part0009

“Great Uncle Oscar.” Coco sighed. “Where to begin?” she asked, and for some reason Pierpont chose to start with the ridiculous fountain gracing his front lawn.

“Cupid was Great Uncle’s wedding gift to my parents,” he said, and as we began our trek down the stairs, the cousins regaled us with tales of Uncle Oscar’s odyssey in acquiring the statue. Actually, his trip to Italy had been unremarkable, but getting the Cupid back to North Carolina from Italy presented quite a challenge.

“He was misplaced several times,” Piers said.

I scowled. “Your uncle or Cupid?”

“Cupid. That’s why Mother and Father put him in such a prominent spot.”

“So he wouldn’t get misplaced again,” Coco clarified.

Wilson and I exchanged a perplexed glance, and the four of us crossed the foyer in silence. Piers opened the drawing room door, but I stopped short as I stepped inside.

He brushed past me. “Gerald?” he asked. “Abigail?”

“Sir?” they said.

“What are you doing up here?”

“They should be below stairs,” I whispered to Wilson as he and Coco joined us.

Of course Gerald heard me. “Abigail and I know we should be below stairs at this hour,” he told his boss.

“But we were concerned about Ms. Sembler,” Abigail added. “So Gerald suggested I do some dusting.”

“Dusting always soothes Abigail,” Gerald informed us, and his wife held up her feather duster.

She strained her neck to see around us. “Ms. Sembler isn’t with you, sir?”

Piers slumped. “No Kare—”

“She hasn’t popped up yet!” Wilson spoke in a tone I can only describe as jolly. “Getting late!” He pointed to the grandfather clock in the corner, and the Witherspoon’s got the hint. They bowed and stepped around us .

“That will be all,” Piers mumbled, but Wilson had already closed the door.

Personally, I was curious about the housekeeper’s undying devotion to dusting, but for some reason, Wilson wanted to hear more about Great Uncle Oscar.

Coco sat us down on the blue couch, and Piers explained how Oscar Rigby became even more prone to misplacing things as the years progressed.

“Including himself?” Wilson asked.

Piers tilted his head toward his cousin. “We spent half our childhoods looking for Great Uncle.”

“We had so much fun!” Coco said. “It was like hide and seek with a grown up. But even if we couldn’t find him, Great Uncle always popped up eventually.”

“He’d get hungry,” Piers said.

“Until the fourth pantry incident?” Wilson asked.

Coco nodded. “He had food that time.”

And a convenient bathroom. It seems Uncle Oscar snuck into the pastry chef’s powder room whenever he needed a potty break, and had managed to remain misplaced for ten days.

“It’s a record,” Piers reminded us.

“He was purposely hiding that whole time?” I was a tad incredulous, but learned another of Great Uncle Oscar’s eccentricities—the man loved peanut butter. And yes, peanut butter was stored in the fourth pantry.

“Along with Oreos,” Piers said. “They were Great Uncle’s favorite.”

I turned to Wilson. “Oreos are Karen’s favorite, too.”

Now I ask you. At that juncture, wouldn’t any normal cop want to visit the fourth pantry?

But no, not my husband. Wilson muttered some nonsense about being fresher in the morning, told Piers we were going home, and headed for the door. “Come on, Jessie.”

I jumped up and blocked his way. “Over my dead body,” I said. “I refuse to desert Karen in her hour of—”

“You-hoo.” Coco fluttered a few fingertips in our direction. “I’m a night owl and Pee-Pie used to be,” she said. “I’m with Jessie. Let’s keep looking.”

However, Piers sided with Wilson. He reminded us of the time, and how he had already searched his whole house.

I shifted my focus to Wilson.

“Trust me,” he mouthed.

I blinked twice. “Okay then, let’s go.” I spun around and pushed through the French doors with far more gusto than necessary, and everyone followed as I stormed through the foyer and out the front door.

As I headed for the Porsche, Wilson reached out to stop me. “Would you relax?”

“Why?” I said. “I thought we were in a great big hurry to leave.”

He ignored me and turned to the Rigbys. “Let’s keep this to ourselves for the time being,” he said. “Pretend everything’s normal.”

I reached out and grabbed the car keys from the man’s startled hand, and had the engine running by the time he climbed in.

“I take it you’re driving?” he asked.

I didn’t bother answering, but when I checked the rearview mirror, poor Piers was waving. I waved back and started moving, and huffed and puffed and sputtered incoherently until Wilson finally asked why I was upset.

“Normal!?” I said. “Nothing is normal, Wilson. You saw that bathroom. You saw her tool belt. Karen has been kidnapped, and don’t you dare tell me this is just my overactive imagination.”

“Have I said that?”

The exit gate loomed ahead, and I was forced to stop. “No,” I mumbled .

“I think you’re right, Jessie. I think she’s been kidnapped.”

I watched the gate slowly open and let the horror of it sink in while Wilson made a call to the Clarence PD. I closed my eyes and prayed for strength and listened to his description of Karen. I caught phrases like “suspected kidnapping” and “BOLO.”

“I changed my mind,” I said when he hung up. “Just tell me I have an overactive imagination.”

No such luck. But as we left the estate and retraced our route down Rigby Boulevard, Wilson did insist he had some good news.

“I’m all ears,” I said.

“She went willingly.”

I scowled at the dashboard. “I thought you saw that tool belt.”

“Yep, but I didn’t see any blood.”

“Should I be driving?”

I let up on the gas pedal, and he told me to think about the bathroom scene. “About her tool belt, in particular.”

It took me only a second. “Karen would have fought,” I said. “There would have been blood.”

“And noise,” Wilson added. “That house is huge, but the butler hears everything.”

“So she went peacefully,” I said as I veered onto the highway. “Which means she didn’t realize she was being kidnapped.”

“Which means it was an inside job.”

Which didn’t exactly narrow down the list of suspects.

“Twenty-seven people work there,” Wilson said.

“You kept track?”

He reminded me that’s what cops do, and I thought some more. “This is why you put off visiting the fourth pantry, isn’t it?” I asked. “And why you don’t want Piers and Coco discussing things with each other, or with the staff.”

“Trying to keep the gossip under control. ”

I told him to keep dreaming, and as I took the exit for downtown, mentioned my TV show. “Everyone downstairs knows the business of everyone upstairs.” I stopped at a red light, and Wilson shot me a glance.

“The maids on that show always dust at two a.m.?”

“Never after midnight.” The light changed, and I hit the gas. “Speaking of odd, why were you so interested in the kooky uncle?”

“Uncle Oscar kept them talking. Always good to keep the suspects talking.”

“Suspects!?” I exclaimed, but he insisted an inside job could mean one of the Rigbys.

As I turned onto Sullivan Street I stated what should have been obvious—that people get kidnapped for money. “Clearly neither of the Rigbys need money, Wilson.”

“Yep, and where’s the ransom note?”

“Karen ever mention Coco?”

I shook my head and said I’d remember that name.

“What about Piers?”

“What about him?” I asked. “Surely you don’t think Pee-Pie Rigby kidnapped his own girlfriend? Why would he do that?”

Wilson said something about how the boyfriend is always a suspect, and on that happy note, we made it home.

“Why am I even going to bed?” I asked when we made it that far. “I’ll be up in three hours to write, and until then I’m too worried to sleep.”

Nevertheless, I scooted Snowflake to the foot of the bed, Wilson hoisted Bernice in that direction also, and Wally moved of his own accord as we climbed in.

Wilson pulled me close. “There’s something else I need to mention,” he whispered.

I braced myself. “I don’t like the tone of that whisper.”

“You won’t like this either, Jessie. Once the kidnapping becomes official, I’m off the case.”

“What?” I sat up straight, and all three cats scolded me .

“I’m not in charge of missing persons.”

“Excuse me? You’re Karen’s friend, you’re her neighbor, and you’re a cop. You.” I tapped his chest. “You will run this investigation.”

“No,” he said. “I won’t. Would you please lie back down?”

He reached for my hand. “Think, Jessie. What does Karen call me?”

“She calls you her friend.”

“What else? She calls me Wilson Rye, the what?”

“Wilson Rye the homicide guy.” He pulled me back down and held on tight. “But this isn’t a homicide, right?”