TWENTY-FIVE 

While Dolly used the restroom at the doctor’s office, I went out into the hall and used the time to make another phone call. Fortunately Marielle Riccardi was between classes, so she was able to speak immediately. Marielle had known about her father’s recipe, but had not considered it as a cause for his attack, or the attack on me. She didn’t know where the recipe was, but she agreed with my idea on her father’s behalf. My asking was merely a courtesy. Franco had told me what his intention was with regard to the recipe days ago, and I could not imagine him going back on that. This was the quickest way I knew to bring at least this part of the problems in Bonaparte Bay to a head.

I called Kim Galbraith and asked her to call Alice Getz, the new reporter for the Bay Blurb. If all went according to plan, Alice would immediately start posting teasers on the Blurb’s social media pages.

When Dolly finally came out, I helped her into her coat and took her home. I quickly made sure she had lunch and didn’t need me to do anything else for her. And then I peeled out and raced back to town.

The promised storm had not yet hit, but appeared to be imminent, based on the dull metal gray of the sky and the darker gray of the clouds. This would be lake effect snow, and chances were good there’d be a lot of it. When storm winds blew across Lake Ontario, they picked up water, which would then crystallize and fall as snow when the air hit land. Bonaparte Bay got its share of snow over the long North Country winters. But just a few miles south, snowfall amounts increased a lot. By January, it was nothing for snowfall amounts to reach three feet or more, and surface air temperatures to reach into the minus twenties, even lower.

But the forecast for today was for high winds and only a few inches of snow. To get me to Valentine Island and Castle Grant, I needed a boat and someone who knew what she was doing. I dialed Brenda Jones.

Brenda, bless her, didn’t ask any questions. I was in luck, because she hadn’t yet pulled her boat from the water. This would be the last excursion she would make, she said, until spring, and she’d need to pull the boat immediately after. We agreed to meet at the docks in an hour. “Dress warm,” she said, and rang off.

As anxious as I was to get to the castle, I forced myself to slow down and think. I let myself into the Bonaparte House, locked the door behind me, then set about gathering my winter gear. I didn’t participate in any winter sports—unless you counted Staying Warm, Deciding Whether to Drink Wine or Eat Chocolate, and Reading Historical Romance Novels, all of which would make excellent Winter Olympics events, in my opinion. But I did have all the basic gear—waterproof boots, parka, hat, and gloves. And Cal, who was a skier, had some bibs in her closet. They would probably be too small, but I only needed to stay dry for a few minutes as we crossed the water.

I set about gathering up what I needed. I had my phone and a charger in case it decided to croak on me, as well as a little pistol that Sophie’s cousin Marina had given me. I’d never fired it, and it wasn’t even loaded—I’d had Dolly check it for me one day. But I could bluff or scare someone with it. Maybe.

It took most of the half hour, but I finally had all my stuff assembled. I thought about calling to let Liza or the nurse know I was coming, but my gut told me it would be better to surprise them. If, by some chance, the poisoner was still on the island—and there were plenty of places someone could hide—why take a chance on tipping him off?

I suited up. The bibs were too small, as I’d anticipated, but by not zipping the front and by sitting gently so as not to rip out the seat, I thought they’d be all right. Certainly better than nothing. I put on the boots, then layered on the parka and the rest. I was already too warm. And I probably looked like the puffy guy in those tire commercials. But I was no fashion plate, never had been, and wasn’t about to start now.

Before I left for the dock, there was one more thing I had to do. I pulled up the Bay Blurb’s social media page on my phone and felt like cheering. The accountant and the reporter had come through. Pinned to the top of the page was the following post:

TI Mystery Solved. First Clue: 1 Cup Mayonnaise. Stay tuned.

Every hour for the next five hours, Alice would release another ingredient until all six had been revealed. And in two days’ time, a feature story would appear on the front page of the Blurb, giving the mixing instructions as well as the history of the recipe and a scan of the original in May Irwin’s handwriting, which Alice would try to verify if she was able to find another sample.

There were already some comments. None of them correct. But once the next clue, ½ Cup Ketchup, came out, people would begin to understand. Then there would be no stopping it. The recipe would belong to the people of the Thousand Islands, which was as it should be. I hoped Sophia LaLonde and May Irwin would approve.

I zipped up, just as my phone rang. The display read MacNamara and MacNamara. I connected the call.

“Georgie? It’s Lydia at the law office. Ben wants to see you. Can you drop by now for a couple of minutes? He says it’s urgent.” Her tone said she didn’t quite believe him.

“I’ve got twenty minutes before I need to be somewhere. I’m on my way.”

Had Ben heard about the Blurb social media page already? It was entirely possible, though the one clue posted so far was fairly obscure. Just how valuable was this licensing or trademarking thing anyway?

When I reached the office, I took off and hung up my parka, but left the bibs and boots on. They were too hard to get into and out of. Lydia said, under her breath, “Sorry. I don’t know what’s going on with him today.”

I shrugged. I was pretty sure I’d forced his hand, and now I wanted to see what cards he had on the table. Lydia pressed a button on her phone and told Junior I was here.

“Send her in now,” I heard him say.

Since his father died, Ben had moved into his father’s larger, swankier office. “Sit,” he commanded. I chose the chair in front of the desk. I remembered what Lydia had said. Even bundled up as I was, there was no way I was sitting on that couch.

“What is it?” I said. “I have to be somewhere in fifteen minutes, so can we make this quick?” I knew I was needling him and didn’t care. Lydia was right outside the door. If she was anything like me, she’d be listening in.

“We can make it very quick,” he said. “If you just give me the copy of the recipe you have and tell me who else you gave it to. I know you’ve got something.” His face was tinged with red. “The recipe. The one you almost found yesterday, until I got there before you did. I saw that post on the Blurb page. You’re releasing it in pieces.”

“Where’s yours? And how do you even know I’ve got the right one? Of course, in about four hours, you’ll know for sure. But then it will be too late. It’ll already be out there.”

“I’ve got mine. I want to know where you got yours.”

“What are you planning to do with it anyway? There’s a rumor going around town that you’re working on some trademarking deal for Angela Wainwright. The version she uses isn’t the same as the Sophia LaLonde recipe, you know.”

“Client. Confidentiality,” he ground out.

“You got some kind of trademarking, or licensing deal? Who’s it with, that it’s worth this much potential grief? Because I know it was you who shoved me into a dumbwaiter and cut the rope. I could have been paralyzed. Even died.” No reaction from the Boy Wonder. I had started out bluffing, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought I was right. “How’d you know I was at the Casa anyway?”

“Shut. Up. You are not calling the shots, you understand?” His face got redder. If he hadn’t been so young, I would have been afraid his blood pressure was out of control.

“If you say so. What were you, watching the parking lot to see who went in? Did you leave some evidence there you didn’t want the cops, or anyone else to find from when you beat up poor Franco?” I had no idea if he’d done the beating himself, or if he’d hired someone to do it. He was just as guilty either way.

“You’re ruining everything!” he said.

That was a bold statement. Everything? I felt almost proud of myself, as though I were some supervillain in a comic book.

“Yeah, well, sorry. Getting beat up has that effect on me. How’d you get into the locked building anyway?”

He said nothing. Then I remembered. Franco had said, what seemed like eons ago, that Ben had worked for him at the Casa. “There must be another way in. Maybe through one of the adjoining buildings?” I’d lived over the restaurant too and hadn’t known about any other entrance, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

I stood.

Ben came around the desk, lightning fast, and grabbed me by the suspenders of the bib overalls. I nearly went down, but managed to stay upright by spinning around hard. I gave a shove to his chest and Ben fell. I started to run for the office door, but he grabbed my ankles and pulled me to the ground with him. I fell on my face. The side without the bruise. So now I’d have a matched set. The rest of my body was fairly well padded by all the winter clothing.

“Let me go, Ben.” I kicked my feet against his hands, but it was no use. He had the advantage.

“I need that money to finance another project. Now call off the newspaper and give me your recipe.” He squeezed tighter on my ankles, but he couldn’t get a good hold with the slick fabric. One of his hands slipped off, and I used the opportunity to kick at his arm with my free boot.

“What’s going on in here?” Lydia stood framed in the door. “Ben, are you insane? You’re going to get disbarred!” She came toward me and took my arm gently, helping me to my feet, all the while glaring at Ben. “Georgie, are you okay?”

“Not really,” I said. I pointed to my face. “This is his handiwork. By the way—” I turned toward Ben. “Consider yourself fired. I’ll find a new lawyer to finish my divorce. I’ll need my retainer back by tomorrow.”

And I was going to press charges. This little jerk. Who did he think he was? Under normal circumstances I might have cut him some slack, with his father just dying. But he’d attacked me, not once, but twice.

I wondered what the other deal was he needed to finance.

“Oh, and I want to know what happened to the money in the Bloodworth Trust and I want it returned.” His face went white. “I know all about it,” I warned. “So start liquidating all those accounts. When that trust vests in February, I want the money available and paid out to my mother and my cousin.”

Lydia’s jaw dropped. “What are you saying?” she whispered.

“Ask him. I’ve got to go.” I grabbed my parka from the coat rack so violently, another coat fell from its hook. I bent to pick it up. It was a dark charcoal gray wool topcoat. The letters “JBMSr” were embroidered inside.

“Sr”? This was Jim MacNamara’s topcoat. Why was it hanging here? I turned back to Ben MacNamara. Suddenly, I wondered if this was about more than a salad dressing recipe. More than some other deal he had cooking.

Had he killed his own father? Somebody had taken this coat from the crime scene. But how stupid—or arrogant—was he, to hang it up like a flag that screamed I Did It? Suddenly I felt sick. I had to get out of there. And my mother and my cousin and Caitlyn needed me.