five

“I swear to God,” Helen ranted into her phone the following morning. “There were a bunch of creepy crawly critters climbing out of the middle of the pie, like…like little alien creatures trying to squirm out of quicksand. They had claws for hands, and beady black eyes, and so many antennae that they could probably pick up the local cable channels. And we were expected to eat them. I’ve never been so appalled by anything in all my life.” She paused. “No, wait. There was that time your father—” She paused again. “Never mind. This was even more appalling than that.”

The Teigs occupied the seat in front of me on the bus, and while the rest of us were suffering shellshock from having our bus whiplashed by overgrown hedgerows on narrow lanes with no shoulders, Helen was completely oblivious, conducting a phone conversation with one of her children in Iowa, complaining about Lance’s stargazy pie the night before.

Dick snatched the phone away from her. “And that wasn’t the worst of it. For an appetizer they tried serving us moldy cheese on toast, so no one ate anything last night, except for one blogger guy who probably has a stomach made of cast iron. And Emily. Man, she really packed it away.”

Of course I’d packed it away. I was starving. Besides, the stargazy pie—with its cluster of mini lobsters baked into a sauce of bacon, eggs, onions, and mustard—was absolutely delicious. Lance might not have been blessed with charm and charisma, but he’d obviously made up for the deficit with extraordinary culinary skills. None of which we’d be sampling for the rest of our stay.

“Breakfast?” Dick boomed into the phone. “Breakfast was great. Dry cereal and toast. But we’re not paying top dollar to eat corn flakes. Hell, we can get that at home.”

My eyes rolled around in their sockets like misdirected pinballs. The locals ate stargazy pie and Cornish yarg, both of which had been served last night, but neither of which he would sample. That’s what he was paying top dollar for, but it wouldn’t do me any good to point it out because I doubted he’d see the connection.

We were on our way to the Bedruthan Steps, a secluded beach near St. Eval that was famous for the great chunks of cliff that had broken away from the headland to form a Jurassic-like series of columns that resembled gargantuan elephant legs. The surf was unsuitable for swimming because of the strong currents, and visitors ran the twofold risk of either being cut off by the tide or crushed by falling rock, but photos of the beach had looked so amazing that I insisted we give it a try. So with the tide schedule in our favor, sunshine overhead, and some newly rented equipment stowed in our baggage compartment, we were planning to spend a couple of hours at the beach metal detecting.

The owner of the hardware store where we’d rented the detectors had congratulated us on scheduling our adventure the day after a squall because local beaches apparently became a beachcomber’s paradise in the aftermath, exposing treasures that might have been buried beneath the ocean floor for centuries. When Wally passed this information along, the gang seemed excited about the prospect of finding authentic buried treasure, but they seemed even more excited about having the opportunity to eat lunch somewhere other than the Stand and Deliver Inn—at a place where they’d be able to order American fare with only a hint of Cornish flair. Like maybe having the meal served on pink-and-white striped plates.

The view out the coach windows was more claustrophobic than enchanting. Towering hedgerows on both sides of the road. Ramshackle sheds. Tidy stone fences. Grassy fields. Rolling hills. One red phone booth at the edge of someone’s driveway. And every so often a break in the hedgerows to allow banks of pink flowers to overhang the road. In Porthcothan Bay we passed a community of homes as pale as seashells that were nestled on a hillock overlooking a white sand beach. The beach stretched between a deep split in the headland and was bisected by a series of flowing tidal streams, but at high tide I suspected that, like the Bedruthan Steps beach, the Porthcothan beach would disappear completely.

The bus’s sound system rasped into life as Wally activated the mike. “Only a few more kilometers until we reach our destination, folks, but before we arrive, I want to turn the microphone over to Caroline Goodfriend, who has an exciting offer for you. Caroline?” He handed her the mike.

“This is just a suggestion,” she said in her usual cheery voice, “but it could be fun. As Emily mentioned yesterday, my expertise is in the area of genealogy and family history, and one courtesy I love to offer groups like this one is to do a quick computer search to see if I can discover never-before-known facts about ancestors you didn’t even know you had. The results can be quite thrilling. So if any of you are game, I’ll be more than happy to fire up my iPad and see what I can find. Have any of you ever researched your family tree?”

“I’m gonna pass on the family tree thing,” Nana piped up. “Been there, done that.”

Caroline swiveled in her seat to face the back of the bus. “Who said that?”

Nana raised her hand.

“Were you pleasantly surprised with the results?” asked Caroline.

“Nope. The whole dang tree’s got blight, so I don’t wanna find out no more about ’em.”

“Oh.” Caroline looked crestfallen. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Not half as sorry as me. I’m related to the dang buggers.”

“I wouldn’t mind having you add a few leaves to my family tree,” George spoke up. “I don’t know diddly about my Farkas ancestors. Maybe you’ll discover my tree is more like a shrub.”

“The Tjarks emigrated from Norway sometime in the 1800s,” Alice revealed, unable to hide her excitement. “But I don’t have any specifics. I’d love to know more.”

“Dick’s ancestors are Norwegian, too,” Helen Teig reminded everyone, “but if his ancestors are anything like him, you might hit a lot of brick walls.”

“Why is that?” asked Caroline.

“Because I’m shallow,” Dick said glumly. “I got the diagnosis last year from some psychic. And shallow people don’t leave much of a blip on the radar. I don’t know if I’m the only one affected or if the condition runs through the whole clan, but I’m looking at it as a hereditary defect rather than something I have to take responsibility for.”

“I don’t require your services,” Kathryn Crabbe remarked with a dismissive air. Her clothing had apparently dried overnight, so she’d been spared the misery of having to don soggy clothes this morning. “My pedigree is impeccable.”

“You’re related to dogs?” asked Margi.

“I belong to a long and impressive line of English aristocrats who date back to the days of King Henry VIII,” Kathryn boasted. “I imagine the Anglophiles among you might have seen my ancestor’s name listed in the book of English peerages? Crispin Truscott- Tallon? Known affectionately in my family as the Baron Penwithick? He was the first baron, actually. We’re up to number twenty-two now.”

Stiff smiles. Vacuous stares.

“Have any of your relatives ever been in that Westminster Dog Show?” Osmond inquired.

Before Kathryn had a chance to respond to that, Caroline jumped in. “I have a clipboard and paper here. I’ll pass it around while we’re still in transit, and for those of you who’d like to participate, just jot down the name you’d like me to plug into my software program, in legible handwriting please, and I’ll get started as soon as possible. And if you know of any applicable dates, like births or deaths, feel free to write those down, too. Every detail helps.”

As a trill of excitement rippled through the bus, I pulled my cell phone out of my shoulder bag and sat staring at it, mired in indecision. After about a half minute, Jackie leaned toward me. “If your phone’s dead, you can borrow mine.” She angled it toward me.

“It’s not dead. I’m just too chicken to read what our bloggers wrote about the first day of our trip. I’m not sure how much ridicule I can handle this early in the morning.”

“You want me to look for you? Ridicule doesn’t bother me one bit…as long as it’s directed at someone else. Whose blog do you want to start with?”

I crooked my mouth and shrugged, her idea seeming like the perfect solution. “Okay, but if any of the blogs are really scathing, I don’t want you to tell me. At least, not this very minute. Deal?”

“You’ve come to the right girl, Em. You know, looking back at my life, I think I’ve always excelled at enabling other people to make really stupid decisions. So. Who do you want me to read first?”

Not Kathryn. “August Lugar. He scarfed down a second helping of pie last night, so I’m going to interpret that as a good sign.”

Her thumbs flew over her screen. “Here it is. And it’s dated today. Give me a sec to scan what he has to—oh, my.”

My stomach dropped to my knees. “What?”

She silenced me with a raised forefinger as she continued to read.

“He hated it, didn’t he?” I buried my face in my hands. “Why did I decide to put the agency’s reputation on the line like this? I should never push the envelope. If nothing is broken, why do I insist on trying to fix—”

“‘The evening’s main entrée was not only a Cornish specialty but a perfect marriage of savory taste and visual appeal. I have never eaten finer fare.’”

I snatched my hands away from my face and gaped at Jackie. “He liked it?”

“‘The chef at the Stand and Deliver Inn should receive a medal of excellence for his dish, but unfortunately, it will have to be presented posthumously because he died in a tragic accident not long after our arrival. I have no idea what today’s dinner will have in store for us, but I mourn the fact that we will no longer be able to sample the epicurean delicacies of Chef Lance Tori. Stay tuned.’”

“Oh my God,” I squeaked. “That’s sensational! Will you send the link to Etienne so he can read it after his retreat? This is the kind of attention that’ll really boost our standing in the group travel world.”

Jackie’s thumbs went into overdrive again. “Who should we try next?”

“Caroline.” I regarded the clipboard as it made its way toward the back of the bus. “If she didn’t have anything nice to say, I bet she might have made something up.”

She accessed the site as our bus driver downshifted to a crawl and made a sharp turn into a graveled parking lot with a building about the size of an extinct Fotomat kiosk guarding the entrance. We were on a wide, grassy plateau high above the shore, but exactly how high, I couldn’t tell. While Wally hopped off to pay the admission fee, Jackie demonstrated her ability to speed-read a blog page in one long breath. “‘My pre-trip reading…blah, blah, blah…tales of highwaymen on Bodmin Moor…blah, blah…the outlaws have long disappeared but legends of their misdeeds live on in the literature…blah, blah, blah…charming names for our suites that capture the spirit of Cornwall three centuries ago…’ and so on and so forth. Nothing bad, just researchy-type stuff. Who’s next?”

But before I could answer, Wally hopped back on the bus and began to announce instructions. “Your metal detectors are in the luggage bay, so that should be your first stop when you step off the bus. Do not head to the beach without your detector in hand. Operation is simple: just flip the switch to the on position and you’re good to go. If the equipment starts beeping, that’s a good sign. Start digging.”

“With what?” George threw out.

“Your digging tools are included. Small garden spades are attached to each detector. Don’t lose sight of your detectors or your spades because we’ll have to reimburse the hardware store for all lost or damaged equipment. We’ll have a show-and-tell at the inn later today to see if anyone really did unearth a buried treasure. Questions?”

Margi raised her hand. “Are these detectors fresh out of the box?”

“I’d guess they’ve been used hundreds of times, Margi. But they’re top of the line and in really good shape.”

“Wonderful.” Her voice dropped like the tone on a slide whistle.

“One more thing before you head out. The stairs down to the beach are extremely steep and can be slippery if standing water has pooled on them, so climb down slowly, don’t crowd each other, use the handrail, and exercise caution at all times. And I probably don’t have to tell you this, but do not—I repeat, do not—venture into the water. The currents are strong and unpredictable and could drag you out to sea before you knew what hit you. I don’t even want to see you getting your toes wet. Understood?”

Heads bobbing. Murmurs of assent.

“We’ll be here for two hours, so make note of the time so you can make your way back to the bus promptly. Good luck, everyone.”

This admonition was mainly for the bloggers because the only viable excuse my ever-punctual Iowans will accept for tardiness is if a person drops dead unexpectedly.

As the bus’s rear door whooshed open, everyone crowded into the aisles and began streaming down the stepwell. Jackie, however, remained planted on the seat beside me, looking like a sports car that had just suffered a major breakdown on the way to Vegas.

“What should I do, Emily?” She dropped her head to her chest. “I’m going to need a permanent job once my divorce goes through, but I’m so bummed, I don’t even know where to begin.” She dashed a stray tear from the corner of her eye and sniffed pathetically. “You know all the confidence I used to have? My soaring self-esteem? It’s gone. Vanished. Poof!” She fluttered her fingers to simulate an imaginary burst of fireworks. “I’m a mere shell of the man I used to be. I mean, the woman I was. Or am. Whichever.”

“C’mon, Jack, chin up. You can always revisit one of the professions you’ve already test driven.” She boasted an eclectic list that included actor, master caulker, romance novelist, life coach, and cosmetics sales representative. “You were good at all of them.”

“I know. The younger me really knew how to kick butt. But that was then; this is now. For my own emotional health, I need a powder-puff job that’s stress-free and pays lots of money.”

I laughed. “When you find a job like that, let me know. We can apply together.”

She paused. “Well, I was thinking you already have a job like that.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded. “What?”

Suddenly energized, she sat up steeple-straight in her seat. “What would you think about hiring me as a travel escort at your agency so I can do the same stuff you do? Travel to exotic locales, have all my expenses paid, hang out with the group, smooth the occasional ruffled feather, schmooze with the tour director. It’s the kind of job that was made for someone with my considerable talents.”

I didn’t know what made the louder noise, my jaw hitting my chest or my eyes ballooning out of their sockets. “We don’t have job openings, Jack. We’re a two-person operation—except when we have to hire the occasional temp secretary.”

“Right now you’re a two-person agency, but you’ll have to expand once your good publicity starts flooding the internet. You could hire me now to get ahead of the game. I’d be up and running to escort your next tour!”

Oh, God.

“Will you ladies be here much longer?” Freddy called out from the front of the bus. “I’m getting ready to lock up.”

“Sorry.” I shot out of my seat and pulled Jackie up with me. “We’re leaving now.”

“What about the job?” Jackie persisted as I herded her toward the exit and down the stairs.

“Can we talk about this later, Jack? You know I can’t give you an answer without crunching the numbers, and Etienne is in charge of numbers crunching.”

“I have him on speed dial. You want me to call him?”

“No.”

“Text?”

“No! He’s with the Pope. Look, you can discuss this with him face-to-face when he meets us in Lyme Regis. Okay?” Etienne could brainstorm with her about future job opportunities without being weighed down by emotional baggage or guilt. In part because he was Swiss, but mostly because he hadn’t been married to her. Him. Her.

Jackie’s mouth slid into a resigned pout. “I suppose. You just better hope no one hires me before you can make an offer. Losing me could be a terrible blow to your company.”

“Last one!” As we neared the luggage bay, Wally hefted the remaining metal detector into the air and extended it toward us—a long metal rod capped off at the base by a disc that resembled a miniature flying saucer. “You want to flip a coin for it?”

“Jackie can have it.” Maybe she’d unearth a cache of buried treasure that would leave her so filthy rich, she wouldn’t have to find a job. “I need to keep an eye on the gang while they’re on the beach. You know how freaked out they get when they hear the words ‘incoming tide.’” Living in a state where there are no tides, the average Iowan has a deeper understanding of the derivatives of trigonometric functions than he does of daily tidal charts.

Wally handed the detector to Jackie, who cooed with excitement over its readout screen and switches before propping it against her shoulder as if it were a military rifle. The rest of the troops were already hot-footing it toward the stairs, all except Margi, who was scouring the handle of her detector with the entire contents of her mini sanitizer bottle.

“I have to make a few phone calls,” Wally commented as he closed the luggage bay, “so I’ll join you when I’m done. Save a place on the beach for me.”

We sauntered toward Margi, who’d just completed her decontamination process and looked quite tickled with herself. “I’m letting it air dry,” she explained while fanning her hand over the rubberized grip. “Much more hygienic than a total wipe down.”

The entrance to the stairs sat wedged between two walls of rock that could be closed off to the public by a barred metal gate that looked like a relic from a prison cell. As I descended the staircase, stepping cautiously onto blocks of chiseled granite, I gripped the metal handrail on either side of me and eyed the steel mesh fencing that clung to the cliff face like a lady’s hairnet, preventing loose rock from spilling onto the stairway. A ragged carpet of flora crept over rocks and crannies in an outbreak of greenery that poked through the hexagonal openings in the steel fencing. I turned my face into my shoulder as the wind howled upward from the beach like a gale in a wind tunnel, whistling past my ears, stinging my eyes, and lifting my hair off my head in wild streamers. The stairs zigzagged through a narrow fissure in the headland at an angle too steep for anyone with height phobias to negotiate, but even for those of us not affected by acrophobia, the steepness caused a bit of tingling in my feet and toes.

Rounding a sharp bend, I shivered involuntarily as I passed a life preserver encased in an orange storage unit and couldn’t help wondering when someone had last needed it. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be needed today. On the final landing I noted a battered sign attached to the railing that read Do Not Enter Water At Any Time. I hoped everyone had taken the time to read it, as it reinforced what Wally had already cautioned us about. I just hoped they heeded the warning. As many years as I’d accompanied the gang on coastal tours, seeing them anywhere near the water still gave me heartburn.

As I descended the final section of risers, I noticed an angular gash in the headland to my left—a narrow maw that looked to be the geological equivalent of a black hole. A cavern that looked so eerie, I vowed to stay as far away from it as humanly possible. After dancing around a series of puddles on the last steps, I hopped onto the sand and beheld the vista before me.

It was as if I’d stepped through a portal into Jules Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth.

“Holy cow,” said Jackie as she hopped onto the sand beside me.

The view was breathtaking in a primordial kind of way. Fractured rock from landslips strewn about the base of jagged cliffs. Shallow caves that looked to be lairs for winged creatures with lizard’s skin and sharpened claws. Rock formations slick with algae. Cataracts of water streaming down the cliff face, the wind blowing spray into the air in a soaking drizzle. The massive chimney stacks of rock that squatted like broken molars at the water’s edge, dwarfing the metal detectorists who looked as tiny as ants standing beneath them.

“What are the chances there’s treasure buried here someplace?” Jackie asked with some skepticism as she switched her device to the on position.

I shrugged. “Like the guy at the hardware store said, this part of the coast was apparently a graveyard for sailing vessels over the centuries, so who knows what you might find?”

“Okay.” She ranged a look around the beach, looking a little creeped out. “I just hope I don’t dig up any dinosaur bones or anything because it looks to me as if this is the place they came to die.”

I hoped she didn’t dig up any dinosaur bones either because they’d be way too big to fit on the bus.

As she headed off in the direction of the chimney stacks, I found a sun-drenched rock to sit on where, amid the haunting whoosh of pounding surf and the caw of gulls soaring overhead, I could keep a close eye on my detectorists. They seemed to have mastered the “sweeping the ground” part of the activity pretty well, but the digging component looked to need a little tweaking because sand was flying everywhere. I figured that was the one potentially good thing about a high tide. The incoming waves would automatically fill in all the divots so the group wouldn’t have to.

After about twenty minutes of watching everyone walk in mindless circles, sweeping, digging, and cussing, I took out my phone again, feeling a little more confident about scanning the rest of the blogs.

Mason Chatsworth had nice things to say about our accommodations in his blog. He mentioned the inn’s country charm, exquisite interior design, and well-appointed rooms complete with “en suite bathrooms, a riotous tumble of throw pillows, and proper English teddy bears.” He did mention a bit of difficulty with the plumbing in one suite but didn’t go into detail, which eased my nerves even more.

Spencer Blunt was equally complimentary, citing the substantial financial savings a traveler would enjoy by having both his breakfast and dinner included at the Stand and Deliver Inn. “Even though not every traveler will appreciate the authentic Cornish cuisine served at the inn, if you’re watching your pennies, it’s a win-win situation.”

I was a bit hesitant to access Heather Holloway’s blog, so I scanned the text one-eyed for most of its length, cringing when Austen Zombie Girl came out swinging. “My regular readers know what a fan I’ve been of Penelope Pemberley’s blog throughout the years. It was because of Penelope’s influence that I became a die-hard Janeite. Imagine my excitement when I learned that Penelope herself was a guest on this tour. My idol! Traveling with me to Jane Austen’s Chawton! You can also imagine my disappointment when the woman hiding behind the name Penelope Pemberley suggested that my membership in the Jane Austen Society be revoked simply because she thinks my blog entries don’t pass her personal literary purity test. Why, you might ask, would she suggest something like that? Because she’s a narrow-minded snob with no appreciation for the beauty of modern literature. Rise up, zombie sisters! Join me in online shaming Penelope Pemberley on worldwide social media!”

Oh, God. Had Heather just cast the first stone in a literary cyber war?

“Would you like to use my metal detector?” Caroline Goodfriend trudged toward me, ruffling sand from her hair. “I can’t seem to stay upwind of the digging enthusiasts and I’m paying the price, so I’m hanging it up.”

“Thanks anyway, but I want to stay alert in case someone decides the No Swimming sign doesn’t apply to them.”

She laughed as she sat down beside me. “They seem to be enjoying themselves. I guess treasure hunting is like catnip to the masses, playing on people’s fantasies of riches. Good call.”

“For now. I’m sure I’ll get a few complaints about what a waste of time it was.”

She peered over my shoulder. “You’re getting cell service down here?”

“Yup. Unbelievably.” I held up my phone. “I’m catching up on my online reading.”

She removed her phone from her shoulder bag. “Good idea.”

I peeked at her screen. “Getting a head start on your genealogical research?”

“Nope.” She flicked through a couple of screens before angling her phone toward me.

“Solitaire?” I asked, eyeing the stacks of virtual playing cards.

“Twenty-One. My favorite guilty pleasure. That and Sudoku. They satisfy my inexplicable love affair with numbers.”

“The gang’s favorite guilty pleasure is Farmville. I think it reinforces their relationship with seed corn and swine.”

“Do you play anything?”

“Candy Crush. It reinforces my relationship with sweets.”

“I found something!” Dick Teig’s voice echoed off the surrounding cliffs. I shot a look toward the far end of the beach, watching as the gang and a handful of bloggers made a beeline toward the outcropping of rock where he stood, their metal detectors clunking into each other as they swarmed around him. After receiving a minute’s worth of congratulatory backslaps, Dick pelted toward me, his entourage following behind like a gaggle of hyperactive geese.

“I’ve really hit the jackpot this time!” whooped Dick as the rest of the gang scampered toward him. “Easy street, here we come.”

“What’d you find?” I asked as he and his band of rubberneckers crowded around me.

He extended his palm, revealing a baseball-sized sphere whose sand-coated exterior was a conglomeration of mussels, tiny seashells, barnacles, and sea gunk. “Ta-da!”

“This is your jackpot?” accused Helen, lips pursed with distaste. “How absolutely underwhelming.”

I stared at the hideous lump, struggling to match Dick’s boyish enthusiasm. “Well, would you look at that. It’s a”—I tilted my head left, then right—“…a…”

“It’s a hot mess,” droned Bernice.

“Maybe it just needs to be cleaned,” suggested Margi, squirting a stream of hand sanitizer toward it.

We watched the sanitizing gel spread over the blob like spilled honey, adding another layer of goop to the mess.

“Dang,” said Nana. “That didn’t do no good at all. We need somethin’ with more teeth in it.”

Helen gasped. “Dick is not using his teeth. You hear that, Dick? I forbid you to bite into that thing.” Then, to the crowd, “We just cashed in an IRA to have all his old amalgam fillings replaced with resin composite.”

Nana gave her a squinty look behind her wirerims. “I was thinkin’ more like one of them ball-peen hammers. They probably sell ’em at the hardware store what rented Emily the metal detectors.”

“Why don’t we just cut to the chase and call up the big guns?” suggested Dick Stolee. His eyes twinkled with resolve. “Low-impact explosives.”

“No explosives!” I warned.

“Crack it open with a rock,” urged Kathryn, sweeping her hand to indicate the breadth of the beach. “I’m sure you can find a suitable one, considering all the many different sizes you have to choose from. And when you’re done smashing it open, you can use it to smash Heather’s computer. It might be the only way to prevent her from spreading any more of her libelous vitriol over the internet. Don’t be fooled by the girl’s wide-eyed innocence, my good people. She’s nothing more than a bottle-blond cyber bully.”

Uh-oh. Sounded as if Kathryn had discovered Heather’s blog post this morning.

“You started it,” accused Heather.

“I did not. But I’ll take great pleasure in finishing it.” Kathryn’s mouth slid into a stiff smile that caused alarm bells to go off in my head. Much to my horror, she suddenly looked like the movie franchise Chucky doll before he slashed his first victim, prompting me to wonder if the two women would even be speaking to each other when we reached our first Austen site.

“Why are you so sure there’s something of value inside that thing?” Spencer Blunt asked Dick. He opened his fist. “All I’ve found so far is a couple of beer bottle caps. Just what I need to take home with me. Limey litter, compliments of some Cornish sot too pie-eyed to find a rubbish barrel.”

“This metal-detecting crap is embarrassing,” snarled Bernice. “Grown adults digging in the sand like two-year-olds.” She held up her find. “Here’s my reward for wasting fifteen minutes of my life with Emily’s dopey metal detector.”

“Oh, wow,” enthused Margi. “A nail. Looks really old.”

Bernice’s lips curled into her signature sneer. “Yeah. Rust can have that effect on stuff. I should charge the prime minister a fee for removing litter from his public beach.”

“But…what if it was part of a famous ship that wrecked off the coast here?” speculated Helen Teig. “Like a Viking ship or one of the ships in the Spanish Armada.”

“Or the Good Ship Lollipop,” mocked Bernice.

Helen fixed her with a piercing look. “What if it’s worth a whole lot of money to someone who collects shipwreck memorabilia?”

Bernice regarded the nail with slightly less impatience. “Who’d be dumb enough to fork over good money for a rusty nail?”

“Perhaps someone wise enough to know that a rusty nail could turn out to be the find of the century,” theorized Tilly.

Spencer skirted the perimeter of the group, eying the gang in the same way he might study artifacts in a museum. “Out of curiosity, what would you folks be doing right now if you weren’t metal detecting? Snoozing? Massaging your joints with arthritis cream? Playing an exciting round of charades? I bet your demographic kills at charades. I mean, before the invention of TV, what else was there for old duffers like you to do at get-togethers?”

The gang stared at him, deadpan.

“I don’t understand,” puzzled Margi. “Is he talking about us?”

My cell phone chimed as an incoming call came through. Wally. “While I take this call, why don’t you go back to your beachcombing? You still have a large area to explore, and don’t forget the caves.”

Dick Teig set his sphere of sea gunk down on the rock where Caroline was still sitting. “You don’t mind watching this for me, do you, Emily? And I don’t need to tell you to guard it with your life.”

In the next instant a half-dozen of the gang shouted out the same instructions as they dumped their bottle caps, shards of sea glass, and metal pull tabs on the same rock. Bernice lifted the flap of her shoulder bag and dropped her rusty nail inside, seemingly afraid that if I were to guard her treasure, I’d be tempted to auction it off on eBay.

“I thought you were going to join me in a few minutes,” I said to Wally as the troops dispersed across the beach. I ranged a look toward the cliff. “Where are you?”

“Near the coach. But I wanted to share the latest with you. Just received a call from Enyon. He’s being escorted to the police station for questioning, so he wanted to tell me where to find the master key so we can let ourselves in.”

“The police are questioning Enyon?”

“There’s evidence suggesting that Lance might not have fallen accidentally. The postmortem revealed both bruising and a fractured vertebrae in his spine, which means someone may have literally drop-kicked him as he was heading down the staircase.”

“And the police think it was Enyon?”

“They’re not throwing the book at him, Emily. They’re only holding him for questioning.”

“But why would Enyon murder Lance on day one of their new venture? Who murders the chef on the same day the overseas guests arrive?”

“Well, someone apparently killed him. If Enyon didn’t do it, who did?”

“You’re not suggesting that one of the guests had a hand in it, are you?”

“They were the only other people in the house at the time, Emily. You do the math.”

Not what I wanted to hear on the second day of our Cornish adventure.

In my mind’s eye I could see the gang and the bloggers gathered in the hallway outside Kathryn’s suite, all part of the frenzy. But the bloggers hadn’t hung around for the duration. Was it possible one of them had snuck off to the kitchen to confront Lance?

My stomach executed a double flip at the implication.

Oh, God. Not again.