by Lena Gregory
“Oh, he didn’t,” Bee whispered. “Big mistake.”
Piper yanked his shoulder then slapped him across the face.
“Oooh.” Bee winced. “Told you it was a mistake, buddy. Never turn your back on an irate woman.”
“You mean you weren’t supposed to meet her?” Francesca shoved his shoulder, then flung a hand toward Piper.
“No.” He held up his hands, looking at Francesca but trying to keep one wary eye on Piper. “It’s not . . . I didn’t . . . she wanted me to meet her out at the lighthouse, said she had to show me something important, but I told her no. When she demanded I come, I just walked away and she yelled after me that I’d better be there. That’s all it was. I swear.”
When he reached toward her, she slapped his hand away. “Get up.”
“Huh?”
Piper smirked. “While I’ll admit I am thoroughly enjoying this lovers’ spat, I don’t have time for it today. I need to talk to you, Quince. Outside. Now.”
Quince propped his elbows on the table and cradled his head in his hands.
“Five bucks says he goes with Piper.” Though Bee spoke quietly, his voice carried in the hushed diner.
“Shhh . . .” Cass put a finger to her lips.
“I said. Get. Up.” Francesca shoved his shoulder.
Cass looked around, hoping someone would interrupt or, at least, get things moving again, but everyone stood mesmerized by the scene, waiting for whatever drama would come next.
“Francesca, please—” Quince pleaded, ignoring everything and everyone around him.
Francesca glared at him. “Now.”
He continued to stare at her, mouth open, eyes wide.
She stood as best she could in the booth. “I won’t ask again.”
Cass held her breath, curious what Francesca intended to do if he didn’t move.
Much to the dismay of the onlookers, Quince sighed and stood, then moved to let her pass.
Francesca stood and smoothed her knee-length skirt, lifted her chin, and stood toe to toe with Piper. “Just because you can’t get over your schoolgirl crush does not mean he will go running out to meet you every time you crook your finger and bat your lashes. Sorry to be the one to tell you, but you’re not all that.”
“You tell her, girlfriend.” Bee all but applauded.
Piper glared at him.
When Francesca sidestepped Piper and started to walk away, Piper grabbed her arm and spun her back to face her. “And you, miss high and mighty . . .”
“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black,” Bee muttered.
Worried Bee would end up on the receiving end of Piper’s ire, and not wanting to miss a word between the two women, Cass kicked him under the table.
“Ouch!” He scowled and rubbed his shin.
“. . . have no idea what’s going on or what you’re interfering in. But, I promise you, you will be sorry if you don’t back off.”
Francesca shook her off with a sneer, then pressed a finger to Piper’s chest. “Don’t you dare threaten me.”
“Oh, it’s not a threat, honey. That’s a promise.” Piper smirked. “And I always keep my promises.”
Apparently tired of the whole thing, or just mortified at the scene Piper had caused, Francesca glared at her another moment then turned and walked out, head held high, back straight, carrying herself with all the dignity she could muster.
Quince gripped Piper’s elbow and ushered her toward the exit, his gaze firmly glued to the door Francesca had just fled through.
Chapter Eleven
Cass rolled down the window as she drove along the road beside the bay. The warm breeze whipped her hair, the rush of sound drowning out any voices that might try to intrude on her moment of peace. She couldn’t get what Bee had said out of her mind, about Amelia thinking Fred might have jumped to his death. But no matter how many times she tried to embrace that scenario, it just didn’t ring true for her.
She’d sent Bee home for some much-needed rest, and Stephanie had run off to attend a meeting with a client, leaving Cass with a bit of time alone before she had to open the shop. As she approached the turn to the lighthouse, she hit the brakes and the turn signal at the same time and took the turn just a little too fast. It couldn’t hurt to take a ride up to the lighthouse and just walk around. Who knew? Maybe Fred would make an appearance if she showed up alone.
Except she wasn’t alone. Four other cars sat in the lot, all empty, including Simone’s Porsche. What would Simone be doing there so early? Maybe one of the other vehicles belonged to Amelia. If so, Cass could stop in and check on her, see how she was doing, which she’d planned on doing at some point anyway.
Plus, she could mention the idea of the group readings to Simone. If Simone planned to follow through with Fred’s initial idea of having his guests stay at the Madison Estate, Cass might even be able to do a group reading in the ballroom there later in the evening after she closed Mystical Musings. That would save her having to close up during the day and risk losing customers. Who knew? Maybe Simone would even run the tours year-round.
Warming to the idea, Cass pulled between Simone’s Porsche and a blue Blazer, then parked and turned off the ignition. Sitting for a moment, enjoying the bay breeze through the window, Cass tried to open her senses. “Are you still hanging around, Fred? It would be great if you could just tell me what happened. Sure would make this a whole lot easier. Don’t get me wrong, but you didn’t really strike me as the type to feel such tremendous guilt at hurting someone that you’d take your own life.”
And there it was in a nutshell. Fred DiCarlo hadn’t jumped to his death, because he’d never cared who he insulted or hurt, often stomping all over people’s emotions for his own entertainment with no thought whatsoever. Which led her right back to the theory he’d had help out that window.
She turned the car back on long enough to roll up the window, then dropped her keys into her bag and headed for the keeper’s cottage.
She pulled the door handle, half expecting it to be locked, but it opened easy enough and she walked into the foyer. “Hello? Amelia?”
Her voice echoed back through the high ceilings. No answer. Hmm . . . couldn’t hurt to have a look around, see if she could find someone. With four cars in the lot, someone had to be somewhere, although they could also belong to people walking along the beach.
She moved into the gift shop. Her gaze landed on the full display of lighthouse figures. Either theirs weren’t selling either or they’d been restocked. Tourist season would come soon enough, and hopefully sales would pick up. The figures weren’t something most locals bought.
“Amelia?” She waited. Nothing. “Simone?”
She strolled through the room until she found herself in front of the display holding Kitty Garrison’s journal. “What secrets did you share, Kitty? Whatever they were, my friend Bee will dig in and try to decipher them, I’m sure. Maybe you could help him out a little if there’s something important we need to know.”
A cool breeze blew across her back—and she tensed—followed by the sound of the air conditioner kicking on. She laughed at herself and moved on. A quick check of the other rooms on the first floor told her no one was around. She started up the stairs, Bee’s voice arguing in her head that it was probably not a good idea to go snooping around. She ignored him. “Hello? Is anyone here?”
Still no answer. She reached the hallway at the top of the stairs and stopped. A door stood ajar, and she pushed it open and poked her head inside. “Anyone here? Amelia?”
Stacks of boxes filled the room, several open, some with packing slips on top. She peeked inside the box closest to the doorway. Lighthouse figures. Not the delicate ones from the gift shop that Cass also carried, but bigger, heavier versions of the Bay Island Lighthouse, more suitable for gardens or front yards. One of them had been shoved in the box upside down. Cass’s need for order reared its ugly head, and she pulled the piece out to turn it over. She hefted it in her hand, a nice
heavy piece that wouldn’t blow over in a strong wind. Maybe she should consider stocking a few at Mystical Musings.
She studied the piece. It had a few of the rocks from the jetty with the lighthouse standing atop them. It really was a perfect replica, except for the sloppy paint job. It seemed some of the dark reddish-brown paint from the bricks had smudged across the white siding. Weird they’d let them go out like that. She pulled a second one from the box. Nope, that one was perfect, must have been just the one. Someone must have smudged it while it was still wet.
She stuck them both back into the box right side up, then searched for the packing slip and found it crumpled and stuffed between two figures. She pulled it out. The same company she ordered her figures from. She’d have to take a look and maybe order a box. She smoothed the page and folded it in half. Reddish-brown smudges, just like the one on the figure, marred the back of the page. Cass brought the page closer, her heart hammering against her ribs.
No. Not paint. Blood. Dried blood, as if someone had used the back of the page to wipe the blood from the figure, then crumpled it in a hurry and stuffed it all back into the box.
Bee’s voice screamed at her to run. This time, she had every intention of listening. But take the page with her, or leave it and call Luke? Leave it. Bad enough her fingerprints were all over everything, no way should she remove the evidence. She stuffed the paper back into the box as close to how she’d found it as she could, then turned and fled down the hallway.
Sweat streamed down her hairline, and she fought the urge to wipe it away. Even though the blood had already dried and she couldn’t see any on her hands, she knew all too well what contaminants could linger in dried blood.
The police had searched the keeper’s house, though. How could they have missed something like that? Unless it hadn’t been there then. Could the killer have hidden it, then returned it later? Possibly. But Luke and Tank could work it all out.
She hurried down the stairs, careful not to touch the railing or make any noise. By the time she hit the foyer floor, her hair was clinging to her neck and she was breathing hard. For all she knew, the killer could have just returned the items to the box and still be hanging around.
“Cass?”
She skidded to a stop a few feet from the front door and freedom and turned to face Amelia. “Amelia, hi. I was . . . uh . . . just looking for you.”
Amelia frowned and looked up the stairs in the direction Cass had come from.
Simone moved up behind her from one of the open doorways off the foyer and lay a hand on Amelia’s shoulder, her gaze intent on Cass. “You seem to be in an awful hurry.”
Cass laughed as best she could under the circumstances. She already knew Simone possessed some level of psychic ability, one she had a good level of control over, but how much could she read from Cass? No way to know. Certainly her discomfort, that would be obvious. “I . . . oh, sorry, I . . . Do you by any chance have a bathroom I could use?”
Amelia shifted her gaze to Simone.
Simone held Cass’s gaze in an unwavering stare, her focus seeming to bore directly through her. After a moment, the intensity relented. “Of course.”
Amelia gestured toward a short hallway that led toward the back of the house. “Just down there.”
“Thanks, I’ll be right back.” Cass hurried down the hall, grateful the bathroom door stood open when she reached it. She entered and shoved it shut with her foot, not bothering to turn the lock. Using her wrist, she turned on the hot water and pumped soap into her other hand.
While she lathered her hands, scrubbing off not only any remnants of blood but probably a few layers of skin as well, she studied herself in the mirror above the sink. Strands of her long hair clung to her face and neck, and she looked a bit pale, but other than that, she looked surprisingly normal. Whatever fear clutched her insides apparently didn’t show in her expression. Okay. All she had to do was talk to Amelia and Simone, as she’d intended, and then hightail it out of there and call Luke. She could pull this off.
But what if Amelia and Simone had killed Fred? Amelia would most certainly have had access to the box of figures. But so would anyone who’d been present when Fred died. The box was open, sitting right by the doorway when you hit the second floor. Everyone who’d gone up to the third floor that day would have passed it on their way by. But how many could have gotten away with stashing the figure somewhere and then returning later to put it back? Amelia, for sure.
Cass rinsed her hands, dried them on paper towels, then used the paper towels to turn off the faucet and open the door before tossing them in the trash.
Bee’s voice screamed in her mind, “Run, run, run.”
She put an imaginary hand over his mouth, muffling the words. She’d have to remember to give that a try with the voices.
Simone and Amelia stood waiting in the foyer when she returned.
Darn. She should have thought to flush the toilet. Oh, well. Too late now. “Sorry about that. I should have gone before I left the diner.”
Simone tilted her head.
Cass ignored her and focused on Amelia. “I just finished having breakfast with Bee and Stephanie, and I’m on my way to pick up Beast and head into the shop, but I had a few minutes and figured I’d swing past. When I saw all the cars in the lot, I was hoping you’d be here.”
Amelia wrung her hands together. “Is this about Fred?”
“Oh.” She should have realized Amelia might think she’d been able to contact Fred. “No, I’m sorry. I haven’t had any luck contacting him. It was actually something Bee said that had me wanting to see you.”
She nodded and lowered her gaze.
Cass reached out to her, rubbing a hand along her arm. “I’m sorry. I know this can’t be easy for you.”
“Thank you.”
Simone handed Amelia a tissue. “So, what was it you heard that prompted you to seek out Amelia?”
“First, I wanted to see how she was holding up.” She waited for Amelia to blow her nose a few times. “And then I wanted to ask your opinion on how Fred died. Bee seemed to think you were under the impression his death might have been self-inflicted.”
Though that was irrelevant if what she’d found upstairs was what she thought it was. He certainly hadn’t hit himself over the head then returned the weapon to the box before diving out the window.
Amelia shrugged. “I don’t know what to think.”
Simone put an arm around her and looked at Cass.
“While we appreciate you stopping by, this might not be the best time to talk. Amelia has been having a particularly rough morning.” Simone started guiding Amelia toward the door, and Cass followed. “I tried to talk her out of coming here this morning, but she wouldn’t be swayed. Said she needed to do something, couldn’t just sit any longer.”
“I understand.”
Simone opened the front door.
Cass moved ahead of them into the doorway. “If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to reach out. And if I do find I’m able to contact Fred, I promise I’ll let you know right away.”
Amelia sniffed and rubbed her already swollen eyes. “Thank you.”
Cass refrained from pulling out her phone as she started across the lot. No reason to make Simone any more suspicious than she might already be. And if either of them were guilty, she didn’t want to give them time to stash the evidence before she could get help. She took a few deep breaths, trying to settle herself.
“Lighthouse . . . keeper . . . keep her? . . . lighthouse . . .”
She tried slapping a hand over an imaginary mouth, to no avail. The voices wouldn’t subside, so she ignored them instead. More or less, since she found herself walking toward the lighthouse anyway.
A car started, and she glanced over her shoulder as Simone’s Porsche headed out of the lot with two people in the front seat.
Cass whipped out her phone and called Luke. When he didn’t answer, she left him a detailed message, then call
ed Tank and did the same. She thought about calling nine-one-one, and if one of them didn’t get back to her in the next few minutes, she would. In the meantime, she strolled along the walkway toward the jetty. Since there were still three other cars in the lot, she didn’t want to leave until she’d made contact with someone about what she’d found in the upstairs room, though she couldn’t exactly stand guard on the front porch, especially when she had no clue if a killer was still inside.
She kept her pace slow, occasionally looking back over her shoulder to see if there was any activity at the house. When she reached the lighthouse, she stood looking up at it. No way was she climbing to the top again, no matter what the voices told her, so what was she doing there?
She looked down at her phone. Still nothing. She checked her service and looked up the number for the Bay Island Police Department. If Luke and Tank were busy, maybe she could get ahold of Chief Rawlins. Leaving the lighthouse behind, she started back toward the keeper’s house, this time walking on the beach rather than along the walkway. It was probably less conspicuous than walking back and forth along the walkway.
A man sat on the beach, his legs folded, elbows on his knees, head cradled in his hands. As she got closer, she recognized the clothes he’d been wearing in the diner a little while ago, along with the hair and build—there was no mistaking Quincy Yates. But what to do? She didn’t know him, even though she knew who he was, so striking up a conversation—interrogation, whatever—might seem odd. Still, Bee didn’t know him either, and he’d tried to track him down to have a chat, so she had to figure he’d approve.
“Excuse me,” she said when she was within a few feet of him. “Aren’t you Quincy Yates?”
He stood and brushed off his shorts. “Yeah.”
“Hi.” Cass extended a hand. “I’m Cass Donovan. I own Mystical Musings.”
“I know who you are.” He took her hand and shook it. “Thank you for taking over for me yesterday. With Fred.”
“Oh, no problem. I’m just sorry I couldn’t save him.”
