fifteen

I groaned. “You didn’t keep your cash in a neck wallet?”

“I bought one for the trip, but it felt itchy and made my clothes look lumpy, so I left it at home. Besides, who’s going to know to look for anything in a night moisturizer jar?”

“An accomplished thief,” said Tredinnick.

She pressed the heels of her palms against her forehead as if trying to squeeze an image out of her brain. “I removed some money from it yesterday evening, before we gathered in the lounge for my presentation, but when I went to put money back just a few minutes ago, it was empty.”

“Are you quite sure you haven’t mixed up your jars?” asked Tredinnick.

“Yes, I’m sure. I only packed two—an empty one for my cash and a full jar of daytime cream that I planned to apply both day and night.” She touched her fingertips to her cheek. “I didn’t think that using only one product for a few days would make that much of a difference in my complexion.”

Tredinnick regarded her blandly. “Where was the jar?”

“In my toiletry bag on the dresser, along with my toothpaste, facial scrubs, and everything else.”

“So to the best of your knowledge, the theft occurred in the time period between yesterday evening and a few minutes ago?”

The same time period when Bernice had disappeared. The same time period when August, Spencer, and Mason had enjoyed sole access to the rooms and hallway. Was it Caroline and Heather’s room that the bloggers had been sneaking out of when Bernice had interrupted them?

Which led me to a more insidious thought.

Had it been Heather who’d alerted her fellow bloggers to the stash in Caroline’s jar of beauty cream?

“Yes,” said Caroline, responding to Tredinnick’s question. “Twenty-four hours ago I was flush with cash; now all I have left are my credit cards. But my door was locked! How did someone get into my room without a key?”

“Wally is carrying the only master key,” I confirmed.

Tredinnick massaged the thigh of his bad leg. “There’s those who’ve made a handsome living breaking into locked rooms, Ms. Goodfriend. I’d guess that picking locks was the specialty of a few score of blighters who called Her Majesty’s prison in Dartmoor home.”

“Are you sure the door was locked?” I asked Caroline. “They don’t lock automatically. You have to use your key to lock it. So unless you did that, you might have accidentally left it op—”

“Yes, the door was locked. Heather locked it after we left the room.”

Or tricked you into thinking she’d locked it. I arched my eyebrows at Tredinnick, giving him a look that screamed Do you believe me now?

Catching my drift, he pushed himself off the car, his eyes narrowed as he focused on the inn. “It’s just occurred to me that I may have a few more questions to ask before I leave.”

The police radio inside his car squawked to life. “ Consta…zzt…zzt…zzzzzt…in please,” said a woman’s voice amid a background of static.

Leaning through his open window, he picked up the car microphone. “Come again, Bess?” After a brief interlude where the connection thrummed with more static, he returned the microphone to its cradle and pulled out his cell phone. “System needs updating,” he griped as he punched in a number. “Bess. The car radio’s dodgy. What can I do for you?”

His breathing changed as he listened, his body language indicating that he was preparing to kick into high gear. “Call the ambulance. Keep him comfortable until I get there.”

“What’s happened?” I asked as he piled into his car.

“It’s Enyon. He’s doubled over with pain. Bess says he needs to get to hospital.”

He gunned his engine and peeled out of the parking lot as if he were participating in time trials for the Indy 500.

“I’m sorry about Enyon,” Caroline allowed, “but in the meantime, what am I supposed to do about my missing money?”

She was sorry about Enyon? My blood pressure had just shot through the top of my head and would probably trigger a brain aneurysm that would kill me, but immediate death was not an acceptable reason to shirk my professional responsibilities.

“Two things,” I said when I could breathe again. “First, we have an emergency cash fund to float you a loan, and second, you need to stop by my room to pick up a neck wallet. I brought extra.”

“This being our second substantial theft of cash since we arrived, I’d like to encourage all of you, again, to keep your valuables on your person at all times in a neck wallet, a fanny pack, or a money belt.”

After braving the cooking frenzy in the kitchen to give Nana and Jackie a heads-up about the situation, I enlisted Wally’s assistance to help me gather everyone back in the lounge so I could advise them of our latest setback. Tilly raised her hand.

“When you say we should keep our valuables close at all times, are you suggesting that we take our possessions to bed with us?”

“I’m not sleeping with my blasted wallet around my neck,” declared Dick Stolee. “I tried that once.”

“He did,” Grace attested in a grave tone. “He had a horrible nightmare and thrashed around so violently, he got the cord all tangled up in his CPAP machine and would’ve choked to death if I hadn’t cut him free.”

“What were you dreaming about?” George asked him.

Dick shivered at the memory. “Medicare vouchers.”

“Say, Emily, let’s pretend a fella was hiding money in the heel of his wingtips,” Dick Teig piped up. “Would you advise him to wear his shoes to bed?”

“He wouldn’t have to wear both, would he?” asked Margi. “If it were me, I’d only wear the shoe with the money in it.”

Alice frowned. “Wouldn’t a thief be curious about why a fella is wearing a shoe to bed?”

“Not if he sees how old the fella is,” retorted Osmond. “He’d probably figure Dick was suffering from dementia and just forgot to put the other one on.”

Helen thwacked Dick’s arm. “Why don’t you announce to the immediate world that you’re hiding money in your shoe?”

“I never said it was me,” protested Dick.

I raised my hand for quiet. “I’m not recommending that you take your valuables to bed with you. I’m just saying that during the day, please carry them on your person in a secure pouch or wallet. If you lock your door at night, your valuables should be safe.”

“Please don’t take this as a criticism,” Caroline demurred, “but my money was stolen despite my door being locked. I don’t know how it happened, but it has me pretty rattled.”

I sidled a look at Heather, knowing exactly how it had happened, but I couldn’t divulge anything until Tredinnick verified my suspicions.

“So tonight, I’m planning to wedge a chair under my doorknob to make sure no one can sneak in and steal anything else,” Caroline continued. “And if the rest of you were smart, you’d do the same thing.”

Nods. Grumbles. A few deer-in-the-headlights stares.

“My cash was stolen despite my door being locked, too,” August Lugar reminded us.

I regarded him stiffly. Right. And I was the reigning Miss Brazil.

“It might not be my place to comment on this,” he went on, “but I think somebody should because it’s become the elephant in the room.” He looked left and right to make eye contact with every guest in the lounge. “Somebody on this tour is one hell of a thief.”

I rolled my eyes. Right on cue. Deflecting suspicion away from himself again to imply that the thievery should be blamed on someone else. He was as predictable as a vindictive politician with a Twitter account. But his words had hit their mark because everyone was quite suddenly exchanging distrustful looks with their neighbors, which was, I suspected, the very reaction he’d been hoping for.

“Please stop looking at each other like that,” I urged them. “It’s painful to watch.”

“But that fella’s right, isn’t he?” asked Osmond. “Someone in this room is a thief.” He cast a slow look around him. “Show of hands. How many folks—”

“As of this minute, all voting is suspended,” I announced in a forceful voice. “Instead of sitting here, pointing fingers at each other, I’d like you to go back to your rooms to make sure all your valuables are still where they should be. And if you’re missing anything, come down to my room and let me know so I can pass the information along to Constable Tredinnick. Okay?”

Pouting. Grudging nods.

“And one more thing. Enyon suffered some kind of medical emergency while he was being held for questioning, so he’s been taken to the hospital and I don’t know when we should expect to see him again. Please keep him in your thoughts and prayers.”

“So Marion gets stuck with KP until we leave?” lamented George.

“Sorry, George. I’m afraid it’s looking more that way.”

“Gee,” said Dick Teig, looking as gleeful as a kid with an Xbox capable of both Blu-ray and video streaming, “that’s a shame Marion can’t hang up her apron. Isn’t it a shame, Dick?”

“You bet.” Dick Stolee rubbed his hands together with such vigor, I expected flames to shoot out of his palms. “So how much longer before we can sit down to eat?”

Wally sprang out of his chair and popped his head into the kitchen to ask the cooks. “Couple of hours,” he called back.

Apprehension morphed into anticipation. Frowns turned to smiles. All was right with the world again. Music might have charms to soothe a savage breast, but the thing that apparently worked best with my guys was the continued promise of Nana’s home cooking.

I regarded them fondly. Iowans were so basic.

As they began to ease out of their chairs, Kathryn Crabbe went out of her way to hobble directly in front of Heather. “I hope you’re storing my fob-seal in a safe place.”

Heather didn’t skip a beat. She plastered a smile on her face and addressed her as if she were a favorite aunt. “Thanks so much for your concern, Kathryn. How are you doing after your spill today? Anything I can do for you? If there is, you just let me know and I’ll be happy to oblige. No need for you to suffer in solitude when I’d be more than willing to keep you company. Can’t you just feel it? I think we could become the best of friends.”

Kathryn fell into silence as Heather brushed past her, her expression signaling that she was both confounded and thrown off-kilter by the girl’s unexpected response.

I guess no one in Jane Austen’s novels had made a habit of spouting one of Nana’s favorite proverbs: What can the enemy do when the friend is cordial?

Figuring that what was good for the goose was good for the gander, when I went back to my room I took inventory of my own stuff to make sure that our phantom thief hadn’t paid me a visit. I didn’t have to worry about my cash, credit cards, or passport. I always carried those with me, unless the room was outfitted with a personal safe, which this one wasn’t. I went through my dresser drawers and jewelry pouch, finding all in order, but when I checked the closet I stopped short.

I’d brought five pairs of shoes with me. I was wearing one pair, which left four pairs in the closet.

So how come I was only seeing three?

I rummaged around in the closet, removing our suitcases for a better look. I checked under my cot and Jackie’s bed. I searched the bathroom, under the nightstand, and went through Jackie’s drawers, thinking she might have accidentally grabbed my shoes and stashed them in with her stuff. But I found no missing pair of ankle-tie flats in canary yellow.

I slumped down on my cot, confused. They were so stunning…and brand-new! I could swear I remembered bringing them, but was it a false memory? Had I actually left them at home? Or—I perked up a bit—had Jackie simply overlooked packing them when she’d volunteered to move my belongings our first night here?

Of course! They must still be in my original room—the suite Kathryn now occupied.

Anxious to find out, I hurried across the room and opened the door to find Dick Teig in the corridor, preparing to knock. I paused on the threshold. “Oh, no. You found something missing?” I hoped it wasn’t his gold doubloon.

“I’ll say. My Fruit of the Loons. I’ve been cleaned out of a whole bunch.”

“Fruit of the Looms,” I corrected with some relief. “I’m pretty sure the brand refers to the bounty from the textile looms rather than the plumage from a flock of aquatic birds.”

He offered me a blank stare. “What?”

“Never mind. So what are you missing? Boxers or briefs?”

He hitched up his trousers, clearing gravel from his throat. “Getting kind of personal, aren’t you, Emily?”

“Not if you want your skivvies back.”

He shrugged one shoulder in a sign of submission and after glancing both ways, lowered his voice to a whisper. “Boxers. The kind they sell in the economy five-pack. Helen buys the tartan plaid ones because she says they’re more slimming than the solid stretch knits. Do you need the size?”

“Uhhh…”

“Four XL. But they look a lot smaller when I’m wearing them.” He clutched his rounded belly with both hands. “Helen says my pot looks more like a six-pack when I step into my tapered Burberry checks.” He let out a bawdy chuckle. “Don’t tell Helen I told you, but you wouldn’t believe how frisky she gets when she sees me wearing—”

“Too much information,” I cried as I clapped my hands over my ears. I was already getting heartburn thinking about having to strip-search August and Spencer to see if they were wearing Dick’s shorts.

“dick!” I heard Helen’s voice explode through the hallway despite my attempt to render myself deaf. She brandished a white plastic garbage bag in the air at him. “I found your underwear! They’re in your dirty clothes bag.”

“No kidding?” He rewarded her with a thumbs-up before turning back to me with a sheepish look. “Say, Emily, would you have a problem forgetting everything I just told—”

“Already forgotten. Anything else you want to report stolen?”

“Nope. Helen’s eyebrow pencils are all accounted for, so we’re good.”

I peeked at my watch. “If you’re all done with your inventory, why don’t the two of you head out to the spa? You have loads of time before dinner.”

“Leave the room when there’s a burglar on the loose? Pffft. I don’t think so. Helen’s laid down the law. She’s not letting her makeup out of her sight. That’d be like asking the president to ditch the briefcase with the nuclear codes for the evening.”

I headed down to Kathryn’s room and knocked on the door.

“Who is it?”

“Emily.”

“How do I know it’s Emily and not the burglar?”

“Because I have her voice?”

“You could be a voice impersonator.”

“I’m not that gifted.” I could hear her shuffle closer to the door.

“I want to see three forms of identification. You can slide them under the door.”

“I just want to ask you a question.”

“Three forms of ID.”

“I’m not giving you three forms of ID, Kathryn. Look, I seem to be missing a pair of shoes. Canary-yellow flats. I think they might have gotten left behind when I moved out of this room the other night. Would you check around your bed and closet to see if they’re there?”

“What if they are? I suppose you’d want me to open the door.”

“That’s the idea. I’d like them back.”

“Sorry. I’m a bit too smart to fall for a ruse like that.”

Air streamed from my nose like fire from a blow torch. “Then would you at least look around your room, and if you find them, give them to me at dinner?”

“I’m not planning to leave my suite,” she announced through the locked door. “So this evening I’m ordering room service. You can relay the message to Emily.”

“I am Emily, and room service is not available.”

“Well, if the real Emily has any hope of continuing this tour, she might want to rethink that option.”

Why, when I tell people that their best defense against the thief would be to secure their valuables and lock their doors behind them, do they take that to mean they should burrow in their rooms like Old Testament hermits? Is it my choice of words? My inflection? My tendency to smile when I make suggestions?

As I headed back to my room, Dick Stolee ran out of his. “You’re not going to believe what the thief stole.”

“Lay it on me.”

He lowered his voice. “My underwear.”

“Check your laundry bag.”

He stared at me, a ray of hope in his eyes. “I didn’t think of that.”

“dick!” Grace called out through their open door. “They’re in your dirty clothes. I told you that no one would be desperate enough to steal your undies.”

“Thanks, Emily. You’re a lifesaver. I was worried I’d have to go shopping to replace them.”

As he turned back toward his room, I called after him, “You’ve got time to kill before dinner. Why don’t you and Grace have a soak in the hot tub?”

“No can do. Not with this burglar striking at will. We’re sheltering in place.”

Of course they were.

He paused at his threshold. “By the way, Grace wanted me to ask you. What would we have to do to get room service tonight?”

Feeling as if the whole tour were unraveling before my eyes, I struck out for the dining room to investigate the tray situation. It galled me to give in to frivolous demands, but I could see the handwriting on the wall, so I wanted to be prepared.

As I passed through the lounge, I heard a knock on the front door, so I made a quick detour through the foyer to answer it.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

Two thirty-something couples stood on the front stoop, dressed in polo shirts and walking shorts, their finely gauged sweaters tied loosely around their necks like magicians’ capes. They looked as if they’d just stepped off a golf course in Palm Beach. “Is this the right Stand and Deliver Inn?” asked one of the men, giving away his American roots with his accent.

I offered my best welcoming smile. “The right Stand and Deliver Inn for what?”

“The food,” he replied. “We were touring in the area—we’re from Boston—so we thought we’d stop by to see if we could make last-minute dinner reservations for this evening.”

“Uhhh…”

The shorter of the two women held up her smartphone. “It’s on August Lugar’s blog. He’s been raving about the food so much that we didn’t want to miss out. No one can whet your appetite for fine cuisine more convincingly than Mr. Lugar.”

“August’s blog,” I hedged. “Right.”

“We never miss reading his posts,” attested the other man, who was painfully red-faced with sunburn. “He’s made some tremendous recommendations over the years. We’ve tried just about every restaurant he’s deemed a must visit, and we haven’t been disappointed yet.”

I sucked in a breath, releasing it in slow motion. “So here’s the thing. We’re not accepting reservations.”

“Can you put our names on your cancellation list?” asked the guy with the sunburn.

“We don’t have a cancellation list. We don’t have any list. The proprietor is off the premises at the moment, so the tour group I’m escorting is kind of running the show, and we don’t have the wherewithal to open the dining room up to the public. We barely have the capacity to feed ourselves.”

The lady with the smartphone slipped into dog-with-bone mode. “What about takeout? Could we make a selection from your menu and have your chef prepare it to go?”

I sighed. “We don’t actually have a menu. Every meal is what you’d call a surprise.”

“That’s a pretty radical way to conduct business,” said the first man.

“Radical?” said Mr. Sunburn. “I’d say it’s pretty damn stupid. No dinner reservations? No menu? No takeout?” He looked me in the eye. “You should consider yourself lucky if you’re not out of business by the end of the week.”

I smiled stiffly. “With the way things are going, that’s a real possibility. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Heads shaking, they retreated back down the path to their car. “Maybe you’d like to come back when there’s a real staff!” I called after them. “The rooms are quite lovely!”

I was pretty sure I was wasting my breath, but it’d been worth a try. The unfortunate truth was that if Enyon didn’t take over the operations of his inn soon, his dream of being a premiere player in the travel accommodation industry was doomed to go bust.

Quite spectacularly.

Supper in the dining room turned out to be a quiet affair.

Since the Iowa contingent had talked themselves into self-enforced lockdowns in their suites, Wally and I grudgingly capitulated and served their meals to them on trays, just like authentic hotel room service. The only guests who ventured out to sit at the table were the bloggers minus Kathryn, who received room service like the rest of the gang. I was too busy delivering meals to either engage in or overhear the conversation around the dinner table, but I suspected that with Caroline present, the one thing the other four bloggers wouldn’t be discussing was their next hit.

Nana knocked the ball out of the park with the meal she whipped up, serving individual pastry tarts filled with baby asparagus and garlic, and smothered in ricotta, gruyere, and parmesan cheeses. As a courtesy to those who detest asparagus, she also provided several variations with broccoli and spiffed up both vegetable selections by including bacon, ham, and prosciutto. She added color with a lettuce, orange, pecan, and crumbled goat cheese salad, then rounded off the presentation by heating up yummy store-bought rolls. Jackie wowed the troops with homemade apple pudding that combined fresh apples and cobbler batter with touches of cinnamon and lemon and was served warm with a scoop of ice cream.

I ate my meal on the run, shoveling forkfuls into my mouth in between responding to text requests for additional condiments, drink refills, and seconds on dessert. In fact, I had to pop up from my chair so much that I sent out a text blast to the gang informing them that there would be no repeat room service at breakfast, so they had two choices: either show up at the dining table as usual or stay in their rooms and not eat at all, which started a war of words on their Twitter feeds.

From Helen: Even TV game shows offer THREE choices. Door number one, door number two, or door number three.

From Dick Stolee: We deserve another choice.

From Lucille: We should stage a hunger strike if our demands aren’t met.

From Margi: I must have missed a Tweet. What have we demanded?

From Grace: Ask Lucille. She’s the one who brought it up.

From Lucille: Don’t blame me. Helen started it.

From Helen: Did not.

From Lucille: Did so.

From Dick Teig: Hey, is anyone carrying an extra eyebrow pencil that Helen can borrow in case hers gets stolen while we’re sleeping?

From Osmond: Who would want to steal Helen’s eyebrow pencil?

From Dick Teig: The thief, you lunkhead. Why do you think we’re locked in our rooms?

From Osmond: Beats me. I was just going along with what the rest of you were doing.

And so it went.

By the time Wally and I collected all the trays, cleared the plates, and stacked the dishes in the dishwasher, I was so worn out from the emotional stress of the day that I didn’t even bother to take my shoes off when I flopped face-first onto my cot. I saved just enough energy to phone the police station one last time, only to be told that there was nothing new to report with either Bernice or Enyon.

Jackie found me in the same prone position when she pirouetted through the door sometime later. “Ta-daaa! Before I forget, Mrs. S sent out a text blast. Breakfast at 7:30 tomorrow morning. We want to get it out of the way early so we can have first dibs on the spa.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” I mumbled. I angled my head on my pillow to stare at her through one eye. “You’re not tired? If you’re on something, would you please shoot me up with an extra-large dose?”

“It’s called a natural high, Emily.” She danced over to my cot, twirling and stomping with moves that landed somewhere between boogie and ballet. “Did my apple pudding rock tonight or what?”

“It rocked.”

“I’m queen of the world!” She struck a pose with head high and arms thrown back, as if she were standing on the prow of the Titanic.

“Yes, you are.”

“I’ve found my true calling, Emily. All because of you.”

As tired as my brain was, it perked up enough to register the fact that this might be the first time in her life that Jackie Thum credited another person for aiding in her success. “Aww, that’s sweet, Jack, but I can’t really take credit.”

“I know. It’s actually because of my superlative DNA. But you look so pathetic, I thought I should say something to make you feel better.”

“Thanks. It’s not working.” Okay, a little premature on the kudos. She was still a work-in-progress.

“I’m already thinking about tomorrow’s dessert, Em. And since we’re confined to quarters, I’ll have all day to prepare. I can create a real gourmet masterpiece—my day four at the Stand and Deliver extravaganza. The pastry chef at the Godolphin Arms offered a few suggestions about recipes today. Wasn’t that upstanding? The restaurant had an extensive dessert menu, so I said to myself, Jackie, I bet this pastry chef would be thrilled to meet a descendant of the family who once cooked for kings, so…”

Jackie’s voice was the last thing I remember hearing before an insistent pounding on the door woke me from a sound sleep.

“Hold on!” I rolled out of bed fully dressed and squinted into the daylight. Jackie was gone. It couldn’t be time to cook breakfast already, could it? I darted a look at my wristwatch. Seven o’clock? Zowie! I’d been conked out all night.

More pounding.

I threw the door open.

“I just found Heather in the hot tub,” Caroline cried hysterically. “She’s dead!”