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“Boy do I have a story for you, sweetheart.”
Monty takes my usual seat at the kitchen table and ignores Narine’s death glare. She crosses her arms as Monty helps himself to the last gingerbread cookie. Pudding sniffs Monty’s boots. They look well-worn and they have traces of mud on the soles. Mr. Dixon taps his watch.
“Your five minutes have already started,” he states.
“If you want the full story, I’ll have to start at the beginning,” Monty responds. He touches his ruby cheek. “Can I get some ice for this?”
“I can’t promise I won’t do something rash with a bag of ice,” Narine responds.
Monty gulps. “Fine. It started when . . .” Monty’s voice trails off. He studies me from head to toe. “Uh, who is this?”
“This is Poppy Peters,” Narine angrily answers. “She is the woman I hired to help me with the Christmas Eve party. You know, that party we planned to throw after the renovations to this place were complete? Renovations I carried on after you left. By myself.” She hits her hands on the kitchen table. It startles Pudding enough that she leaps back and smacks Mr. Dixon’s shins with her tail. “How could you abandon me at time like that, Monty? You know how much this place means to me. Do you know how many times I’ve thought about that night? You told me you wanted to separate and left without any explanation!”
“Calm down, my little cherry—”
“Don’t you cherry pie me ever again!” Narine shouts.
I take a deep breath. “I should leave.”
“No, you stay right there, darlin’. You’re family now. Whatever this barnacle has got say, he can say it in front of you.” She raises her eyebrows and gives her husband a scolding look. “Go ahead. Dazzle us with your tale of valor and noble excuses.”
Monty finishes chewing his bite of gingerbread cookie and wipes his scruffy beard. His tan jacket has mud stains that match his shoes. When he turns his head to look at me again, I get a whiff of campfire.
“Narine, I didn’t want to leave,” he says quietly. “I had to leave. I had to tell you those things so you wouldn’t come after me. I did it for your safety and for mine. I shouldn’t even be here now, but I’m running out of options.”
“A dead man has no options,” Narine responds. “Remember that.”
“This is all my fault.” Monty grabs his facial hair and closes his eyes. He takes a few deep breaths. “Maybe I can do this if I keep my eyes closed.”
Narine rolls her eyes.
“Three minutes,” Mr. Dixon announces.
“Okay, I’m going to try it.” Monty keeps his eyes shut and Narine clenches her jaw as she stares in his direction. “Right before I left, a man I met in Nashville gave me money.”
“In exchange for what?” Narine asks.
“I didn’t ask any questions.” Monty’s eyes are still closed.
“Monty. What’s the matter with you?”
“We were broke, Narine. We were knee deep in loans and needed that extra cash to replace the roof. And we’d just been denied another bank loan, and—”
“You told me that loan was approved.” Narine grabs the empty dessert plate that was once home to a dozen iced gingerbread men. Mr. Dixon clears his throat, shaking his head before she does anything in the spur of the moment that she might regret.
“I know, Cherr . . . I Know I did. I lied.”
“One more minute,” Mr. Dixon says.
“So, let me guess.” Narine places the plate back on the table and Monty continues to keep his eyes closed. “This man wants his money back and he wants it now.”
“Not exactly,” Monty explains. “Oh, please don’t hate me for this, Narine.”
“There aren’t words for what I’m feeling.” Narine looks at her brother. Mr. Dixon shakes his head.
“When it came time to pay up, I didn’t have the money so the man offered me an alternative. He gave me a paper to sign. He said if I signed it, my debt would be paid.”
“So, you signed it.” Narine takes a deep breath.
“Turns out it was an insurance policy for the manor,” he admits. “It was in my name. I didn’t think too much about it. I didn’t want anything to happen to you or any of the bones in my body. I felt like I didn’t have any other option.”
“Time’s up,” Mr. Dixon says.
Narine hits her hands on the table again and Monty opens his eyes. “Just jump to the part where you took off and left me to fend for myself.”
“When I realized what I’d done, I tried to take it back.” Monty speaks faster. “They told me it was too late and when the time came, I had to pay up or they would . . .” He cringes.
“Or they would what?” Narine asks.
“Or they would hurt you,” he confesses.
“If I was a cursing woman, I would lay it on you right now,” she mutters. “I can’t say I’m not tempted.”
“Listen, there’s not much time.” He looks over his shoulder and scans the kitchen. “They found me down in Mobile. Their plan is to burn down the manor and force me hand over the insurance money.”
“Then we’ll call the police,” Mr. Dixon firmly states.
“Nubert, these people are professionals,” Monty argues. “They’ve already sent an arsonist to Buttercup Ridge. All we can do now is wait and hope we catch this person before it’s too late.”
“I’m calling the station.” Narine takes out her cell phone.
“No,” Monty raises his voice. “No. Under no circumstances can anyone know I’m even here. They can’t know that you know what’s going on. It’s too dangerous. You have to act like it’s business as usual.”
“It would have been business as usual if you hadn’t knocked on the door,” Mr. Dixon points out.
“I have a plan to end this, y’all. You just have to trust me.” Monty pauses and waits for Narine to process everything.
“First you say our marriage is over. I don’t hear from you for months. And now, you want me to stake my life and my business on your detective skills? Did I hear that all right?” Narine tilts her head and grins slightly when Monty hesitates to respond.
“Can you prove any of this?” Mr. Dixon adds.
“Good point, Nubert. It’s a little convenient that you’re back when the manor is up and running. I expect you’ll be wanting a cut of the profits at some point.”
Monty throws his hands up in the air. “This isn’t about money. I mean . . . technically it is about money, but our money. Your money. Please, Narine. I promise you I’m telling the truth.”
“What do you think, Puddin’?” Narine glances down at her Yorkie.
The wheels in my brain start spinning. If Monty is telling the truth, then all of us have some serious trouble headed our way. One thing is for sure. I will not be sleeping soundly tonight. I adjust the sleeves of my blouse. I’ll be leaving in a few days, but if anything happens to the manor I’ll be just as devastated as the rest of the town.
“I have something to say,” I announce. “I mean as a third-party observer who just met Monty like five minutes ago.”
“16 minutes now, but who’s counting.” Mr. Dixon shrugs.
“I’m not siding with anyone,” I continue. “But it has been an unusual week starting with the John Doe by the lake, and now Rowena’s disappearance. Maybe there’s some truth to this.”
“John Doe?” Monty narrows his eyes.
“Actually, his name is Lester Landis,” I respond. Narine tilts her head. “Long story. The bottom line is that he was shot and found dead earlier this week.”
“There you go.” Narine clasps her hands together and leans forward across the table. “There’s your missing arsonist. Crisis averted.”
“I don’t know a Lester Landis, but these people rarely use their real names,” Monty says. “That’s another reason why the police wouldn’t be able to help us unless they caught this arsonist in the act. Maybe if I saw a picture?”
“Fake names.” I hold up a finger. “Mr. Dixon, is there any way to tell if one of your guests is using a pseudo name.”
“I could cross check IDs with credit card payments and see if anything unusual comes up, but I doubt I would be able to spot the work of a professional.” He sighs. “I’m no police detective.”
Narine huffs. “What makes you think this person is staying here at the manor?”
“Why not? It would give him, or her, the perfect excuse to snoop around and set the scene just right, wouldn’t it?”
“You have a point.” She takes a moment to stretch her leg out in front of her.
“Is there anything else you can tell us?” I ask Monty. “Any details at all?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “These fellas pull stunts like this all over the place. I heard something about West Virginia once, but I never found anything helpful across all of the news sites.”
“Flibberty-jibbet,” Narine mutters. “Of all the Inns in all the world, why mine?”
“Narine?” Mr. Dixon clears his throat.
“We do have a guest that fits the bill,” she confesses. “A fella from West Virginia, and he paid up front with cash. He was our very first customer.”
My eyes go wide. “Mackey Granville.”
