Chapter Eight

At Book Tea, all the outside tables were taken. The neat red-and-white-checkered clothes on them moved in the mild breeze that tempered the sun’s warmth. People sat talking over maps to plan a bicycle tour or a boating trip, while enjoying their teas with bookish treats. In passing, Callie saw that the Hound of the Brownievilles was quite popular: brownie bites shaped to form a dog figure running across grass made from marzipan.

Some kids were sampling Grimm Tales, a plate with several cookies in fairy tale shapes and with colorful frosting forming cute details.

Peggy stepped out the door just then, carrying a tray with lattes and cappuccinos, while in the kitchen Iphy put the final touches on a large cake. With her tongue between her lips, she attached tiny marzipan roses to the trellis on a miniature cottage. “Where Darcy asked Elizabeth Bennet to marry him. For a birthday party of Austen-mad friends who will arrive in, say”—she checked the silver watch on her slender wrist—“twenty minutes. How did it go with Falk?”

Callie made a so-so gesture. “It seems Quinn lied about a lot of stuff. Like an elaborate smokescreen almost. Falk is not amused and is looking for a way to keep Quinn locked up. He thinks he could be dangerous.”

“He wants to keep him away from Peggy,” Iphy concluded.

Callie nodded. “That too. I must admit it’s off-putting that Quinn lied. I mean, why would he do that?”

“We’ll have to ask him as soon as he’s out again.” Iphy put the cake in the fridge. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“No, thanks, Falk gave me some.” Callie didn’t tell her great-aunt it hadn’t been at the station. The amazing beauty of his private hideout still struck awe in her: the sea; the horizon with the thin clouds, like a panoramic oil painting; the red kite from some local kids, a lone dot against the azure skies; the boys’ excited cries carrying far on the clear air.

She could understand so well that Falk needed that place to create clarity in the muddle in his mind whenever a case was developing in three different directions at the same time and he wasn’t sure what leads to follow and what to dismiss. He didn’t have time to go after everything, especially not with the sheriff out of town.

Iphy said, “I’m so sorry for Jamison’s wife. I gave her a call to express my condolences.”

“And?” Callie studied her great-aunt. She knew her well enough to be certain that while Iphy meant it when she said she was sorry for the new widow, she had also been eager to learn something—anything—that might help the case. After all, it was also in Mrs. Jamison’s interest to find out who had hurt and killed her husband.

Iphy stared at the floorboards in deep thought. “She was very upset about Quinn’s arrest, blaming herself for having told him things about her husband’s involvement in the Walker case. She seems to think it’s directly related to his death. She told me, in tears, that ever since it came up again, her husband hadn’t been himself. That he had slept badly and had stayed away from home late at night.”

“Like last night?”

“Yes. She went to bed around eleven thirty, and he wasn’t there yet. This morning, when she woke up, she thought he had already left for the office again. He often left while she was still in bed. He usually made her coffee and brought in the newspaper, laid it out, ready for her on the counter. This morning there was no coffee and no newspaper.”

Iphy looked up with sadness in her eyes. “Strange how little things can tell us something is wrong even if we can’t put our finger on it just yet.”

“Does she believe Quinn killed her husband?”

“I’m not sure. She seemed to like him. I asked her outright if she knew of anybody here in the town who might have been involved in the case at the time and who might be able to help out now. She said that the former owner of the Cliff Hotel might be able to tell us something. He sold the hotel years ago, but he still lives around these parts. We might go and see him.”

“That’s a good idea. But can you leave? The birthday party is about to arrive.”

“I know. I thought you might go alone. Take Daisy and Biscuit for cover.”

“Cover?” Callie asked, surprised.

“Yes, I heard from Mrs. Jamison that the former owner of the Cliff Hotel—Mr. Bates his name is—is a keen artist, and he likes nothing better than doing pet portraits. I thought you could ask him if he could do a portrait of these two. He’ll need to take a picture of them to work from. You can have a look around his studio and maybe turn the conversation to the murder.”

Callie grinned. “That sounds pretty devious, but doable. I’ll go right away. Where is this studio of his?”

Iphy wrote down the address, and Callie left, with the dogs, to find her artistic source.

Mr. Bates’s pet portrait studio turned out to be a half-wooden, half-brick villa situated among pines, with hydrangea bushes in pale blue and pink set close to a cute outdoor seating arrangement. Callie knocked on the door and studied the miniature portraits of two dogs that were attached to the doorframe underneath the wooden banner reading “Bates Studio.”

Barking from the inside suggested these were the artist’s own pets, guarding the studio.

Callie picked up Daisy and tried to keep Biscuit behind her, to avoid any confrontation, as soon as the door opened. But when it did, she just saw a friendly-looking man peering back at her. He had a shock of white hair and light blue eyes. His appearance was rather unkempt, his shirt full of paint stains, and his bare feet were stuck into oversized, threadbare slippers.

“I locked up the dogs in the bedroom,” he explained. “They don’t like intruders in their home. Ah, what a cute Boston terrier. Very distinctive face. Oh, and a border collie. They can be hard to capture. I don’t want just the energy, but also the intelligence and the loyalty. They are a misunderstood breed. Come in, come in.”

Callie followed him through a hallway full of antique trinkets, ranging from a marble umbrella stand to a coat rack created from deer antlers, into a living room with large windows that gave the room extra light. Several easels carried portraits of dogs, horses, and even a goat, each at different stages of completion. The floor was partially covered with paint-splattered sheets, and there were half-full paint pots, used brushes, and discarded pencil and charcoal sketches everywhere.

Biscuit tried to attack a bronze statue of a bear, and Callie gave him a sharp order to sit down and stay.

Biscuit looked up at her with an innocent expression.

Callie didn’t smile. Her heart pounded as she worried the eager dog would knock something over, damaging the artworks of this kind gentleman. She might be able to pay for the canvas and paint but could never repay the long hours he had spent creating these stunning likenesses.

“Do sit down.” Mr. Bates gestured to a faded velvet couch full of cross-stitched pillows. “Throw off any pillow you don’t need. And the dogs are welcome to sit on it as well. That’s what it’s for.”

Callie put Daisy down on the couch and grinned as the Boston terrier snuggled against a pillow and made a satisfied sound. She pulled Biscuit to her and had him sit, brushing his back and scratching him behind the ears. She told Mr. Bates how she had come to be in possession of Biscuit, while the man poured her some sweet tea from a large jug without even asking if she wanted any. The ice cubes in the jug tinkled against the glass.

“Very sad,” Mr. Bates said. “People feel sentimental when they are in a shelter, and they want to give the dog a better life. But they don’t understand that it will take effort to change things around. Dogs can be like naughty little children. They need to be told what they can and cannot do.”

He handed her a glass of sweet tea. “Secret recipe.”

“Really? You have to come to the Fourth of July party at Haywood Hall, then, and participate in the sweet tea contest. The winner will receive a high tea for six at Book Tea, and their creation will be put on the menu as well.” Callie sniffed and took a sip. “Very refreshing, with a spicy undertone. Does it have a name?”

“Not really, but I could think of one. The Fourth of July, you say? What time does it start?”

“The party starts at four PM, and the judging for the contest takes place between six and seven. We expect a lot of entries.”

“I see.” Mr. Bates settled himself in a chair that was as faded as the couch, and stretched his legs. The threadbare slippers had paw prints on the soles.

Biscuit looked at the man’s feet. His ears turned forward. Bates shuffled with his right foot and then suddenly flipped the slipper up in the air. Biscuit jumped forward, pulling away from Callie so abruptly that her tea sloshed over the rim of the glass. Biscuit grabbed the flying slipper in mid-air and shook it.

“Well done,” Mr. Bates said with a grin.

Callie put her glass down on the side table and snapped her fingers to lure Biscuit to her. “Give me the slipper, boy. That’s a good boy.” She shook her head at Bates. “You shouldn’t get him all wild.”

“I don’t mind wild dogs. There’s not a lot they can break here.”

“They could ruin your artwork!”

“They usually have a lot of respect for it, as if they know it means something to the people I’m making it for. Dogs are very sensitive.” He nodded at Daisy. “She’s reproaching your young friend for being so wild, but I can see in her eyes that she also feels sorry for him. She knows he doesn’t have a home.”

“I’m hoping to find him one.” Callie bit her lip, realizing she had secretly counted on Quinn keeping him. There had seemed to be some sort of instant connection between the two of them, and she’d thought Quinn would have time to work with the dog and gain his full trust.

But Quinn was at the police station right now.

Quinn might even be a killer who might never be free again.

Mr. Bates studied her with interest. “Are you staying here for the summer?”

Callie wanted to tell him she was moving back here to help her great-aunt run her tearoom, when she suddenly thought that maybe a little white lie would take her further as it could start the topic she was here for. “Yes. At the Cliff Hotel. I think you owned it once? They told me about you there.”

As she said it, Callie hoped that the current employees at the Cliff Hotel did tell guests about the former owner and his new vocation as pet portrait painter. Otherwise, Bates would be onto her lies in a heartbeat.

To her relief, he nodded. “Yes, they often send clientele my way. It keeps a connection alive. Although it was ages ago that I sold the hotel. I have nothing to do with it anymore. So if you have a complaint about anything, from the cooking to the bedding or the mattresses, you’ll have to turn to the receptionist.”

“No, it’s fine. Luxurious, really. I just can’t imagine being in charge of such a wonderful old hotel. It must have had so many famous guests over time.”

“Oh, yes. We had musicians, politicians, movie stars.” Mr. Bates settled better into his chair, wriggling his bare toes.

Biscuit stared at his foot, and Callie made sure to hold on to his collar tightly so he couldn’t make a move for the toes this time.

Mr. Bates said quietly, “I suppose you think I can tell you something about Monica Walker?”

Taken aback, Callie stared at him.

“Surely you didn’t think you could remain incognito when your face was all across the TV screen just a day ago.” Mr. Bates spoke in a teasing rather than reproachful tone. “I bet you’re not staying at my former hotel either. You told the viewers you were with Book Tea, on Main Street.”

“That’s right.” Callie felt a fiery flush settle in her cheeks. “I’m sorry. It seemed like a nice conversation starter. I just wanted to …”

She figured that honesty might be the best policy from here on out and so explained with a rueful sigh, “I’m in a bit of a pickle right now. I made that call for information the other day, and this morning someone was murdered. The two things might be related.”

Mr. Bates studied her. He didn’t seem very shocked at the mention of murder. “Who died?”

“Joe Jamison, editor-in-chief of the Heart’s Harbor Herald. He was also the local reporter on the Monica Walker case at the time she disappeared.”

“Oh yes, I remember him all right—buzzing about the hotel like an obnoxious fly, asking all of my guests impertinent questions. Where they were on the night of the disappearance, if they had seen something, maybe overheard a conversation. They were there to vacation, not to accommodate the press. Even if someone famous had disappeared without a trace.”

“Have you ever felt like”—Callie searched for the right words—“Monica didn’t leave of her own accord? That maybe she was kidnapped or something?”

“I can’t imagine that.” Mr. Bates sounded certain. “I spoke to her hours before she was last seen. She was lively, happy, even sort of excited, like she was about to do something she had been looking forward to for a long time and couldn’t wait. When I heard she had vanished, I was certain she had run off with a lover.”

That was in line with what other people had told her and what the general opinion about the case had been—Monica eloping. “But why the secrecy? Why not just say she wanted to quit the series?—”

Mr. Bates gestured with both hands. “She would be hounded still. She wanted peace and quiet, a normal life. I remember her putting it exactly like that. I came to her hotel room door, you know, with some bouquets that had been sent to the hotel for her. Admirers and fans often sent her flowers and packages with gifts. Perfumes, even jewelry. Quite expensive too. Monica looked at the cards attached to the bouquets, and she said to me, ‘Will it never end? No, it probably won’t. Not as long as he knows where I am.’ ”

Mr. Bates held Callie’s gaze. “That suggests she wanted to disappear, does it not?”

“Yes, definitely.” Callie’s heart was beating fast with excitement at this revelation. ‘As long as he knows where I am.’ To whom could that refer? She leaned forward. “Who sent her those flowers? Do you recall?”

“Well, of course we weren’t in the habit of reading the cards that came with flowers for our guests. But I have to admit that after her odd response to the bouquets, I was rather curious. She didn’t want them and told me to throw them in the trash.”

“What a waste.”

“Indeed. So after she had closed her door again, I did look at the cards. They were all from the same sender. And all had the same message. ‘You are my life. R.’”

Callie shivered. “Sounds creepy. I mean, sending multiple bouquets and with such a card attached. The same message over and over. I can imagine how Monica might conclude that it would never stop.”

Patting Biscuit, Callie thought of the stalker theory she and Falk had been discussing earlier. “Do you know who sent the flowers? What ‘R.’ stands for?”

“No. But they were delivered by a local florist. I thought the staff there might know more about it, have a name or a credit card number, maybe. I told the police about the bouquets after Monica vanished, and they promised to look into it. But whether they ever followed up with that florist to track the mysterious ‘R.’ or not, I have no idea.”

Mr. Bates pursed his lips, a sign, it seemed, of his doubts.

He pointed at her with a fleshy hand. “Jamison had heard about the flowers from another hotel guest who was in the corridor when I was at Monica Walker’s door with them. Jamison wanted to know what florist had delivered them as well. I bet you he followed up on it. And if he ever got his hands on a credit card number, I’m sure he traced it to find out who it belonged to.”

Callie tilted her head. “But it must have come to nothing because I can’t remember having read or heard anything about flowers and a mysterious admirer in the newspaper reports about the disappearance. Of course I only read a few, at the library archives. There might have been more on it published later?”

Mr. Bates shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that. All I can tell you is that Jamison was acting like a man with a mission around my hotel. He dined there—we took non-guest diners even back then, you know—to be able to listen in on conversations. He believed he would hit on a major clue that way. His behavior annoyed me so much that I informed the police about it. But they said there was nothing they could do, that Jamison was entitled to dine at the hotel. That they could only act if he caused damage, broke into someone’s hotel room, or hurt someone. He was too smart to go that far, of course.”

Callie’s mind raced to fit all of this information into a meaningful whole. What had Jamison hoped to learn? Had he believed someone close to Monica was in the know about her disappearance? Had there been people with her that the police had asked to stay at the hotel until they knew more?

But the newspaper reports she had read hadn’t mentioned staff. Hadn’t featured interviews with such people, although you’d expect them to be the first to be in the limelight after the disappearance of their employer. “Was Monica staying at the hotel alone?” she asked Bates. “You’d expect her to have staff with her, like a personal assistant or a makeup artist or somebody like that? A manager maybe, or a secretary who kept her diary?”

“No, she was all alone. She told me it was a vacation, far away from work.”

“But people knew her face and recognized her. I mean, how could she ever really be away?”

“But she could.” Bates held her gaze with his curious light eyes. “She vanished. She left a hotel room full of suitcases, her ID—everything. She simply walked into the night and she was gone. Never found again. So despite her familiar face, she wasn’t recognized at all as she made her big escape.”

Callie studied the man, so relaxed in his chair. He had obviously known quite a bit about Monica. Had he liked her? Felt close to her? Perhaps thought she was somehow put in his path? Had he gone after her to ask her for a date or something like that, and she resisted and …?

Callie wet her dry lips. The idea that she could be sitting here, chatting amiably to Monica Walker’s killer, was surreal.

“Drink some more tea.” Mr. Bates smiled, gesturing at her glass.

Callie stared at the liquid that had gone over the rim and shook her head. “I have to keep Biscuit under control. You say Jamison was very persistent to get to the bottom of the case. When did he stop? Because he did stop. He never solved it, and he had to let it go eventually.”

“Yes, that was quite unexpected.” Mr. Bates’s thin white brows drew together in a thoughtful frown. “Just the day before, I’d seen him in the parking lot, looking at cars, writing down license plates and even measuring tires. What would our guests think of such behavior? I told him I was completely fed up with him and would have him arrested if he showed his face again. It was an idle threat, of course, as I already knew the police weren’t going to do anything about his snooping.”

Bates huffed. “But to my surprise, Jamison never did come back. Not the next day or the one after that. I didn’t dare hope he had let go. I kept expecting to see him again, hiding behind some potted palm to spy on people at the elevators, but after two weeks I had to conclude that for some reason it was over. Maybe his boss at the Herald had given him some other story to pursue? I don’t know. I was just relieved that he was letting us run our hotel in peace.”

Callie thought about this for a moment. “But Jamison stayed around town. He became editor-in-chief. You must have met some time, socially. Have you never asked him why he let go of the Monica Walker case?”

“Not really, no. I was curious, of course, but as Jamison always had a temper, I was worried that questions might strike him as provocations, taunts that he hadn’t been able to solve the case. What if he dug in again, to prove to me that he had been right all along? That was the last thing I wanted. No, I knew how to keep my mouth shut.”

Mr. Bates suddenly sat up and rubbed his hands. “Shall I take a picture of the dogs now? I think they would look best in two individual portraits. Yes, two.”

He rose to his feet and went to a cupboard to pick up his camera. “I will start with the cute little lady. Just leave her there.”

He came over and sat on his knees to snap pics of Daisy, who seemed fast asleep on the cushy sofa.

Callie wanted to protest that she didn’t want a portrait of Daisy asleep, then remembered it was the terrier’s favorite activity and grinned to herself. Bates had read that exactly right.

The snapping of the shutter woke Daisy up and, immediately curious, she sat up, tilting her head at Bates, who kept clicking away. After what had to be sixty pictures from all angles, he turned to Callie and Biscuit with a satisfied sigh. “Fifty percent done. Now with him I think we need to go out so I can get some action shots. You can throw a toy for him.”

Callie nodded mutely. Mr. Bates was a force in his own right, and she didn’t want to go back on her order for the pet portraits now. She just wondered how expensive they would be and who was going to pay for them.

*   *   *

“Three hundred dollars,” Callie called out as she raced into Book Tea’s kitchen with both dogs trotting behind her. “Not in total—each! I guess it will be worth it in the end, since Mr. Bates is extremely talented and I loved what I saw in his studio, but he didn’t seem to know all that much about the old disappearance case. He did meet Monica in the flesh and …” Callie fell silent when she saw that Iphy was on the phone. Her great-aunt gestured to her to take a seat and wait a minute for her to wrap up the call.

Callie filled two bowls with water for the dogs, since she figured they must be thirsty after their photo sessions, and then sat down to listen in on what Iphy was saying.

“I see, Irma. Yes, you did the right thing to call me. I’ll take care of it. You needn’t worry. No, that’s completely fine. Thank you so much. And do drop by some time to try the new treats. Yes, I can make them dairy free for your granddaughter. Of course. Just let me know in advance as I have to prepare them separately. Thanks again. Bye!”

Iphy disconnected and looked at Callie. “That was Irma. She runs the campground store. She sells fresh products to the campers so they don’t have to go shopping at the mall. So convenient when you find out at eight PM that you have no noodles.”

“Yes, yes, what did she say?”

“That Quinn came tearing in and is packing up.”

“What? So Falk released him?”

“Yes, and he’s about to leave town. That’s not a good idea, of course.” Iphy checked her watch. “I can leave for an hour. It’s quiet now. Peggy and the others can manage on their own. We’re going to stop this foolish young man from making the biggest mistake of his life.”

Callie wanted to point out that Quinn was hardly a young man, but to Iphy everybody was young. She had to smile. “What do I do with the dogs?”

“Leave Daisy here, she’ll find something to do. The helpers can look after her. But bring Biscuit. I hope the dog can convince Quinn that he has to stay, even if we can’t.”

*   *   *

At the campgrounds they left the station wagon at the reception building and continued on foot, zigzagging between pitched tents and playing children to reach the spot where Callie had talked to Quinn earlier that morning. She was a little disoriented because of the trees everywhere and things looking so alike, and led Iphy astray once, but then she noticed how Biscuit was pulling on the leash and just followed the border collie.

He ran with his tongue out of his mouth, his tail wagging, as if he couldn’t wait to be reunited with his new human.

Callie’s heart ached that the dog would be disappointed again in someone who disappeared from his life, leaving him behind. How many disappointments until his trust would be ruined beyond repair?

They came into a clearing where no tent or canvas chair or gas stove had been left—just imprints in the grass. Biscuit pulled them farther along to another clearing where a car stood. Quinn was just closing the trunk.

Callie called out, “Quinn! Don’t leave.”

Quinn started and clearly wanted to get into the driver’s seat quickly, but Callie let go of the leash and Biscuit ran for him. Through the open car door, he jumped in, straight into Quinn’s arms and licked his neck and face. Quinn didn’t fight him off but just wrapped his arms around the dog and hugged him.

Callie rounded the car and stopped at the sight of the two of them. Quinn’s expression was so sad. She reached out and touched his shoulder gingerly. “You can’t just leave. You have to stay and prove you’re innocent.”

“How? Deputy Falk claims he found my fingerprints at the scene. Even on a tape measure lying beside the body. And Falk claims I’m the only one Jamison was afraid of.”

“He can’t know that.” Iphy had come up to them and stood with her hands on her hips. “Mrs. Jamison told me over the phone that her husband hadn’t been himself lately. Maybe he was being pressured by somebody. Blackmailed even. What do we know? It could have been a local. Someone who was involved in the Monica Walker case in the past.”

Quinn sighed. He rubbed Biscuit’s back. “I can’t stay now. It all went wrong. Somebody died. That’s all my fault.”

He looked up at them. “I didn’t kill Jamison. You have to believe that. And if I had known somebody was going to get killed over this case, I would never have come here in the first place. But I did come, and somebody did die, and I just don’t know what to do but run away.”

Callie expected her wise great-aunt to have some response to that, but Iphy said nothing.

In the deep silence, they could hear the pines rustle overhead. A blue jay chattered.

Biscuit pushed himself close to Quinn.

Quinn stared ahead without seeing anything. “Running has always been my solution to everything in life. When I found out that my parents weren’t really my parents, I ran. I didn’t want to talk to my sister, who isn’t really my sister, you know. I ran off to Asia and backpacked for two years. Then I came back, and I couldn’t leave it alone. I should have. My mother told me on her deathbed that I should never try to find my real parents. That it wouldn’t make me happy. But I didn’t listen to her. I felt like I deserved to know the truth.”

He looked at Callie with burning eyes. “She was right. My mother, who wasn’t my birth mother, but who cared for me for all of my life. To protect me she told me to leave it alone. Because she loved me, she told me not to try and find out. But I had to do it anyway.”

He banged his fist on the steering wheel.

Biscuit whined and licked his neck again.

Callie stood motionless, processing the implications of what Quinn was saying. He had come to Heart’s Harbor to look for his birth mother? But why had he believed Jamison could help him with that? And why hadn’t he simply told her the truth?

She didn’t dare ask anything right now as Quinn was so emotional and might clam up. They had to give him space to share in his own time.

Quinn continued through gritted teeth, “I’ve made mistakes in my life before, but never something this big. I mean, Jamison is dead. He can never come back. When he refused to tell me anything, I thought he was a pompous fool. I thought he was in my way. But he was just protecting me. Like my mother. He knew it was dangerous.”

He banged the wheel again. “I should be dead now. That killer should have come to silence me. I was the one asking questions, throwing up dirt, digging into secrets. Not Jamison. He never wanted any of this.”

Iphy said softly, “If you were warned by several people and you still kept on going, it must have been very important to you.”

“More important than breathing,” Quinn said in a low voice. “I felt like not knowing where I came from was killing me. I had to do something about it, or I’d never have peace. But now—now I know for sure I’ll never have peace. Because Jamison paid for my mistake with his life.”

“If you leave, Quinn, the police will come after you. They’ll think you’re running because you’re guilty.”

“I don’t care.”

“No,” Iphy agreed in that same soft tone. “You want them to come after you. You hope they’ll think you are dangerous because then they might shoot and kill you.”