fourteen

“Blokes don’t disappear into thin air.” Voice stern and eyes steely, Constable Tredinnick probed each of our faces as he addressed us back at the inn. “Ms. Zwerg doesn’t even appear on any of our CCTV footage, so wherever she is, it’s not Port Jacob. So where does that leave us?”

We’d managed to round up everyone in record time and escort them across the causeway before it flooded on the incoming tide. Wally had texted the bloggers, asking them to speed up their tour of the castle, and I’d texted Jackie, telling her to wait for us at the Godolphin Arms rather than venture to the mount. The bloggers had been annoyed that they couldn’t enjoy their tour at a leisurely pace, and Jackie had been peeved that she wasn’t even being allowed to set foot on the island, but no one else seemed to mind our early departure. As Dick Teig commented, “The faster we get back to the inn, the faster we get to sample more of Marion’s cooking.”

Since there’d been no time to eat lunch, we’d gotten takeout from a Cornish pasty shop in Marazion and been granted permission by our driver to eat on the bus, which violated the cardinal rule that passengers not be allowed to carry open containers of food onto the coach. For this breach in protocol, Nana had presented Freddy with a pound of her opera cream fudge, which calmed his nerves about the errant bits of steak, potatoes, rutabaga, and onion that might escape onto the upholstery from our pasties.

“It leads me to conclude that a second party might be involved in Ms. Zwerg’s disappearance,” Tredinnick continued. “And if a second party is involved, there’s a good possibility that we might be looking at foul play.”

Gasps. Eye-widening. An involuntary hiccup.

“What kind of foul play?” asked George.

Tredinnick paused. “She might have suffered the same fate as Lance Tori.”

“But her body isn’t at the bottom of the cellar stairs,” Grace pointed out.

“No, mum. But depending upon how her killer dispatched her and where, her remains could be just about anywhere—in the boot of a car, down a well, in the middle of a pond…”

“Why would anyone want to kill Bernice?” asked Alice. “She was well-meaning in spite of her political leanings, even though anyone who spent any time around her ended up wanting to strangle her because of her insults, and negativity, and—”

“Whining,” called out Dick Stolee.

“And constant complaining,” added Dick Teig.

Helen elbowed her husband in the belly. “That’s the same as whining. Try pretentiousness or braggadocio.”

“What Helen just said,” quipped Dick.

“And pessimism,” continued George.

“And cantankerousness,” Osmond threw out.

“And—”

“Excuse me,” Alice interrupted. “Could I retract my question? Now that I think about it, it’s probably a miracle that someone didn’t take her out long before this.”

Tredinnick narrowed his eyes at the bunch of us. “She was universally disliked by everyone? None of you can find anything good to say about the woman?”

Vacuous looks. Shoulder-shrugging. Margi raised her hand. “After she had her bunion surgery, she wore some very nice shoes that coordinated quite well with her outfits.”

Tredinnick regarded her, deadpan, before pacing across the floor of the lounge, relying heavily on his cane. “A woman who is detested by her entire tour group goes missing. Tell me why I shouldn’t suspect that the whole bleedin’ lot of you had a hand in her disappearance?”

“They all have alibis,” I spoke up. “We were all together eating supper in the dining room when she stormed off, and we remained together for more than an hour while we did show-and-tell from our metal-detecting excursion at the Bedruthan Steps. When Alice, her roommate, went back to their room”—I gestured to Alice, who gave a finger wave in response—“Bernice was already gone and never returned all night.”

“Is this accurate, Alice?” questioned Tredinnick.

“You bet. All except the part where all of us were together for more than an hour. Three of the fellas skipped out before the show-and-tell got started because they said they had to write their blogs.”

I hadn’t gotten around to that part yet.

Tredinnick raised one eyebrow. “Which fellas?”

“She’s talking about us,” Spencer Blunt volunteered. “August, and Mason, and I.” They identified themselves with a casual flutter of their hands, like competitors raising bidding paddles at an auction. “The only thing I found at the beach was a beaten-up button, so since I didn’t have anything for folks to ogle over, I left. August and Mason didn’t find anything either, so we left at about the same time. We all had blog posts to write.”

Tredinnick limped across the floor to stand in front of Spencer. “So what happened when you returned to your room?”

He gave Tredinnick the same spiel he’d given me earlier this morning. He’d worked on his blog. Slipped into a meditative state. Been annoyed by the noise from the blowing fans. Hadn’t heard any other unusual sounds.

“I can vouch for my roommate,” August spoke up.

Of course he could. They were always going to vouch for each other. It was their shtick.

“We were up past midnight tweaking our posts,” alleged August. “End of story. It was a rather uneventful evening, Constable. One that did not include our taking time out to harm a woman neither one of us knew.”

“A man doesn’t need the excuse of knowing a victim to do them harm,” Tredinnick fired back. “There are instances when a victim is simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and suffers because of it.”

“Not in this case,” August replied glibly. “I’ll be magnanimous and take no offense at what you’re implying because, like it or not, our alibis are airtight.”

Tredinnick offered a half smile. “For now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Spencer.

“My investigation isn’t over yet. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

Yes! Tredinnick was on to them. And when I told him what I’d found out about the duo, I suspected their airtight alibis might spring a few leaks.

“You.” Tredinnick stabbed a finger at Mason. “You’re the one in the single room.”

Mason nodded, giving him a palms up. “Right. The green-haired guy has no alibi again. No witness to how I spent my evening. I can show you my blog. Does that count?”

“Your single room has proven to be a very convenient excuse,” Tredinnick observed.

“Hey, don’t punish me for enjoying my privacy. Last time I looked, my preferring not to share personal space with a stranger wasn’t a crime.”

“It’s her you should be locking up,” bellowed Kathryn, rising to her feet and pointing an accusatory finger at Heather. “She tried to kill me today.”

“I did not!”

“She shoved me to the ground in the hopes that I’d hit my head on the cobblestone walk and suffer a traumatic brain injury that would kill me.”

“That is so bogus!” Heather shot off her chair, all bluster and indignation. She threw a pleading look at Tredinnick. “I tripped on the cobblestones and accidentally knocked her down. It was an accident. Ask Mason. He was walking with me.”

“He’s not going to tell you the truth,” warned Kathryn. “The two of them are buddy-buddy. He’s going to back up every lie she tells you. Meanwhile, I’m risking my life every time I’m within a foot of them. And while I’m on the subject, that girl has stolen something that belongs to—”

The shrill blare of a whistle echoed through the room. Hands flew to ears to blunt the sound, but Tredinnick didn’t stop blowing until both Kathryn and Heather sat back down. He removed the whistle from his mouth but kept it at the ready, palmed in his fist. “The floor is mine. Remember that before you allow yourselves to indulge in future outbursts.” He eyed Mason once again. “I’d like to hear your version, please.”

“It’s like Heather said. She and I were walking along the waterfront at St. Michael’s Mount when she lost her balance on the cobblestones and went crashing into Kathryn, who was walking in front of us. Heather got up pretty quickly, but Kathryn stayed down, so I ran off to find help while Heather stayed with her. It was an accident, plain and simple.”

“I told you he’d back up her lie,” shouted Kathryn.

Tredinnick brandished his whistle in the air, his tone growing strained. “I’d prefer not to use this again, but should you persist…” He settled a meaningful look on Kathryn. He twiddled a finger at Heather. “Your shoe, please.”

“My shoe? Why do you want my—”

“Show me the sole, if you would.”

She slid one foot out of her elastic strap wedge sandal and held the sole up for his inspection.

“Brilliant,” he said after a moment. “Thank you. With your slippery sole and elevated heel, you’re lucky your fall was a one-off. The majority of tourists who navigate our cobblestones in fancy footwear like yours usually end up at the hardware store having to purchase mobility aids. Gum rubber soles work the best on our walkways, which is why the proprietor of Kneebone Hardware doesn’t sell any. There’s a much higher profit margin for mobility products. So”—he put a bead on Kathryn—“I have no reason to doubt the young woman’s version of what happened. But I’ll be giving you a word of advice: avoid walking near her if she ever wears those shoes again.”

Kathryn was stone-faced as she raised her hand like an obedient schoolchild. “What about the other matter? The theft of my personal property?”

“Do you have an abridged version?” he asked.

She made her case for why Heather’s unearthed bobble belonged to the Truscott-Tallon family and why not returning it constituted theft, but Tredinnick seemed unconvinced. “This isn’t a matter for a local constable,” he concluded. “If you can’t sort out a solution between you, I suggest you bring your grievance to a solicitor.”

“You can be sure I will,” Kathryn replied in an oily voice.

He looked out over the lounge again, his expression hovering somewhere between seriousness and exasperation. “It’s not uncommon for pensioners to just wander off. Sometimes their disappearance is triggered by emotional trauma. At other times they wander off because of undiagnosed mental health issues. Please be thoughtful when you answer. Did Ms. Zwerg show signs of suffering from senility or dementia?”

“You mean, is she certifiable?” asked Dick Teig.

“She’s not batshit crazy,” offered Dick Stolee. “She’s just a little nuts.”

“Is that better or worse than being certifiable?” asked Lucille.

I rolled my eyes, catching Tredinnick’s gaze when he looked my way. “Are you toying with the idea that Bernice might have been so traumatized by her emotional upset at the dinner table last night that it could have disturbed her mental health enough to cause her to wander off on her own?”

“It’s a possibility I’m considering. Unfortunately, if she exited by the rear door, she may have meandered onto the coastal path. And if she strayed too far off the path, she could very well have taken a tumble over the cliff, hit the rocks below, and been carried out to sea. It wouldn’t be the first time something like this has happened.”

A hush fell over the room.

“So…Bernice could really be dead?” asked Dick Teig.

“I won’t conclude that right now, but should all my other avenues of investigation collapse, I may find myself resorting to that theory. She was elderly. It was dark. The two can be a deadly combination.”

She wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be. I refused to go there.

“Poor Bernice,” lamented Tilly. “When all is said and done, she really wasn’t such a bad sort.”

“She bought Emily’s bouquet for her weddin’,” said Nana. “That was a real big deal considerin’ how penny pinchin’ she is.”

“She paid me a compliment once,” admitted Osmond. “I”ll never forget. She said I got around pretty well for a spindle-legged geezer with one foot already in the grave.”

“That Bernice.” Dick Teig chuckled. “She sure had a way of personalizing her insults.”

“She was the master,” Helen reminisced. “Remember how quick she was with her nasty comebacks? No sooner were the words out of your mouth than zing! She’d make you feel like a pile of poop in no time at all. That takes talent.”

Sniffs. A few tears.

Jackie waved at Tredinnick. “Excuse me, but from what I’m hearing, there’s a slight chance that Bernice is still alive, so with that in mind, would you excuse Mrs. S and me so we can get dinner started? If Bernice shows up, she’s going to be hungry, and I’m planning to make an incredible treat to welcome her back. But even if she doesn’t show up tonight, the other guests will still be gung ho for a dessert that’s going to knock their socks off. I got the recipe from the pastry chef at the Godolphin Arms, who said it’s his biggest seller. I guarantee you, it’s going to be”—she raised her voice an octave and sang out in a prolonged vibrato—“a-maaaaaa-zing.”

Nana boosted herself to her feet. “The girl’s right. If you don’t got no problem with us leavin’, we’d like to head to the kitchen, else there won’t be no supper at all. So can we go or are you aimin’ to turn the thumbscrews until one of us cries uncle?”

Tredinnick eyed Nana. He eyed Jackie. Mouth wrenched askew, he bobbed his head toward the kitchen. “Go.” But when everyone else started boosting themselves to their feet, he raised his hand to halt them. “That was not a signal for the rest of you to leave.”

Grunts. Groans. Impatient snorts.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” he asked.

“We’re heading for Mawnan Smith to visit the maze at Glendurgan,” said Wally.

Tredinnick looked perplexed. “Why would you want to go there?”

“Because it was planted a hundred and seventy years ago and looks like a fascinating place to explore?”

Tredinnick flashed a googly-eyed expression that mirrored doubt. “If you say so.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“No. And I’m afraid you’ll not be getting there either—at least, not tomorrow.”

Mouths opened. Jaws dropped.

Wally regarded him in confusion. “Why not?”

“Because tomorrow you’ll be spending the day with me. And there won’t be any more fannying around. All of you will be here with me until we discover who’s behind the trouble at the Stand and Deliver Inn.”

Wally looked apoplectic. “But we have reservations.”

“Cancel them.”

“You’re confining us to our quarters?” Spencer objected. “How do you propose we occupy ourselves all day tomorrow? There’s nothing to do here.”

A smile lifted the corners of Tredinnick’s mouth. “With what I have planned, I guarantee you won’t be bored.” He elevated his palms in a gesture of dismissal. “Now you may leave.”

He left amid the gripes and grumbles of a lounge full of unhappy tourists. I followed him to the front door. “Excuse me, Constable, could I speak to you for a minute?” I looked over my shoulder to check for eavesdroppers. “Outside?”

“You can walk with me to my car.”

I launched into my theory once we hit the front path. “I think there’s a good reason why the bloggers heard nothing suspicious last night. I think Spencer Blunt, August Lugar, and Mason Chats-worth have formed some kind of criminal cabal where they prey on tourists, so naturally they’re going to vouch for each other’s whereabouts. They’re in this together.”

“You have evidence to back up what you’re telling me?”

“Well, the evidence is kind of circumstantial, but one of my Iowa guests discovered instances where all three men were visiting the same place at the same time back in the States. So it’s quite likely they all knew each other before they signed up for this trip, even though they’re not admitting anything.”

“Kind of circumstantial?” He guffawed. “You mean highly circumstantial.”

“And then Mason visited Heather Holloway’s hometown only last year. So she could be in on the caper, too.”

“I’m not aware it’s a criminal offense to visit the town where another blogger resides, Mrs. Miceli.”

“So you’re not going to look into this more closely?”

He withdrew his pen and notebook from his breast pocket and jotted something down. “I’ve made a note.”

“Okay. Thanks. Because I really think they had something to do with Bernice’s disappearance.”

He leaned against the door of his squad car. “Why?”

“Because I can’t see any other explanation. I think Bernice caught August and Spencer in the act of burglarizing another guest’s room, so they were unexpectedly forced to deal with her in a way that…that didn’t go well for Bernice.”

“Your Mr. Lugar himself was the victim of a theft, was he not?”

“So he says. Personally, I think he faked it to throw you off the scent.”

“Have any of your other guests reported their valuables being nicked?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t. It could boil down to the fact that they just haven’t noticed yet. We’ve been keeping the group pretty busy.”

“Are you also placing blame for Mr. Tori’s death on their heads?”

I hadn’t quite figured that out yet. “I’m not saying they’re to blame, but I’m also not saying that the two incidents aren’t connected. And once again, if the bloggers are using each other to confirm their alibis, who’s to know?”

That gave Tredinnick pause and me an opening to pose another question. “Are you planning to release Enyon anytime soon? My troops have rallied to keep up with meal preparation, but it would sure be a lot easier if Enyon could take charge again. It’s not much of a holiday for my grandmother and my roommate. We’re doing the best we can to keep the place running, but with the added stress about Bernice, we’re running out of gas.”

“I’ll be releasing Mr. Gladwish when I return to the nick, Mrs. Miceli.”

“You will? Oh my God! That’s the best news I’ve had since we arrived.”

“Questioning him is turning out to be less productive than beating a dead horse. He claims to know nothing, and I have no evidence that would allow me to hold him any longer, so you may soon look forward to order being restored at the inn.”

I raised my arms in a V over my head. “Yes.”

“Besides, my wife tells me I need to exercise Christian charity by allowing him to make funeral arrangements for Mr. Tori, and he can’t very well do that from jail.”

Mention of Lance’s funeral triggered another thought. “I’m not sure how relevant this is, but when I spoke with Kathryn Crabbe today she informed me that her ex-husband was a famous chef and that their marriage had ended quite badly because of an adulterous affair he’d been conducting with her best friend’s daughter.”

“Not bloomin’ likely, is it?”

“What? That her husband was having an affair?”

“No. That she had a friend.”

“Please don’t go yet!” Caroline Goodfriend waved her arm over her head as she sprinted down the front path toward us, her usual calm replaced by visible distress. “He’s struck again!”

“Who’s struck again?” asked Tredinnick when she’d skidded to a stop in front of us.

“The thief.” She gasped to catch her breath. “The wad of cash I hid in my jar of night moisturizer—it’s gone.”