore.

  “This is what you have to do.” Emeril gave her precise directions. “We will watch your every move. So don’t try to sound any alarms or play the hero.”

  Hyacinth made her way to the library entrance. She spoke to the guards, frantically trying to convey with her eyes and expression that all was not well. Neither one picked up on her signals.

  She signed in, then punched in the alarm deactivation code. She closed the door but didn’t lock it, as instructed.

  She had just reached Lady with a Scarf when she heard gunfire—or maybe fireworks—behind the library. Outside the window, there was just enough light for her to see the two guards sprint past to investigate. Wrong move, fellas.

  In less than five minutes, Julia and Emeril—along with still another masked figure, Paula Deen, who’d just joined them—rushed into the library with the gurney, loaded the covered figurehead on top, and raced to the door.

  Hyacinth stood in front of the door to block them, but Emeril just knocked her to one side and continued to the waiting ambulance.

  She tried again to stop them as they fastened the gurney wheels to the floor.

  “You can’t do this,” she shouted. “You don’t know what you’re doing. You have no idea what this is worth!”

  Her heart was about to break over the beautiful Lady with a Scarf. Over Max and his lifetime dream, over El and what surely were now her own broken dreams. And she was madder than she’d ever been in her life.

  Her feet made the decision. No way would she let these thugs get away with this. Her face flamed and her heels took wing. With a cry that would have impressed Tarzan, she leaped into the back of the vehicle, slamming the door behind her.

  The element of surprise was on her side. Emeril was knocked off-balance and fell forward just as Paula Deen stomped on the gas and turned on the siren. Julia fell against the side of the ambulance as Paula screeched around the corner toward the Encore.

  Hyacinth looked down at Emeril. He was out cold. Or, heaven help her, deader than a doornail. She knelt beside him and lifted his arm to take his pulse.

  Chapter Ten

  Mrs. Littlefield

  Sheriff Doyle barreled through the swinging doors leading from the dining room.

  “We need to talk about the food,” he said directly to me. His demeanor had turned businesslike, much different from it had been earlier when we spoke on the phone.

  I thought of him as a sort of begrudging comrade-in-arms. We’d locked horns over details of cases I’d worked on. I’d gotten in his way a few times. But all in all, we got along.

  Now I got the distinct impression that I was under investigation.

  Well, duh. Of course I was. You don’t have to be the brightest crayon in the box to look to the caterer when people at a banquet experience upper-GI distress. But this might be Legionnaires’ disease. Or the kind of quick-acting flu that spreads on cruise ships. I needed to point that out. Lighten things up with a little humor. But truth was, I just didn’t have it in me. There was nothing funny about this disaster.

  The health of all those who’d taken ill mattered most. And Max. My eyes filled, and I blinked away the moisture. In one day, he’d become important to me. His last gesture while still upright was an attempt to reach me.

  The sheriff squinted at my catering crew, studying their faces one by one. The staff looked shaken and pale, and an unnatural pall had fallen over the normally busy, noisy kitchen. Two of the girls wept silently, their shoulders trembling. Katie stood next to me, her arm wrapped protectively around my waist.

  I had been close to tears from the moment I saw Max stumble and fall. And to see him—and all the dozens of others—so ill, and to think the food we served might have caused their distress, was too horrible to comprehend. But I tried to keep a professional attitude, to hold it together for my crew’s sake. I’d called the hospital a dozen times to find out how the victims were doing. No one would tell me anything. In some ways, not knowing was worse than whatever I might find out.

  Bubba and Junior stood apart from the others. I narrowed my eyes at them, and they sheepishly looked away. The Beauregard in the Ghia’s tailpipe came back to me, the nail in the van’s tire, the resulting tomato missiles, and the half-dozen other antics they’d carried out to get the edge on The Butler Did It. Could they have arranged to work for me to carry out this sabotage?

  If so, their plan would certainly work. After tonight, no one would hire me. Bad news travels fast. And this was the worst.

  I blinked back the sting of new tears that threatened and drew in a deep but shuddering breath. If I stopped to think about it too long, I would lose it. Just simply lose it.

  The sheriff leaned against a tall stainless-steel prep table, his feet crossed at the ankles. “We’ve got a disease control specialist on his way here, plus some folks from the FDA.” Again, he fixed his eyes on me. “I need for you to be around to answer questions, so don’t leave the campus. In fact, don’t leave the kitchen. Any of you. I’ve got a lot more questions to ask y’all.

  I cleared my throat, but the sound came out like a wounded frog. “Before we get started,” I croaked, “can I ask if you’ve heard anything about Hyacinth? I’m worried sick. Especially after this …” I gestured toward the dining room.

  “So you think these two events are connected? Dr. Gilvertin’s disappearance and the poisoning?”

  “Oh, goodness, no,” I said quickly. “She wouldn’t have had anything to do with this. I mean, unless she’s a victim too.”

  “We searched her property. Her car was in the garage, but there was no sign of Dr. Gilvertin. No sign of a struggle. Not that we expected to find one.”

  “Oh dear,” I breathed. Katie gave me a quick side hug.

  “Now, back to my questions …” He pulled out a pad and stubby pencil
, but put it down when his cell phone rang.

  “Sheriff Doyle here.” He listened, and his eyebrows rose to record levels. His face turned red and then paled. His lips went thin as he ended the call. “This will have to wait,” he muttered and jammed his phone in a belt holder. “But don’t leave the premises.”

  “What did you find out?” I kept pace with him as he rushed to the service-entrance door. “Is it Hyacinth?”

  He shook his head. “It’s the library.”

  “I’m coming with you,” I said as we descended the stairs two at a time.

  “No, you aren’t.”

  “Yes, I am. If the library is involved, Hyacinth might be there.”

  He spun quite suddenly, and I almost ran into him. “There’s been a robbery.”

  I brought my hand to my mouth. “Oh my.”

  “Oh yes. Now go back to the kitchen where it’s safe.” He might as well have done a John Wayne imitation and added “little lady.”

  “I’ll keep you apprised about what’s going on,” he added and then trotted down the sidewalk toward the library. I hurried to keep up and I heard an irritated huff. But then, it was hard to tell. Considering his girth, maybe he just naturally huffed and puffed.

  “What was taken?”

  He didn’t answer. I thought of Hyacinth and how she might have been caught unawares, hurt, or worse, if thieves tried to get to the figurehead.

  My legs propelled me forward, my mind still reeling over what happened in the banquet dining room. Images of those who’d gotten so very ill haunted me. Especially Max.

  And Hyacinth … what had happened to her? I thought my heart might burst with the myriad troubles whirling inside it.

  Even in his hurry, the sheriff wasn’t moving fast enough. I lengthened my stride and soon scurried ahead of him. Sheriff Doyle—either because he felt the same sense of urgency or because he was about to arrest me for disobeying his direct order—broke into a run behind me.

  Out of breath as I reached the library entrance, I had to bend double, gasping for oxygen. When I managed to push my torso upright again, I did a quick assessment. Two worried-looking security guards stood near the open doorway. A couple of deputies appeared to be interviewing them.

  From snatches of conversation I overheard, the security guys were trying very hard to shift the blame away from themselves.

  Sheriff Doyle moved in, up close and personal, and took over the questioning. I went over to stand beside him, ignoring the glare he shot at me.

  “Like I told the deputy, it was the libarian herself who was part of this whole thing. Head of the ring, I tell you. She showed us her ID—though we knew her from before—and put her code in the keypad. The door opened, and in she went, big as you please.”

  “You’re sure it was her?” I furrowed my brow.

  The sheriff flashed me a scowl.

  I ignored him. “It was dark, right?”

  The guard nodded. “But we had enough light to see her face and her ID. And like I said, she stopped by earlier too.”

  The second guard, a stocky man with a shaved head, cleared his throat. “She had accomplices, at least three that we saw.” He stared at the ground for a moment. “They were the ones that set up a distraction, causing us to leave our post to investigate. She left the door open so the thieves could git in.”

  I moved closer to the guard, out of the sheriff’s line of vision. “Do you know that for certain?”

  “Does two plus two make four?” If a tone could have a swagger, Head Shave would be on steroids. “She waltzed right in. Then when we were distracted by what we thought was gunfire, she let the thieves in and showed them where the figgerhead was. By the time we discovered it was fireworks, they were gone.”

  “Well, not quite,” the first guard said. “We came around the corner of the libary in time to see them loading up and then peeling off in that dern ambulance. That libarian was the last in and slammed the door. Three of ’em were wearing masks. They looked like those TV cooks, you know the ones. She was the only one that wasn’t wearing a mask. She’s head of the operation, that’s for sure.”

  “I know Dr. Gilvertin, and she would never do this, I assure you. I’m sure you’re mistaken. Isn’t that right, Sheriff?”

  He ignored the question, keeping his focus on the two guards. “Let’s start again from the beginning. I need to establish a timeline. You said this was her second visit. Did you mean second visit today?” They nodded.

  “Okay, I want every detail you can remember.” Sheriff Doyle pulled out his pencil and pad and started to write.

  While he was occupied, I scurried up the stairs and into the library, heading as fast as my feet could move to Hyacinth’s office. Apparently, the deputies hadn’t searched it yet.

  Hyacinth’s latest eBay win, a gently used purple Fendi handbag, lay open on her desk. It was a tote style, which allowed me to examine the contents without disturbing the exterior. A fuchsia-and-hot-pink scarf hung from one side of the handle. Her wallet was tucked inside, and in various compartments, her house keys, lipstick, touch-up compact powder with mirror, hairbrush, and day planner, tissues, reading glasses, and breath mints. All things Hyacinth would never leave home without. But where was her cell phone?

  I opened her desk drawers and examined the bookshelves and cabinets that lined one wall, careful not to contaminate anything with my fingerprints. I found nothing unusual. Nothing missing.

  Heavy hearted, I looked around for hints of a struggle, but nothing was out of order. The handbag seemed to have just been dropped on the desk, as if Hyacinth planned to pick it up on her way out.

  I approached the new wing and the special exhibits room. Hyacinth had been in on its design and had looked forward to tonight’s dedication to Max. She wouldn’t have missed it for all the gently used Fendi handbags in the world.

  I rounded the corner and halted midstep. The first thing that hit me was the space where the figurehead should have been.

  Oh, Max … if only I’d listened to you this morning. For a split second, I was overcome by emotion and felt the hot sting of tears at the back of my throat … again. I swallowed hard and pressed my lips between my teeth until the feeling subsided.

  I spotted three deputies, two of whom knew me and were used to my snooping around during other investigations. I sent a little prayer heavenward, hoping they were unaware of Sheriff Doyle’s orders for me to stay put in the kitchen. They caught my eye and smiled. I heaved a sigh of relief and gave them a little wave.

  “Hey, guys,” I said in a perky tone. “What’s up?” As if I didn’t know.

  “Robbery,” said one.

  “Inside job, it seems,” said the other.

  “Nah, I don’t think so,” I said with an air of confidence. “There’s been a suspicious character in town recently. Might be an antiquities thief. I’d check there first. My money’s on him.”

  “That right?” Deputy number one looked up from his fingerprinting kit.

  “His name’s Marcel Devereaux. Hails from Paris—France, that is. Dr. Haverhill himself was worried that he was in town. Apparently followed him from DC.”

  Deputy number two put down his tools and pulled out his notepad. “Do you know how to spell that?”

  Deputy number one sniggered. “T-H-A—”

  “Real funny, wise guy.” Number two scowled, still working his pencil on the notebook page.

  I spelled Devereaux. When he seemed to have caught up with me, I added, “You might also check on the Sons of the South catering brothers, Bubba and Junior Sutherland. Though I can vouch for their whereabouts tonight, they’ve pulled some shenanigans lately in competition for the event tonight. They could have someone working with them. They’ve been quite upset that my catering company won the bid. I can’t believe they would do anything like this, though. Truly.”

  “Did
you file a report?” The third deputy, the one I didn’t know, came up to stand beside me.

  “No. It didn’t seem that serious at the time.”

  He studied me like a child might study a june bug in a jar. Heat rose in my face as if I were guilty of something. It was time to make my exit as gracefully as possible.

  “Well, nice to chat with y’all,” I said with a wave. “Let me know what you find out.”

  I didn’t mention Hyacinth. Right now, my intuition told me the less said about her, the better.

  I turned back to the entrance, once again examining the carpet and walls for signs of a struggle. Nothing.

  Discouraged, I headed to the door. The sheriff looked up as I passed. “Stay on campus, Mrs. Littlefield. I’ll be over to question you and your crew once I’m finished here.”

  Dread twisted my stomach. How could this be happening? Was I a suspect? My brain couldn’t take in the possibility. I needed time to think things through. My emotions threatened to overwhelm my logic, to skew my ability to reason through the events of the last few hours.

  But try as I might, panic churned in my heart—fear for Hyacinth, for Max, for all those who’d gotten sick, for the future of my company—as I hurried back toward the Encore.

  A new thought hit. I halted midstep. Why was everyone assuming the illness was food poisoning? Or food-borne at all? With that assumption, of course, came the accusation, spoken or unspoken, that The Butler really did do it.

  By morning it would be all over town. It probably already was. My company would be toast.

  I gave my teary cheeks a swipe. No time for such drivel. Indeed, if I let myself, I’d fall on the lawn in a quivering heap and cry my eyes out. But righteous anger took over instead. Besides, I’d actually never allowed myself to become a quivering heap and didn’t intend to.

  I was ready to swear on a stack of NIVs that the quality of food we served was healthy and good. Never a corner did we cut. Hygienic conditions? You betcha. We were tops.

  A frightening thought took hold. What if someone else added a little something, poison or some other sort of contaminant, to our food. But who?