seventeen

To Kathryn’s utter indignation, he turned her room inside out and upside down looking for the fob-seal but came up empty-handed. “I told you I don’t have it,” she railed as he marched her into the office for her interview. “This is police brutality. The entire world is going to hear about this deliberate miscarriage of justice in my blog. And the full force of global opinion will come raining down on your he—”

He closed the door behind them.

So he hadn’t found the fob-seal, but I wondered if he might have run into a pair of yellow ankle-tie flats.

Thirty minutes later Kathryn exited the office a supposedly free woman, storming back to her room minus handcuffs or leg irons. However, the fact that she slammed her door hard enough to rattle the china hinted that she was infuriated. I’d have to deal with the fallout from her latest snit later, but I’m not sure why she thought she deserved a pass in the investigation. She’d been at odds with Heather from the beginning—from wanting to have her stripped of her Janeite status, to claiming ownership of the fob-seal, to accusing her of trying to kill her at St. Michael’s Mount. With the fob-seal missing, what made her think she’d be immune to scrutiny?

Was it possible she’d committed murder to take possession of the artifact? Could she have followed Heather out to the spa without anyone seeing her? But how could a woman of Kathryn’s impressive physical stature skulk from place to place without being noticed? Lance’s killer had escaped detection so far, but—

A red flag popped up in my brain as I made a detour into barely charted territory, noting a gruesome pattern.

Kathryn suffers humiliation at the hands of her husband, a chef, and lo and behold, another chef who humiliates her suddenly ends up dead.

Kathryn suffers the humiliation of being online shamed by Heather’s Austen devotees, and lo and behold, Heather ends up dead.

Was that a coincidence? Did it seem that everyone who humiliated Kathryn ended up dead? Or was the pattern so blatant that even Tredinnick would disregard it as being too obvious to be believed?

Had he even remembered to ask her about her husband during her interview?

I ambushed him on his way to his car after he’d completed his amazingly brief interrogation of Mason, Spencer, and August. The SUV had finally departed after cordoning off the spa with blue and white police tape, so his squad car was the only vehicle parked in the lot. “You’ve decided against hauling any of my guests off to jail?”

“There’s nothing that places them at the scene of the crime, Mrs. Miceli, at least not yet. But I took their fingerprints, so we’ll see if that changes anything.”

“Did you happen to question Kathryn about her husband?”

“I did remember to do that. There’s no love lost there, but loathing one’s ex-husband isn’t a crime.”

“It could be a motive for committing one.”

He leaned wearily on his cane. “I suspect that any solicitor hoping to prove that Mrs. Crabbe killed Lance Tori because she transferred her repugnance of her husband to the chef would find the feat next to impossible.” He sighed, bobbing his head toward the inn. “Your bloggers were unable to shine any light on what transpired this morning. Mr. Chatsworth claimed to have slept through the entire incident, and Mr. Blunt and Mr. Lugar vouched for each other’s whereabouts once again, although Mr. Blunt did mention that he thought he heard a scream while Mr. Lugar was in the shower, but later attributed it to air in the pipes.”

“He claims to have bionic hearing, so maybe he did hear something. Did he give you a time?”

“Of course not. For all the fuss that’s made about you Yanks being workaholics, none of you ever bother to notice the time. What kind of workaholic doesn’t look at his watch? And at your request I did inquire if they’d established friendships with each other back in the states, and they gawked at me as if I were a daft cow. All three swear that the first time they laid eyes on each other was when they boarded the tour coach at Heathrow.”

“And if they’re not telling the truth?”

“I’ve no way to gauge that right now, do I?”

I sighed. “So…what do we do now?”

He lifted his brows and smiled as if he were about to reveal something good for a change. “With all the chaos this morning, I neglected to tell you. Enyon’s medical emergency turned out to be appendicitis, so he’s in hospital and might be released as early as tomorrow. They don’t keep surgical patients as long as they used to in the old days. It’s more like catch and release. I’ll drive him back here myself. So by tomorrow, with Enyon back in charge, you should be able to resume your normal schedule.” His smile deepened. “And with Ms. Zwerg accompanying you once again.”

“Bernice? Omigod! You found her?”

“Our CCTV in Exeter showed an image of a woman fitting her description exiting a passenger vehicle last night. The police haven’t located her yet, but they’re quite confident it’s your Ms. Zwerg.”

“She’s safe? Omigod! Thank you!” I threw my arms around him in a moment of unrestrained glee, my heart beating out a tattoo that nearly took my breath away. “She’s in Exeter? How far away is that?”

“It’s near the M3—where it intersects with the A3052. On the way to Newton Poppleford? Branscombe? Seaton? Lyme Regis?”

“It’s on the way to Lyme Regis?” The puzzle tumbled together in my head like the pieces in a kaleidoscope. “That little stinker. Wait ’til I get my hands on her. Do you know why she might be heading to Lyme Regis? Because that’s our next destination. She’s probably planning to greet us on the seawall to surprise us. How in the world did she get to Exeter?”

“It appears she may have hitched a ride. We don’t recommend hitchhiking because of security concerns, but travelers still try it and drivers still pick them up.”

“I can’t believe she did that to us. The worry…the police involvement…the disrupted schedule. I should leave her suitcase behind to show her just how irritated I am that she’d pull a stunt like that. You should probably accompany us to Lyme Regis to restrain me, Constable, because when I see her, I might decide to kill her myself.”

“I’m sure the police will have a long discussion with her before you arrive, Mrs. Miceli. They might even convince her to offer you an apology.”

“I seriously doubt that. Bernice is into shoes, not apologies.”

“I’ll make a note to give you a bell with the results of Ms. Holloway’s postmortem when I receive them. I imagine you’ll want to share the information with her family.”

Heather’s family. Wally had called her parents earlier, but I wanted to contact them, too. I couldn’t say for sure if she was part of the bloggers’ thievery ring, but that didn’t matter now. Two parents had lost a daughter, so I needed to offer them as much sympathy as I possibly could.

Despite the happy revelation that Bernice was alive and well and would be rejoining us in Lyme Regis to make our lives a living hell again, the day dragged on interminably, the only relief from full-scale boredom being the appetizers that Nana and Jackie served throughout the afternoon. Baked brie with crackers and jam. Bacon-wrapped water chestnuts with teriyaki sauce. Smoked salmon triangles. Olive cheese balls. Mini grilled cheese sandwiches with chutney. Pears with blue cheese and prosciutto.

Nana had announced her decision to skip a formal lunch rather simply. “We’re not doin’ no sit-down meal for lunch on account of we’re gonna whip up a few things and just let you graze all afternoon.”

The gang really got into the whole grazing thing, but in between snacking, they’d flop down in the lounge with their suitcases by their side and simply stare at each other.

“Who’s bored?” asked Dick Teig.

Ten hands flew into the air.

“We wouldn’t be bored if we had our cell phones,” lamented Alice.

They cast forlorn looks at their suitcases.

George scratched his head. “What did we do for excitement before cell phones?”

“I never did anything exciting before cell phones,” said Alice.

Helen pulled a face. “Hold on. I’m remembering something. Didn’t we used to…talk?”

“You mean…to each other?” questioned Osmond.

“I believe our most exciting pursuit was watching the Dicks act like buffoons,” recalled Tilly.

“Yeah,” Dick Teig agreed. “Those were the glory days.”

“Anyone know what time it is?” asked Dick Stolee.

They cast more forlorn looks at their suitcases.

“I could dig my Timex out of my grip,” offered Lucille as she massaged her naked wrist. “It only cost twenty bucks, so if it gets stolen, it won’t be that big a loss.”

Spencer strode into the lounge looking both curious and annoyed. “The racket in this place is never-ending. Did you hear that noise just now?”

Shrugs. Vacant stares.

“What did it sound like?” asked Tilly.

“I don’t know. But I’ve never heard anything like it before.”

“Gurgling?” asked Helen. “Swashing? Bubbling?”

“Maybe a little.”

Helen rolled her eyes. “Does anyone have a gas relief tablet for Dick?”

“It was more than that, though,” urged Spencer. “It was more like…like what a dragon would sound like if he had bronchitis.”

The room went quiet as questioning glances were exchanged.

“What kind of dragon are you talking about, son?” needled Dick Teig. “The kind you see in the movie theater or a real one?”

Helen thwacked her husband’s shoulder. “Don’t encourage him. If he’s one of those loonies, he could go after you.”

Margi threw Dick a terrified look. “What do you mean, real one?”

A sudden pounding on the front door sent me to my feet, but before I could cross the floor, three unexpected guests emerged from the foyer to stand in sullen silence before us. Two men were dressed in cat burglar black with physiques like Russian nesting dolls—squat and hefty, with shaved heads, dark eyes, four o’clock shadows, and mysterious lumps in their sports coats. The woman who stood between them was white-haired and pear-shaped, with an enormous fanny pack sitting at her waist below bosoms that were big as punching bags. She had a puffy face, eyes like black buttons, and a forbidding aura that hung over her like a thundercloud. She looked like the kind of person who might enjoy cracking walnuts open with her teeth.

And, for some reason, she looked vaguely familiar.

“I’m Maria Cacciatore,” she announced without introduction. “Which one of you killed my boy?”