Early Monday morning, Liz stepped onto the Indialantic’s front veranda that overlooked the Atlantic and was assailed by a ragtag menagerie of pets, just like she’d been assailed by a gaggle of reporters when she’d walked over from her beach house. Charlotte had two squad cars stationed at both the entrance and exit of the circular drive leading up to the hotel’s main entrance. There was a gentle breeze and the temperature hovered around seventy. Cooler than most Junes in her memory and Liz was loving it. Even with an ocean breeze, summers on the barrier island could be quite brutal. The veranda was on the south end of the hotel with only a view of flora, fauna or the occasional egret, heron, or crane stopping in from the Pelican Island Sanctuary Nature Preserve.
“Morning, Grand-Pierre.” The chef had his nose stuck in his e-reader, lounging on a cushioned wrought iron chaise.
She placed Bronte, who was snuggled in her basket under a potted palm. The kitten kneaded her cushion a few times then settled in. Killer commanded a spot in the shade. His large Great Dane body served as a pillow for Betty’s cat, Caroline Keene. The two shared the same black-and-white tuxedo coloring. Captain Netherton had been taking over Caro’s care while Betty was away, letting her bunk in his suite alongside Caro’s canine boyfriend, Killer. Barnacle Bob didn’t usually hang out with the rest of the pet crew. He wasn’t a fan of Caroline Keene and no doubt blamed the feline for the loss of feathers on the top of his head. And rightly so. Liz hoped Farrah was with her owner. She knew one thing, after a stressful, life changing event, there was no better salve than the love of a pet.
Venus, Greta’s sphinx cat gave Liz a dismissive blink. She was used to being the baby in the bunch, and still hadn’t forgiven Liz for bringing Bronte into the fold. Venus had been sunning herself on a pink princess velvet cushion, her hairless body matching the color of the bed she lounged on. Liz pulled the cushion with Venus on it into the shade. “You don’t want to get a sunburn, do you, goddess?”
The cat’s frosty blue eyes looked up at her in irritation, then closed. Their color, almost the same as the deceased Julian Rhodes’s. Reminding Liz of Susannah’s graphic description of his terrible death and Liz’s view of his contorted face when the blanket slipped off as they were wheeling his body to the ambulance. The juxtaposition between the cozy scene in front of her and Saturday’s was hard to reconcile.
“What chapter are you on, Grand-Pierre?” Liz asked. He was reading Agatha Christie’s, The Pale Horse. Liz was also reading it for their two-person mystery book club. The novel featured historian Mark Easterbrook and his sleuthing buddy, Ginger Corrigan. Having read all the Hercule Poirot tales many times over, Liz was trying to broaden Pierre’s love of Christies to the author’s lesser known works. Ones that didn’t just involve the Belgian detective Hercule Poirot, Chef Pierre’s look-alike alter ego, or the elderly Miss Marple with her knitting bag of tricks.
“It seems I’ve lost my place, Lizzy dear.” He said. “I’m trying to recall the last scene I read. There was something to do with a man in a wheelchair…” Recently, Pierre had been having problems with his memory and was under the care of both a medical doctor and a homeopathic practitioner. Liz had seen a rapid improvement in the past few months and had hoped things would remain that way.
She stepped over to his lounge chair and took the eBook from him, swiping through it until she came to the part introducing the wheelchair bound character, Mr. Venables. She handed it back and took a seat on the adjoining chaise.
“Merci.”
“Are you enjoying the book?”
He laughed. “Of course, ma petite. I know I was stubborn about trying one of Dame Christie’s standalones, as you called it, but it is refreshing to have a new, younger sleuth afoot. I see a little of myself in Mr. Easterbrook, and there is even a resemblance to you in mademoiselle Ginger.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Has everyone had breakfast?”
“Yes. Greta forced me out here as a pet sitter.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have seen Wren Wagner leave the hotel yesterday?” she asked.
“Greta told me she was gone. It’s a shame. I had such a nice discussion on Saturday morning with the petite Wren. She came up to me when I was waxing Agatha.” If Pierre wasn’t cooking or reading mysteries, he could usually be found in the garage tinkering with his motorcycle he’d nicknamed Agatha.
“Said her le petit ami, boyfriend, had a motorbike. She even fetched the leather conditioner from the garage for me, so I could clean the interior seats of the sidecar. Seemed to know a lot about motorcycles.”
Liz took a deep gulp.
Garage!
Antifreeze!
“Grand-Pierre, you don’t know if we have any antifreeze on the grounds, do you?”
He didn’t notice the excitement in her voice and said, “A strange thing to ask, ma cherie. But yes. There’s a can in the garage. I think it was left over from when the hotel had a valet and they used to park guest’s cars inside.”
Snap! Vintage antifreeze.
“Why do you ask?” Grand-Pierre questioned.
“Uh, you know Kate and her vintage shop of oddities. She told me old automobile signs and advertising cans were an up-and-coming thing.” It wasn’t a total lie because last week she’d seen a school bus yellow Pennzoil tin sign hanging in Books & Browsery by the Sea.
“Then Katie should check out the other stuff in there,” Pierre said. “I think the antifreeze can was next to a crate of old license plates.”
“Thanks. I’ll be sure to tell her. So, what else did Wren tell you?”
“Said I reminded her of her grand-pere. Even gave me a kiss on the cheek when she left.”
“That’s interesting. I never took her for the sentimental type,” she said sarcastically.
“We talked a lot about gardening. She knows a lot about herbs and flowers, and medicinal cures. Said she lived on some type of farm co-op at one time.”
“Did she say the name of the town or city where she lived? Or where her family came from?”
“Oh dear. She might have. But I don’t recall.” He pinched the skin between his bushy white eyebrows as if it would help him remember.
“It doesn’t matter Grand-Pierre, I was just curious. But if you think of anything that might help us find her, let me or Auntie know. She left behind a piece of jewelry.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.”
“Yes. It is. Now, you get back to The Pale Horse. Ryan and I are going to pick up Betty later from the Melbourne Airport. She’s coming home today.”
“I’ve missed her,” he said. “But I’m sure she’s had a wonderful time in Jacksonville with her great-grandkids.”
“Oh, I know she has.” Liz just hoped Betty had more intel to share with her and Ryan.
Before racing off Liz grabbed the teapot from the tray next to him and poured some steaming Island Bliss mint tea into his cup. “Talk to you later, Grand-Pierre. Please keep an eye on Bronte. I don’t know what might happen if she met Farrah the ferret. She’s such an innocent.” Betty said Liz coddled the kitten, but didn’t everyone?
“Of course, Ma petite sirene.”
“Sirene?”
“Little mermaid,” he answered.
She looked over at his hunched form. Probably from standing over stovetops for so many meals or reading mysteries for a good portion of his eighty-one years. She suddenly felt very protective. “If any nosy reporters, or people with cameras show up, call Greta right away. You have your phone, right?”
He patted his apron pocket. “Oui. But why would there be reporters?”
“It’s a long story. Something to do with Dorian Starwood. They want to interview her. She has such a following. Aunt Amelia wants her all to herself.”
Not exactly the truth, but close to it.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “But before you go, Lizzy, can you tell me again how to make notes on this machine?” He held out the e-reader.
She showed him how to highlight the section he wanted, then tap the word NOTE. “And don’t forget to tap SAVE,” she said, handing it back to him.
In the past, he would keep all the clues from his mystery novels in his head until he came up with his lead suspect. Now he was able to keep track of the clues as he read, then peruse them later. Liz did the same thing, only she didn’t have memory problems. She kissed him on the top of the head, blew a kiss to Bronte, and went to the iron gate.
Her face must have betrayed her excitement at her upcoming trip with Ryan, because he called out, “Don’t get in trouble, cherie.”
“I won’t. Promise, Grand-Pierre. Let me know when you get to the end of the next chapter. We’ll compare notes.”
He didn’t answer, already lost in his book.
A few minutes later she entered the butler’s pantry to check on Barnacle Bob. BB was taking his morning siesta. Greta had moved him from the elevator to the pantry to give him breakfast. Liz saw that Barnacle Bob was not only a dirty talker, but also a dirty eater. Below his cage was a plastic mat to catch the overflow of food he liked to spit through the bars of his cage.
Aunt Amelia had been trying to introduce something new to his diet in the form of food pellets that looked like mini hockey pucks, hoping in time to eliminate the less nutritional diet he coveted. Five pellets were lying on the mat along with some of BB’s breast feathers. He must have struggled to get the pellets through the space between the bars. Her great-aunt was always up on the lasted health food trends for the pets at the Indialantic. Which would’ve been fine, if she’d been the one that had to feed him, not Liz or Greta.
Liz stepped toward Grand-Pierre’s desk and saw the handwritten menu he produced rain or shine, memory or no. From what he’d written, she could tell Greta could handle it without her help. Ryan had called at six a.m. to tell her they were taking a surprise road trip and to be ready at ten. When she’d reminded him that she had to get Betty from the airport, he’d said they’d pick her up on the way back.
Blown away by the fact Dorian had poison in her system and forgetting about the sleeping macaw, Liz looked up at the ceiling and said, “Julian Rhodes, who planned on giving you a double whammy of poison? Someone bewitched a witch. But who?”
At her words, Barnacle Bob snapped into action, “Bewitched, bewitched. Bewitched, bewitched, bewitched, duh-duh, du-duh…” first singing the words, then humming to the tune of the 1960s Bewitched sitcom theme song.
Having had a witch at the hotel, it was only a matter of time before the insufferable bird came up with that one from his mid-century television mind vault.
He then broke out into another of his favorite chants, “Kiwi, kiwi, kiwi.”
Bending down, she took one of the mini-hockey puck pellets from the mat and pushed it between the bars of his cage. “Tootles, BB. Catch ya later.”
As she walked out, she heard his usual litany of curse words. She turned and said, “Wish I could twitch my nose like Samantha on the Bewitched sitcom and make you disappear, you foul mouthed, incorrigible parrot.” She purposely addressed him as a parrot instead of a macaw, wanting to incense him further.
In all fairness, she couldn’t imagine eating one of those things either.
She left the pantry, then exited through the open doorway at the back of the kitchen and stepped into the hallway. She made a left, passing the hotel’s old dumbwaiter. At her father’s apartment door, she knocked, then called out, “Dad. You home?” When he didn’t respond she turned the knob and walked inside.
He wasn’t in his office, so she placed a note on his desk that she’d be going out with Ryan, then picking Betty up from the airport. She left via the office door, then took a path that lead along the lagoon, which ended at the hotel’s garage. There was something she had to check out.
Actually, there were two somethings she needed to check out.