by Penny Plume
“The bays are separated to allow for individual climate control,” McTavish said. “I believe Mr. Cabo’s auto is in number six.”
“Well,” Jenna said. “Okay. Thanks McTavish.”
“My pleasure, Miss.”
He stood, waiting.
Jenna cleared her throat. “No word from Bart?”
“I’m afraid not. It isn’t uncommon for him to do this sort of thing, but the timing is unfortunate.”
“True,” Jenna said. “Cabo is going to look for him. That’s why he needs the car.”
“Very good.”
“Yep.” Jenna took a step toward the door. “Okay. See ya.”
“Mind the stairs.”
She went down the steps and started walking past the numbered doors, pretending to count them, but in truth she was waiting for McTavish to tackle her and rip the letter from her hands.
Don’t do it, McTavish, she thought.
Poor, sweet McTavish.
Don’t be the one.
The door closed behind her.
Jenna glanced back, prepared to drop, pivot, sprawl—whatever it took to fight him off—but the hallway was empty.
The door to garage number six opened with a soft hiss of warm, dry air.
It was pitch black inside, and Jenna had a moment of panic as she reached around the door jamb for the light switch: McTavish had rushed through another secret passage within Horizon House and was waiting for her just inside the door, his butter knife poised to strike her fumbling hand.
She was certain of this until the moment the lights flooded the space, revealing a blue Prius, a rolling metal tool chest, and nothing else. The walls and ceiling, which had to be ten or twelve feet high, were lined with a matte gray paneling that looked like it could be hosed off.
Jenna scolded herself.
A butter knife? Really?
And McTavish?
Come on.
Get it together.
But the man did lie to her. This had to be the wrong garage, because there was no way Jay Cabo drove a Prius. Would he even fit inside?
It couldn’t be a Kavanaugh vehicle either—Harrison and Bart driving a Prius was about as likely as Lawrence and Belma eloping.
Was it Sherri’s? She had her own Beamer, courtesy of Bart, but was this hers too?
Jenna moved to garage seven, opened the door and hit the light. A shark-gray Jaguar crouched in the garage, looking like it was gliding along at ninety miles-per-hour just sitting still.
Jenna frowned at the machine. Too flashy for Cabo, and she had seen Harrison Kavanaugh tooling around town in it.
She killed the light, closed the door and went to garage five.
The hallway light spilling through the open door showed the front bumper of Bart’s convertible BMW.
“You again,” Jenna grumbled, remembering Bart and Sherri rolling across Main Street while she tried to get their attention. But no, they were too busy playing the mourning socialites to bother with her.
She hit the light switch.
Nothing happened.
She toggled it again and stepped into the garage, looking for another switch.
Something crunched under her shoes.
Jenna stepped back and saw glittering glass scattered across the smooth, painted concrete. The shards were small and thin, some of them curved.
Broken light bulb, Jenna thought.
She glanced up, and in the light from the hallway could barely see the ceiling socket just inside the door. Someone had left a broom—obviously unused—leaning against the wall on the side of the door opposite the switch.
Jenna pictured Bart and Sherri pulling in, seeing the broken glass, and leaving the broom where McTavish was sure to see it so he could get to work.
She shook her head.
Rich people.
She looked for a place to set Kavanaugh’s letter, found no flat surfaces within the swath of light, and ended up tucking it into the back of her shorts. She was careful not to crease it—it was evidence, after all—and felt very sophisticated and ladylike as she grabbed the broom and started sweeping the shards into a pile, wondering how the bulb had broken in the first place. The ceiling was too high for someone to hit it with an errant hand, and light bulbs didn’t just explode.
Did they?
Note to self: Exploding light bulbs—still a thing? Ever a thing?
She pulled more glass into the pile, then had a thought: What if the broom wasn’t there for cleaning?
She tapped the bristles on the floor to knock any shards out, then reversed the handle and reached toward the ceiling. The broom was long enough to touch the socket. Even a half-hearted swing would be enough to shatter a light bulb.
So if that’s what happened, she wondered, who did it?
And why did they want it dark in this garage?
She stepped toward the driver’s side of the car, and when she left the doorway the light from the hall fell across the Beamer’s hood and spilled into the front seat.
That’s when she saw Sherri’s body.
Jenna froze.
She didn’t even breathe.
Sherri’s body was in the passenger seat, slumped against the door. The wide-brimmed black hat was still on her head, tilted down to hide her face.
Jenna was grateful for that. The body was enough of a shock. If Sherri’s dead eyes looked at her in this dark garage the way Ingrid’s had in the café, she might still be clinging to the ceiling.
Maybe she’s not dead.
Maybe she’s sleeping.
Jenna clung to that idea instead of the ceiling. Bart said she was full of Xanax—did she stumble back to the car in a barbiturate stupor and pass out?
“Hey Sherri,” Jenna said.
“Sherri!”
Nothing.
“Ah, man. Okay.”
It didn’t even cross her mind to go get Cabo, Olson, or McTavish. If Sherri was dead, she was dead. If she wasn’t, she might need immediate help.
Jenna took a deep breath and stepped back around the front of the car, still holding the broom. More glass crunched under her shoes and she watched the body for any stirring.
Nope.
Jenna moved along the passenger side and stopped just in front of the door. She could feel her heartbeat in her throat, pushing against her windpipe and making it hard to breathe.
“Sherri, if you’re messing with me, and you’re about to jump up and scare me, I will never forgive you. Ever.”
Still nothing.
“Okay then. I hope you’re not dead, but I also hope you don’t give me a heart attack.”
She reached out with the broom handle and stuck it under the hat brim.
Nudged it up, and back.
And stared into the flat, dead eyes of one of Sherri’s mannequins.
Jenna blinked.
Her heart still slammed in her chest, and now her brain spun around.
A mannequin?
It was hard to tell in the weak light, but it looked like the bronze mannequin had flesh-colored paint or makeup smeared across its face. The black hat and clothing covered the rest of the shiny surface.
Jenna stepped back from the car. At a glance, anyone would think it was Sherri in the passenger seat. Especially if Bart was driving the car through town with the top down, supposedly on the way to a swanky dinner at the Marina Grille.
Sherri hadn’t been in the car with him.
Jenna’s mind reeled.
Where was she, then?
Was she here, killing Harrison Kavanaugh?
Was she dead?
And where was Mr. Wolfie?
Jenna had a brief moment of guilt when she felt more concern about the poor little dog than Sherri, then pushed it aside. The dog was nicer than Sherri, but neither deserved to be murdered.
She stared at the mannequin and thought about what to do next.
Bart was missing, possibly on the run because he’d killed Ingrid, his father, Sherri, and Mr. Wolfie.
A
lso possible: He was dead.
Okay.
She knew exactly what to do next.
She would—
The garage door opener kicked on, a low, heavy thrum that made her hop sideways three times with the broom in front of her like a pogo stick.
Blinding security lights from the driveway flooded the garage. Jenna lifted a hand against it, squinting at the black shapes moving toward her.
“Get back! I have a broom!”
“Jenna,” Cabo said, “are you okay? Are you hurt?”
She tried to look at him, but he was just a dark silhouette with a dazzling halo of light behind him.
“Hurt? Me? No. Why? There’s a mannequin in here.”
Cabo rushed into the garage. “Mannequin? No, Jenna, you need to come out here.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Just…come on. It’s bad.”
Cabo rushed Jenna out of the garage and to the right, into the circular driveway in front of the house.
Olson and McTavish were both near the bottom of the front steps, looking at her with concern.
“Don’t make those faces,” Jenna said, near panic. “What happened?”
Cabo led her past them, practically dragging her toward the Jeep. Then they went by that, onto the soft grass that went all the way to the southern edge of the estate’s plateau.
“McTavish saw it from the den,” Cabo said. “He came and got us. Garrett’s already there.”
“Garrett?” Jenna said. “Is he okay? Cabo, what is going on?”
They ran between two hedges sculpted to look like longbow archers, surreal in the harsh white security lights, then they were at the tall fence that surrounded Horizon House.
Lost Haven nestled below. First the winding road through the mansions, then scattered homesteads along the semi-straight road into downtown, and finally the town itself, soft lights and mature trees wrapped by Lake Michigan on the right and the Lost Haven Marina as the coast curved inland.
From here, Jenna realized, in the dark, the entire town looked like a question mark. Which was appropriate, because she had endless questions.
“Okay, what? Who? Where?”
Then she saw the flashing fire trucks.
The smoke.
The fire.
A gout of orange flames curled above the trees downtown, lashed toward the stars, and retreated.
Jenna gripped the steel bars of the fence.
“Is that Main Street?”
“It is,” Cabo said. “It’s The Welcome Shoppe.”
12
Jenna sprinted across the lawn to the Jeep.
Olson and McTavish met her there.
“Jenna, there’s no reason to go now,” Olson said. “The fire department is there, Garrett is there. He knows you’re safe. Let them handle it.”
Jenna yanked the Jeep’s door open and pulled her phone out of the middle console. Sixteen missed calls, all from Garrett, Lawrence, and Belma, with two voicemails and nine text messages. Four from Garrett, two from Lawrence and two from Belma.
She was trying to wrap her head around it all when the phone vibrated in her hand. The screen said: Lawrence Donald
Jenna answered. She could hear vehicle engines and people shouting in the background. “Lawrence! Are you okay?”
“Sweetie, are you okay? Where are you?”
“Horizon House. Are you on Main Street?”
“Across the street from my shop. Oh, Jenna, what happened?”
“I don’t know, but I’m on my way. Have you seen Belma? Wilford?”
“They’re both here. We tried to spray water inside Belma’s hideous shop but the fire people told us to scram. They were not nice about it.”
Jenna walked in a circle, clutching the phone. “Belma’s shop is burning too?”
“Not yet,” Lawrence said, “but her display is totally melted. Now I get what they mean when they say ‘a cleansing fire.’”
Jenna heard Belma screech “Hey!” in the background.
“And Wilford is okay?”
“Seems fine. But he said Florida is looking better and better.”
“Lawrence, listen carefully. Have you seen Bart or Sherri down there?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, hold on.”
Jenna pressed the phone against her stomach and found McTavish standing near the back of the Jeep.
“Do you know for a fact that Sherri is passed out in Bart’s room?”
McTavish blinked. “For a fact? No, I haven’t personally seen her in there. Is she in danger?”
“I need you to go check on her,” Jenna said. “Right now.”
McTavish turned and was gone.
“Jenna, what’s going on?” Olson said.
“Has anyone been in the library except us and the crime scene techs, since we opened Kavanaugh’s secret library?”
“No,” he said.
“And you’ve been in there the whole time, or they have, right? It’s never been left empty?”
“Nope. Why?”
“Go check the garage. Bart’s convertible.” She brought the phone back up to hear Lawrence saying:
“…but I mean, are you surprised? Why should they care if her shop burns down? They’ll just buy another one from Amazon and have it flown in by helicopter.”
“Lawrence, if you see Bart or Sherri, stay away from them.”
“More than usual?”
“Yes. Tell Belma, tell Wilford. And tell Garrett to watch for them. If he sees them, he needs to be careful. I think one of them is the killer.”
Lawrence yelled, “Jenna thinks Bart or Sherri is the murderer!”
“Lawrence! Keep it down!”
“Oo, was that bad? That was bad, wasn’t it? Sorry.”
“Just stay away from them both,” Jenna said. “I’m on my way down.”
“Take it slow,” Lawrence said. “You know, none of that no-brakes business.”
“Yeah, I got it. And…Lawrence?”
“Yes?”
“Did they manage to save any of my books?”
“Oh. Oh, sweetie,” Lawrence said.
Jenna ended the call and saw McTavish running down the front steps. The fact that he was wearing black slacks and polished loafers didn’t seem to impede his stride or speed one bit.
Cabo reached out, hesitated, then put a massive hand on Jenna’s shoulder. Even without any strength or pressure, it felt like carrying a sandbag.
“How are you doing?” he said. “How can I help?”
“I’ll tell you in about six seconds.”
McTavish arrived looking like he’d just stirred from a bit of tea. No huffing and puffing, not a crease out of line. Behind him, Olson hustled back from the garages, his eyes wide.
McTavish said, “Miss Sherri is not in her quarters. It seems no one has slept in the bed since last night—I change the linens and make the beds every morning, and the covers are undisturbed.”
“Mr. Wolfie?” Jenna said.
“I did not have the pleasure of being snarled at, licked, or shed upon. He was not there.”
Olson stepped into the conversation. “Okay, that’s messed up. Who put that thing in Bart’s car?”
“What thing?” Cabo said.
Jenna quickly told him and McTavish about the mannequin, along with her theory that Sherri hadn’t been in the car when she saw it cross Main Street.
Olson said, “So she could be missing since, what, eight fifteen?”
“If not before,” Jenna said.
“Along with Mr. Wolfie,” Cabo added.
Olson pulled his phone out. “We have to find Bart.”
“I think he just set fire to my shop,” Jenna said, “so that’s where I’m starting.”
Main Street was bright, soaked, and crowded.
It was after one in the morning, but on a Saturday, so the lakeshore bars and restaurants hadn’t closed down yet and the patrons were rushing through Lilac Park, some with cocktails in-hand, to watch the show. The
folks who lived near downtown were more subtle about it at first, clustering in groups in their bathrobes and pajamas, but they slowly drifted toward the park as well to join the crowd.
Jenna parked the Jeep across from the Sanctuary Cafe with two wheels bumped on the curb. She had a brief rush of the creeps when she stepped out and realized there could be a coffin—with a corpse inside—directly beneath her, but quickly forgot it when she saw her poor, beloved Welcome Shoppe.
She’d spent the entire trip down from Horizon House hoping everyone had it wrong—it was just smoke, a small fire near the coffee pot easily snuffed out—but when she saw the wall of flames crawling out of the shattered front window she knew it was all gone.
Her books, her sofa, Wilford’s plush chair, the license plate frames, all the tacky driftwood art that must have served as perfect kindling for the inferno.
Gone.
Cabo stood next to her. No one had noticed them yet; the spectacle of her burning shop was too popular.
“Jenna. I’m so sorry. I saw your collection when I was in there, when I came to see you. After I found Mr. Kavanaugh. Those books had to be valuable.”
“Maybe,” Jenna mused. “Just to me.”
“Hey. Sentimental value is still valuable.”
“The only copies in print,” Jenna said with a small, sad smile. “Please handle carefully.”
“Devastating,” Cabo said.
“Yes. But also fantastic.”
“Um,” Cabo said.
Jenna pulled Kavanaugh’s bagged letter from under the back of her shirt. “I think Bart set fire to my shop because he knows about this letter, and the map of Sanctuary, but not where it came from.”
“I want to know where that letter just came from,” Cabo said.
“Don’t worry about it. But Bart doesn’t know that we know about the map. He thinks it’s still safe and sound in his father’s secret library.”
“No, but…we saw it in there. With Olson.”
“Bart doesn’t know that,” Jenna said. “He doesn’t know that his father gave me the key to the hidden door, then left a clue about how to open it that only I could figure out. Now Bart needs to make sure there isn’t any other proof about the Sanctuary Cemetery so he can build the Lost Haven Resort. What’s the best way to do that?”
