nine

“I saved the best for last,” Caroline Goodfriend announced, fairly giggling with excitement. She adjusted her reading glasses, her gaze ping-ponging between her computer and her notebook. “The name I researched was Baker, which is the surname Jackie Thum asked me to investigate. Baker is her mother’s maiden name.”

For nearly an hour now, we’d occupied the squidgy chairs in the lounge, a captive audience to Caroline’s entertaining presentation that was informative, often surprising, and, in many cases, unexpectedly humorous. Even the bloggers had set aside their computers and ear buds long enough to join us, which allowed Wally the opportunity to get them up to speed with the details surrounding Enyon’s continued incarceration, our recent theft, and the unwelcome news that until Enyon returned, all guests would have to tough it out with the same bed linens and towels.

Through Caroline’s efforts we learned that although Alice Tjarks’s family tree had first sprouted in Norway, a branch had settled in Switzerland, where they served as town criers and made quite a name for themselves as first-class yodelers. I imagined their vocal talent would have been as popular on early morning radio as Alice’s crop reports, if radio had existed back then.

Dick Teig’s family had its origins in Norway, too, and although the more daring Teigs immigrated to Iowa in the early 1800s, a less adventurous spur moved to Austria, becoming involved in philosophical studies at the University of Vienna, where their academic writings were seen to have influenced such notable scholars as Sigmund Freud. Dick was bummed to learn that his ancestors might have rubbed shoulders with the father of psychoanalysis because it shattered the fiction he’d built up to explain away one of his most obvious character flaws, which meant he’d no longer be able to blame his shallowness on a defective gene pool.

Caroline resumed her final genealogical narrative while Jackie sat beside me, leaning forward over her knees and clicking her fingernails against her teeth, breathless with anticipation.

“The name Baker has undergone many iterations in its journey through the centuries,” she began. “In Jackie’s family I found evidence of variations that include Bakewell, Bagwell, Backhouse, and Bakehouse.”

“Backhouse?” squealed Margi. “Oh my goodness. Do you suppose her relatives and mine knew each other? Maybe even worked together?” Margi had been shocked to learn that her English ancestors had toiled as nightsoil men in the neighborhoods of London during the Victorian era—hearty souls who collected human waste in their little carts and disposed of it in outlying areas until the flushable toilet made its way onto the scene. London’s first sanitation workers. Margi was over the moon, relieved that her fixation on hand sanitizer was less a crazed obsession than it was a subconscious nod to family genetics.

“Backhouse isn’t the same as outhouse or privy,” Caroline explained to Margi with a hint of amusement. “I think you might be confusing the two.”

“Of course she’s confusing them,” Jackie sputtered, aghast. “My mother’s ancestors didn’t shovel poo. I’m sure you found they were an extremely tall and highly skilled bunch—artists, craftsmen, guildsmen.” She made a panoramic sweep of her hand as if lighting up all the letters on Wheel of Fortune’s big board. “Stage actors. Playwrights. Wig makers. Famous makeup artists. Acclaimed athletes.”

“They baked bread,” said Caroline.

Jackie’s hand fell to her lap. “Excuse me?”

“Bread. They were in the business of baking bread—for a very long time, actually. In fact, during the reign of Edward IV one of your ancestors was pilloried for selling loaves of bread that were underweight. Bakery bread used to be sold by weight, so if the weight was found lacking, the baker was in violation of the law and could be fined, flogged, or pilloried.”

Jackie clutched her throat. “That is so inhumane.”

“Life stinks, doesn’t it?” sniped Bernice.

Bernice was disappointed because her genealogy hadn’t wowed her. It indicated that her paternal ancestors had fled Europe because they didn’t like the politics, fled the American plains because they didn’t like rampaging buffalo, fled the American West because they didn’t like dust storms and drought, and settled in Iowa because they didn’t like having to move around so much. The revelations were more than historically informative; they were proof positive that Bernice wasn’t adopted.

“Happily,” Caroline continued, “the violation of underweight bread appeared to be a onetime offense, so your ancestors continued baking bread loaves throughout the early 1500s, when they began experimenting with other types of pastry and confections. Henry Tudor took note and issued a royal decree that their bakery should be closed and all your relatives should have their—”

“Oh, God!” Jackie agonized. She clapped her hands over her ears and pinched her eyes shut. “They should have their heads lopped off?”

“They should have their belongings sent to Hampton Court Palace,” said Caroline.

Jackie looked even more horrified. “So they could be burned at the stake?”

Caroline laughed. “So they could be installed in the kitchen as the king’s own pastry and confection cooks. Monarchs might have come and gone, but your family attained such high acclaim for their culinary innovations that they remained in the palace for generations. They were the premiere bakers for the Tudors, the Stuarts, and most of the Hanovers. In the annals of baking history, your ancestors were absolutely unparalleled.”

Jackie straightened up so quickly, I heard her spine crack. “They were famous?”

“On a grand scale,” Caroline assured.

Bernice snorted. “If they were so famous, how come no one’s ever heard of them?”

“A lot of people have heard of them,” Caroline acknowledged, “but you probably don’t run in the same circles. I bet Lance would have known who they were. I suspect culinary institutes around the world still teach some of the techniques Jackie’s ancestors perfected.”

“Imagine,” cooed Jackie, clasping her hands beneath her chin with delight. “My relatives schmoozed with Henry Tudor and Elizabeth the First and—”

“Don’t delude yourself,” Kathryn Crabbe spoke up. “Kings didn’t schmooze with the riffraff in the kitchen. Your relatives were servants of the crown; nothing more. My relatives, on the other hand, have been consorting with royalty on an equal footing for centuries.”

Caroline was quick to respond. “I think even you might agree, Kathryn, that none of us can know with any certainty who schmoozed with whom.”

“I know,” Kathryn huffed.

“Is there anything you don’t know?” challenged Spencer Blunt.

Kathryn eyed him with the same regard she might give a food stain on wash-and-wear fabric. “Perhaps we should compare academic degrees, if you dare.”

Before the dialogue could escalate into an insult-laced free-for-all, I hopped off the settee. “I’m sure everyone would like to join me in thanking Caroline for taking the time to research so many of our family histories. How about treating our genealogist to a well-deserved round of applause?” I clapped enthusiastically, gratified when the entire room filled with applause that lasted so long, I missed the cue from the kitchen until Nana marched into the dining room with a handbell in her fist, ringing it as if she were soliciting charitable donations for the iconic red kettle.

“Dinner’s ready! Come and get it. We’re doin’ this cafeteria- style on account of I’m not no waitress, so you can all file into the kitchen to pick up your food and silverware.”

The clapping stopped, but no one moved as they regarded Nana in some confusion.

“We were thinking you were going to surprise us with takeout pizza,” said Dick Teig.

“Sorry,” I apologized. “No pizza. Since Enyon is still at the police station, Nana has graciously volunteered to prepare our dinner this evening.”

Mumbling. Frowns. Arm crossing.

“Your brochure said a world-class chef would be cooking our meals in this hellhole,” grumbled Bernice.

A smile froze on my lips. “As well he would…if he weren’t so inconveniently dead.”

“So now we’re stuck eating Marion’s homestyle slop?” Bernice contorted her mouth with distaste. “You should have found a substitute. That’s your job, isn’t it? To deliver what you promised? I can tell you one thing: you’ll never convince me to eat Marion Sippel’s version of Cornish cuisine.”

“I second what she just said,” Kathryn agreed. “I didn’t pay top dollar to eat cut-rate food served cafeteria-style by a woman who doesn’t have official cooking credentials.”

Bernice raised an eyebrow at Kathryn. “You didn’t pay top dollar. You got a discount, so your opinion doesn’t count.”

“Yes it does,” snapped Kathryn.

“No it doesn’t,” countered Bernice.

“Yes it—”

Nana gave her handbell a furious ring again. “No skin off my teeth if some of you folks don’t want no supper, but if the rest of you are fixin’ to eat tonight, the line starts at the kitchen door.”

Her message delivered, she marched back toward the kitchen. Kathryn folded her arms beneath her bosom, smug in her dissention. “I’m planning to boycott the event. Should any of you decide to join me, you’re certainly welcome to sit here with—”

The lounge emptied in five seconds flat, with Bernice sprinting to the front of the pack to be first in line.

I had to hand it to her, if there had been any fast-talking politicians among her immigrant ancestors—the kind who said one thing to your face but did another behind your back—she would have done them proud.

“Look at them,” Kathryn mocked. “Lemmings. Lining up for a meal that has all the earmarks of tasting even worse than the one last night.”

The meal was magnificent.

Nana had raided the pantry and refrigerator until she’d found the perfect ingredients to concoct a Marion Sippel original—an open-faced sandwich on sourdough bread with turkey, green apple, fig jam, and melted brie cheese. So many people requested a second serving that Nana ended up slaving away in the kitchen until she announced that there wasn’t any more fuel in the little gizmo she was using to melt the cheese.

“If we pick up more fuel on our way back from St. Michael’s Mount, will you cook the same thing tomorrow night?” pleaded Dick Teig.

We were still seated around the dining table, feeling fat and happy.

“What about breakfast?” asked Margi. “Do you take requests? Because my favorite is pancakes with fresh strawberries, brown sugar, chocolate chips, a sprinkle of confectioner’s sugar, and lots of low-cal whipped cream.” She smiled benignly. “Have to watch those calories.”

I pushed my chair away from the table and stood up. “I hate to disrupt your breakfast plans, but Nana isn’t our official cook.”

“Well, she should be,” declared Lucille. “Marion can cook rings around that Lance fella.”

“All those in favor of making Marion our official cook, say aye,” instructed Osmond.

The response came in a collectively shouted “aye,” which prompted Dick Stolee to explain, “The only reason I’m voting is because being hungry gives me indigestion. But I still think the system’s rigged.”

“That settles it, then,” enthused Dick Teig. “Marion’s our new cook. So what have you whipped up for dessert?”

“I didn’t have no time to whip up no fancy dessert, so you’re gettin’ storebought ice cream.”

“With chocolate sauce, sprinkles, whipped cream, and maraschino cherries?” asked Margi.

“With a bowl and a spoon,” said Nana.

“I’ll dish it out.” Wally hopped out of his chair. “And I’m volunteering for clean-up, so as of now your duties have ended, Marion. Here. You can have my seat.”

“I hope you’re not planning to serve ice cream every night,” crabbed Bernice. “You’re really pushing the envelope with the lactose-intolerant set.”

“Nana is not our official cook,” I reiterated.

“Yes she is,” corrected Dick Teig. “We voted on it.”

“Contrary to the results of your vote,” I clarified, “she’s a guest on this tour, not an employee.”

“But the vote was unanimous,” said Margi, puzzled.

Lucille looked apoplectic. “If you discount our vote on the small things, what’ll stop you from taking it to the next level? Birth certificates to prove we were born. Photo IDs to prove we’re not impersonating each other. Shortened time periods for shouting out our vote. You might as well ship us off to a third-world country.”

“Or Wisconsin,” said Tilly.

“We don’t need to ship no one off to Wisconsin,” said Nana as she removed her apron and took a seat at the table. “I don’t mind feedin’ you folks until that Enyon fella comes back, but I’m not caterin’ to no picky eaters. You eat what I put in front of you, no bellyachin’, else every one of you can hightail it into the kitchen and fix your own grub.”

A dozen pairs of unblinking eyes riveted on Bernice.

“What?” Bernice barked.

“Did you hear what Marion said?” questioned Grace. “No complaining. From anyone.”

Dick Teig made a gun of his forefinger and aimed it at her. “If my wife has to walk into that kitchen and cook my meal, I’m gonna be one unhappy camper because Marion’s cooking is a helluva lot better than Helen’s, so you better keep your negative comments to yourself.”

“Excuse me?” snapped Helen.

“You’ll be persona non grata in this tour group,” warned Lucille.

Margi nodded agreement. “Not only that, but you won’t be welcome.”

“We could decide to ban you from all future trips,” boomed Dick Stolee.

Bernice raised an eyebrow. “Says who?”

“Osmond could bring it to referendum,” suggested George. “Secret ballot. Everyone votes.”

Margi’s face contorted in confusion. “But Emily said our votes don’t count anymore.”

“I did not. I was merely pointing out that your collective approval to make Nana your cook wouldn’t hold water if she wasn’t on board with the idea.”

Margi squinted behind her glasses. “Right. So our votes don’t count anymore. Dick’s right. The system’s rigged.”

“Morons,” spat Bernice. She slid her chair away from the table and stood up. “Maybe I won’t want to sign up for any more of your stupid trips. Maybe I’d rather be around people who think the same way I do.”

“Are you sure the isolation won’t be too depressing?” asked Alice.

“You people would wander off a cliff if it wasn’t for me feeding you a constant dose of reality. You need someone like me to help you break out of your dopey liberal bubbles, but you’re just too stupid to realize it. So someone else can have my ice cream. I’m not hanging around for dessert.”

“Wait, Bernice,” I urged as she crab-walked toward the lounge. “They were just pulling your leg. They didn’t mean any of the things they said.”

“Yes we did,” said Dick Teig.

I glared at him. “They love traveling with you!”

“No we don’t,” said Dick Stolee.

She disappeared down the corridor without a backward glance. I fisted my hands on the table, ranging an irritated look left and right. “I trust you’ll do the right thing and apologize to Bernice in person tomorrow morning.”

Groans. Grumbles. Razzberries.

“As contrary as she can sometimes be, she’s a longstanding member of this group and deserves to be treated with your respect. And furthermore, I’ll hear no more talk about banning anyone from anything, Dick Stolee. That’s not your call to make.”

He shrugged. “It works for presidential candidates.”

“You’re not running for president.”

“What if we don’t see her in the morning?” asked Dick Teig.

I regarded him oddly. “Why wouldn’t you see her?”

“What if we’re already on the bus before she drags herself out to join us? Can we send her a text message instead?”

“No.”

“How about a Tweet with the hashtag #sorrybernice?” suggested Dick Stolee.

“Or a ‘We’re Sorry, Bernice’ Facebook page,” enthused Dick Teig.

“Or a Snapchat photo of all of us saying we’re sorry at the same time,” persisted Dick Stolee.

Oh, God.

“I’ve got vanilla and vanilla,” announced Wally as he swept into the room carrying two sherbet glasses. “Who wants them?”

After scarfing down our ice cream with only Heather Holloway and George complaining of brain freezes, we retired to the lounge for our show-and-tell, joining Kathryn, who had stuck by her boycott and remained in the room for the entire meal, working on her laptop.

“You might want to think about ending your boycott,” August Lugar commented as he found a chair near Kathryn. “Mrs. Sippel’s cooking is sensational. Mouth-watering, even. A tempting treat for the taste buds.”

Kathryn stuck her nose in the air like a pampered pooch. “Huh.”

“Does everyone have their treasure?” I asked as the group spread throughout the room, staking out the most comfortable seats.

“If this gets really boring, we can leave, right?” asked Spencer Blunt.

I gave him an indulgent look. “Show-and-tell isn’t mandatory, Spencer. You can leave at any time.”

“Good. Because the whole exercise sounds pretty lame to me.”

“Well I’ll be,” said Nana, smiling. “Who does that sound like?”

Spencer reached inside his shirt pocket and handed me a round metal object. “This is the best thing I found on the beach today. Looks like a button. Woohoo. That’s my contribution, so I’m outta here. I need to work on my blog.” With a half salute to the room, he was loping toward the hallway before everyone had even found a seat.

“I didn’t find any buttons,” said August Lugar, rising to his feet. “In fact, I didn’t find anything, so I’m going to borrow a page from Spencer’s book and retire for the evening.”

“Me, too,” Mason Chatsworth spoke up. “I struck out at the beach and I’ve got a lot more work to do on my blog before I can post it tomorrow, so duty calls. But I hope the rest of you had better luck than I did.”

That three of our bloggers were returning to their rooms shouldn’t have bothered me, but considering the recent incidents of criminality at the inn, it did.

“What did Spencer find?” asked Tilly when the men had left.

I held it up between my thumb and forefinger for the room to see. “A metal button. It’s pretty beaten up, but there’s an anchor on it, so maybe it’s some kind of Royal Navy button.”

“Looks to me as if it belongs in the dustbin,” said Kathryn.

“I’ll take it,” said Nana. “My great-grandson has a button collection, so he’ll think it’s nifty. Won’t matter that it’s beat up. I’ve seen his collection. He’s not into pretty.”

I flipped it through the air to her. “Okay, who wants to go next?”

At the end of ten minutes we’d accumulated an unimpressive stash of junk to show for our metal-detecting stint at the Bedruthan Steps. Chief among the non-metal throwaways was a piece of yellow sea glass that Alice swore resembled an ear of Iowa sweet corn and a rock that Osmond swore was shaped like Elvis’s guitar…or anyone’s guitar, for that matter. Dick Stolee had found enough beer bottle caps to rival my nephew David’s button collection, and Jackie had dug up a political campaign pin from 1984, but the majority of finds was an assortment of bolts, nails, corroded hinges, metal badges, and other miscellaneous scraps of hardware.

“Well,” I lamented as I regarded the pathetic display on the coffee table, “I wonder if we would have had better luck on dry land?”

“And then there’s me,” said Dick Teig, bouncing out of his chair to join me center stage. “The morning wasn’t a total failure.” He opened his fist to reveal an object that was neither rusted, rotted, nor junky.

It was a coin about the size of a half dollar.

He’d scraped away all the gunk so that the impressions were visible: the bust of a man wearing a periwig and cravat on one side with a heraldic shield stamped on the other. The date beneath the bust read 1798. The lettering over his head was more cryptic. “H-I-S-P,” I said aloud, trying to dredge up grade-school history lessons. “Would that be shorthand for Hispaniola?” I flipped the coin over to study the reverse side. “I don’t know what any of the lettering on this side means.” But I was fairly certain about one thing.

The coin was neither silver nor copper nor bronze. It sat heavily in the palm of my hand and glinted like the teeth in Captain Jack Sparrow’s mouth.

“Oh my God, Dick.” I stared at the coin, transfixed. “Is this gold?”

“You betcha!” he whooped. “Told you I hit the jackpot.” He raised his arms above his head in celebration and rotated his hips in a gyrating motion that sparked images of the hula hoop craze…minus the hoop. “Pack your bags for easy street, Helen. We’ve got it made now, baby!”

She offered him a bland smile, her eyes filled with skepticism. “You’ll understand if I wait for a professional appraisal before I pop the champagne cork.”

“May I see that coin, Emily?” Tilly extended her hand in my direction. “While I have no expertise in numismatics, I do have a slight familiarity with the history of coins throughout the ages.”

I didn’t want to question Tilly’s humble assessment of her own knowledge, but her definition of “slight familiarity” usually entailed enough information to fill up every available gigabyte on a thumb drive.

Dick Teig snatched it out of my hand and hurried it over to Tilly himself. “It’s the real McCoy, right? It’s not something a college kid would have ordered online for a Pirates of the Caribbean frat party, is it?”

While Dick hovered bedside Tilly in breathless anticipation, I addressed the rest of the room. “Anyone else have something to share?”

“I do.” Heather threaded her way through the maze of furniture with a lot more enthusiasm than Spencer had shown.

“This should be priceless,” Kathryn scoffed in a voice that carried throughout the lounge. “Let me guess what you found: scrap metal in the shape of a zombie?”

Heather ignored the slur as she held her treasure up for the room’s scrutiny.

Oohs. Ahhs. Scattered head scratching.

“That’s a real nice find,” commented Nana. “What is it?”

“I think it’s some kind of stamp like you buy at scrapbooking stores for making impressions in sealing wax.”

Only a stamp like this wasn’t purchased in any scrapbooking store. It was shaped like an Easter lily, about two inches long, and was made of lavender glass with a metal ring attached to the top.

“At first I thought the thing was made of some type of synthetic material, but I’m pretty sure now that it’s made of amethyst because it looks exactly like my birthstone. And I’m willing to bet that the base it’s mounted on and the ring at the top are made of solid gold because my detector went nuts when I got close.”

“What’s the ring at the top for?” asked Margi.

“I wondered about that, too,” admitted Heather. “That’s so the owner could wear it on a chain around her neck like a piece of jewelry and have it handy in case she needed to personalize letters and stuff.”

Kathryn snorted. “In addition to zombies, you’re an expert on fob-seals, are you?”

“No.” Heather’s voice was cool and controlled. “I merely consulted the experts online. Their websites were quite informative and explained everything there was to know about fob-seals. Based on their documentation, I have reason to believe that my seal may date back to the 1700s.”

“Which part of the beach were you exploring when you found it?” asked Grace.

“I was in that gnarly looking cave by the stairs. At least, I thought it was a cave—it turned out to be a tunnel that led to a really rocky beach on the other side of the headland. My detector started pinging like crazy near the entrance to the other beach. That’s where I dug it up.”

“Based on aesthetic appeal, Heather wins the prize,” declared George.

“There’s a prize?” asked Heather.

“No prize,” I spoke up. “That’s just wishful thinking on George’s part.”

“As far as I can tell,” Tilly interrupted, adopting her professor’s voice, “Dick’s coin is authentic.”

“Wha’d I tell you!” cried Dick.

“It’s most probably of Spanish origin,” she continued. “In fact, I’d guess that the bust on the obverse side is none other than King Ferdinand himself—of Ferdinand and Isabella fame—and the coat of arms is the Hapsburg Shield, which denotes the royal lineage of the couple.” She held the coin high in the air. “Can you see that the edges have a manufactured finish? This lends authenticity to its 1798 mint date because prior to 1733 coins were produced by simply slicing them off the end of a gold bar, giving them an irregular shape that was easy to counterfeit.” She elicited a girlish laugh. “I believe what Dick has found is a gold doubloon.”

“Pirate’s gold?” whooped Dick. “A real gold dubloon?”

“Can we back up a minute?” Jackie asked, waving her arm above her head. “I still have questions about Heather’s fob-seal. Are there initials at the bottom?”

“Sure are.” She studied the base. “They’re engraved in the amethyst.”

“Can you tell what they are?”

Heather shook her head. “There’s so many curlicues, I’m really not sure.”

“Shall I give it a try?” asked Tilly as she handed Dick’s doubloon back to him. “I’m quite convinced that if I can decipher my doctor’s handwriting, I can decipher anything.”

“Knock yourself out,” said Heather.

“Does anyone know what the going rate for a gold doubloon is?” asked Dick. “It’s gotta be gazillions, right?”

The gang fired up their smartphones.

“You’re spot-on about the curlicues,” said Tilly. “But if I eliminate all the swirls and fussiness, I believe I can make out two distinct letters.”

“Geez Louise,” hooted Dick Stolee. “It says here that depending on the physical condition and date of issue, that coin in your hand could be worth as much as ten thousand dollars.”

“Ten thousand?” marveled Helen in disbelief. She launched herself out of her chair and ran open-armed to Dick, smothering him in kisses. “You wonderful man! Ten grand would be enough to replace the appliances in the kitchen or the furniture in the den or—”

“My website says two thousand,” countered Lucille. “That might be enough to replace your toilet.”

“The first letter is an extremely stylized B followed by an equally stylized P,” announced Tilly.

“BP?” questioned Jackie with excitement. “You’re sure?”

“Well, I’ll be,” said Nana. “You s’pose some fella from British Petroleum lost it when he was cleanin’ up an oil spill?”

“I think it belonged to an aristocrat who was robbed of an
amethyst fob-seal on Bodmin Moor,” regaled Jackie. “Emily and I browsed through the highwayman museum in the hardware store in Port Jacob today and read an official ledger that listed the personal items reported stolen on the moor. The fob-seal listed on the museum ledger was supposedly trumpet-shaped, like Heather’s, made of amethyst, and inscribed with the initials BP. This might be the wildest coincidence in history, but I wonder if Heather found the seal that was stolen from some squire or lord three hundred years ago? His name is probably in the ledger. You think we should phone the proprietor to see if he’ll tell us the exact name?”

“No need to bother the proprietor.” Kathryn executed a few keystrokes on her laptop. “I know exactly who BP is.” She turned her laptop around so that the screen was visible to the rest of the room. She’d accessed a site with a coat of arms prominently displayed in a banner that flowed across the top of the page. “Baron Penwithick. The tenth baron, to be precise. It’s all documented here in the family history. You all know how meticulous the British are about writing down all the minutiae in their lives.” She scrolled through the document until she found what she was looking for. “And I quote, ‘The tenth baron was relieved of an amethyst fob-seal when beset by highwaymen on the moor—13 August 1742. He commissioned another to replace it in a similar trumpet shape, but made of cornelian, with the same gold fittings. Report was made to the constabulary of Port Jacob for entry in their ledger.’

“So as you can see, that fob-seal rightfully belongs to me.” Kathryn skewered Heather with a fierce look. “And I want it back.”