Chapter 9
I checked the time as we pulled back to the docks. It was just after nine o’clock. With a kiss to Peter that I can only describe as “off,” I walked to my store one way while he headed to his interview another way. As I turned the corner onto Centre Street, I saw Cherry and the Candleers outside my store.
“Stella,” said Cherry, waving. “It’s Stella.”
“Stella,” said Flo, Cherry’s best friend. “We were worried.”
I assumed they were speaking about my mother’s accident. That was the sort of news that would have reached them hours ago.
“We came for class, but you weren’t here,” said Flo.
I’d completely forgotten about the candle-mold class I’d agreed to run, but Cherry and Flo were flocked by three other women wrapped in various versions of crafts they’d made. One had a long, knitted scarf. One had a needlepoint purse. Flo, like her friend Cherry, wore a hand-knit sweater of the same pattern, but in a shade of green instead of yellow.
I loved the Candleers. And I knew I’d love our class, too, but I did not have an hour to spare today. I hated to do it, but I lied.
“Ladies,” I said. “I’ve got to head to the hospital.”
“Did your mother wake up yet?” said Flo.
“No,” I said, and I looked to the ground.
“Then you are teaching your class,” said Cherry. “Come on. Let’s go.”
She hustled me through the door, with the other ladies behind her. Glancing at the tapestry over my safe, I looked for signs that Agent Hill had stolen the formula from Millie’s black bag. I couldn’t identify anything out of place. It was unnerving for me to think that I might never have known she had visited. On the other hand, her expert work gave me faith that Rex Laruam had no idea that this young and efficient agent was on Nantucket.
“I’m not being hard on you,” Cherry said to me. “I just know you. When you’re busy with your candles, you relax. That’s a good thing to do when a loved one is sick. Clears your mind. Remember the time you figured out where you lost your earrings during Basics 101?”
After having searched every purse, pocket, and drawer in my life, I’d remembered they were in my glove compartment while we’d poured our first candles together.
“I get that way when I’m chopping onions,” said Flo. “Carrots? Nothing. Cucumbers can be my downfall. But give me an onion, and I can solve anything.”
Perhaps Cherry and the girls had a point. I had jumped on board the Hatchfield, charged by fury over the note. Since then, I’d learned that Millie and I had stumbled into a case of international espionage. I’d met a real spy. And I now had Agent Hill’s tacit authorization to investigate the identity of Rex Laruam. Spending some time at my own “headquarters” seemed like a good idea.
“OK,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
My decision was greeted with a round of applause and support. I brought the group to the workroom in the back of my store and turned on the light.
While the ladies settled in for class, I slipped into the bathroom to change into some dry cleaning I’d left in the store before leaving for Paris. I’d forgotten to pack the outfit—a black jumpsuit—because I’d been busy ironing everything in my wardrobe with the deep conviction that I would keep up with the Parisians’ style. Emily and I believed the French could wear anything elegantly because they iron unexpected things, like jeans. My ironing project was a noble ambition, but on my first day in Paris I’d seen a baby in a carriage give me a once-over, and I swear the babe lifted an eyebrow when she got to my turquoise wool cap, a hand-made gift from Cherry. Or maybe she wanted it. It’s a great hat.
Inside the tiny bathroom, I carefully unzipped my wetsuit, frankly quite appreciative that no one had questioned me about my swim. People were definitely cutting me some slack, and it made me all the more protective of my hometown. I felt a need to do whatever it took to keep it safe. There were dark forces among us, and I vowed to keep them at bay.
I changed from my wetsuit into the jumpsuit, which was formfitting here and there except for a ruffle at the bottom of the pant legs. It was meant for a night out, not for a candle-mold class. Added to the fact that the sea water had ravaged my hair into a wild mass of curls, I looked like I could go clubbing. Fortunately, I always have a few products in the cabinet, so I was able to brush my hair and put on some make-up. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail with one of the rubber bands I always keep on my wrist, added a few bobby pins for good measure, and gave myself a serious once-over. I decided I looked something like a spy myself. I held two fingers toward the mirror, as if they were a gun, but the look was too close to home. Instead, I opened the door to my students.
“Hellooooo,” I said over the whistles and catcalls the ladies tossed my way.
I had to give a loud whistle myself to finally quiet the room. I appreciated the women’s admiration, but I had a candle-mold class to teach. As an introduction, I passed around the photos on my phone from Cire Trudon and told them about the inspiration I had for our workshop. Rather than use premade molds, which you can buy online or in a store, we were going to make our own.
“Oh, dear,” said Flo, when it was her turn to look at my camera. “Oh, no!”
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“What is it?” I asked, retrieving my phone.
I realized that Flo had reached the end of my candle photos and had landed upon the video I’d taken of my mom playing Vanna White at the World Perfumery Conference. Without knowing it, I’d kept the video running as we’d approached the murdered man. The video that had started with our excitement about Millie’s panel had ended with a dead man. Looking closely at the last shot, I could now see that the man in Agent Hill’s smiling photo on the boat and the dead man at conference were, without a doubt, the same man. It was not surprising that I hadn’t made the connection. The hunk in the photo would be impossible not to notice. The man on the floor of the World Perfumery Conference was a washed-out version of that man. I watched the video again, in search of Agent Hill, but I could not find her anywhere in the crowd.
“Maybe you should send this video to Andy,” said Flo, bravely composing herself.
Normally I would have agreed, but for at least the next few hours, I wanted nothing to do with the police.
“In order to make our molds,” I said, getting back to work. “We’ll choose objects we’d like to make into candles and cast them in silicone. Take this, for example.”
From one of my cabinets, I pulled out a silicone mold I’d made a few years ago from, of all things, the cast my orthodontist had made of my teeth before I had braces. I still thought it was pretty funny. My students began to come up with ideas for their candles as I poured melted wax into the mold of my crooked, adolescent teeth. Cherry immediately decided to make her mold from a Lego building her grandson had built for her. As the Candleers talked to each other about their ideas, I felt a wave of calm wash over me. Cherry was right. This was exactly what I needed to do.
Now on my own turf, I considered what I knew. To start with, Rex Laruam was on the island in search of a secret formula Millie had unwittingly transported from Paris to Nantucket. Agent Hill had taken it from my store two nights ago, which meant she had beat him to it. She believed, as did I, that Laruam would be both a newcomer to the island and to Millie’s inner circle. Olive Tidings, John Pierre Morton, and Laura Morton fit both criteria. All three of my suspects had also been at Millie’s presentation, and could have peeked into her bag while I’d been chasing after Agent Hill. If they’d looked, they would have noticed that the vial was already missing. Laruam also knew that Millie had been in an accident and presumed that I was a legitimate path to the formula, hence the note.
I delivered my toothy candle from its mold to positive reviews from my students. As they passed it around, appreciating how I had made the wick look like a piece of dental floss, I considered my suspects.
Olive Tidings seemed like she would devour mystery novels, not plot them, but I really hoped international anarchists had not camped out at my cousin’s house, especially with his two young sons. The Mortons, however, had had the easiest opportunity to pin a note to my door this morning. They were right across the yard. Honestly, none of them looked as if they could pull off the kind of mission Agent Hill had described, but I had to be impartial if I wanted to discover Rex Laruam’s identity.
I smiled at my students, and gave them their assignment for next week, which was to choose the items they wanted for their molds.
“Thank you for this wonderful lesson,” Cherry said to me as we finished cleaning up. “And—special treat—I’m watching the store for you today. Go home. Take a nap. Visit your mother when she wakes up. No arguments. It’s my birthday present to you.”
Her announcement set off a new round of chatter among the ladies. They wanted to know what I planned to do tomorrow for my big day as they nudged each other and added an occasional wink. They were terrible at keeping a secret.
“Thank you,” I said. “All of you.”
Cherry’s offer to watch my store was perfect, but not because I was planning to go home and take a nap. I left the comfort of the Wick & Flame to investigate my suspects. I had many advantages that the intelligence agents did not. I knew my island; I had eyes and ears everywhere. While Laruam was in my territory, there was no way I would let him get away.
I was two steps down the street when I saw Peter coming from his interview at the Culinary Center. We weren’t officially in a fight, but I knew that our smiles to each other were a little forced.
“Wow,” he said, eyeing my getup. “This is a new look. Maybe I should start a fashion column.”
“Oh, this old thing?” I said with a twirl.
As I spun, I pulled from my bag a leftover Gauloise cigarette from the pack my mom and I had used for effect at Parisian cafés. I stuck it in my mouth, and let it roll across my lips. It was the final touch I needed for my spy look. I pinched his cheek and turned on my heels to my car. I felt dressed for a high-speed drive, but instead I had my small red Beetle, which I had to drive at a careful pace. I did not want to be pulled over by the police for speeding while I was looking for an international anarchist wanted for murder.
About a quarter of a mile to my house, I noticed a silver Buick driving toward me. It was Chris’s second car, an old, worn-out sedan with a loud muffler, that was rarely used. As it passed by me, I noticed John Pierre in the driver’s seat, and realized that Chris had offered the car as an amenity to his innkeeping services.
I made a U-turn and began to follow John Pierre. I stayed a good distance behind him, but I managed to keep his car in sight as we moved through traffic. We were driving toward a hub of commercial stores out of town, like the post office and the big Stop & Shop. I wondered where he might be going. Finally, I had an inkling. Ahead I saw Nantucket’s Marine Home Center. He pulled in.
So did I.