A Whisker in the Dark Page 4

  The cats scattered.

  Bob stormed out, slammed the door shut and continued to his room.

  Flora scowled at him, then shrugged, picked up her feather duster and kept dusting.

  Nero sat on his haunches and washed behind his ears. Apparently the Biddefords were already in deep competition for the alleged treasure, and judging by the way he’d seen them fight over pancakes, they might not be willing to share.

  Five

  The kitchen of the Oyster Cove Guesthouse held a lot of fond childhood memories. Mom had brought me here often when I was a kid and Millie always had a fresh baked treat for me. Now it was my turn to carry on those delicious recipes. It was a daunting task since everything I tried to bake either came out dry, burned or tasting like dirt.

  The kitchen was a mixture of old antique fixtures, cheery yellow-painted cabinets and newer stainless-steel appliances. The worn, wide, pine flooring creaked in all the right places and the space always had the savory, sweet smell of family-style cooking. At least it had when Millie owned it. Now it mostly smelled like a two-alarm fire.

  I’d just returned from picking up some supplies and was riffling through the yellowed, grease-smudged recipes trying to pick out another type of sweet bread since the pumpkin hadn’t worked out so well, when I glanced out the window to see Stella Dumont on the deck of the Smugglers Bay Inn looking toward my place.

  Yes, that Stella Dumont. The one Mike had dumped me for in high school. Not that that had anything to do with the urge I had to trip her every time I saw her. Those feelings were more to do with her acting superior about her inn, as if it was more desirable than mine. Sure, hers was closer to the ocean with that deck overlooking the water, but at least I didn’t have seagulls pooping all over my guests’ food.

  Her inn was pretty far from my place, separated by a large field that gently sloped downward. My guesthouse was situated atop the hill and had a nice panoramic view of Smugglers Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. Some said it was a much better view than Stella’s inn had and I agreed.

  I kind of had to squint to make out who the scrawny figure on the deck was, but I was pretty sure it was her. Why was she looking in this direction? It looked as if she was scoping out the property. Of course, she could be looking for Mike. She’d been known to pop over here a time or two to try to talk to him while he was still working here, finishing up the renovations Millie had hired him to do before she sold the place. Mike didn’t work here anymore, so what was Stella looking for? Had word already gotten around town about Jed’s skeleton and the mythical treasure? I hoped she wasn’t looking for potential treasure-hiding spots. Would more people come and try to dig? I was kind of hoping it would all die down and I wouldn’t have to figure out how to stop people from churning up the grounds. The Biddefords were my immediate problem. They seemed keen to dig up the treasure but I was sure I’d heard at least two of them come home and no one had started digging yet, so maybe they weren’t as keen on putting in the manual labor necessary.

  “Seth’s done in the west wing and the body has been removed.” I jumped at the words, then turned to see Mike lounging in the doorway. His gaze shifted to the window. Was he looking out hoping to see Stella?

  “I didn’t realize you were still here,” I said.

  “Yeah, I wanted to make sure that the Sheriff’s Department didn’t mess with the structural integrity of the wall when they were getting their evidence out,” Mike said.

  “Oh, I didn’t realize that was part of the building inspector’s job.” Was it? Or was he giving the guesthouse special treatment? Of course, if he was giving it special treatment it was probably because his aunt was still attached to it, and not because of me.

  “Also, Ed wanted me to double-check on his plan for redoing the conservatory, so we don’t run into any code violations later on.”

  “Oh.” I guess maybe he was here officially. I turned back to my recipes.

  “So anyway, this treasure thing is kind of interesting, huh?” He’d made his way across the room and was now leaning his hip against the countertop, mere inches from where I stood. “You think there really is a treasure out there?”

  “I doubt it. If there was, my mom and Millie would’ve probably dug it up by now.”

  Mike laughed. “Yeah, they sure are a pair, aren’t they? I heard something about them going downtown for shovels. Probably rushing back already so they can start digging any minute.”

  I snorted. “No doubt.” Millie had requested I meet them at the town common later that day to go over how I wanted the Oyster Cove Guesthouse display to be setup for the town celebration. She’d said this was of the utmost importance because the display needed to be perfect so that tourists coming for the celebration would be enticed to book a future vacation at the guesthouse, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she cancelled so she could dig for treasure.

  “Are you going to go out and dig?” He leaned in closer.

  I sidled away, clutching at the recipe I’d just pulled out. Cranberry-orange bread. I guess that would do for the celebration. “Nope.” I held the recipe in the air between us. “I need to try out this recipe for the town celebration. It’s really important I have something to offer that represents the Oyster Cove Guesthouse.”

  His eyes drifted out the window again in the direction of the Smugglers Bay Inn. My heart twitched. If I kept putting Mike off, I was driving him right toward Stella Dumont. But if he had intentions toward her, I didn’t really want him anyway.

  He pushed away from the counter. “Well, I gotta get back to the town offices. Let me know if you need anything and don’t forget to make sure you get your proper inspections for Ed’s work.”

  He was all business now, probably thinking about what he might like to inspect over at the Smugglers Bay Inn.

  “Will do.” I watched him leave, glad to have some alone time. I needed to concentrate on the loaf recipe.

  As I pawed through the file trying to choose between the cranberry-orange bread I had in my hand, the apple-pecan bread and the peanut-butter-banana bread, I could hear the Biddefords coming back inside. They were in rare form, jostling and arguing. Not much different from before the discovery of the skeleton, but I’d probably have to lay down the law about digging. I didn’t want the yard filled with dangerous holes.

  I glanced into the yard just in time to see Henry skulking around the corner of the old chicken coop, near the shed. Now there was an odd one, always with his head buried in a book. He was very quiet and didn’t seem to mesh with the rest of the family at all. I’d heard in snippets of conversations that Henry was also one of the most-skilled cheese sculptors of the entire clan and had become famous for a very detailed sculpture of the Taj Mahal in white cheddar.

  What was he doing out by the shed? The shed was a newer structure and old Jed wouldn’t have used it as a landmark for his treasure cache since it wasn’t around during his time.

  I craned my neck, pressing my face almost to the glass to get a better look. It didn’t look like he was digging up anything. He didn’t even have a shovel. It almost looked as if he was spying on someone, but I couldn’t see who because he was casting furtive glances in my direction. Whoever the person was they were hidden behind the tall, overgrown shrubbery on the other side of the kitchen window.

  I rushed to the pantry because the window in there was on the other side of the shrubs. Darn it! I still couldn’t see anyone, but I could hear the low murmur of voices.

  “Just what do you think you’re getting at?”

  I recognized Carla’s nasal Ivy League twang but she obviously wasn’t arguing with Henry. He was on the other side of the yard spying on her.

  “You know what I’m getting at…”

  Was that Bob? He sounded awfully mean and mad.

  “… not gonna stand for it, you make it right or else…” Bob again. What wasn’t he going to stand for?

  “Ha! I don’t answer to you.” Carla’s hushed whisper was sharp with anger.

 
; Unfortunately, they then lowered their voices and I couldn’t hear what they were saying. After a few minutes of ear straining, Carla’s voice came through once more, loud and clear. “Don’t bet on it.”

  The sound of rustling shrubs and Carla cursing under her breath signaled the end of the conversation. I rushed back to the kitchen, my mind whirling. What in the world was that about? I knew the whole family was at odds but clearly Carla was up to something and Bob was calling her out.

  I peeked out the window in time to see Henry walking over to meet Carla. They were about twenty feet from the window now and I could see Carla had two shovels.

  “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.”

  Millie’s scowl turned into a smile. She straightened and patted her puffy white hair. “Oh, did you really? Isn’t that lovely, Rose? Looks like we have a fan.”

  My mom leaned on her shovel and nodded. She didn’t look impressed with having Myron as a fan.

  “Though I suppose no investigation would be necessary if it was natural causes,” Myron said.

  “I don’t think it was natural causes, Myron. Who dies of natural causes inside a wall?” Millie asked.

  Myron laughed. His laugh wasn’t all that pleasant though. It reminded me of a screeching meerkat. “Right. Good point.”

  He glanced around, then apparently spotted his next victim a few tables over.

  “Well nice talking to you, ladies. Gotta run.” He turned and walked away.

  “That Myron never changes, does he?” I turned to see my best friend from high school, Jen Summers. We’d always managed to stay in touch even after I moved away and we both were busy raising our families. I mean, you kind of have to stay in touch with a friend like Jen who knows all your girlhood secrets. One of the highlights about moving back to town had been rekindling my friendship with her.

  Besides knowing all my secrets, she was a kind person and a great friend to have. She was also the postmaster in town and, since the post office was the unofficial gathering spot of the Oyster Cove grapevine, she knew all the gossip before anyone else did.

  “Hey, they let you out of the post office.” I gestured toward the blue post-office uniform she wore. It might have looked industrial on anyone else, but Jen had modified it with a little tuck here and a fancy button there, which gave it a bit of designer flair. Then again, Jen was slim and looked good in most anything—even the butt-end of the cow outfit we’d once worn for Halloween—unlike myself who had a more um… curvy… physique.