Chapter 12

 

After fetching overnight items from my father’s house, Lacy finally opened up about the set-to at the festival. Her friend Veronica was mad because the others in the group had started to turn to Lacy as their leader, mainly because Veronica was boy crazy and couldn’t focus on the music.

“She made up that thing about me flirting with the guy in the Ransom Notes to get under my skin. I think she figured if I’d get angry in public, then the others would think I was hot-tempered and not worthy.” Lacy made air quotation marks as she dragged out the word worthy. “Well, ha! I showed her. I kept my cool. She can be such a diva.” A teensy sob escaped her lips, revealing how much the incident had upset her. Droplets of tears clung to her eyelashes. She said, “She and I used to be best friends. Like sisters. Not anymore.”

“Friends can make up. Bailey and I had a fight way back when.”

“About boys?”

“About how to run an ad campaign.”

“Grown-up stuff. It’s not the same.”

“You and Veronica will be friends again, too.”

“Whatever.”

When we sauntered into the cottage, Tigger bounded to Lacy. He jumped back and forth over her feet until she bent to rub him.

“Hey, Tig-Tig,” she said. “I missed you, too. Yes, I did.” She sat cross-legged on the floor and made silly cooing sounds.

I hung my jacket on the hook by the door and stowed my purse on the kitchen counter. “Lacy, I hope it’s all right. I’ve asked my boyfriend to dinner.”

“Cool. I can’t wait to meet him.”

As I was closing the door, I spotted a black Mercedes heading down the street. I couldn’t make out the driver, but I’d bet it was Jake. He drove a swanky S-Class. Had Cinnamon found his sister yet? Had Jake spoken with her?

“What are you staring at?” Lacy asked.

“I think Jake just drove by.”

“I can’t imagine how he’s feeling.”

“Not good.”

“You should ask him to dinner, too.” Lacy raked her spiky hair with her fingers. “What are we having?”

“What I call a layered Christmas casserole. It’s made with eggs and potatoes and all sorts of good stuff.”

“Perfect. Mom always serves a huge five-course meal when we have guests. There are so many leftovers. It’s a waste.”

“Don’t tell her that.”

“As if.”

We both laughed.

“I like your idea,” I said. “I’m calling Jake. He could use a home-cooked meal.” I crossed to the landline telephone that my aunt had installed. She believed every home needed a real telephone. She admitted it was an old-fashioned idea, but one time, using it had saved my life. I dialed Jake’s number. He picked up after two rings. It didn’t take much persuading. He said he’d love to dine with us.

An hour later, as I was taking the casserole out of the oven, Rhett arrived with a bottle of Beringer Private Reserve chardonnay in hand.

I set it on the counter and introduced him to Lacy.

“Well, it’s about time,” he said. “I’ve heard great things about you.”

“You have?”

“Over dinner the other night, your aunt told me all about your singing and your shopping spree. I like your hairdo, by the way. It suits you.”

She blushed. As she fetched the mats and silverware to set the table, she leaned in to me and said, “He’s handsome.”

“As all get-out.”

“And his voice? It’s like a really rich baritone.”

I grinned. “A singer would notice something like that.”

As Rhett opened the chardonnay and poured me a glass, there was a knock on the door. I opened it. Jake stood on the porch. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin wan, and his hair windblown. The shirt and slacks he was wearing were clean and pressed, however, which helped him look livelier than he obviously felt.

“Welcome.” I guided him inside. Rhett offered him a drink.

“I don’t drink. Water will be fine.” Jake acknowledged Lacy with a nod. “Hello, little lady.”

“Lady.” She snorted.

“Nice cat.”

Lacy held Tigger up to him. “Do you like cats?”

“I do.” He scratched Tigger under the chin. “But I’ve never owned one.”

“Me, either. Mom says she’s allergic to dander.”

“She might be,” I said. “Our mother was.”

“Nah.” Lacy shook her head and tucked Tigger into her lap. “Mom just doesn’t want cat hair around the house.”

I said, “Jake, I heard you ran into Pepper Pritchett at Latte Luck today.”

He rolled his eyes. “That woman can talk an ear off.”

“She said you told her Geoffrey was a drifter.”

“That’s what he liked to call himself. He went from job to job. Couldn’t sit still. Hated being in one place. Sad to say, but nobody will miss him other than me.”

Jake roamed my cottage, glancing at the few items I cared to display: a bookshelf filled with classics, mysteries, and cookbooks, and the repaired lucky cat statue that occupied a shelf by itself. He paused by the Ching two-door cabinet and fingered the brass handles. It was one of the gems David and I had purchased in Chinatown. I stored my art supplies inside.

“I have a few of these kinds of pieces,” he said. “I was never much into furniture, but my wife had very eclectic taste. Did you do this?” He jutted a finger at a painting featuring a girl dancing on the beach.

“Yes.” I’d finished it last year.

“It’s good.”

“Don’t tell her that.” Rhett ran a hand along my back. “She’ll get a swelled head.”

I swatted him.

Lacy said, “I think she’s a really good artist, too.”

I blew her a kiss.

Lacy stared unashamedly at Jake. “You remind me of someone.”

He smiled. “I think we established the other night that I remind you of an old cowboy. Possibly Clint Eastwood.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

Jake groaned. So did Rhett.

Lacy continued to stare. “It’s that guy who was in the movie with the actor who looks like Gramps.” She turned to me for help.

“Gramps looks like Cary Grant,” I said. My father was almost the spitting image of the actor when he was in his sixties. Lean build, silver hair, dashing smile. It didn’t hurt that his name was also Cary, although he couldn’t deliver a line with a British accent to save his life.

“Yeah, him. He and this guy were in the movie. Another guy had a claw for a hand.” Lacy shook Tigger’s paw. “What’s the name of it?”

Rhett said, “Charade?”

“Yeah, that one.” Lacy shot out a finger as if she were playing twenty questions. “This guy was a cowboy. Tex.”

“Played by James Coburn,” Rhett said.

Jake stood a little taller. “Whoa. He was a dashing fellow.”

“Not in that movie,” Lacy said. “He was mean.”

“So you’re saying I’m mean?”

“No, I . . . You’re good-looking in a . . .” She faltered.

“An old cowboy way. Got it.” Jake smiled.

A shiver skittered down my spine as I recalled how Tex died in Charade. It wasn’t pretty. Eager to change the topic, I said, “Dinner is served. Jake, you sit there.” I pointed to the far end of the tiny kitchen table. “Lacy, by the bay window.”

Rhett helped me prepare the plates. “Smells good.”

“It’s just a casserole.”

“Casseroles have their place, my parents would say.”

His mother and father owned Intime, a chic restaurant in Napa Valley. I doubted either had ever cooked a casserole, except perhaps cassoulet, a sumptuous French-style meat and bean dish.

“More wine, sweetheart?” he asked.

I nodded and took my place at the table.

Lacy dug in to her dinner and hummed her approval. “I like this. Can you teach me to make it?”

“Yes,” I said, thrilled to be considered the teacher and not the student.

Lacy shook her knife at Jake. “About that night when you were talking to that stamp lady . . .”

“What about it?” he asked.

I gawked. “Lacy. Not now.”

“It’s important. Jake reminded me of that actor in the movie because remember how they went to the stamp fair at the end? The stamp on the envelope wasn’t an ordinary stamp. It was worth tons of money.” She eyed Jake. “Was yours an ordinary stamp?”

“Lacy.” I set my fork down. “Honestly, it’s rude to talk about that night. Jake’s friend—”

Jake shook his head. “It’s okay, Jenna. She might be on to something.”

“I might?” My niece’s voice skated upward.

“She might?” Rhett and I said in unison.

Jake pushed his food around his plate with his fork but didn’t take a bite. “I collect stamps. I have for years. They’ve always fascinated me. They can tell the tale of where someone has been, what life that person has led. Before I moved to California, I was like Geoffrey, going from job to job. I sent postcards to my sister, trying to make amends for leaving her behind. Each time, I tried to select the most unique stamp at the post office. When I settled here and I had a little extra cash, I used to go into Forget Me Not, back when Raquel’s father owned the place. We’d talk about stamps and coins and all sorts of things. He was really knowledgeable. I listened. I learned.”

The same way he’d picked up investing from my grandfather.

“What stamp were you showing the lady that night?” Lacy asked. “I heard her call it a blue something.”

“A Blue Mauritius,” Jake said.

“I’ve heard of that.” Rhett thumped the table.

My eyes widened. “You have?”

“A guy who frequents Bait and Switch is a philatelist.”

“What’s a philatelist?” Lacy stumbled over the word.

“A stamp collector,” Rhett said. “The Blue Mauritius Post Office stamps were issued in 1847.”

I grinned. “Show off.”

“That’s as much as I know.” Rhett leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “Take it away, Jake.”

“The name comes from the wording on the stamps that say Post Office, which changed in the next issue to Post Paid. The Blue Mauritius is one of the rarest stamps in the world.”

“Maybe . . .” Lacy rolled her lower lip between her teeth. “Maybe whoever killed your friend was hoping to steal that stamp out of his pocket.”

“Impossible. He didn’t have it. I did.”

“Right,” I said, seizing on Lacy’s theory. “But if the killer mistook him for you—”

Jake jumped to his feet and headed to the front door.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Sorry to eat and run. I’ve got to check on something.”

I bounded out of my chair and followed him.

Rhett said, “C’mon, Lacy. Your aunt won’t be deterred, and you’re not staying here alone.”

The three of us trailed after Jake.

“Jake, wait up,” I cried, but he didn’t slow his pace.

He pulled out a keychain and opened his front door. He deactivated the alarm system and forged ahead. Rhett closed the door after us.

I’d never been inside Jake’s home. He wasn’t kidding about his wife having eclectic taste. She had decorated with any piece of furniture that had struck her fancy. Nothing was cheap. There were nineteenth-century antiques as well as art deco pieces. I caught a glimpse of the dining room as we flew past. The Chippendale dinette set was dark mahogany and must have cost a small fortune.

Jake opened a door beneath the staircase and switched on a light. He trotted downstairs and turned on another light in the unfinished basement.

We followed. The air was cool but not dank. I caught the whirr of a hidden fan. Boxes upon boxes lined one of the walls. Shelves along another wall were stacked with paint cans. There were piles of ceramic tiles and slats of wood matching the flooring I’d seen running throughout the house, plus a few chairs and small tables that apparently hadn’t found a home upstairs.

“Cool,” Lacy murmured, her eyes gleaming with intrigue.

“Jake, why did you come down here?” For some reason I felt the need to whisper.

He slid a section of boxes away from the wall, revealing a precut square in the cement floor with a ring embedded in it. He bent down and pulled on the ring. The square came loose. Jake set the heavy block aside and peered into the hole below. All I could see over his shoulder was the top of a safe fitted with a crank handle and a dial. Jake spun the dial a number of times—left, right, and left—and then twisted the crank handle and lifted the lid. It hinged open. He reached down and pulled out a legal folder. He unspooled the tie that held the folder together.

“As I thought,” he said. “The Blue Mauritius is here. All my stamps are. My coins, too.”

Rhett and I let out a collective breath.

Lacy said, “What about Geoffrey’s envelope?”

“What envelope?” Jake swiveled to face her.

“You both put envelopes into your pockets that night. Remember, Aunt Jenna, when I asked if Jake was on the run because of the passport and birth certificate—”

I held up a hand, not needing further details. “Jake, Geoffrey wasn’t wearing a jacket when we found him. Where did he put his things when you came home from the festival?”

“In the guest room where he was staying.”

“Did you or the police check his jacket after he was killed?”

“He didn’t have anything of value.”

“No stamp?” Lacy asked.

“Well, yeah, he had a stamp,” Jake said. “One I’d given him. But it wasn’t worth much. A used two-cent, red-and-pink Washington stamp.”

“Used?” Lacy asked.

“Canceled by the post office.”

“What would it go for?” I asked.

Jake rubbed his chin. “Three thousand or so.”

Rhett whistled. “That’s a bunch of cash to a lot of people, Jake.”

I agreed. “Jake, maybe the killer went searching for it. Did the police check to see if anything was disturbed inside?”

“The police made a tour of the house. I led the way. The living room and study were empty. All the silver was in the cabinet in the dining room. We searched the basement. Nothing looked disturbed. I didn’t reveal where my safe was.”

“Smart,” Rhett said.

“We checked my room and the guest rooms. Nothing appeared to have been rooted through. We even searched the attic.”

“You have an attic?” Lacy asked, eyes wide, clearly curious to explore. “What’s in it?”

“Antiques, books, toys.”

“Why toys?”

“My wife got pregnant.” He hesitated; his eyes wavered. “We got pregnant. She nested like crazy, stocking the house with all things baby. But at childbirth—” His voice caught. “She lost the baby. She couldn’t conceive again.”

Lacy sucked back a sob. “I’m so sorry.”

I caressed Jake’s arm. “I had no idea.”

“We managed. That’s why I never wrote a will, Jenna.”

“But you have one now?”

“Yeah. I’m leaving everything to a children’s foundation that your father suggested a few months ago.”

My father was that kind of guy. He offered his help at Habitat for Humanity and found special projects that needed volunteers.

Rhett said, “We should take a look at the guest room.”

Jake returned the legal folder to the safe, secured the lock, pushed the boxes into position, and trudged upstairs.

The guest room was located on the second floor to the left. The door was ajar. Jake pushed it open and flipped a switch. Lamplight illuminated the space. “See?” he said. “Everything looks normal. Nothing was touched.”

The grand size of the room made me gasp. “Wow, this is big.” In any other house, it would have been considered a master bedroom.

“All the bedrooms are the same size,” Jake said. “My wife wanted anyone who stayed with us to feel equal.”

“So the killer might have assumed this was your room.”

“I suppose.”

The room was decorated with beautiful ebony furniture. An elegant quilt and pillows with shams adorned the bed. The leather jacket Geoffrey had worn on Wednesday night hung on the back of a chair by a small Louis XVI writing desk.

“Did the police search the pockets of his jacket?” I asked.

Jake shook his head. “I don’t know. Probably. It didn’t occur to me.” He rummaged through the jacket pockets. When he came up empty, his face went pale. “The envelope is gone.”

Lacy whispered, “Raquel.”