CHAPTER 8

Two for the Road

Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.

—J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

THE DRAMA AT the Finch Inn was over (for now), and I had a bookshop to run. So while the sun sunk and clouds returned to smother the sky, I hiked back to my store, this time using the paved streets and concrete sidewalks that ran through the center of Quindicott’s business district.

Civilized routes have fewer surprises, but they’re easier to navigate. And given what I’d just experienced, I wasn’t up for flying bird’s nests or uneven terrain. Every step of the way, the road was firm underfoot. It should have reassured me, yet I felt unsteady, and my PI spirit continued to haunt me.

Honestly, with darkness descending, I was glad to have Jack’s company, but there was a price to pay, because despite the ghost’s claim that he didn’t like saying “I told you so,” he certainly found enough ways to say it!

You know your “sweet lady” is in a peck of trouble.

“Yes, Jack. I’m also aware that police all over Rhode Island and Massachusetts will be looking for Norma. It doesn’t help that Fiona can’t find the address of her sister in Millstone. Boy, was Eddie steamed about that.”

Yeah, the canny innkeeper said she’d “misplaced” the paper it was written on, but I wonder if it wasn’t just that bird-crazy dame’s way of crying foul—or should I say fowl? As in F-O-W-L. Get it?

“A foul pun, considering the circumstances. So enough with the fine-feathered jokes.”

I’m only making them because Norma flew the coop.

“I hope you’re not expecting a snare drum rim shot, because vaudeville is deader than you are.”

Low blow, baby.

“Hey, what did you say earlier? I call ’em as I see ’em.”

At least you’re listening to what I tell you.

“Do I have a choice?”

Sure, pluck that old Buffalo nickel of mine out of your pretty pink brassiere, throw it into a slot machine, and leave me in peace back at your bookstore.

“That would be fine, except there are no slot machines in Quindicott, and you’re never at peace for long. When you get bored in my bookstore, you haunt the customers. I can’t have that if I want customers. And would you please stop talking about my underthings?”

As soon as you stop whining and face the music.

“I can’t face the music if I don’t know where it’s coming from.”

That’s what detectives are for.

“Eddie’s already on the case,” I pointed out. “And while you might be right about Fiona—and her being less than truthful with Officer Franzetti—I doubt it’s because she’s playing him. I think she’s honestly discombobulated by all this. I know I am.”

Da scum Bob who?

“Nobody is Bob in this scenario. Nobody’s scum, either, for that matter. The word I used was discombobulated. It means Fiona is befuddled. Bewildered. She’s in denial, Jack.”

Well, she can’t deny grand larceny and you can’t, either. Your pal is in it, right up to her earlobes—with or without diamond teardrops dangling from them. And with no address to track her down, your flatfoot friend had no choice but to issue an all-points bulletin or whatever they call it nowadays.

“Eddie called it a BOLO—”

“A cow puncher’s tie?”

“No, not a bolo tie. BOLO is an acronym that stands for be on the lookout. And I think it’s appalling that he had to issue it for Norma.”

Don’t sweat the small stuff, doll. The cops are the least of Norma’s problems.

“What do you mean?

You like listening to me, listen to this. The longer Norma keeps her grip on those fancy rocks, the shorter her life span is going to be.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you suggesting the cops are going to shoot to kill?”

No. But someone else will.

“Why would you say that?”

Because back in my day, the theft of those jewels led to an awful big sleep.

“Murder?”

That’s right.

“Listen, just because something happened once—”

Thrice. That’s fancy Shakespeare talk for three times. I heard the word working that very case.

“Okay, three times, but that still doesn’t mean it will happen again.”

You know I’m not the superstitious type, Penny. But I am talking from experience—bitter experience. When it comes to priceless ice, there’s always somebody willing to give somebody else the big chill.

“The big chill? That’s cold, Jack. But I shouldn’t be surprised. When it comes to cold spots, you’ve become somewhat of an expert, haven’t you?”

Funny. Looks like vaudeville’s not dead—it just moved into your head.

“Whatever happened with you occurred a long time ago, Jack. Few people today even remember who Valentino is—I mean was—so how much can that necklace really be worth?”

Norma’s life, for starters.

Jack clammed up after that, and I confess I finally appreciated the silence.