twenty-one

“You need to lock her up,” demanded Jory Kneebone’s girlfriend, Daisy. She stabbed a finger at Jackie. “Nutters like her shouldn’t be allowed on the street. She’s bleedin’ barmy!”

Constable Tredinnick had hauled all of us off to the station house and seated us on opposite sides of a long wooden table—Daisy, Jory, and Treeve on one side; Jackie and I on the other—and then he’d pressed the record button on his outdated tape recorder.

“You know what makes me barmy?” Jackie shot back, eyes ablaze, spittle flying. “People who steal my stuff and treat it like their own!”

“Not another word out of either one of you,” cautioned Tredinnick. He dragged a chair to the narrow end of the table and sat down, fingers tapping impatiently on the pitted wood. He trained a narrow look at Jory. “All right, young man, what are you on about?”

Jory swiped at the fringe of stick-straight bangs that drooped over his eyes. “It was Pops’s idea. He made me do it.”

Treeve yanked his knitted cap down over his eyebrows and groaned. I guess he’d expected his kid to withstand questioning for a little longer than half a nanosecond.

“What else did you nick besides the wig and the shoes?”

“Cash.” Jory smiled proudly. “Splashed out in the cash department, I did. Twice.”

“You stole the presents you gave me?” squealed Daisy, smacking him roundly upside his head. “That seals it, you bleedin’ tosser. We’re finished.”

Jackie raised a finger. “Not to change the subject, but have you read the latest medical reports on concussions?”

“It was you?” I exploded, meeting Jory’s unrepentant gaze. “You’re the one who stole August’s and Caroline’s money? Here I was blaming my own tour guests for the thievery! Accusing innocent people. Concocting wild theories. Casting aspersions on their integrity! And all the time it was you?” I was sure I’d be even more angry when I got over being so embarrassed.

I’d been sooo wrong.

Again.

He grinned. “Well, it wasn’t Pops. He uses a bloody walker. How would he get through the tunnels?”

“Tunnels?” questioned Tredinnick. “What tunnels?”

“The ones wot the smugglers used,” Treeve spoke up. “The whole cliff is carved out like an ant farm. Where do you think the smugglers stashed their booty so it wouldn’t be found? How do you think they carried it from the beach to the bluff without being seen? Through that sliver of cave at the base of the cliff, then up through the tunnels.”

“Smugglers?” I gave him a squinty look. “Where do smugglers fit in? I thought the inn was the past hangout of highwaymen?”

“True, true.” Treeve nodded. “The smugglers arrived on the scene after the highwaymen. Turned out to be a much more lucrative occupation.”

“So you’re suggesting that there’s a whole network of tunnels beneath the Stand and Deliver Inn?” asked Jackie.

“I’m not suggesting,” said Treeve. “I’m telling you for a fact. The tunnels were already part of the landscape, so when we decided to convert the farm to an inn, I says to meself, Treeve, you old sod, why not update the things? Make ’em more accessible. Easier to use. Jory did the work himself.”

“Did I have a choice?” Jory scowled at his father. “Pops didn’t want anyone to know wot we were doing, so he couldn’t contract the work out. There was no one to give it a crack but me.”

“Whoa,” I said, making a T with my hands for a timeout. “You’re the person who converted the farm to an inn? Not Enyon and Lance? You were the original owner?”

Treeve nodded. “Me…and me family before me.”

“And no one thought to mention that?” I fixed Tredinnick with a frustrated look. “Not even after guests started dying and valuables went missing?”

Tredinnick shrugged. “How would former ownership of the inn have been pertinent to the case?”

“Well, it might have allowed us to put two and two together.” I leaned forward on the table, giving Treeve the stinkeye. “So how did it work? Did the tunnels give you access to every room?”

“Sure did. Through a trapdoor in the closet floor. All me boy had to do was wait for a guest to vacate the room and the place was his to explore at his leisure.”

“I couldn’t do nothing until low tide though,” Jory explained. “No place to land me boat at high tide. The beach gets flooded.”

“How did you know when the rooms were vacant?” pressed Tredinnick.

Jory snickered. “I ran a pret-tee slick operation, Constable. I installed surveillance equipment just about everywhere.”

Jackie sprang out of her seat like a giant jack-in-the-box. “You put surveillance cameras in our rooms?”

“’Course I put them in your rooms. I wouldn’t be able to tell if you was in or out otherwise, now would I?”

I wrestled her back into her seat. She clenched her teeth. “You watched us undress?”

Jory looked affronted by the question. “No! I closed up shop before anything got X-rated. I’m not a freakin’ perv.”

I did a quick mental inventory of our room, unable to visualize any type of photographic equipment. “Where did you hide the cameras?”

“Stuck ’em in the teddies we left in the rooms for the new owners. Hid ’em in plain sight in the little glass eyes. Pops said it was a stroke of genius.”

Jackie made a gagging sound. “That is so disgusting.”

“Bugger that,” argued Jory. “I ran a very posh operation. Outfitted quite a nice observation room under the spa with all me equipment, I did, so when you blokes headed to the dining room, I was ready to pop over to the inn and do me diddlin’.”

“Nick their property, you mean,” corrected Tredinnick. “You should be ashamed of yourself. And you!” He fired a contemptuous look at Treeve. “From respectable pig farmer and store owner to two-bit thief. Whatever happened to you, Treeve Kneebone?”

“I’ll tell you wot happened,” huffed Treeve as he hammered his fist on the table. “Austerity happened. The harder we work, the more the government takes away. I’m fed up!”

“Austerity hit all of us,” reasoned Tredinnick, “but we didn’t all resort to thievery.”

“If it was good enough for me forebears, it’s good enough for me,” spat Treeve.

I stared across the table at him. “What are you talking about?” I searched the faces in the room for assistance. “Am I the only one who doesn’t know what he’s talking about?”

“I was sick of farming,” boomed Treeve. “Too unpredictable. Long hours. Little return. And the pigs stunk. So, says I to meself, Treeve, use wot little savings you’ve got to convert the place. Open an inn. The hospitality industry has to be easier than pig farming, and it’s bound to smell better. Give it a throw. So we got rid of the pigs and began remodeling the house and installing the spa, but when we were about halfway through, me nerves got wobbly. I’d be dealing with whingey guests and temperamental cooks and cleaning staff who might not show up, and it seemed like way too much work. So, says I to meself, Treeve, if you sell the place, that doesn’t mean you can’t profit from it. Make a few adjustments to the tunnel system and bam! You’ll be able to earn money the old-fashioned way: by stealing from unsuspecting strangers. Just like Sixteen String Jack used to do.”

“Let me guess,” I said as awareness dawned. “You’re related to Sixteen String Jack? The infamous highwayman?”

“I am, and proud of it. I figured if he could make a living nickin’ from the rich, why couldn’t I? I should be quite good at it, shouldn’t I? I mean, thievery’s in me blood.”

Jackie flashed a perky smile. “My ancestors cooked for English kings. I have haute cuisine in mine.”

I raised my finger in the air. “Question: so if you sold the inn with the intention of living off the valuables you stole from the guests, why did you buy a hardware store?”

“I needed someplace to set up me museum now, didn’t I? Besides, the price was spot on, and after I moved off the farm there seemed to be too many hours in the day, so I got bored with all me leisure. The life of a pensioner isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Minding a store and tending me museum seemed a good way to occupy me time.”

Tredinnick switched his attention to Jory. “If you set a room up for yourself under the spa, I’m thinking you might be involved in something that could be weighing pretty heavily on you about now. Tell me what happened to Ms. Holloway. It’ll come out eventually. No sense postponing the inevitable.”

Color drained from Jory’s face, leaving his cheeks pasty white and his lips grayer than ash. “I didn’t kill her,” he choked out. “It was an accident. She was standing by the towels when I sneaked up through the trapdoor in the dressing room to make an adjustment on one of me surveillance cameras. I wouldn’t have gone up if I’d seen her, but she was just outside me camera range. When she saw me, she screamed really loud and started running for the door. I didn’t even try to chase her. All I could think was, ‘Bugger me. What a cock-up. Pops is gonna kill me.’ But she never made it to the door. She slipped on that wet spot on the floor, where the tub is leaking, and went down like a sack of rocks. Smashed her head up real bad.” He pressed his palm against his forehead to simulate the injury. “She never got up again. I knew she was dead. I couldn’t find a pulse, and her head was lying in a pool of blood.”

“So that’s your story?” asked Tredinnick. “She died in your presence but you didn’t kill her?”

“No, I didn’t kill her! I’m a thief, not a murderer. But I was afraid that if I left her on the floor like she was, you might start sniffing around me and Pops, trying to blame us for the faulty installation of the spa and such. So I decided to dump her body in the spa so you’d think she’d drowned. I mopped the blood off the floor with all the guest towels, and then I carried ’em back down to me room to get ’em out of sight and heaved ’em over the side of the boat on me way back to Port Jacob.”

“You realize you’ve made things far worse for yourself with your intended coverup?” prodded Tredinnick.

“Wot’s it matter? I’m done in anyway.” He trained a damning look at his father. “And it’s all your fault.”

“Is not.”

“Is so!”

“I suppose the two of you heard what happened at the Stand and Deliver a bit ago?” Tredinnick interrupted.

Jory swatted his hair out of his eyes again. “I haven’t heard a thing these past couple of hours—except for Daisy’s screams of ecstasy.” His mouth slanted into a cocky grin. “Gave her a little taste of Port Jacob’s finest, I did.”

She smacked his ear with the back of her hand. “Port Jacob’s finest bony arse, you mean. Bleedin’ wanker. We are so finished.”

“One of me customers said there was something dodgy happening on the coastal path, but he didn’t say wot,” said Treeve.

“A landslip,” Tredinnick informed him. “The bluff collapsed into the sea to within a few meters of the inn, and the rest of it could go at any time.”

Jory’s grin vanished, replaced by contorted lips, wild eyes, and a strangulated sound that he hocked up from his lungs. “Bollocks!” He clamped his hands on his head. “Bollocks! Bollocks! Bollocks! You gotta get that woman outta there! She’s in the room under the spa. If the whole bluff goes, she’s gonna go with it!”

“What woman?” urged Tredinnick.

“The one with the bad perm and sandpaper voice.”

I sprang out of my chair. “you’ve got bernice?”

“I didn’t want her! But she walked into her room while I was looking through her odds and sods, so I had to do something with her. She saw me face. She could identify me! So I stuck a gag in her mouth, got rid of her cell phone—”

“You stashed it in her nightstand rather than steal it?” I interrupted. “What kind of thief leaves the electronic equipment behind?”

“Her phone was a bleedin’ Android! I have me standards to uphold. So I dragged her into the tunnel with me and trussed her up so she couldn’t escape.”

Jackie gasped dramatically, hand splayed on her chest. “Just like The Phantom of the Opera. I wanted to audition for the part of Christine during my stint on Broadway, but I had the wrong plumbing back then.”

Jory eyed her curiously. “Wot?”

She fluttered her fingers in dismissal. “Never mind.”

“Bernice didn’t run away?” I fisted my hands on the table, my gaze drilling into Jory. “You were holding her captive in your tunnel the whole time Constable Tredinnick and the rest of the country were looking for her?”

“Not the tunnel. Me surveillance room. It’s a bit more high-class than the tunnel.”

“Oh my God. You left an elderly woman bound and gagged and…and starving to death in your surveillance room for two whole days? What kind of monster are you?”

“I didn’t starve her! At least, not up until today I didn’t. I haven’t been back since that girl died this morning. But I fed her while I was there. She particularly enjoyed the bourbon cream biscuits and the dark chocolate digestives.”

“You stole my biscuits?” shrieked Jackie. “It wasn’t Emily who ate her way through all my goodies?”

I gasped at the insinuation. “You thought I was a biscuit thief? Me? The person with the Catholic school background and active fear of Hell? How could you think I’d even be capable of doing anything that sneaky?”

“Because all my snacks disappeared. What else was I supposed to think? That the Keebler elves issued a recall? And you.” She slatted her eyes at Jory. “You couldn’t grab some cookies off the shelf in your own store? You preferred to steal mine? You little bottom-feeder. I want a refund. Right now!”

Jory ignored her outburst. “I warned your Bernice if she screamed for help while I was feeding her that I’d bop her a good one on her head. Would you believe she had the nerve to tell me that if she got a concussion as a result, she’d sue me? She’s apparently read all the online medical reports so she knows her onions.”

“Did you hurt her?”

“No! She’s an old lady. I don’t go around hurting old ladies, but I was tempted. When I pulled her gag out, she never shut up—going on about how she used to be a magazine model and how she’s the reigning champion in some old pensioners’ race and how she could actually look much younger but she can’t order a special beauty cream from New Guinea anymore because of some moronic witch doctor. The woman never talks about anything but herself.”

Jackie blinked her confusion. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Don’t you think she should have been polite enough to ask me something about meself? Like what me name was or where I lived or why I’d turned to a life of crime? No. She wasn’t interested. She even wanted me to remove her shoes so I could admire how pretty her feet were as a result of her bunion surgery. She’s…she’s a bloomin’ nutter! Although, in all fairness, her sandals were very nice.”

Tredinnick jerked his thumb in the Kneebones’ direction. “On your feet, gentlemen. I’m locking you up until I get back.”

“What about me?” asked Daisy.

“Go home. And tell your parents I’ll be stopping by to talk to them and you tomorrow.”

Looking relieved to be escaping jail time, Daisy made a quick search of her pocketbook, retrieving something from the very bottom and slamming it down on the table in front of her. “Me ex-boyfriend probably nicked this, too, so I’m giving it back. I don’t even know what it is, but he thought it was crackin’.” She snorted with disgust. “Plug-ugly is more like it.”

Trumpet-shaped and lavender-colored, it was mounted on a gold base with a ring through which a neck chain could be looped. “That’s Heather’s fob-seal,” I cried.

“Well, she can have it back, but I don’t know why she’d want it.” Daisy held the seal up so we could see the curlicued initials on its underside. “See here? It looks like it’s been scratched by a clowder of cats.”

Tredinnick’s voice oozed revulsion as he glared at Jory. “You nicked this from the dead woman’s neck wallet after you saw her die?”

He had the decency to look slightly shame-faced. “It was hanging right there on a wall hook. Wot’d you expect me to do, ignore it? Wot kind of thief would do that?”

“You’re bent as a nine-bob note,” spat Tredinnick. “A bleedin’ disgrace.”

“Oh, yeah?” he railed as Tredinnick marched him and his father off to their cell. “Well, I’ll tell you wot the real disgrace is, Detective Constable Tredinnick. It’s those guests at the inn—the ones with the Iowa tags on their suitcases. No thief worth his salt could make two bob off ’em. Did they have cash lyin’ around? No. Expensive jewelry? No. Pricey watches? No. They packed duff. Seedcorn hats, windsuits, and a weird hose and mask that I didn’t want to touch because it looked like some pensioner’s sex toy. It’s not right, I tell ya. Honest thieves deserve a better selection of goods to nick.”

“Brilliant,” Daisy called out after them. “You bring me back a cheesy geegaw and leave the sex toy behind? Wanker!”

Tredinnick communicated Bernice’s whereabouts to the firemen who’d remained at the scene of the inn fire, so her rescue got underway immediately. Against his better judgment he allowed Jackie and me to ride back to the inn with him, so we were able to receive updates over his police radio while the rescue was in progress.

“Elderly woman bound and gagged on army cot,” announced a voice amid a background of static.

“Air quality deteriorating.”

“Physical status undetermined, but victim appears responsive.”

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

“Removing gag.”

Zzzzt…kreeeee… bzzzzt.

“Who are you calling elderly?” yelled Bernice in a voice that was even more scratchy than normal. “That’s called age discrimination where I come from. What’s your badge number, you moron? Just in case I decide to sue.”

“Oh my God,” I sobbed, tears welling in my eyes. “She’s okay!”

For safety purposes we weren’t allowed access to the parking lot, so Tredinnick parked his cruiser at the entrance to the driveway, where a host of rubberneckers had gathered to watch the dual spectacle of collapsing cliff and hotel conflagration. As we hurried down the drive on foot, the ambulance left the parking lot and sped toward us, slowing when Tredinnick flagged it down with his flashlight.

“You have room for another passenger?” he asked the driver.

“Hop in, Constable.”

“Not me,” he corrected. “Her. The woman you’re transporting is on her tour. Can she ride along with you to hospital?”

“Front seat then. They’re treating her in back.”

When we arrived at the hospital, I caught only a glimpse of Bernice before they whisked her away. After watching long minutes tick by on the clock in the ER waiting room, I made a polite inquiry at the desk and discovered to my delight that Enyon was recovering from his appendicitis at this very hospital, so I made an unscheduled detour to his room to see how he was faring.

He looked up as I crept into his room, looking so forlorn and downtrodden that I realized there was no way I could compound his grief by sharing the disastrous news about his inn with him. “Hi there, stranger,” I said as I clasped his hand. “You’re looking pretty spry for a man fresh out of surgery.”

“Your flattery falls on deaf ears, I’m afraid. I look a fright. I’m glad Lance isn’t here to see me.” His bottom lip quivered ever so slightly before he forced a half smile. “Appendicitis. Men my age don’t have appendicitis. They suffer manly afflictions like heart attacks and cerebral hemorrhages. It’s a bit embarrassing.”

“Look at it this way,” I teased. “You’ll be left with a lovely scar to show off. It doesn’t get more manly than that.”

He sighed. “I suppose.” He squeezed my hand. “Emily, dear, whatever are you doing here at this time of night? Are visiting hours still in effect?”

“Don’t know. I didn’t ask. I’m here with one of my tour guests actually, so while I wait on her, I wanted to poke my head in the door to say hello.”

He nodded, his eyes registering somber resignation. “I do believe that tour guests are one of the downsides of the hospitality industry that no one ever talks about. They’re obviously a dreadful burden. Falling ill. Having to be taken to hospital. Whinging about the food. Whinging about the accommodations. Whinging about broken pipes. Is there never an end to it?”

“She’s here simply as a precaution.”

He squeezed my hand harder. “Please accept my apologies for leaving you and Mr. Peppers to your own devices while our erstwhile constable raked me over the coals.”

“I’m so sorry, Enyon. The whole process must have been terrible for you.”

He lifted his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug, his voice taking on a faraway tone. “To be honest, I rather liked being in the nick. It was tidy in a Spartan kind of way, and quiet, and so much less chaotic than the inn, even with all the psychological tests they subjected me to. They served me three delicious meals a day plus afternoon tea, let me watch whatever shows I wanted on their expanded cable service, and Bess was there to cheer me up whenever I found myself slipping into melancholia. Unlike Lance, Bess isn’t given to raising her voice, so that was quite refreshing. I even offered the good constable a few decorating hints—mostly about furniture arrangement and lighting, but the whole place could benefit from a new coat of paint. Sexy neutrals with bold accents would be quite splendid, but I doubt Treeve is au courant enough to keep the colors I’m thinking of in stock.”

“Yeah. I don’t think paint was one of his top priorities.”

He sniffled pathetically. “Can I tell you something in confidence, Emily?”

“Of course you can.”

“I hate owning an inn,” he wailed, his features collapsing upon themselves in misery, tears glazing his eyes. “Have you heard of medical doctors completing their residencies, only to discover they don’t like sick people? It happens in the hospitality industry, too. I hate being a B&B host. I bought an inn, but surprise, surprise: I hate tourists…the…the whingey, wretched, odious sods.”

He dissolved into a blubbering torrent of tears. I stuffed a tissue into his hand.

“I agreed to the B&B for Lance, you know,” he sobbed as he dabbed his eyes. “But now that he’s gone, I’m left with a bleedin’ white elephant to manage on my own.” He gazed up at me, red-eyed and weepy. “What am I going to do? I don’t want to go back there, Emily. I’d rather go back to the nick.” He sniffed thoughtfully. “Do you think I should commit an actual crime so they could incarcerate me on a permanent basis?”

“No! But the situation at the inn has changed a bit since you left, so—”

“I’d bite off my arm to sell it,” he reflected as he extended his palm to receive another tissue. “But the process takes so long. And I’d be snookered if no offers came along. Honestly, I wish someone would just take a match to it. At least the aftermath would leave me swimming in insurance money.”

I brightened. “A lot of insurance money?”

He dabbed the corner of his eye. His expression grew wistful. “Enough to see me through the rest of my life. Plonker that he was, Lance believed in insuring property to the gills and then some.”

“So…just out of curiosity, what would you do if you suddenly came into a financial windfall?”

“Do? Why, I’d…” A trace of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I’d buy a cottage in the Lake District—a stone cottage with a large garden and little hothouse, and I’d go into the florist business. I’ve realized too late that I’d much rather spend my time with flowers than with tourists.” He blinked away tears as he regarded me oddly. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because you’re not going to believe what I have to tell you. Do you mind if I pull up a chair? This could take awhile.”

After causing Enyon’s spirits to soar deliriously by filling him in on the catastrophe at the inn, I offered hugs and goodbyes and returned to the ER to be told that Bernice had yet to be moved. I watched the clock in the waiting room tick off a couple of hours before I was cleared to proceed to her room, where I watched another few hours tick by. Bernice, for her part, was unaware of the clock in her room because she was sound asleep with an IV drip in her arm, monitoring devices attached to her chest, and an oxygen mask over her face.

Despite all that, however, she looked serene.

I envied her serenity. But even more than that, I envied her bed.

At some point during my vigil I must have fallen asleep in the chair because I was startled awake by a chorus of familiar voices.

“Was you really kidnapped and held hostage in a tunnel?” Nana asked a now-conscious Bernice.

Margi clasped her hands beneath her chin. “That’s so romantic.”

“Very reminiscent of a Daphne du Maurier novel,” commented Tilly.

“That police fella thought you might have wandered off the cliff when you went missing,” said Dick Teig. “But just so’s you know, the edge of the cliff is a lot closer to the inn now, so if you get a mind to do that, you won’t have so far to walk.”

“Except that the inn isn’t there anymore,” lamented Alice.

“The shell’s still standin’,” clarified Nana. “It’s the insides what got torched. And it’s all on account of them Cacciatore folks what was holdin’ us at gunpoint. It’s a shame you missed it, Bernice, but bein’ in a tunnel sounds like it was a lot more excitin’.”

“Did you see how wide her eyes just got?” hooted Dick Teig, motioning toward her face.

“Looks like she wants to say something,” said George.

“Too bad she’s wearing that oxygen mask,” observed Osmond. “You suppose she really needs it?”

“No touching the oxygen mask!” I warned as I popped out of my chair.

Lucille regarded her from the foot of the bed. “Since you’re only able to speak with your eyes, Bernice, this might be a good time for you to process the really bad news with the least possible strain to your voice. Your cell phone is toast. You lost it in the fire.”

“You wanna see the fire?” enthused Dick Teig.

Whipping out their phones, they began flipping through screens.

“Hold it!” My voice rang through the room with surprising authority. “C’mon, guys. You arrive at the hospital to visit Bernice and two minutes into the visit you’re already grabbing your phones? What happened to comradery? To simple conversation? What happened to sentiments like ‘We’re glad you survived that horrifying experience and you’re not injured, Bernice. We missed you when you were gone, Bernice. Is there anything we can do for you, Bernice?’”

“Maybe you didn’t notice,” Helen Teig said to me in an undertone. “She can’t talk.”

“It’s on account of the oxygen mask, dear.” Nana cocked her head to study the contraption better. “I never seen one that big before.”

“I bet it’s leftover from World War I,” offered Margi.

“You’re missing the point,” I chided. “You don’t need your cell phones at a time like this. Talk to her. Tell her what happened to you while she was missing. Remember how engaged you were with each other when you had your phones packed away and what a good time you had? Remember how nostalgic you got for the pre-cell phone days, when you actually spent time talking to each other? Do you really want to go back to the same old routine of having your noses stuck in your phones all the time and not giving a flip about what’s happening around you?”

Shoe scuffing. Shoulder slumping. Gaze lowering.

Uff-da. Had I finally succeeded in getting through to them?

“So what do you say about putting your phones away and entertaining Bernice with a few personal stories that can’t be found on the internet?”

They exchanged long, guilt-ridden glances with each other before Dick Teig looked at me and announced rather emphatically, “Nah.” He held up his phone for Bernice’s perusal. “Some fire, huh? I’ve already got twenty-three hits on YouTube. And that’s only since last night.”

“I’ve got twenty-six,” boasted Dick Stolee.

“I titled mine The Towering Inferno,” said Osmond, “and my hits have already passed the century mark.”

“Wasn’t that the title of a movie?” asked Lucille.

“It certainly was,” said Margi. “No wonder Osmond has so many hits. People think they’re gonna see an old Steve McQueen flick.”

“Osmond plagiarized a movie?” quipped Helen. “If he gets arrested for copyright infringement, who’s gonna conduct our polls?”

Their voices rose to a crescendo as they fought to show Bernice their fire footage, arguing over whose clip would go viral first. Amid the chaos I heard the digital chime of my own cell phone, so I headed for the relative quiet of the corridor as I dug it out of my shoulder bag.

“Etienne? Is the retreat over? Did you get to meet the Pope? I’ve missed you so much. Please tell me you’ll arrive in Lyme Regis when you’re supposed to. I can’t wait to see you.”

“I love you, bella. Yes, I’m scheduled to arrive on time.” A pause. “You sound a little breathless. Is anything wrong?”

“Wrong?” I hugged my phone to my ear as if, in doing so, I might allow his voice to wrap around me in a warm embrace. “What could possibly be wrong?”

the end