The fact that three-fifths of an octopus’ neurons are not in their brain, but in their arms, suggests that each arm has a mind of its own.
—Sy Montgomery, The Soul of an Octopus
THIS, I DIDN’T count on.
The bracing night air—and/or the thought of me accompanying him back to his room—revitalized the man faster than a thirty-two-ounce energy drink. Still tipsy, he draped one arm over my shoulder and whistled while we walked.
On the lighted path from the restaurant to the Finch Inn, I pressed him again, asking what he meant when he said Emma was sticking “close to the money.”
“As you may know, my father died last year—long before our divorce was finalized. Which means—”
“That Emma legally inherits half of what you do.”
“Of course, I won’t see a cent for months,” Philip said with a resigned shrug. “Most of father’s investments were in real estate, and the properties must be divested before funds can be distributed. I’m the youngest of five siblings, so my piece of pie will be small, no more than a few million.”
The ghost groaned. Only a few million? The shame! How can this Alvin ever set foot in Newport again?
“I confess, my resources have been limited in recent years. But . . .” He sucked in the salty ocean breeze. “Just yesterday I managed to turn everything around. I secured a bridge loan from a Federal Hill moneyman. Enough to kick-start several renovation projects, with a commitment for much more funding in the future.”
“Federal Hill?” I echoed. “You mean the neighborhood in Providence? You were there yesterday?”
“Yes.” He smirked. “Didn’t I just say that?”
Jack, did you hear?!
I got it, doll. Phil scores a big-time loan on the day his ex joins the angels? Interesting timing.
His timing is the least of it. He told the police that he was in New York City. But Providence is only a short drive away!
A guy only lies to the coppers when he has something to hide.
And Hudson has plenty to hide, I told the ghost. This deal he’s describing isn’t with a bank, but a “Federal Hill moneyman.” Organized crime is still around in New England. He might have made another deal while he was at it, one that involved the murder of his ex-wife—
Don’t jump the gun. In my day, moneymen weren’t the same as button men. I’m sure it’s the same in your day, too. If Philip wanted the button pushed on his wife, he was talking to the wrong kind of mobster.
I shivered. What if he wasn’t?
Haven’t you been listening? Hudson may have picked up your tab tonight, but he’s cheaper than Scrooge before his Christmas scare. He’s worried about losing a dime over a pooch and a parrot; why would he drop a bundle for a job he could do himself for nothing? Are you getting my drift, baby? Take it as a warning. If Hudson was in Providence, he was close enough to do Emma’s murder neat.
Neat?
All by his lonesome. That explains why there was no forced entry at Emma’s digs, no sign of a struggle. It may even explain that nice meal still simmering in its pot.
You’re right—
Which brings me back to my warning. Right now, you’re strolling alone in the dark with a possible murderer.
As if I wasn’t already spooked enough (pardon the pun), Philip Hudson chose that moment to drop his gym-toned arm from my shoulder to my waist.
“I saw your shiver,” he said through a toothy smile. “You feel it, too, don’t you? The chemistry?”
I’ll give him something to feel. Just say the word!
“Too fast for me, Philip.” I squirmed away from his touch.
“I apologize,” Hudson quickly countered. “A little too much imbibing. Don’t be put off, Penelope. I was serious about talking business until dawn. Just talk, I promise. We have a lot to discuss.”
“I really don’t think it will take that long to agree on consignment for a book collection. I assure you that you’ll get the highest possible bids. My aunt Sadie has decades of experience in the trade with a vast base of customers who collect—”
“Forget the books! I have a more important proposition. One you really must consider.”
We’d arrived at the bed-and-breakfast. It was after midnight, and the exterior lights were off. The ornate wraparound porch was illuminated only by the glow shining through the sitting room windows.
As we crested the stairs, Philip suddenly grabbed my hand and pulled me toward a wicker love seat swing, hanging from the porch ceiling.
“Please, sit with me and talk.”
“No. It’s late and I should—”
“Just listen. My father’s property holdings are in Millstone, amounting to over half the town. With the deal I’ve made, what I don’t inherit, I can buy up at fire-sale prices from my father’s estate. In a few years, those old, distressed properties can be transformed into profitable holdings.”
“That’s very commendable. I’m sure you can—”
“I don’t want to do it alone. I want your help.”
“Mine?”
“I want you to fix Millstone the way you transformed Quindicott.”
“But, I didn’t do that by myself!”
“Of course you did! Those hayseeds aren’t any more imaginative than the dimwits who skulk the streets of Millstone. They needed guidance. Someone with vision, someone smart, sophisticated—someone like you—to show them the way.”
Our legs bumped the hanging love seat.
“You did it once, Penelope, and you can do it again. Work your magic on Millstone, and we can both make millions.”
“But I already have a business—”
“Your aunt’s bookshop? You think too small for someone with the McClure name. You’re lovely and talented and—” He leaned close. “And our relationship doesn’t need to be all business . . .”
He moved closer, and his hands started groping.
“Slow down, Philip!”
As I struggled once again to get free of him, I could feel the cold fury of Jack’s ire. The icy mist around us was building and building—
Stay calm, Jack. I can handle this guy!
Detaching myself from Philip’s grip, I stepped backward.
Meanwhile, over his shoulder, I saw the cold mist blow the love seat backward until the gravity-defying wicker swing nearly bumped the porch roof.
Before I could stop him, Philip attempted to sit where the seat had been—and tumbled right to the floor.
“Philip, are you hurt?” I asked.
“Only my pride,” he said, embarrassed. But not embarrassed enough to restrain his wandering hands as I helped him off the hardwood. In that short time, he managed to cop more feels than a TSA agent.
When he was on his feet again, he wrapped his arms around my waist, so he could “steady himself.”
Then he pulled me tight against him and put his lips to my ear. “Think about it,” he whispered hotly. “A union of a Hudson and a McClure will make the society columns. We can work side by side, twenty-four seven, our full attention devoted to the restoration of Millstone—”
“It’s too much to ask, Philip. I have a son to raise—”
Not to mention an octopus to wrestle!
“We can send your boy to a top boarding school. This is no place to raise a McClure, anyway. And with the child gone, you’ll feel free with me, free to let loose with cries of tantric joy—”
Egad, this man is repulsive! I thought, shuddering when his hands moved south faster than Sherman’s army.
Okay, partner, I’ve had about enough. If you don’t deal with this cluck, I will!
No, Jack! I’ve got this!
With a hard shove, I broke free and took two steps backward. “Sorry, Philip,” I said firmly, “but I’m going home.”
Once again, Philip’s warm facade iced over. His lips curled into a sneer. “Don’t be stupid, Penelope. Think about what I’m offering. A chance to do more than be a shopkeeper at some small-time store. To earn millions instead of thousands.” His eyes had turned cold, his hands balling into fists. “Come with me upstairs. By morning, you’ll see things my way. I won’t take no for an answer—”
Was this how Emma felt? I wondered. Did he push her to the edge of the balcony—and beyond?
He began to lunge toward me, and that’s when the ghost released his supernatural grip on that hanging love seat. Down it came, slamming right into Philip Hudson.
I leaped clear as he stumbled forward. With a girlish squeal, he plunged headfirst into a wicker chair. It promptly flipped over, sending Philip tumbling across the porch like a bowling ball.
After crashing into a planter, the man lay still.
“Philip!” I ran up to his limp body. “Are you alive?”
He moaned.
Suddenly, the porch lights went on, and Barney Finch appeared at the front door.
“Tarnation! What’s all the racket?” He reached into his sport jacket and slipped his glasses over his nose. “Is that you, Pen?”
“Yes, and I’m afraid one of your guests has had too much to drink.”
Barney’s eyes went wide. “Mr. Hudson! Let me help you up.”
Stumbling to his feet with Barney’s assistance, a dazed Philip caught my eye, put a “phone hand” to his ear, and mimed the words “call me.” Then he winked.
“I’ll get Mr. Happy settled in his room,” Barney said. “Use the phone in the parlor to call Sandy at the cab company. She’ll make sure you get home safe.”