A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow.
—Charlotte Brontë
AS VEXING AS this situation had become, it was dinnertime, and I had a son to feed.
Upstairs in our little kitchen, I ladled the slow-cooker stew of beef and fall vegetables into bowls (it smelled heavenly). After slicing up the French baguette that Sadie had bought that morning at Cooper Family Bakery, I called Spencer to the table.
He claimed he was too excited about his forensic project to have much of an appetite, but when that aroma of hearty beef broth hit him, he ate like a starving pup.
After dinner, Spencer bounded downstairs to help Sadie lock up. Then we all collapsed on the sofa and watched a rerun of an old Shield of Justice episode on the Intrigue Channel (Spencer’s choice since he’d become a devoted fan).
The show was based on the bestselling Jack Shield hard-boiled detective novels, which in turn were based on the real case files of private investigator Jack Shepard. How that happened is another story, but it remained a sore point for my ghost, who never could stand the author of the Shield books, a yellow journalist from his time.
Still, I noticed Jack always stuck around when we watched the reruns. Jack’s body may have died, but his ego lived on, and it was quite opinionated. Few things the TV dick did (from how he questioned a suspect to how he held a gun) met with the dead PI’s approval.
I did my best to ignore the ongoing cracks about the “baloney” the show was slinging. But I noticed the ghost couldn’t fault the curves on the “tomatoes” the show continually cast as “dames in distress.”
By ten thirty, I had tucked Spencer into bed, Jack had disappeared, and Sadie was sipping tea, engrossed in an advance copy of Amanda Pilgrim’s new novel.
“How is it?” I asked.
“Brilliant, as usual,” she pronounced, unwilling to tear her eyes from the page. “Customers will be lining up for this one.”
“Good news, Aunt Sadie, and—good night.”
“Good night, Pen.”
After taking a long, hot shower, I pulled on my nightgown and considered doing some reading myself. But the day had exhausted me. My thoughts were still twisted over Norma, and my nerves were shot. I hoped a night’s sleep would put some of the raw emotion behind me, and I was more than ready for the shut-eye. Yet, as soon as I closed the bedroom door, my detective spirit woke up.
So, you’re still willing to bet Norma is as innocent as the day is long?
“Hello again, Jack—and, yes, I am.”
Even after your bird-lady innkeeper friend has no explanation for a note that vanished right under her nose—a note that happened to be the only record of Norma’s next of kin.
I crawled under the covers. “Talking about a mystery won’t solve it.”
But it’s an important twist, don’t you think?
“Maybe it is, Jack. Or maybe it isn’t. Either way, I’m not mentioning it to Eddie.”
You’re withholding evidence from your cop friend?
“I’m withholding judgment. And it’s up to Fiona to tell him. It’s her account of what happened, not mine.”
Stifling a yawn, I pulled the sheets up to my chin. Outside, I could hear the rain starting back up against my windows, a slow pitter-patter that grew into an unsettling pounding.
Sorry, honey, I’m not letting you off that easy.
“Why am I not surprised?”
The vanishing note suggests a theory.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What theory?”
When Norma took her wrong turn, she had a road map.
“English please.”
If your book-whispering housekeeper made light fingers with that note, it shows intent. It proves Vagabond Velma was planning the heist before she pulled it off.
“I still don’t believe it,” I replied, though with far less conviction.
Like it or not, that’s the conclusion the coppers will come to.
I punched my feather pillow like a light heavyweight, then sank back into it. “I just don’t get it, Jack. Norma had a job here—two jobs. She had friends, a place in the community. Why would she throw it all away?”
Maybe that stuff means nuts to someone living out of a tin can on wheels. Maybe she didn’t want a job, friends, a community. Maybe down deep she’s a Greta Garbo and wants to be left alone—and maybe that’s the motive you’re looking for.
“What do you mean?”
Maybe Norma saw those rocks as a ticket to a future where she never needed a job again, never needed people, where she could just drive and drive and never stop.
“You think Norma was trying to buy freedom?”
Isn’t everyone?
“No. Not if it means leaving a community of friends and risking prison. But in Norma’s case . . . I have to admit, I don’t know . . .”
Another yawn came over me. This time I didn’t stifle it. Then Jack fell silent, and I considered those jewels again.
The vintage diamond set was stunning—and its attachment to that legendary film sex symbol Rudolph Valentino made them especially valuable. Did Norma know that when Peyton Pemberton checked in? Or did she simply spy the diamonds in the young woman’s room? I cringed at my own questions. I was already convicting Norma of the crime. And if she was guilty, didn’t the ghost say something about her being in danger?
“Jack?” I yawned again. “Are you still there?”
Never left, baby.
“Earlier today you told me those jewels had a sketchy history.”
To put it mildly.
“What do you know? Will you tell me the story?”
Tell you? I’d be talking all night. Better I show you.
“In the book business, they do say showing is better than telling.”
Then close your eyes, Penny, and I’ll start the show.