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

by Diane Noble

  “He slammed me up against the van and cuffed me. Said I needed to calm down, that I must be high on something. He said my story was the best one he’d ever heard from someone trying to beat arrest.” Enrique sighed and his shoulders went down a notch. “I’ve never been in cuffs before. Makes you feel … like you’re a bug about to be squashed.”

  I had one more question, hoping against all hope for a clue to Hyacinth’s whereabouts. “Did you see the ambulance turn off the interstate?”

  “No, ma’am. I was too busy trying not to get arrested.”

  The sheriff called the switchboard again and asked that all paperwork on Enrique Fox be brought to his office. “Fox, eh?” he said. “Any relation to the former president of Mexico?”

  “Never been asked that one before,” Enrique said with a straight face. “I usually get asked if I’m related to Michael J. Fox.”

  I almost snorted with laughter. Even the sheriff’s grimace almost turned into a smile.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I picked up my bedside clock and squinted at its face. Three o’clock in the morning. I’d climbed into bed at midnight, and when I wasn’t punching, fluffing, or flipping my pillow, I’d been staring at the ceiling. The events of the previous day continued to haunt me: Dozens of people in the hospital after eating and drinking food and drink my catering company prepared and served—under my direction; the university president dead; my dearest BFF missing, presumed to be in the custody of thieves; and Sheriff Doyle suspicious that Hyacinth and me were in cahoots. And then there was Max, ill and in the hospital.

  It was cookie-baking time. I leaped up, grabbed my robe, and headed downstairs to the kitchen. My iPod was on the counter by the landline phone. I stuck it into my wireless speaker, tapped Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, and went to work.

  I didn’t know when, but I’d worked in time the night before to freeze the batches I’d made. I opened the freezer and there they were, perfectly stacked inside a thin container on the shelf atop a seven-bone roast. How long ago yesterday’s baking and line dancing seemed. Tears threatened again. I selected the country music play­list on my iPod, pulled on my cowboy boots, and tried a bit of the cowboy cha-cha across the floor.

  It didn’t help much. So I tried a surefire heart starter, the watermelon crawl. I brightened a bit, and even threw in a couple of shake-your-bootie moves as I grabbed ingredients. Might as well whip up another batch.

  Still moving to the music, I turned on the mixer and creamed the butter and eggs. I’d just added the vanilla when a thought that had been at the back of my brain for hours shot through my corpus callosum and lit up both sides of my brain. Stunned, I paused my iPod and stood as still as death itself as two specific memories came to me.

  The scent of vanilla brought with it a memory of Katie as a tiny girl. A few nights before Christmas, when I was busy at my sewing machine in the other room, she climbed out of bed, slipped into the kitchen, and ate several scoops of cookie dough. The next thing I knew, she was by my side crying and holding her tummy. I fretted that her stomach would warm up the dough and make it rise, but it came up instead all over the bathroom floor.

  The memory triggered one of Katie picking poisonous green holly berries from a bush in our backyard. I was working on the vegetable garden when she came over to me, proudly holding several in her little hand. “Peas!” she declared with a huge smile that showed bits of the berry on her tongue and caught in her teeth.

  Frantic, I called our pediatrician, and he recommended what all mothers and fathers kept in their medicine chests in those days: syrup of ipecac, used to induce vomiting in the event of poisoning. I grabbed my bottle of the gel-like liquid and carefully measured out a teaspoonful. What followed was much the same as the reaction at the Encore, though far less severe.

  Could it be something as simple as that? Syrup of ipecac? I hurried over to my laptop, which I’d left on the kitchen table the night before, typed it into my search engine, and hit enter. A list of websites appeared, and I clicked on those that appeared to be genuine medical sites. The first site stated that the remedy was no longer available in the United States, though it could be purchased illegally.

  I clicked on to another site. A photo of Karen Carpenter, a singing star from the seventies, caught my attention. A brother-and-sister team, the Carpenters had produced some of the songs I loved most. I leaned closer to read the article. Karen used the syrup to keep her weight down. It played a part in her death. A big part.

  I clicked on a few more sites, making notes of the information: where ipecac grows, its various forms, and the fact that it’s no longer sold in the United States because of anorexia.

  When I glanced at the clock, it was after four. I was exhausted. The cookies had barely begun baking, but I had one more task to take care of before trying to get more sleep.

  I dialed the sheriff’s office, though I knew he wouldn’t be in. If he checked his messages while out of the office, I wanted him to know right away what I suspected so he could pass it along to the CDC and any other investigators working the case.

  A dispatcher picked up on the second ring.

  “Sheriff Doyle’s office, please.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. Though female, the voice sounded older than the dispatcher I’d dealt with earlier. “The sheriff won’t be in until eight o’clock.”

  “Could you forward me to his voice mail?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Sheriff,” I said to his voice mail a moment later, after identifying myself, “have your investigators test for ipecac. It seems to me that it could easily be dropped into something liquid at the dinner, or stirred into … something.” I hesitated, wishing I could take back the “stirred into” phrase. That action would implicate someone on my crew—or Katie, or me. My heart skipped a beat at the thought. “Or sprinkled onto,” I added quickly. “It can cause heart fibrillation as a side effect, which may have contributed to—” I gulped a deep breath and finally added, “Contributed to Dr. Delancy’s death.” A chill traveled up my spine as I spoke the words.

  I disconnected the call, put the mixing bowl in the fridge, and went back upstairs to try to get some rest.

  On my way to the kitchen later in the morning, I glanced toward the dining room windows and noticed a newspaper on my porch. Puzzled, I hurried back to the front door, opened it, and picked up the paper. It was the special edition of the Chronicle.

  I tossed it on the kitchen table and started the coffee. While it brewed, I sat at the table and unfolded the paper.

  The headlines, in two-inch block letters, screamed, SPECIAL EDITION! Beneath that headline were two featured articles, titles in large print, with prominent photographs. “Dozens Rushed to Hospital after Catered Banquet,” read one. The other, with a photo of the figurehead, read “Robbery of Priceless Artifact at University Library.”

  My heart threatened to drop into my toes right then and there as I read the articles, written by two of the reporters who’d attended the dinner. Then I turned the page and saw yet another headline: INVESTIGATORS HAVE A LEAD.

  I pressed my hand to my mouth as I read.

  Unnamed sources in the sheriff’s office revealed early this morning that they received a call from someone with firsthand knowledge of the type of poison used. The sheriff’s spokesperson said that the connection between the two events is obvious. What isn’t known is how these two major events—the catering disaster and the library caper—are connected. The head of The Butler Did It catering company, Mrs. Elaine Littlefield, and the library archivist, Dr. Hyacinth Gilvertin, are longtime friends. Though Dr. Gilvertin is missing, the unnamed source said both are persons of interest.

  Persons of interest? Me? Hyacinth? She was a victim. We both were. Stunned, I sat with my head in my hands. I didn’t think things could get worse but they just had.

  I nearly jumped out of my skin when the doo
rbell chimed. The last thing in the world I needed right now was a guest, no matter who it was. I hurried to the front door and flung it open, ready to tell whomever to take a hike.

  Good heavens, it was Max. Out of the hospital, and looking wan but glorious, at least in my humble opinion. I restrained myself from hugging him—barely.

  I opened the door, wide. “You’re free.”

  “They released me just an hour ago. I couldn’t wait to get over here”—my heart lifted at that, and then he added—“to find out about the figurehead.” He wore his jogging clothes, a towel slung around his neck. A good sign that he was indeed feeling better.

  Oh yes, the figurehead. I’d almost forgotten that important piece of the puzzle after reading the morning paper.

  “Oh dear,” I said. “You don’t know?”

  He shook his head.

  “I think you’d better come in.”

  He followed me into the kitchen. I pulled two mugs out of the cupboard and filled them with coffee. We sat at the kitchen table, just as we had the morning before.

  “I take it this is not good news.” He watched me over the rim of his mug as he took a sip.

  I barely shook my head and looked down at the newspaper. “Here’s the latest,” I said. “A special edition.”

  I left him to read through the articles and went to the freezer to retrieve some of the frozen cookies, put them in the microwave to thaw, and then sat back down.

  He’d just finished the article about Hyacinth and me being persons of interest. He met my gaze, and as terrible as I felt, I still found myself melting into those eyes.

  “Oh my,” I said, standing abruptly before I did or said something I might regret. Like kiss him. Just the thought made my cheeks burn. “Milk or sugar?” I tossed nonchalantly over my shoulder as I headed to the fridge.

  “I need some this morning,” I babbled. “All this drama …” I retrieved the plate of cookies from the microwave, sat again, milk carton in one hand, cookie plate in the other. Why hadn’t I gotten the cream pitcher? Where was my mind this morning?

  His face had turned three shades lighter, either from the physical trauma or from reading about the figurehead. Or both.

  He rubbed his eyes and then dropped his head into his hands. “A lifetime’s quest,” he said softly. “I’d already figured out that whoever caused the ruckus at the Encore planned a heist. This confirms it.”

  I reached for his hand, surprising myself. I held it between my hands, and he looked up, met my gaze again and made my knees go weak. I was glad I was already sitting. “You found it once,” I said. “You’ll find it again.” Now I had to make the awkward decision of whether to put his hand back where I’d found it, or continue to hold it.

  “More coffee?” I finally said, though he’d barely taken three sips. After what he’d been through, I couldn’t blame him.

  As I stood, I had the strange sense that he knew my thoughts. I grabbed the carafe and hurried back to the table.

  He leaned forward. “I need to know everything that happened after the EMTs wheeled me out. Please, every detail you can think of.” He tapped the paper. “I’ve read the sensationalized version. Now I want the truth”—he gave me that little hint of a smile again—“your version. Your insights. What do your instincts tell you?”

  I nodded and gave him an almost minute-by-minute rundown, including the thoughts that led to my search for ipecac.

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I got up to bake cookies …”

  Something flickered in his eyes, and for a nanosecond his serious expression disappeared. “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik?”

  I grinned. “And the watermelon crawl. Anyway, while I was mixing together the dough, a memory came back to me. Two memories, actually. They say that the sense of smell brings memories to mind faster than any of the other senses. In this case, it was the vanilla.”

  I told him about my experiences with my daughter and about the research I’d done online, and then I added, “Because it’s not available in the States—legally, that is—we may be able to trace its origins and find the buyer, who might lead us to the person who’s behind the theft.”

  “If only it could be that easy,” he said.

  “What about Marcel Devereaux?”

  He drew in a deep breath. “He was in the hospital with me, just as sick as I was. He and his companion. We were right across the hall from each other last night. I can’t imagine putting yourself through that, just to throw off suspicion.”

  “That’s odd,” I said. “I watched them closely, and they left without eating. I specifically looked for them when people started getting sick.”

  “You’re sure?” He looked worried.

  “I am.” I smiled. “Though considering we had three hundred people in attendance, I might have overlooked them. I say, keep them on the list.”

  “The problem is, we don’t know who’s at the top.”

  The word “we” caught my attention. Was he suggesting we work together on this? It made sense. “My number-one priority is finding Hyacinth,” I said, “and making sure she’s okay.”

  “Human life is more important than a thousand figureheads.” He stood, took his cup to the sink, and rinsed it, which made me smile. “Besides, where Hyacinth is—”

  “The figurehead will be too,” I finished. “At least, that’s my greatest hope.”

  As we walked to the front door, he stopped and looked down at me. “There’s something I haven’t told you about the figurehead.” He searched my eyes. “About its value. We’ll talk later.” He touched my arm.

  “It’s a date,” I said, flustered by his touch. I feared I was as foolish as every other single female in the county. I needed to put a stop to this flirting. And this new heart-fluttering thing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  My cell phone rang as I scooped coffee into the filter basket the next morning. As I unplugged the charger, I spotted the sheriff’s office number on the display. I’d just been there the night before. He wouldn’t call unless he had news. I closed my eyes, said hello, and prayed that Hyacinth had been found.

  The disembodied voice sounded familiar. “Mrs. Littlefield?” I pictured the woman at the switchboard.

  “This is she.”

  “This is Ethel Adams at the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Doyle asked me to call you. Said he wants you to stop by this morning.”

  My stomach dropped. It had to be news about Hyacinth. “Did he say why?”

  “No, ma’am. Just that you need to get here right away.”

  “Give me half an hour.” I hesitated before hanging up. “Did he mention anything about my friend Dr. Gilvertin?”

  “No, ma’am. He didn’t mention any names. He was all business, though, like something is bothering him something fierce.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Tell him I’ll be there soon.”

  What was so important that it couldn’t be shared over the phone? I finished making coffee, poured it into a travel mug, and then hurried upstairs to shower and change.

  I was dressed and out the door in record time, coffee in one hand, a frozen chocolate chipper in the other. There’s nothing better for breakfast, especially if one dips the cookie in the coffee. Tricky to do while driving and I do advise against trying it.

  “Hi, Mom,” Katie said. “Is there any news about Cinth?”

  “Nothing yet. I’m on my way to the sheriff’s office right now, though. He wants to see me. Maybe he knows something.”

  “Call me as soon as you hear. She’s like part of our family.”

  As much as my daughter loved Hyacinth, I had the feeling something else was troubling her.

  I lightened my voice. “Hey, I miss you and Chloe Grace. It’s Saturday. Let’s make a night of it. Why don’t you and Chloe Grace plan to sleep over tonight? We’ll do popcorn and a Disney movie. Besides, I want an upd
ate on how things are going with Sandy.” I cringed as I spoke my former son-in-law’s name. “Maybe we can finally have that talk.”

  “The talk can wait. It’s important, but not as much as everything else you’ve got on your plate right now. As for Sandy,” she added, “things are going great. In fact, maybe he could come with us for the popcorn and movie time.”

  “Oh yes,” I said after I’d swallowed hard. “That would be great.”

  We ended the call, I dunked the cookie and took a bite, then peeled out of the driveway. I pointed the Ghia in the direction of the courthouse. When I arrived, I parked around back, just as I had done the night before, and trotted up the concrete stairs.

  I stopped at the sliding-glass window and asked to see Sheriff Doyle. The same woman who manned the station, so to speak, must have drawn weekend duty.

  She opened the window. “Do you have an appointment?”

  I reminded her that she had just called and asked me to come in. “Tell him Elaine Littlefield is here,” I said, watching for a reaction.

  “Oh, that Elaine Littlefield.” She pressed a button on her console, uttered a few words into the headset, and then looked back to me. “Do you know where his office is located?”

  Good heavens, what happened to the girl’s short-term memory?

  A few minutes later, I was knocking lightly on Sheriff Doyle’s door.

  “Come in.”

  I pushed open the door, surprised to see Max with the sheriff. Both men stood as I entered. Both looked somber. My stomach dropped to the floor. I looked around for a chair to drop into. Pronto. I settled into one next to Max and glanced from one man to the other.

  The sheriff let out a long sigh. “I’m afraid I don’t have good news,” he said.

  My mouth went dry. “Hyacinth?” I could barely get the word out.

  “We found the ambulance early this morning before sunup. Someone reported a fire near Waynesville. When the fire crews arrived, they found a cabin and a vehicle—an ambulance—in flames. We’re not certain it’s the ambulance we’re looking for, but it seems unlikely there would be more than one out there. And it’s near where Mr. Fox said he’d last seen it.