seven

One of the unintended consequences of touring a town built on a hill is that at the end of the day you have to climb back up the hill to board your bus. Since we weren’t on a strict time schedule, I encouraged everyone to make the ascent in stages, with plenty of rest stops in between. I was heartened when the group followed my instructions without complaint as they made strategic stops at the tearoom for cream tea and sandwiches, the nut shop for snacks, and the ice cream shop for cones. No one suffered a heart attack from the stress of the climb, but I feared that the liberal ingestion of saturated fats during the ascent had clogged so many arteries, I’d be dealing with a slew of medical emergencies in the days to come.

Of course, the best part of the group’s slow ascent to the bus was that they’d scarfed down so much food, they’d probably be too full to eat later, which was a relief since I had no clue what to do about dinner. In a perfect world Enyon would be cleared of suspicion, return to the inn, blow the dust off his cookbooks, don his old chef’s hat, and prepare a meal that would knock our socks off. But the world was fueled by imperfection, so as I descended into a slow panic, I surprised myself by wondering if the local market sold toast n’ serve breakfast tarts and waffles.

When we pulled into the parking lot of the inn, I was greeted by another surprise.

A neon yellow and blue checkered Port Jacob police cruiser.

I got so excited, I nearly broke into handstands, but lacking the adequate space to perform even limited acrobatics, I grabbed Jackie’s arm instead. “The police. They must have finished questioning Enyon and driven him back.”

She peeked out the window at the uniformed officer who was leaning against the back end of the squad car. “Oh, pul-leese. Do you see the look on the guy’s face? Trust me. He’s not here to deliver good news.” She grunted with frustration. “I so need to buy more wigs. How is it that Kneebone Hardware carries every walking aid known to man but not one stinkin’ wig?” She frowned. “Do you recall passing a costume shop any time in our travels today?”

A frisson of unease rippled through the bus as guests noticed the police car.

“What’s up with the fuzz?” questioned Dick Teig, whose tone grew alarmed as he tacked on, “Are they going to arrest us for digging stuff up on the beach?”

“They can’t arrest us if we didn’t know it was illegal,” assured Dick Stolee.

“They should arrest Emily,” railed Bernice. “It was her idea.”

Wally grabbed the microphone. “I can guarantee you that no one is going to be arrested for exercising your right to metal detect. But I do have some recent information to share, and now seems as good a time as any. Lance Tori’s postmortem indicated that his death might have been deliberate rather than accidental, so earlier today, the police took Enyon in for questioning.”

Gasps. Murmurs. Shock.

“If Enyon is still being questioned, I’ll need to retrieve the key from its hiding place before I can open up the inn, so I’d like you to remain on the bus until I find out what’s going on.”

“The authorities think Enyon killed Lance?” Heather Holloway called out. “Why would he murder his only chef?”

“Maybe so he wouldn’t have to eat no more stargazy pie,” suggested Nana.

“Heather’s right,” offered August Lugar. “Without a chef, the Stand and Deliver is doomed.”

“I couldn’t disagree more,” argued Spencer. “The inn was doomed with Tori. How long do you think their doors would have remained open if Lance had been allowed to interact with future guests like he interacted with us? The way I see it, Enyon had a choice. Run the business into the ground with Lance or run a successful business with a new chef. It seems perfectly clear which option he chose.”

“Maybe a stint in a rehab facility would’ve helped that fella,” Margi commented.

“Do they got places to rehab folks what got no manners?” asked Nana.

“Charm school,” suggested Caroline Goodfriend.

“Charm school is a thing of the past,” asserted Kathryn Crabbe. “People don’t cough up money to learn manners anymore. They’d much rather be obnoxious.”

“You oughta know,” taunted Heather Holloway.

“I need to clarify my statement,” Wally spoke up. “No one has accused Enyon of Lance’s murder. He’s only being questioned. So let’s remember he’s innocent until proven otherwise.”

Snickers. Guffaws. Snorts.

I glanced toward the police car to find the officer limping his way across the parking lot toward us. That he walked with a pronounced limp and needed the assistance of a cane came as no surprise. From what I’d observed, everyone in Port Jacob was suffering with an ambulatory disorder that required the use of a cane, crutches, or a rolling walker. The place was probably a goldmine for orthopedic surgeons.

Wally hurried down the stairs to greet him, returning a few minutes later to deliver the news.

“Unfortunately, your afternoon and early evening schedule is about to change. The Port Jacob police have received credible information that Chef Lance Tori didn’t exactly endear himself to certain members of our tour group, so Constable Tredinnick would like to document those encounters.”

“How many folks does he wanna talk to?” asked Nana.

Wally hesitated. “All of us. No one gets a pass.”

As a symphony of groans erupted throughout the bus, Jackie slid down in her seat as if it were a freshly waxed slide. I arched a brow. “So the police had no way of learning what you said to Treeve, huh? How’s that working out?”

“We don’t know it was Treeve who blabbed, Emily. I mean, maybe Enyon tried to divert suspicion away from himself by telling the police that everyone in the group had a reason to hate Lance, which is the truth—except for me.” She boosted herself back up to a sitting position. “In retrospect, I’m glad I was stuck in the powder room and never got to meet him. My interview should go really quickly.”

I gave her a withering look before cupping my hands around my mouth and calling out to Wally, “Is Enyon back?”

“The constable hinted that he’ll probably be released late this afternoon.”

Oh, thank God. I’d be off the hook for dinner, and Enyon would be in the driver’s seat again…even though he was still sure to be numb from the shock of Lance’s death, and suffering from another migraine, and severely depressed, and maybe unresponsive.

I flinched at the likelihood of my prediction.

Okay, so maybe Enyon would be in the back seat rather than the driver’s seat, but at least he’d be here to give us some guidance.

“Constable Tredinnick will be conducting your interviews in the spa.” Wally gestured toward the outbuilding at the far end of the parking lot. “I’m going to open up the inn so you can stow your things and use the facilities, but when you’re done, he wants you to form a queue outside the spa. First come, first serve, so the quicker you get in line, the sooner you’ll be interviewed.”

“Can I go first?” Jackie leaped to her feet. “I never met Lance, so I’ll be in and out of there in a minute. And that’ll give the constable a lot more time to interrogate those of you who had it in for him.”

I shook my head, knowing what would happen next. For the gang, queuing up for restrooms, meals, or unassigned seats was a competitive sport, so they never allowed anyone to get ahead of them.

Ever.

Like a silent film being played at warp speed, they were out of their seats, down the stairs, and racing toward the outbuilding beyond the parking lot. Tote bags swinging, elbows set defensively, they cut each other off like a herd of camels at the children’s zoo, turning their footrace into more of a death match than an athletic contest. One of these days they were going to get their feet tangled and crash to the ground in a Gordian knot of twisted limbs and broken bones, and then there’d be hell to pay.

On the upside, at least I knew where to find the world’s largest selection of ambulatory aids.

I directed Jackie’s attention to the mob scene outside. “I think that was a no.”

“Sorry about the chaotic exit.” Wally exhaled a breath as he addressed the six bloggers who remained on the bus. “The Iowa contingent is a little obsessive about punctuality and being first in line. They’re not being rude. It’s just the way they’re wired. I’ve made appeals to slow them down, but nothing seems to work.”

“How about a stun gun?” suggested Spencer Blunt. “They’re available commercially. And you can use them on anyone as long as the person doesn’t have cardiac issues. Stun someone with a heart condition and you could be looking at fifteen years to life.”

Seriously? I was beginning to think that two weeks with the gang might not be long enough for Spencer Blunt to realize that seniors could do everything he could do, but with orthopedic shoes and trifocals.

“Sprinting is probably good exercise for them,” said Caroline Goodfriend, laughing. “Gets their heart rate up.”

“Someone’s going to get killed,” Heather Holloway predicted as she stared out the window.

“Throw in a vampire and a couple of zombies and you’d have tomorrow’s blog,” needled Kathryn.

“How about you lay off Heather?” Mason Chatsworth scolded Kathryn. “If you have a sarcastic comment, keep it to yourself. It’ll improve everyone’s day.”

Kathryn rose in slow motion, like an uncoiling snake, and turned around to stare at Mason. “You’re young and callow. I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” She stepped into the aisle and headed toward Wally. “If the inn is locked, I’d encourage you to open it up. My readership is clamoring for my next installment.”

Which reminded me: I still hadn’t read her post for today.

“I’m on it,” said Wally as he hurried down the steps. “Walk slowly,” he called back to us.

Constable Tredinnick was limping his way toward the spa as we exited the bus, his first wave of interviewees already lined up outside the door in zigzag formation, collapsing against each other as they gasped for breath. Jackie and I trailed behind the bloggers, who were meandering toward the inn in a convivial clique light years behind Kathryn, who was already standing on the front stoop.

“I worked on the group’s genealogies this afternoon in the tearoom,” Caroline enthused. “I managed to dig up some fascinating information on a few people. I can hardly wait to share. Your name isn’t on my list, August. Did the signup sheet pass you by without your seeing it?”

“I saw it.”

“I could add your name if you like.”

“I don’t,” he said curtly. “But I appreciate the offer.”

He sure didn’t sound as if he did. I couldn’t read August Lugar. He was quite chatty on his food blog, but I hadn’t heard him utter more than a dozen words since yesterday’s meet and greet. He was sharing a room with Spencer. Did the two men talk or was August so preoccupied with his computer and online presence that he shunned any attempt at conversation? Maybe this had been going on for so long that he’d forgotten how to converse—plugged in electronically but out to lunch socially. Kinda made me want to throw my smartphone over the cliff.

The moment Wally opened the front door, Kathryn barged through to the interior, hot-footing it out of sight before the rest of us could even reach the lounge. The unfortunate state of affairs at the inn was on full display once Jackie opened the door to our room because everything remained as we’d left it—beds unmade, teacups unwashed, throw pillows stacked high on our one armchair with the room’s teddy balanced precariously on top. I guessed Enyon’s migraine had been too intense for him to perform housekeeping duties before he’d been hauled off for questioning. I didn’t mind the oversight, but I worried that our more nitpicky guests might complain about the lack of maid service.

I sighed. I should have thought to buy more antacids at the hardware store.

Jackie dumped her bag of cookies and chips on her rumpled sheets, then hurried to the window to see how fast the line was moving at the spa.

“I wonder how much of a stickler for protocol this Tredinnick is? Someone should tell him he’s wasting his time talking to those guys. None of them killed Lance.”

“I know that, and you know that, but I suspect the constable is going to have to find it out for himself.”

Jackie wheeled away from the window. “Would you like to see the wig I brought from home with me?” She hurried toward the mirrored dresser. “It’s right here.”

She opened the top drawer and riffled through the contents, pausing with consternation before slamming the drawer shut and pulling open the one below. “Did you move my stuff?”

“I haven’t touched your stuff. I haven’t even touched my stuff.” I pointed to the luggage jack in the corner. “Everything is still in my suitcase.”

“Well”—she opened a third drawer—“how come I can’t find my wig? I put it in the first drawer. I know I did. How is this happening? I never misplace anything anymore. Oh my God. Do you think my emotional distress is causing my hormone levels to fall off the cliff? Am I going to lose my memory?”

“We all misplace stuff, Jack. Even women with perfectly balanced hormone levels, so stop stressing.”

She shoved the final drawer shut and screwed her face into an unflattering contortion. “Where did I hide it?”

“It’ll show up. It has to. The room isn’t that big.” I craned my neck to check out the interrogation line. “Now that the grass has dried out from yesterday’s rain, I think I’ll take a spin around the grounds. You feel like joining me?”

She shook her head as she opened the dresser drawer once again. “Not until I find my wig.”

“Okay, but don’t get so distracted that you forget your date with the constable.”

She was already so distracted that she didn’t even bother to answer me.

I meandered down the corridor, bypassing the inn’s many off-shooting nooks, all which ended in short hallways with upholstered window seats and oversized throw pillows. Arriving at the exit that George had discovered yesterday, I read the sign on the door that indicated this exit was for emergency use only, but I figured my exploring the premises could be categorized as an emergency since I wanted to do it before we got hit with more rain.

I didn’t see evidence of an alarm system anywhere. The door appeared to be locked by a solitary deadbolt, so I shot the bolt, cracked the door slightly, exhaled a breath when no alarm sounded, and made my way down three granite stairs that were so uneven with wear, I suspected they might have been part of the original house. I also suspected there were few emergencies at the Stand and Deliver, else the stairs might have warranted better upkeep. As it was, the narrow opening where they stood was being enveloped by the boughs of a broad hedge in the same way that Sleeping Beauty’s castle had been enveloped by the witch’s forest.

The coastal plateau opened before me, flat as an Iowa grain farm, with grass sweeping toward the lip of a precipice that dropped off into nothingness. As I hiked toward the cliff’s edge I could hear the surf rumbling below, its hollow booms vibrating through the soles of my feet. I paused a short distance from the edge and with added caution inched toward the lip.

I wasn’t sure if the tide was in or out, but I could see a crescent of beach below, strewn with boulders and scree, that looked completely inaccessible except by a rappelling rope. Powerful waves broke over the rocks, leaving a froth of sea foam that lingered until the next swell whooshed over the beach, coughing up clumps of seaweed and kelp. I was looking down from such a dizzying height that the arches of my feet prickled with sensation, so I slowly backpedaled away from the edge, letting out a cry when the small patch of earth on which I’d been standing gave way like a Florida sinkhole and avalanched down the length of the cliff, sending soil and grass tumbling into the sea.

Holy crap!

Hands shaking with fright, legs wobbly, and heart lodged in my throat, I ran toward the safety of the inn as fast as my feet would take me, suddenly questioning whether the inn was as safe as Enyon had led us to believe. It might have been perched on the same spot for three hundred years, but time was catching up to it. Time…and plain old erosion.

I re-entered the inn through the emergency exit and reset the deadbolt, then navigated the corridor back toward my room, running into Nana and Tilly on the way. I cupped my hands around Nana’s shoulders in a protective grip. “Listen to me. Do not go anywhere near the edge of that cliff. It’s not safe. It’s falling into the ocean bit by bit, and it could easily take one of you with it. It almost took me.”

“No kiddin’?” said Nana. “I guess that’s why them fellas warned us ahead of time.”

I blinked stupidly. “They warned us?”

“It’s in the informational folder in our rooms,” said Tilly. “First sheet of paper in the packet. In big red capital letters: warning to all inn guests. It really grabs your attention.”

“And it says the ground what’s near the edge of the cliff is real unstable,” Nana recapped, “so we’re s’posed to stay at least ten feet back.”

“Oh.” Note to self: in future, read all informational material offered by hotel, no matter how boring it looks. “I—uh…I guess I changed rooms before I had a chance to open the folder.”

Nana patted my hand in the same soothing way she used to do when I’d been a kid whimpering about a skinned knee. “You want a cup of tea, dear? We got clean teacups.”

“That’s good to hear. Enyon never got around to tidying our room this morning, so ours are still dirty.”

“Enyon didn’t wash ’em. I done it myself,” she said as she and Tilly ushered me to their room. “I been doin’ my own cleanin’ ever since I seen them TV reports about housekeepin’ shortcuts in hotels. I’m not takin’ no chances no more. Everything gets cleaned even before I use it.”

“How long have you been doing this?” I asked as Tilly unlocked their door.

“Since last night.” She followed me inside. “I’m doin’ what you’d call a trial run.”

“Oh! How did your interview go?”

Nana flicked her hand as if swatting a fly. “Aced it.”

By the time I finished my first cup of tea, I’d calmed down enough to enjoy a second cup. Tilly posted herself at the window to give me updates on the length of the interrogation line, and when it had dwindled down to one, I hightailed it out the door.

Caroline Goodfriend passed me in the parking lot on her way back from her session. “I think you’re the last one, Emily. Mason is in there now.”

“How’d it go?”

She grinned. “I don’t want to give anything away. I’ll let you find out for yourself.”

The outbuilding was a rectangular structure the size of a Hollywood bungalow. Like the main inn, the exterior was constructed of whitewashed stone, but unlike the inn, the roof was covered with shingles rather than thatching. A thicket of thorny hedges hugged the building, serving as a deterrent to would-be peeping Toms who might be tempted to spy on guests who were availing themselves of the facilities. Rose vines climbed trellises on either side of the door. Pots of flowers clustered on the front stoop. I suspected it might have served as a tool or machine shed before its renovation, but you’d never know that from looking at it now. It had undergone quite the spectacular facelift.

After waiting my turn for an exceedingly long fifteen minutes, I was delighted to have Mason Chatsworth finally exit the building, looking positively giddy rather than ruffled or beaten down. He held the door open for me. “Next.”

“Went that well, did it?” I asked as I stepped onto the stoop.

“What can I say? He’s a big fan of my blog and plans on visiting the states after he retires, so I gave him a list of hotels that offer the best deals during the weeks he’ll be visiting. Sorry my interview took so long. It was a long list. And get this, he even complimented my ’do.” He grazed his fingers over the top of his gel-spiked hair. “Said his grandson’s hair is the same color green. Kid plays guitar for some heavy metal band in London, and he promised that if the band has a gig while we’re in London, he’d send me an electronic ticket. The police in Cornwall are all right.”

I stepped inside the building and shot a quick look around, thinking I’d accidentally stepped into a Finnish sauna, except for the floor, which was fancy poured concrete. Wood ceiling with dimmable recessed lighting. Wood-paneled walls with bench seating. Tables stacked with thirsty terrycloth towels outside the changing-room doors. A low wooden platform skirting the perimeter of the overly large spa with its battery of souped-up jets. It sat in the middle of the floor and looked big enough to accommodate at least a dozen people. The fiberglass was painted an exotic blue, a color so inviting that it conjured images of a Caribbean sea, though the faint smell of chlorine that wafted through the air reminded me more of a hospital than an exotic beach.

“Come in, come in.” Constable Tredinnick motioned me forward from his perch on a bench near the changing rooms. “Step around the puddle on the floor there, if you would. Looks like the tub has sprung a leak. Enyon will have to address that when he gets back. How many after you?”

“I’m the last one.”

He thwacked his cane on the bench, indicating where I should sit. “Brilliant. I’m running out of room in my notebook.” He waved a pocket-sized spiral pad at me and let out what could only be described as an exhausted breath. “I feel as if I’ve just been introduced to every character from The Canterbury Tales.”

With leathery skin, a shock of white hair, and a bulbous nose cobwebbed with broken veins, Constable Tredinnick looked ready to enjoy the rewards of retirement. He narrowed his gaze as I sat down next to a window that extended all the way to the ceiling. “I know you.”

“You do?”

“Your face. I’ve seen it on the videos the guests shot when they were filming the broken pipe in the Sixteen String Jack suite. You’re the tour escort. Emily Miceli.”

“Afraid so.”

“I’ve been asking everyone to verify their whereabouts from the time Mr. Tori left Mrs. Crabbe’s suite until the time his body was discovered, but I’ve seen a dozen different camera views of where you were for the time in question, so I suspect this could be a blessedly short interview.”

“I disappeared for a short time to fetch buckets with Enyon, but I carried them right back to the room, so I wasn’t really alone but for a couple of minutes. And Enyon followed right behind me with more buckets, so he was in the middle of the commotion until he went to ask Lance about firing up the furnace to dry the carpet.”

Tredinnick thumbed through his notepad. “The guests from Iowa were all in agreement that Mrs. Crabbe had a rather ugly kerfuffle with Mr. Tori after the water pipe burst.”

“She listed her dry cleaning demands in no uncertain terms and Lance was too irritated to offer any sympathy, so he kind of kicked her out of the room. She didn’t take too kindly to that.”

“Did she threaten him?”

“Not officially. She called him a few unflattering names, said she hoped she was around to witness someone cut him down to size, and then she ran out of the room and isolated herself in the powder room.”

“Which Lance had to pass by on his way to the kitchen,” he commented, reading from his notepad.

I visualized the layout of the inn. “Uhh…yes. Kind of. It’s located in an ell off the main hallway, opposite the office, fairly close to the guest lounge.”

“How many minutes would you say elapsed from the time Mr. Tori left the Sixteen String Jack suite until the time you heard Enyon cry out?”

“Umm…” I did a quick calculation. “I ran down to the storage room. Ran back. Chitchatted with Enyon when he showed up. Chitchatted with the gang after Enyon left.” I bobbed my head. “Fifteen minutes?”

“Do you know where your bloggers were during this time?”

“I know they were outside Kathryn’s door when the commotion first began, but they didn’t hang around very long after they found out what the fuss was about. Probably wasn’t blogworthy. So, except for Kathryn, I assume they all went back to their rooms.”

“So they tell me. To work on their computers. Your blokes Spencer Blunt and August Lugar vouched for each other. Caroline Goodfriend and Heather Holloway vouched for each other. The only person unable to provide an alibi was Mason Chatsworth, who, although booked into a single room, had no motive to attack Mr. Tori, and Kathryn Crabbe, who, as you’ve already pointed out, made a great show of locking herself in the loo for a space of time that no one can verify.”

The tone of his voice sent up a red flag. Had Treeve Kneebone’s instincts been correct? Was Tredinnick angling to pin Lance’s murder on the first viable suspect he could find? Namely Kathryn? “Are you questioning Kathryn’s powder room stunt?”

“Perhaps. If the bloggers were in their rooms when Mr. Tori departed for the kitchen, and all the Iowa guests were still shoehorned into the flooded suite in full view of each other, Mrs. Crabbe could have easily followed Mr. Tori into the kitchen without anyone seeing her and run back to the loo without being spotted.”

“But…getting in and out of the powder room is a bit tricky. The door has a tendency to stick, so if she had to wrestle with it to get it open, wouldn’t someone have heard the racket?”

“Mrs. Crabbe is a woman of impressive physical stature, Mrs. Miceli. I doubt she’d find a door—any door—an impediment. But please don’t misinterpret. I’m not accusing her of anything. I’m simply not discounting the fact that she had a window of opportunity and a motive, however anemic.” His bushy brows winged upward. “I’ve discovered that some people are extremely thin-skinned and get brassed off at the tiniest slight. I think of it as verbal road rage.”

“Have you found any physical evidence that places Kathryn in the basement?” I was having a hard time wrapping my head around Tredinnick’s scenario. Was she sufficiently fleet-footed to pull it off? Did she possess the physical dexterity to dispatch someone as muscular as Lance, even with her height and rugged frame?

“The crime scene unit was here this morning, but the only full prints they could lift off the cellar railing belonged to Enyon and Mr. Tori. There were too many officials here yesterday contaminating the area before they realized it was a crime scene. The railing turned into an alphabet soup of smeared prints. And as for hair, they found Enyon’s, but, as you’re well aware, Mr. Tori was rather lacking in that area.”

“Are you going to arrest Kathryn?”

“I never said anything about arresting the woman. At least, not yet. But you can be sure that your tour group hasn’t seen the last of me. You’ll be at the inn for how long?”

“Until Friday.” I grimaced inwardly. As critical as I knew it was to track down Lance’s killer, I bemoaned the fact that we’d probably have to face more hours of grilling by the Port Jacob constabulary, which meant substantial changes to our day tours. I was not looking forward to breaking the news to Wally.

“In the meantime, Mrs. Miceli, I’ll ride back to the nick and fetch Enyon for you. The bloke has had quite the long day of it. I’m sure he’ll be glad to return home.”

Yes! “So he’s no longer a suspect?”

Tredinnick offered me a broad grin. “There are times, Mrs. Miceli, when a copper has to rely on good old-fashioned logic to eliminate a suspect, and this was one of those times.”

I waited for him to finish, noting a flash of movement on the edge of my peripheral vision.

“We subjected Enyon to a brief psychological evaluation at the nick today, and it indicated that he’s as sane as any bloke can be. And no sane bloke is going to destroy his fledgling business by killing his cook the first day out. That would be financial suicide. He and Mr. Tori had their differences, but nothing that generated animosity strong enough to commit murder. So we’re releasing him—and you.” He nodded toward the door in a kind of dismissal. “Thank you for speaking with me, Mrs. Miceli. But trust me, we’ll be seeing much more of each other in the days to—”

The door banged open. August Lugar stormed into the room, his cool, unflappable facade disintegrating before our eyes. “Someone burglarized my room and made off with every bit of cash I brought with me. All of it!” He stabbed a finger at Tredinnick. “And you know damn well who took it. There was only one person left in the house after we took off this morning. Only one person had personal access to all our rooms.”

Oh, no. He was talking about—

“Enyon Gladwish might not be a murderer,” August raged, “but he is a thief, and I want him arrested!”

My oasis of momentary relief blew up in my face like a wad of exploded bubble gum.

Great. This was just great.