I’m not against the police; I’m just afraid of them.
—Alfred Hitchcock
IN THE END, I was the one who called the police because Fiona refused to.
“Not until I speak with Barney,” she insisted and explained that her husband was at a local garage picking up his just repaired Lincoln.
So, while Peyton Pemberton fumed—and Fiona phoned Barney about the theft—I called in the law.
By “law” I mean the Quindicott Police Department, a tiny force headed by Chief Ciders, a bad-tempered bureaucrat who should have put in his retirement papers a decade ago. I dreaded dealing with the man, who had only gotten more cantankerous with age. And if the chief didn’t show, the person who answered my call would likely be one of his officers—and Ciders was not prone to hire the best. Nepotism was the rule at the QPD.
A carnival of Keystone Cops, Jack muttered, having witnessed them in action—and inaction.
So, you can understand the relief I felt when the sole shining light of the QPD knocked on the library door. Deputy Chief Eddie Franzetti wasn’t just the finest local law enforcement could offer; he was a devoted family man, as well as my late older brother’s best friend, and now a trusted friend of mine.
The deputy chief noticed me as soon as he entered the wood-lined library but suppressed his usual affable smile, wisely maintaining a demeanor that better reflected the gravity of the situation.
Though the young woman was still incensed, the darkly handsome officer managed to disarm the excitable Peyton Pemberton with a few flattering and—to me, at least—surprising words.
“It’s a thrill to meet you, Ms. Pemberton. My thirteen-year-old daughter is a big fan. She follows you on TikTok, or maybe it’s Instagram. I’m not really sure.”
“Probably both,” Peyton Pemberton replied, waving a manicured hand.
For the next few minutes, the innkeeper and I stood silently by while the deputy chief listened to Miss Pemberton’s account of the theft. He stopped her periodically to ask questions. What time did she go out running? How long was she away? Did she see anyone lurking around when she left for her run?
Finally, Eddie suggested that Miss Pemberton accompany him upstairs to the Peacock Room, where together they could determine whether her valuables were in fact missing—or simply misplaced.
As soon as the pair headed upstairs, I grabbed Fiona.
“Quick, tell me. Why is Peyton Pemberton famous?”
“She’s what they call an Internet ‘influencer.’ Apparently she’s very big with girls—preteen through college age. She earns a fortune Instagram modeling and promoting products for companies.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Are you kidding?” Fiona lowered her voice. “I look up all my guests on the Internet. After I found out about Miss Pemberton, I was hoping she’d mention her stay at the Finch Inn and post a few selfies on our grounds—but not so much now.”
“Can you show me her activity online?” I asked.
“Come on!” Fiona pulled me to the computer behind her registration desk.
“You know we have an Instagram account now,” Fiona mentioned proudly as she brought up the Finch Inn’s page. “I just posted pictures of the fall foliage. And when we decorate for Christmas, I’ll be posting pictures of our tree and lights.”
“How nice.”
Fiona moved her cursor to the search bar and entered Peyton Pemberton’s name. Rows and columns of photographs appeared.
“Who’s the hunk?” I asked.
“He is a dish, isn’t he?” Fiona arched an eyebrow. “His name is Hollis West.”
“He’s a preppie?”
Fiona shrugged. “He gave a Newport address and I noticed tennis and yachting photos. Miss Pemberton calls him Hal.”
“You talked to Peyton about him?”
“Oh no. I just overheard them talking. He and Miss Pemberton arrived together yesterday afternoon. They asked for our largest room.” She cleared her throat disapprovingly. “Without a reservation, I might add.”
Jack laughed. Entitled much?
Ignoring the ghost, I pointed out, “You were able to accommodate them.”
“Because they checked in on a Sunday afternoon—and since most of our guests check out on Sunday, it worked out for us all.”
“And where is Mr. Hollis West now?”
Once again, Fiona shrugged. “I have no idea. Mr. West used his Sapphire Reserve Card to pay for the room, but he only stayed a few hours—long enough for him to dine with Miss Pemberton at Chez Finch. Then he kissed Miss Pemberton good-bye and drove off in his BMW. He hasn’t been back since.”
“So Peyton Pemberton was alone in her room last night and all day today? You didn’t see Hal return?”
“No, I would have recognized his car.” Fiona scrolled down to find more photos of the young Hal, shirtless in a Speedo on a white-sand, azure-skyed beach. Beside him, Peyton Pemberton wore a string-thin azure bikini with matching cobalt-tinted sunglasses.
“Goodness,” the innkeeper said. “They’re hardly wearing any clothing at all.”
It’s called cheesecake, Jack declared in my head. At least that’s what they called it in my day.
Cheesecake? I silently replied. Are you talking about the Instagram picture of Peyton and Hal?
I’m talking about photos designed to titillate. They’re not informative like a mug shot or pretty like a portrait. Cheesecake is designed for salivating over. Frankly, I’m surprised.
About what?
After all your lectures on how things have changed since my day, I’m surprised that provocative pictures of pampered playthings are still around.
I glanced at the bathing suit photos again and frowned. This isn’t cheesecake, Jack. Peyton Pemberton and her boyfriend posted these pictures themselves. They’re what you call influencers . . . Internet influencers.
The ghost laughed. You can fancy up the name all you like and sell it on some re-hatched version of a mini movie screen, but any dame who earns money by taking off her clothes and posing for pictures, well . . . Different century, same racket.
Maybe there’s some truth in what you say, but it’s not a racket.
I call ’em as I see ’em, Penny. And if this is the “career” path your young women of today are takin’, I wouldn’t exactly call it a giant leap forward.
“Look at this,” Fiona said, pointing at the screen. “There are pictures posted from that charity ball that Peyton said she attended in New York the other night.”
“I thought the Met Gala was held in May.”
“It is. This is the Met Costume Ball, their new Halloween-season fundraiser. Look, I think Peyton Pemberton is wearing the jewels she’s crying over now.”
When I glanced at the necklace, Jack also saw the jewelry—through my eyes—and a bone-chilling sweep of frigid air suddenly filled the reception area.
Jack, what’s wrong?
Dead silence followed, so I went back to studying the photos on Peyton’s Instagram page. The next image showed Hollis West costumed as a desert sheik. Long white robes flowed around his athletic body. A kaffiyeh covered his dark hair, and an absurdly curved plastic sword dangled from a hempen belt around his trim waist.
Beside him, hardly dressed at all in filmy, see-through pink “harem girl” attire, Peyton Pemberton showed off an elaborate gold necklace—the one apparently missing. It was a beautiful piece. The heavy-looking setting was large, almost like a collar.
“That faux-Egyptian pattern is telling,” Fiona remarked. “I’ll bet it was made during the Art Deco design craze of the 1920s.”
A second photo showed a close-up of the collar, its vintage gold embedded with teardrop-shaped diamonds. Matching teardrop diamonds dangled from Miss Pemberton’s coral-pink ears, while she and Hollis spoke with a singer named Nicki Minaj. The caption identified “Hal” West as “The Sheik.”
Apparently the jewels had an identity as well.
“The Tears of Valentino,” Fiona read breathlessly. “I wonder if this remarkable necklace has some connection to the silent movie star.”
“You mean Rudolph Valentino?” I asked. “Does anyone even remember who he was anymore?”
“The first male sex symbol? Of course they do,” Fiona insisted. “Someone obviously knows that Valentino starred in a movie called The Sheik. As for Peyton’s see-through number . . . she certainly has the figure to pull it off.”
I ignored the cheesecake—and the beefcake—to study the jewels. I counted at least a dozen diamonds on that elaborate setting around Peyton Pemberton’s swanlike neck.
“The Tears of Valentino sounds rather poetic,” I murmured aloud. “I wonder what it means . . .”
Fiona had no answer. But the ghost did.
I know what it means, doll, and there’s no poetry involved.
My heart began to pound. Then you’ve seen these jewels before?
Oh yeah. And you better heed my warning.
Warning? About a piece of jewelry?
Plenty of real tears and a lot of blood have been spilled over those rocks. I got a feeling more of both are about to be shed now that those hard-luck stones have surfaced again.
Before I could ask Jack what he meant by his ominous remark, I heard footsteps descending the stairs. Fiona quickly pressed a key on her computer and the on-screen Instagram photos were instantly replaced by the inn’s staff schedule.
We shifted nervously, waiting for Deputy Chief Franzetti and Peyton Pemberton to reach the bottom of the steps. When they did, I was sorry to see that Eddie’s expression was grim.
As Peyton hung back, an I told-you-so smirk marring her pretty face, Eddie approached Fiona and spoke.
“You have cameras upstairs.”
It was not a question.