by Diane Noble
“It’s broken,” I said and gave it a little tap. “They don’t make parts for it anymore.”
“So you have no idea how fast you’re going.”
I shook my head. “It’s been stuck on eighty-three for years.” I passed another car. “So, how did the map get into an American figurehead?”
“Lady with a Scarf has quite a history.” He leaned back in his seat, taking his time before answering.
“I’m listening.”
“My dad did all the initial research. She was carved by a Boston artisan in 1812, mounted under the bowsprit of a small schooner and put into service soon after. She went down in a sudden storm on the Great Lakes in 1826. The figurehead was recovered by a Canadian seaman who sold her to the owner of a fleet of three-masted barks. The flotilla set sail for Europe with our Lady in the lead. The bark she was attached to sank in a storm off Nova Scotia. All men on board were lost.”
“Good heavens, she sounds like bad luck to me,” I said, letting out a whistle.
“Some seamen say she was cursed. That’s why, though someone brought her out of the water, she was never attached to another ship,” Max said. “She was sold at auction and ended up in the Musée National de la Marine in Paris.”
Up ahead, I could see the turnoff to Eden’s Bridge. Three miles. My stomach was in knots. Max’s story had taken my mind off Chance Noseworthy, which helped, but nausea from this morning’s adventure seemed to be catching up with me.
“And then what happened?” I needed Max to keep talking. Anything to distract me.
“She remained in the museum until her final crossing in 1944 on the USS Andrea Rae, a crossing that few people knew about. Officially, it was to return the figurehead to Boston, where she had originated. But she held other more important secrets and was being shipped to an undisclosed location in Washington, DC.
“Once again, however, the ship carrying her hit bad weather and capsized. All on board were lost—except for one soldier.”
I signaled to change lanes to make the off-ramp. Apparently the woman in the car to my right didn’t notice my signal. She laid on her horn as I crossed the lane and zoomed onto the ramp.
“And that lone seaman who made it,” I said as I braked for a stop sign. “That was your father?”
Max nodded. “As the ship began to capsize, there was a lot of talk again about the curse of the figurehead. Someone suggested they throw her overboard in order to save themselves. And a desperate group actually found the container in the cargo hold and hoisted her into the stormy waters. My father described the scene, even her watertight pod, down to the last detail.
“But one of the officers—apparently, the only person on board who knew the Lady’s true purpose—screamed for someone to save the pod. He screamed loud enough for those who stood nearby to hear, even above the storm. He cried out that she carried inside the only directions to the treasures stolen by the Nazis and hidden by the French Resistance.”
I felt my jaw drop. “So that’s how your father came to know about it. Did any of the others survive? Maybe there were survivors he didn’t know about. Could they be after the hidden cache?”
“My father said that he thought maybe one officer had worked with the underground, that’s how he knew. As for the others, he believes they all perished.”
I turned by the courthouse, drove around back to the sheriff’s office, and parked.
I looked at Max thoughtfully. “When you retrieved the figurehead, you said you sent it off to be inspected.”
He nodded. “I didn’t send her off. I went with her to some people I’d been in contact with in DC. For one thing, I worried that being in saltwater off and on through the years might have caused deterioration.”
“And did it?”
“The museum in Paris did some restoration when the figurehead first arrived, which helped. And after that, she really didn’t touch seawater again. The pod had remained amazingly watertight for all those years.”
“Was there any mention of a secret compartment? Or did they do any tests to see what might be inside?”
The door to the sheriff’s office opened and a tall, balding man in a dark suit stepped out. He seemed to zero in on me as if he knew who I was.
“Methinks this is Chance Noseworthy.” I gulped a deep breath as I reached for the Ghia’s door handle.
Max got out on his side at the same time. I expected him to go to his car, but instead, he walked with me toward the dreary entrance where Noseworthy waited.
Noseworthy introduced himself, and I introduced Max, and then offered my hand to shake. He ignored it, asked us to follow him to his office, and gestured to two chairs opposite a bare desk. The office looked temporary, devoid of anything that would make it homey. Probably just an extra space made for visiting investigators.
“We need to find out from you, Ms. Littlefield, how you identified the poison. It strikes us as quite a coincidence that you immediately knew its identity.” He leaned forward. “You even called here at two o’clock in the morning to report the information.”
“I was a mom back in the days when ipecac was the responsible thing to have on hand to induce vomiting if your kids ingested something poisonous. I happened to remember how quickly it worked, and the sequence of events at the Encore seemed to fit.” I was moving quickly from surprised to steamed. “Mr. Noseworthy, do you have kids? Grandkids?”
He blinked and shifted in his seat.
“If you did, at your age”—which I guessed was close to mine—“you would have had syrup of ipecac in your medicine cabinet too. And if your child had ingested something poisonous, and you had to administer this syrup, and then clean up the aftermath …” I stood and leaned over his desk. My index finger took on a life of its own, and shook itself in his face. “Believe me, you would remember it too.”
His Adam’s apple moved up and down as he swallowed. “I see,” he said.
“One more thing.” I paused for added emphasis. “Holy cannoli! If I did it, why on God’s green earth would I call and tell you what I used?” I settled into my chair again, glanced at Max, who seemed to be struggling to keep his face straight, and then looked back at Noseworthy.
“To throw us off track.” The investigator folded his hands on the desk. “Is it true that Hyacinth Gilvertin is your friend?”
“Yes, but what does that have to do with the price of tea in China?” I was on a roll with my food clichés. If I weren’t so worried about Hyacinth, I might have enjoyed coming up with a few more.
“Is she your friend, or isn’t she?”
I rolled my eyes. “I thought you were from the CDC, not the FBI.”
“Did Ms. Gilvertin have access to the food your company served?”
“Of course, she’s my sous chef—or thinks she is,” I said with a small laugh.
“Was she ever alone with the food?”
I dragged in a deep breath, remembering what she’d said about being in the walk-in fridge when Devereaux paid his first visit. “Yes.”
“And what about your daughter, Katie?”
I leaned forward. “What about her?”
“Two questions. Is she Ms. Gilvertin’s goddaughter? And was she ever alone with the food?”
“What are you getting at?” The hair on the back of my neck stood tall. I forced my hands to remain still in my lap.
“Please answer my questions.”
“Many of my crew kids were alone with the food at any given time yesterday. Not just Katie or Hyacinth.” I was ready to leap over the desk and get mean-faced, nose-to-nose with the despicable Noseworthy, but I was afraid my meanest face might be laughable at best and pathetic at worst. “And yes,” I continued, holding back the growl that threatened to roar out of my voice box. “My friend Hyacinth is my daughter’s godmother.”
I stole a look at Max, who seemed coiled and ready
to spring into attack mode himself. He worked his jaw, curled and then straightened his fingers, only to repeat the actions.
Noseworthy didn’t seem to notice. “We’ve located the source of the poisoning—the flash point—one might say.”
I looked back to him, suddenly cold to the core. I wasn’t going to like where he was going with this. But I kept my voice even and calm. “And where was that?”
“As you recall, your daughter, Katie, ordered her crew to clean up before the sheriff’s office could even surround the crime scene with caution tape. The food was thrown into the trash, but not otherwise disposed of. I had a team working on it all night, collecting samples from the bins outside the building. We narrowed the source to one specific food you served.”
I leaned forward again. “You did?” Unfortunately, my words came out in a squeak. “What was it?”
“We analyzed the contents—sweet potatoes, the Beauregard to be specific, white truffles, eggs, milk, butter, and”—he gave me a smug smile—“ipecac—dried, ground very fine, and liberally sprinkled either in or on top of the mixture.” He paused, staring at me. The room was deathly quiet. “We’ve already interviewed the members of your crew, and they confirm that your daughter, Katie, prepared the sweet potato dish last night. She was seen sprinkling the ipecac onto the small serving dishes.”
“You can’t be suggesting—,” I said, icy fear twisting itself around my heart. “Katie? You can’t be serious.”
“And not just your daughter,” Noseworthy said, sitting back and steepling his fingers. “Considering there was no sign of struggle at the library, considering the origin of the poison, your familiarity with it, your daughter’s preparation of the dish that brought on the terrible epidemic of poisoning, I have to inform you that you will be placed under arrest.” He hit an intercom button. “Sheriff, get someone in here to read Mrs. Littlefield her rights. And pick up her daughter and bring her in.”
“You can’t do that. She’s a mother.” I jumped to my feet, appalled. My head spun so fast I couldn’t think straight. “Besides, she’s innocent.”
Max stood quite suddenly. “This has gone far enough. You are making serious allegations based on pure speculation. You have no proof. You’re here to investigate, but it seems to me you rather enjoy intimidating and playing wanna-be cop. This woman is innocent. She’s a victim, not a criminal.”
My mouth dropped open. Was he talking about Hyacinth or me? We were both as pure as the driven snow. Well, almost. There was that time back in the seventies, involving a break-in at the zoo, a blinking caution sign, and the dean of women, but that’s another story.
Max walked closer to Noseworthy so that he towered over the seated investigator. “Mrs. Littlefield gave you a lead. That’s all. Nothing nefarious in that. She wanted to help. No crime in that. She’s frantic to find her friend, and she’s upset over the lost reputation of her catering company. She feels terrible because of those who got sick. Not because she’s guilty, but because it happened under her watch. And because she’s a caring person.
“Now, if you will excuse us,” Max said, “we need to get some forensic evidence to the sheriff.” He then turned to me, reached for my hand, and helped me out of my chair. With our spines ramrod straight, we marched to the door.
“There’s one more thing,” Noseworthy said. We both looked back at him. “As you’ve probably heard, President James Delancy is dead. His doctors confirm that it wasn’t his previous heart condition that took him. It was the poison. This is now a murder investigation.”
Then he pointed to me. “And you … you …,” he sputtered. “You haven’t heard the last of me.”
Chapter Nineteen
When Katie and Chloe Grace arrived just before dinnertime, I was still reeling from my encounter with Noseworthy, and at war with myself about whether to worry her with his accusations.
After we got Chloe Grace settled in with a Junie B. Jones book, Katie and I sat together at the kitchen table, and I filled her in on the details of my drive with Max out to the site of the burned-out cabin.
Katie took my hand when I told her about going into the charred ambulance. “I know that was hard for you, Mom.”
She was aware of my nightmares, though I’d never told her about their origin and why I was terrified of fire.
I squeezed her hand. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She deserved to know, and to process, the charges that might be brought against us. “There’s something else you need to know.” I told her about Chance Noseworthy’s threats. She looked as worried as I felt when I’d finished. But her words comforted me.
“We’re innocent and justice will be done. It’s Cinth I’m worried about, not us and this Noseworthy character. Who all is on the case, besides Noseworthy?”
“Sheriff Doyle is heading up the investigation. Until he determines it’s a kidnapping, then the FBI will take over. Right now, Hyacinth is considered a person of interest who’s missing. That’s all. Because of the theft, all the local law enforcement agencies are working together. There are APBs out all over the state, and photos of Hyacinth have been sent to every precinct and spread over the Internet.”
“How about the thieves?”
“No one got a good look. They can’t be identified.”
“And the car they’re in?”
“Also unidentifiable.” It sounded so hopeless. Thoughts of Hyacinth brought a cold chill. I hugged my arms to myself, closed my eyes, and whispered a little prayer.
Katie touched my arm. “Are you all right?”
I looked up. “I’m fine. Just want to get started on my own search for Hyacinth. I’d leave this minute if I could.”
“Mom, you look like you haven’t slept for days. Promise me you’ll get a good night’s sleep and not go off hunting for Cinth in the middle of the night.”
I laughed and held up a hand, as if it was a ludicrous thought. She didn’t know how close I’d come the night before to doing that very thing.
“You’ve got a tendency to do that anyway, and now because it’s Cinth—”
Chloe Grace came flying through the doorway to the kitchen. “Gramsy!” she shouted, and I knelt to scoop her into a hug. “I’m hungry. What’s for dinner?”
“C.G., what is the proper way to ask?” Katie said.
Chloe Grace held me tight around the neck, then leaned back and smiled. “Gramsy, please, can we have pizza for dinner tonight?”
“That’s exactly what I had in mind,” I said.
“Yay!” she yelled and then quieted when she saw her mother put her finger to her lips. “Yay!” she then whispered loudly.
“Little Italy okay?” Hands down, our favorite pizza. “And what delightful delicacies do we want on it?” I already knew but asked just to hear her explain in her special way.
“Hawaiian, but with no onions, ham, or pineapple,” Chloe Grace said, just as she always did.
“Which is—”
“I know, I know,” she said, nearly giggling. “It’s a cheese pizza and not really Hawaiian, but that’s how I like it. The cheese tastes better after all that stuff is scraped off.”
Katie smiled at her daughter. “I’m always ready to eat the pineapple and ham you don’t like.”
Yay!” Chloe Grace yelled and took off for the living room.
I peeked in to see her cuddled up in my favorite overstuffed chair with her nose in the Junie B. Jones book.
“She makes everything else pale in importance,” I said to Katie. “We are blessed.”
Katie smiled gently. “She makes everything different.”
What an odd thing to say. “That sounds like a segue. Are you about to make an announcement of some sort?” I was half-joking when I said it, but her eyes told me she was serious.
“It is, but let me place our order before C.G. starves, and then we’ll talk.”
She
called in our order—a large pizza, half Hawaiian and half nearly everything but the kitchen sink. I remembered that she’d asked if Sandy could join us. I refilled our iced tea glasses, poured milk for Chloe Grace, and then set an extra place at the kitchen table for Sandy.
Katie came over and sat on one of the tall bar stools between the counter and the table. I sat beside her.
Her eyes were luminous, bright, as if a long-smoldering fire had been ignited. The stress lines I’d seen so often after her divorce seemed to have disappeared. She was wearing new earrings, and they looked expensive.
Sandy. Of course.
“What time will Sandy be here?”
She smiled. “Should be any minute. He has something he wants to ask you.”
I could only imagine one thing, and it was the one thing I dreaded hearing from this man who’d left my daughter for a woman who he said was more suited to his life. The woman had been in his class at Duke and his lab partner.
“Has something changed?”
She nodded. “He’s talking about reconciliation. He says he’s willing to go to therapy, anything, to right the wrongs of the past so we can become a family.”
I took Katie’s hands in both of mine. “It’s taken you years to get over the heartbreak, to get your life back.” I glanced through the doorway toward the living room, making sure Chloe Grace was still buried in Junie B. Jones.
“I hope you said it’s too little too late.” I should have bitten my tongue. I’m an advocate of forgiveness, believe you me, but after what this man had done …
“He’s asked me to marry him.” She gave me a little smile. “Again.”
“Oh, honey, he did?” I didn’t think anything could make my heart ache more than it already did this day, or could cause it nearly to break with one more trouble piled on all the others. But Katie’s words came close.
“And did you give him an answer?”
I waited while she stared at her folded hands. When she looked up, her eyelids brimmed with tears. She brushed them away. “I want us to be a family, whole and healthy. I want C.G. to know the love of her father. But I don’t know if I can trust him again. I can forgive and have forgiven him, but I just don’t know about trust. What if I give him my heart, and C.G. gives him hers? I know I can deal with anything, but when it comes to my daughter …” Her tears spilled, and I handed her a tissue. We seemed to be going through quite a few of them this day.
