I’ve got all the money I’ll ever need, if I die by four o’clock.
—Henny Youngman
AS SOON AS Barney was gone, Fiona profusely apologized for her husband’s surliness. “He’s under a lot of stress. On top of that, I doubt he got much sleep, cavorting with his pals like some teenager. That’s the second night this week he was out all night—”
Sadie stopped her. “The second night?”
“Barney was out Monday night, too. He was on the road when the storm hit, and he had to pull over and ride it out. He didn’t get back from Upton until Tuesday morning.”
That got my attention. Upton and Blackstone Falls were a stone’s throw apart. “Did you say Barney was on Route 126 Monday night?”
Fiona nodded. “I couldn’t reach him. I was worried sick. When he got home, he said he forgot to charge his phone.”
“What was he doing in Upton?” I pressed.
“Trying to sell our sterling silver tea service.”
My aunt was astonished. “Not the Revolutionary War–era set on display in your tearoom?”
“It’s back now,” Fiona replied. “The fellow in Upton changed his mind. I asked Barney what happened, but he said he was too tired to talk about it.”
“Why would you sell such a beautiful heirloom?” Sadie said with concern. “Your great-grandmother brought it all the way from Scotland.”
“Because . . . the truth is . . . we need the money.” As she choked the word out, Fiona’s lower lip began to tremble. Then tears flooded her eyes.
“Goodness!” Sadie put an arm around the innkeeper’s quaking shoulders. “Come, sit down. Let’s get you some tea, and we’ll have a talk.”
Fiona protested, but Sadie was adamant. While I opened folding chairs and settled Fiona in one, Sadie returned with a tray holding a box of tissues, a plate of shortbread, and three cups of Earl Grey.
“It’s all my fault,” Fiona began. “When we first got married, turning our home into a bed-and-breakfast was my idea. That should have been enough to satisfy me. But these last few years, I stretched our finances when we bought the Lighthouse and remodeled it into a luxury beach bungalow. Then I pushed things too far when I opened Chez Finch. Now the restaurant is in trouble, and I haven’t had a guest in the Lighthouse since the end of July.”
“How was the lunch crowd today?” Sadie asked.
Fiona huffed. “We stopped serving weekday lunch a month ago. No one noticed because no one was coming anymore. The Sunday brunch is still popular, thanks to the after-church crowd. But it’s not enough . . .”
Fiona noted the direction of my stare and self-consciously shifted the pin.
“I had it dry-cleaned but—what can I say? I’m hardly a four-star hostess these days, so no bother. Besides, we decided to close the restaurant tonight due to a lack of reservations.”
“It’s that bad?” Sadie whispered.
“Dinner service is still good on the weekends, but weeknights have been dismal, and the contract with our chef pays him whether we have a full house or not. We’ve weathered lean times before, but these days, I lie awake at night and dream about finding buried treasure.” She sighed. “Anything to get Finch Inn out of its financial situation.”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Two weeks ago Brainert had to host an out-of-town lecturer at his home because your inn had no vacancies.”
“It was a fluke.” Fiona blew into a ball of tissue. “A bunch of thrill seekers checked in last minute because that couple from Providence who saw Harriet’s ghost made the regional news.”
She sniffed. “Even that didn’t lift our bottom line. Today’s young people don’t spend money! They always ask about Groupon discounts. They’re not interested in fine dining or Chez Finch.”
Fiona sipped her tea. “We’re considering closing the restaurant, but even that’s not our biggest problem.”
“My goodness, Fiona, what could be worse?”
Fiona’s face was stony. “The town council just imposed a new tax that is going to ruin us.”
“What?!” Sadie blanched.
“Late last week, they passed the law in the dead of night. Anyone who owns developed land within a mile of the Atlantic coastline has to pay a special fee for beach maintenance.”
Death and taxes, Jack cracked. They’re the only sure things in this world—and I should know.
Shush, Jack.
“There are five miles of shoreline within the city limits,” Fiona said, “but only a half mile has been developed. That half mile just happens to include our inn, lighthouse, and restaurant.”
That stinks like Bowery fish on a summer afternoon, Jack groused. It’s the same sad story I’ve heard since the stock market crashed in ’29. And guess what, doll? It always ends the same. It’s a good thing there are no tall buildings in this town. Otherwise Barney and his wife would end up as a pair of sidewalk pancakes—
“Jack!” I was so shocked by the ghost’s cynicism that I’d spoken out loud.
Fiona eyed me strangely. “You said something, Pen?”
“Er . . . yes . . . I was about to ask how much they jacked up your taxes.”
“It doubles, and just when our business is suffering.”
It’s a land grab, sweetheart. Jack’s voice had an angry edge. Dollars to doughnuts somebody with plenty of dough bought that town council. That’s why the tax was passed in the dead of night. And I’ll bet whoever corrupted those Alvins is angling for the Finches’ nest, because the best way to get the jump on prey is to wait until your mark is on the nut—
The nut?
Dead broke, Jack replied. Then you hit them with more debt until the Finches have to fly away—
And whoever wants the property grabs it at a distressed price—
And then bribes the town council again to repeal the onerous tax—
And suddenly someone, who did nothing to build it, gets to own the most enviable dwelling and business in all of Quindicott.
Nobody ever said you weren’t smart, baby.
And the losers are the poor Finches.
Finches? More like plucked chickens. Or dead ducks.
I felt a rush of shame. This had to be fixed for the economic health of the town and for the sake of our friends.
Fortunately the shopkeepers along Cranberry Street had organized the Quindicott Business Owners Association in an effort to counter the often shortsighted decisions of our local politicians. We had our monthly meeting coming up within days, and I knew I could count on them to do something.
Do what exactly? I didn’t know, but despite the fact that our association spent more time arguing than anything else—hence the nickname, “the Quibblers”—I knew we’d find a solution.
“There must be a way to fight this,” I told Fiona. “A higher authority to petition for repeal. Or a way to expose any corrupt motives behind it.”
“Oh, Pen, those are fine thoughts. But we don’t have the first idea how to do those things—or the money for an attorney to try.” Just then, Fiona’s smartphone chirped. “It’s Barney. I have to go. He’s waiting for me in the car.” Fiona rose and smoothed her pantsuit. “I must look a fright. That won’t do for a dinner service . . . What am I saying? I forgot, we’ll be closed tonight.”
She faced us. “Thank you for letting us view the portrait. I hope Seymour isn’t counting on selling it to us—”
“He’s not.” I leaned close. “Just between the three of us, I think that portrait is the love of Seymour’s life.”
Sadie laughed, but Fiona offered only a forced smile.
“And please forgive Barney for being so rude,” she added. “At his age he should be enjoying retirement, not fretting over our financial future. I ruined everything—”
“Fiona, you can’t blame yourself! You have more gumption and work harder than anyone I know.”
“And what good did it do us? I was the one who convinced Barney to expand the inn into the Lighthouse and open Chez Finch. Now we’re going to lose it all, and he’s taking it so hard.”
Tears again flooded Fiona’s eyes. “He’s lost heart. And we all know what happens to men his age when they lose heart.”
Fiona suddenly straightened up and dabbed away her tears.
“You know what? I’m fine with selling the Lighthouse and closing the restaurant and even losing our beloved home. If that’s our fate, then so be it. But I just can’t lose my Barney, and I’m terrified this financial pressure will be the death of him.”