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

by Diane Noble

  Thirty years ago, he had taken his vows as a lifetime Franciscan. Not as a monk living in a monastery, but a Third Order Franciscan in the Episcopal Church. His vows included a rule of life, following the example of the thirteenth-century monk Saint Francis of Assisi: living simply, joyfully, and generously.

  It wasn’t something he talked about. He was more comfortable living by the quote some said originated with Francis: “Preach the gospel at all times; if necessary, use words.”

  Like others in the Third Order, his only habit was the cross that hung on a leather cord around his neck.

  The women he’d spent time with felt his way of living out his love for God was too intense. Too quiet. Too contemplative. They wondered about his yearly silent retreats. How anyone could go seven days without speaking. Until he found someone who understood his Franciscan nature, he would remain a single man.

  He gazed over at El, wondering. She didn’t seem to have a contemplative bone in her body. She was lively, gregarious, transparent with her sorrows and joys. He’d never forget the morning he’d caught a glimpse of her dancing in her pajamas. Nor would he forget how she opened her heart to sorrow when she thought her friend had died.

  As attracted as he was to her, he needed to put the brakes on his feelings. It was time to turn one hundred percent of his energy toward finding Hyacinth and the figurehead. Even then, his work wasn’t done. The figurehead held a puzzle that he had to figure out. That would occupy his time quite nicely.

  He realized that he’d just come full circle in his thinking. His life was nicely ordered. He didn’t have the time or inclination to change things. He had a worthy quest to complete, other quests to pursue, lectures to give, and silent retreats to attend.

  And that was that.

  Max picked up a twig and knelt to sift through some broken glass near the ambulance. El reached into her handbag and rummaged around. A minute or two later, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, she produced a forensic kit with a number of implements, including two pairs of rubber gloves.

  “Here you go, Sherlock.” She grinned and tossed him a set.

  After he’d pulled on the gloves, she handed him long-nosed tweezers and a few plastic ziplock bags, which he stuffed into his shirt pocket.

  “Do you always come this prepared?”

  “You think this is prepared?” Her gaze seemed to reach into his soul. He held her eyes for a breathless moment and then looked away as she added, “You should see what else I’ve got in here.” She laughed lightly.

  The resolve he’d felt just moments ago was already melting. He stood and went over to the burned-out vehicle and nosed around inside, but found no evidence of either Hyacinth or the Lady with a Scarf. He turned when El came up behind him.

  “Anything?”

  Max shook his head. “If there was any evidence to start with, I’m afraid it’s long gone. The blasts of the fire hoses took care of it.”

  “I wonder if it was arson.”

  He raised a brow. “Why do you think that?”

  She looked up at him, shading her eyes. “Maybe I’m grabbing at straws. But think about it. The glow from a fire this size lights up the night sky. This close to Waynesville, someone’s going to notice and call the fire department.”

  The light dawned. “Hyacinth.”

  El smiled. “She’s creative.” She glanced at the cabin, and a shadow crossed her face—a bad memory, perhaps—then disappeared just as quickly. She swallowed visibly. “Besides, I found the flash point. And this.” It was a shard of thick glass.

  “Follow me,” she said, and moved to what probably had been the front of the cabin and a charred hulk of what might have been a sofa. She picked through several more shards of glass and laid them on the ground. “Not a perfect fit,” she said, “but do you see what this might have been?”

  “A lantern?”

  She nodded. “Kerosene.” Again, she motioned for him to follow. “And over here.” She led him to a small patch of land beyond the yellow tape that had escaped the burn. She knelt and, using her tweezers, carefully picked up a cigar and dropped it into a plastic baggie. She grinned. “If we’re lucky, we might get prints. Or DNA.”

  She stood and brushed herself off. It didn’t help. The mud and ash just streaked across her jeans. “I know how Hyacinth thinks. My theory is that she was looking for a weapon, found this old lantern, and threw it at someone who was lighting a cigar.” She lifted the baggie for a closer look. “You can see by the length that he didn’t have much of a chance to smoke it. She probably took aim when he lit a match.” She shrugged. “It may be far-fetched, but it’s a theory.”

  “And it’s a good one,” Max said, admiring her skills of deduction.

  El again dropped to her knees and crawled the entire length of the cabin, her expression intense as she examined more scorched bits of glass. “This piece has blood on it,” she said, holding it up for Max to see. “And here’s another.” She laughed. “If I’m right, and I just bet I am, Hyacinth packed quite a wallop.” She dropped the pieces in a separate baggie and zipped it closed. “Let’s get this back to the sheriff’s office. The lab might get lucky and find some DNA.”

  She stood, took off her gloves, reached for his, and then dropped both pairs into another ziplock baggie. “One more thing,” she said. “I need to do one last sweep.”

  El walked slowly around the outer perimeter of the clearing, scrutinizing every rock and tree and twig, it seemed. She seemed to pay special attention to trees, especially pines that even vaguely resembled the shape of a Christmas tree.

  “I had hoped for another breadcrumb.” El looked pale and shaken, but she held a small cluster of pine branches to her nose. “Reminds me of Christmas—and helps get rid of the smell of death.”

  “The smell of death?”

  She joined me and we turned toward her Karmann Ghia. “The smell of smoldering ashes,” she said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mrs. Littlefield

  I turned onto the interstate ramp, and we zipped along like a hound after a hare. I half listened while Max was on the cell phone with Marcel Devereaux. It sounded to me as if he was giving Max a snow job, though I couldn’t exactly hear Devereaux’s side of the conversation.

  Besides, I was dealing with the aftermath of the journey into my worst nightmare. I’d been shaken to the core. I wondered if Max had any idea how close I’d come to being ill while we searched for evidence.

  After he dropped his phone into his pocket, I picked up speed, wanting to get our newly collected forensics evidence to the sheriff’s office. Even so, the results would be delayed. Eden’s Bridge didn’t have a forensics lab so everything had to be transported to Asheville. I pressed harder on the accelerator, and Max held on to his bucket seat.

  I signaled to change lanes and pulled around an eighteen-wheeler with a bumper sticker that said “Jesus is coming: Look busy.” We were on an incline, and the Ghia struggled to make it to the top. I pressed harder on the gas.

  Max cleared his throat. I glanced at him and tried to avoid moving the steering wheel the same direction.

  “How about stopping for lunch? I’m famished.” He sounded apologetic.

  “Now that you mention it, I am too. How about a drive-through? I wouldn’t want anyone to see me covered with this muck and grime.”

  “On you, it looks good—the muck and grime.”

  I peeked at him and saw that he was grinning. The Ghia wobbled out of my lane briefly, and someone in my blind spot blasted his or her horn. I jerked the steering wheel to the left for a quick recovery.

  “Thanks,” I said, keeping my focus on the road.

  The following ramp looked promising. A variety of artery-clogging choices raised high their banner-like signs. “Burritos, tacos, hamburgers …?”

  We agreed on the burrito place, and I turned into the drive
-through and stopped in front of the menu. As a California transplant with exceptionally high standards for Mexican food—with a few exceptions in Salisbury—I’d given up on finding any Southern offerings that lit my fire, so to speak.

  But I had to admit, when we pulled over at a rest stop with a tree-shaded picnic area, the burrito I ordered had a scent like spicy manna. It had been a long day, and I didn’t realize how famished I was.

  After we’d visited the restrooms and freshened up, we met back at a rough-hewn table with fewer bird droppings than the others. I spread my paper napkin out as a placemat, unwrapped my burrito, and prepared to say grace.

  I reached for his hand out of habit. When I’m with Katie and Chloe Grace, we hold hands when I say grace. I have a tendency to cover everything that’s happened up to that point in my day, and more than once Chloe Grace has tugged at my hand and asked me to please hurry.

  But it appeared Max was already praying silently. And it wasn’t lengthy. When my hand touched his, he looked up, puzzled.

  “I was about to ask God to bless our food and the hands that prepared it,” I said. I blushed. Goodness, I hadn’t done that in years. “My family and I … we always hold hands.”

  “I thought maybe that was it.” He reached for my hand and bowed his head.

  I kept my prayer short, though I did get rather revved up thanking God for the mannequin that turned out not to be Hyacinth. And then I quickly drew it to a close, keeping Chloe Grace’s oft-repeated request in mind. When I looked up, he seemed to be studying me.

  “You pray a lively prayer,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  “I like to let God know how much I like the life He’s given me. I think He loves it when we notice.” I took a bite of my burrito and savored its goodness. “I like to try to make God laugh.”

  He threw back his head and laughed out loud. “You do?”

  “Yes, I do, though I think this is the first time I’ve admitted it to anyone. It just seems to me that if we’re made in His image, and we take such amazing delight in our children or our grandchildren, wouldn’t God look at us in much the same way? Taking delight in us …”

  “‘ADONAI your God is right there with you, as a mighty savior. He will rejoice over you and be glad, He will be silent in His love, He will shout over you with joy.’”

  “Zephaniah 3:17, but I haven’t heard that version before.”

  “It’s from the Jewish Bible.”

  “Do you ever sit still and listen to God?” he said after a few minutes.

  I laughed. “I’m too busy talking.”

  “Most of us are.”

  I pictured a voice thundering from heaven. Or Max standing beside a burning bush. Realizing I was holding my dripping burrito inches from my mouth without taking a bite, I lowered it to the table. “He talks to you?”

  He went back to eating his burrito, and I just sat there a moment, trying to take in this new side of the professor.

  “Not with words,” he said. “But with love, compassion, mercy, gentleness … whatever it is I need from His Spirit.”

  “I don’t think I could sit still long enough to hear Him. I’ve tried some of the ancient ways of praying, the labyrinth, contemplative prayer, lectio divina. It felt awkward. I was too aware of myself, not of God.” I grinned. “Give me a good gospel song to belt out, a Bible to read and underline and take notes in, a fiery preacher, and I’m a happy camper.”

  “Church isn’t necessarily the place I find God, or connect with Him. And I’m pretty sure I haven’t confessed that to anyone before. For some people He can’t be found there at all.”

  “I’m surprised at that,” I said. “He sure can be found at my church.”

  “I see Him everywhere, in every circumstance, if I’m attentive.” Then he laughed. “How did our conversation take this turn?”

  “I think I started it.”

  He nodded thoughtfully, looked off at the horizon for a moment, then turned back to me, his expression serious. “While you were in the restroom, I called our VP, Isabel Chang, for an update. All the victims are much better.”

  “Except Dr. Delancy,” I said, letting my gaze drift from his.

  I closed my eyes briefly, wishing the previous day had never happened. “I won’t feel better until they’re out of the hospital and this part of the nightmare is over,” I said. And that didn’t even take into consideration Hyacinth and the figurehead.

  My cell phone rang. I fished around in my handbag and picked it up on the second ring. I sighed. Chance Noseworthy.

  “Mrs. Littlefield?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes … this is Chance Noseworthy, an investigator with the CDC. I need to talk to you about the banquet last night at the Encore, and the mass poisoning that your company caused.”

  “You’ve got it wrong. We don’t know that it happened through my catering company.”

  “It’s important that we meet right away.”

  “Of course. Have you found out the origin or makeup of the poison?”

  For a moment, dead silence reigned, then he said, “I’ll meet you at the sheriff’s office in Eden’s Bridge at two o’clock this afternoon. We’ll discuss it there.”

  “He can’t order me around like that, can he?” We tossed our burrito wrappers in a waste barrel by the picnic table and walked back to the Ghia. “I mean, does Noseworthy have the legal authority to treat me as if I’ve done something wrong? I’m one of the victims here. My company may never recover from this terrible publicity. The Butler Did It will always be synonymous with upchucking.” The thought depressed me.

  “But that’s not what’s important now,” I continued, on a roll. I opened the door on the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel, steaming at the tone Noseworthy had used with me.

  Max got in on the other side, quiet in the face of my rant.

  “We—I—have more important things to do. Not that I’m not curious about who did it and why, but the main thing now is to find Hyacinth and the figurehead.” Tears stung my eyes again. Hyacinth. My forever friend. Missing. And right now, I had no idea where to start looking.

  “True,” Max said, finally edging in a word.

  I started the engine, and surprisingly, I worked the clutch correctly and the car didn’t leap out of the parking space with my usual speed. I noted Max’s grip on his seat wasn’t as tight.

  “The important thing,” he continued calmly, “is to get the forensics to the sheriff’s office. Maybe they can shed some light on who’s involved. That, in turn, might lead us to Hyacinth and the Lady.”

  “Providing they get fingerprints or DNA off the cigar and glass,” I said. “And providing the prints and DNA are in the system.”

  “Yes.”

  I drew in a deep, cleansing breath and let it out slowly. Max did have a sense of calm about him, an odd peace that affected me somehow. Maybe because he listened to God instead of trying to make God laugh.

  I revved up the ramp and onto the interstate again, checking my rearview mirror for the eighteen-wheeler that always seemed to lie in wait to roll over the Ghia at such times.

  “You said that there’s more to the figurehead than meets the eye.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw him turn toward me. “There is,” he said. “Its worth is in the quarter-to-half-million range right now, at auction. Of course, our intent is to keep her in her proper place in a Boston museum, near where she was carved.”

  “That would make a collector sit up and take notice.” I glanced across at him. “But you’ve said it holds a secret that makes its value even greater.”

  “My father heard about the figurehead at the end of the World War II. He wrote down the details so he wouldn’t forget and then passed them on to me.

  “He enlisted when he was only seventeen—lied about his age—and was stationed in France in
1944 until the end of World War II. During the Nazi occupation, artwork worth millions was stolen from museums, homes, and public buildings. They took anything of value, anything they would get their hands on.”

  Astounded, I turned to him, though I tried to keep the Ghia from wobbling out of our lane. “So that’s why this is so important. The Lady has to do with finding the hidden artifacts.”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “How many people know about this?”

  “We don’t know. But the paintings, sculptures, and artifacts were hidden by a courageous group of men and women in the French Resistance. In caves somewhere in the Pyrenees.”

  “And they’ve never been found.”

  He shook his head. “No. But now that we’ve found the figurehead, that may change.”

  “That’s why you’re worried others may be after the Lady too.” I spoke slowly as a few more pieces to the puzzle began to fall into place. “Other families, maybe descendants of those in the Resistance, may be on the lookout for her.”

  “I didn’t realize the news would travel so fast,” he said. “I’m still unused to the speed of the Internet, especially how fast things spread through social media.” He fell quiet for a moment and then continued.

  “The French Resistance meticulously documented the rightful owners and where each piece came from. They succeeded, at least for a time. One night, they were betrayed by one of their own. They were caught and taken to the camps, never to be heard from again. Rumors about the location of the caves have cropped up through the years, but no one has been able to find them.”

  I could barely breathe when he finished. I turned to him again. “This is big. I mean, really big. You’re talking about items that might add up to millions, perhaps billions of dollars.”

  “There are those who are driven by greed. Who want to find the hidden message that the figurehead hides.”

  I let his words sink in as I passed a dusty SUV with a group of rowdy teens, glad to see them disappear in my rearview mirror. Max glanced at the speedometer, then quickly looked away.