Лейганн Доббс - A Whisker In The Dark

“What was that about?” Henry asked.

Carla glanced back toward the shrubbery and I jumped back from the window. Not that I was doing anything wrong, but still…

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna just stand by and take his crap. This time I’m going to do something about it,” she said as she thrust one of the shovels into Henry’s hands. As they turned and stalked off, her words rang in my ears. I couldn’t shake the fact that her tone was unmistakably threatening.

Six

Carla’s words were still echoing in my head an hour later when I pulled up to the town common where they were setting up for the 250-year celebration. Millie and Mom hadn’t cancelled or shown up at the guesthouse to dig up the grounds, so I assumed our meeting was still on. It was a perfect day with a cloudless blue sky, warm sun shining down, and birds twittering and flying in the leaves of the stately oaks and maples that lined the common.

The smells of fresh peaches and honeysuckle mingled with the sounds of volunteers hammering the stakes for the giant white tents under which other volunteers were setting up tables for the various town businesses to place their brochures and items for sale. At the far end, a myriad of colorful boats could be seen moored in Oyster Cove, with the sound of the ocean lapping against the town docks and the cry of seagulls in the background.

Under the tents, the area was abuzz with town merchants vying for the best spot for their table. The celebration didn’t open to the public for another day, but everyone wanted to make sure everything was perfect.

I found Millie at the front of the tent, draping a red gingham tablecloth on a long white plastic folding table.

“Hi, Josie, what do you think?” Millie placed some Oyster Cove Guesthouse pamphlets into a plastic holder and stood back to admire her handiwork.

“It looks pretty good,” I said.

“You can pile up the baked goods over here, and then I thought we would put that book about the history of the guesthouse over here. You know, the one in the bookcase in the owner’s quarters?” She pointed to various spots on the table then turned an inquisitive face toward me. “You are nailing down the baked goods, aren’t you?”

“Yep. I’m going to do peanut-butter-banana bread.” Of all the recipes I’d culled out, that one sounded the most interesting. I mean, who doesn’t like peanut butter and bananas? I tried to sound confident but the look on Millie’s face made me think I’d missed the mark. Maybe that recipe was above my level.

After a few seconds, she nodded. “A very good choice. If you need help let me know.”

My eyes drifted to the next table. To my dismay I spotted a pamphlet for the Smugglers Bay Inn.

“Stella Dumont’s display is right next to ours?” My tone was incredulous.

Millie’s excited expression soured. “Yes. Can you believe that? I talked to Fay Weinstein from the Chamber of Commerce to try to get it moved, but she wouldn’t do it. Two guesthouses advertising next to each other. It’s preposterous, isn’t it, Rose?” She turned to my mother who simply nodded.

I scrutinized Stella’s table. It was decked out in an eyelet-lace tablecloth with crystal candleholders and a pile of magnets and lip balm with the Smugglers Bay Inn logo. If you ask me, her logo of a one-eyed bearded pirate with a parrot on his shoulder was a little clichéd. The Oyster Cove Guesthouse didn’t have a logo, but if it did I would pick something a bit more elegant. Maybe I should have one, though. Would it make a difference in bookings?

I wondered what Stella was baking. She’d been known to steal recipes from Millie.

“I hear Stella is making a lemon custard,” Millie clucked disapprovingly and gestured toward the sky. “I mean with this heat, doesn’t she know the custard will sour?”

Hopefully it would sour and fewer people would go to her inn and come to mine instead.

The buzz of activity behind us continued as we talked. Townspeople rushed around. Merchants came to check their tables and drop things off. There was something odd about the whole thing, though. Most of them had shovels. Had word gotten out about the treasure? Suddenly, I pictured the grounds of the Oyster Cove Guesthouse littered with holes much like the Swiss cheese that the Biddefords used for carving. Visions of lawsuits from people who hurt themselves falling in the holes swam in my mind.

One of the people running around inside the tent was my maid, Flora. Funny, I didn’t remember giving her the afternoon off.

Millie noticed me giving her the stink eye.

“Flora is baking for the great-grandmothers of twins’ club,” she said, as if that explained it.

I remembered Flora boasting about having dozens of grandchildren and a large number of great-grandchildren too. No surprise at least some of them were twins. “What is she making?”

“Chocolate chip, I think.” Millie leaned in. “At her age it’s hard to get a lot of baking done.”

Or maid work. Flora gave us a finger wave. Apparently she was too busy to come over and say hi. Too bad someone else wasn’t. Myron Remington.

Myron’s family owned the First Oyster Cove Bank and Trust and provided loans for most of the businesses here in town. His family had lived here for generations. I’d gone to school with Myron and he was okay, but he could be a bit snobby. I remembered he’d acted particularly snooty about getting accepted into Yale our senior year. He was wearing his usual designer three-piece suit and high-end Italian leather shoes.

Why was he coming over? He rarely gave me the time of day. Maybe he wanted to talk me into taking out a loan.

“I heard you had a little incident up at the guesthouse,” he said.

“Incident?” Millie asked. She could be very defensive about the guesthouse even though she didn’t actually own it anymore. “Honestly, it wasn’t really an incident , just some old history we dug out.”

“Well, I don’t know if you would call it old history. I heard there was a body inside the wall.”

“A skeleton. Been there for a while,” Mom said.

“Yeah, that’s interesting. Do they know how he got there?” Myron smoothed his red silk paisley tie. He seemed pretty interested in the skeleton. He’d probably heard about the curse, but I doubted he’d be the type to get his hands dirty digging up treasure. Maybe prissy Myron had a ghoulish side that was into skeletons.

“How do you think he got there? A killer put him in there.” Mom’s blunt reply earned a sharp look from Millie.

Myron blanched. Probably too graphic for his sensibilities. “He? So the skeleton was a male? Do they know who it was, or have any suspects?”

Millie scoffed. “Really, Myron, the guy has been in there for generations. The suspects would all be dead. Kind of hard to investigate that.”

I wondered about that. Was Sheriff Chamberlain going to proceed with an investigation? Did he care who the killer was? Did anyone? Anyone that would’ve known or cared about the victim, be he Jedediah Biddeford or not, was long gone. Even his own ancestors didn’t seem eager to seek justice for him.

“Is there going to be an investigation?” Myron asked as if reading my thoughts. That concerned me because the last person I wanted to be able to read my thoughts was Myron Remington.

Mom and Millie looked at each other and shrugged.

“Darned if I know,” Millie said.

Myron’s gaze narrowed. “Well if anyone would, it would be you, Millie, wouldn’t it?”

Millie blushed. “What are you trying to say, Myron?”

“Oh nothing. Just that you ladies like to investigate.” He smoothed down his comb-over. It had started to flap a bit in the breeze. “I heard you were pretty good at it.”