Cooking Up Trouble (13 page)

“Okay, Chelsea,” Angie shouted to be heard over the sudden loud wind. “You go first.”

“Me? Shoot!” Chelsea took a candle and some matches and started down the stairs. “Patsy?” No answer. “It’s too creepy. I’ve gone far enough.”

“You’ve only gone down three steps! Go on, Chelsea. I’m right behind you.”

“That gives me lots of confidence,” came the ungrateful grumble.

“Anyway, I thought you liked creepy things. Like ghosts,” Angie said.

“Funny, Angie. Real funny.” Chelsea kept going.

“How big is the cellar?” Angie asked.

“Uh…bigger than a bread box. But not exactly Grand Central.”

Angie started down the steps after Chelsea. “Ah, finally I’m out of that wind. Now I can light my candle and see what’s going on here.” She lit it and looked around. The root cellar was surprisingly large, with shelves lined with jars of preserves, stone crocks, and bunches of drying and dried vegetables.

“Patsy,” Angie called. “Patsy, are you in here?”

She went down a few more steps, then held the candle out so that she could see as much of the cellar as possible.

“I’m getting out of here,” Chelsea said and turned around. Her eyed widened in horror. “No!”

Angie turned to see the door swinging closed, just as a gust of wind extinguished her candle.

Running Spirit, Martin Bayman
, and Paavo discovered an old bridge that spanned a deep gorge, one that almost cut the promontory off from the mainland and made an island out of it.

The bridge’s dry rot was so bad it was visible with the naked eye. Paavo was surprised a strong gale hadn’t blown it down long before.

“Maybe that’s why we can’t find Mrs. Jeffers,” Bayman said. “She crossed over the bridge.”

“Would she chance it, Jeffers?” Paavo asked. “The bridge looks dangerous.”

“As I’ve said from the start, I can’t believe she’d have left the house,” Running Spirit replied. “She’s hiding…or she’s dead.”

“Nonetheless, one of us should try to get across it,” Bayman said. “We’ve got these ropes. We can tie one end of the rope to a tree, the other to one of us, then that person can try to cross. If the bridge falls, the others can pull the man up.”

Paavo was dubious. “She can’t weigh much over a hundred and ten or twenty pounds, but I still wonder if it could have held her.”

“She wouldn’t chance it,” Running Spirit said.

“Who’ll be the guinea pig?” Martin asked, ignoring Jeffers.

“She’s my wife,” Running Spirit said. “I guess that means I’m elected.”

“The bridge would come down for sure under your weight,” Paavo said. “The only one of us with any hope of crossing it is Martin. If the bridge starts to go, the two of us could pull him up easily.”

Although agreeing with Paavo’s contention, Martin muttered about the unfairness of it the entire time he was tying one end of the rope around his waist and Running Spirit was tying the other end to a nearby tree.

Slowly, being careful to cause the least disturbance, Martin stepped onto the narrow wooden bridge.

“Chelsea, are you all right?” Angie whispered into the darkness. Something grabbed her foot and she cried out.

“Sorry. It’s just me,” Chelsea said. “I’m trying to come up the stairs. It’s too scary down here.”

“Careful! You nearly knocked me off the steps. I’m going up to open the door.” She went up two steps and felt the door in front of her. She pushed, but it wouldn’t open.

“Is the wind holding it shut?” Chelsea asked.

Angie didn’t think so. “I hope that’s all it is. Help me.” Angie pulled Chelsea up the stairs to her side.

“Put your hands on the door,” Angie ordered, trying to keep her balance. “Okay, now, one, two, three, push!” They strained. The door didn’t budge.

“I don’t think it’s wind,” Chelsea cried and let go. “I had no idea the door would be so heavy.”

“It’s not. The bar that holds it shut must have dropped into place when the door closed.”

“Don’t say that, Angie! That means we’re locked in.”

A soft thump was heard.

“Oh, God!” Chelsea clutched Angie so hard she nearly smothered her. “What was that?”

“Nothing. Just your imagination.”

“Then how come you heard it, too?”

Angie pushed at the door again, to no avail. How long would it take for someone to find them down here? And worse, what creatures were down here with them?

Angie had dropped the candle, but she still had the matches in her pocket. Should she go down the stairs to find it? How far down was the ground? And what else would she be touching in this total darkness as she tried to find the spot where the candle had fallen?

Tha-thump
.

The soft sound reverberated through the cellar.

All her fears of the dark, of things that go bump in the night, burst loose, and she and Chelsea held each other and screamed for help.

The bridge swayed precariously. Its creaks grew louder and more ominous with each step.

Martin made it almost to the opposite bank when there was a sharp crack, almost like a rifle shot, and the bridge crumbled under his feet.

“Martin!” Paavo shouted as he watched the man plunge into the deep chasm.

The rope slid from Martin’s waist upward to his underarms before it caught, stopping his free fall with a sharp
jolt. He winced with pain as the rope tightened, cutting into his shoulders and back.

He took hold of the rope with his hands, trying to pull up, trying to lift some of the weight off his shoulders. But his feet weren’t able to touch the ground, and he was left dangling in midair like a fish caught by a line tossed off the end of a pier.

“You’ll be all right,” Paavo called down. He grabbed the rope and started to pull on it, trying to haul Martin back to the bank. The rope, like everything else at this inn, was old and rotten in parts. He could see it starting to fray. They’d have to work fast. “Pull, Jeffers,” he ordered. “Help me.”

Running Spirit folded his arms.

Paavo looked back at him. “Jeffers!”

No answer.

Paavo felt Martin drop lower as the rope began to thin in one part. He tugged on it, trying to get Martin up to what was left of the bridge as soon as possible. He made progress, but it was slow. The rope tore at his hands and his arm sockets burned from the strain of Martin’s deadweight. “Jeffers, damn it, there’s not much time.”

Running Spirit backed up. “He doesn’t belong here. Everything was fine until he got involved. It’s his fault all this is happening.”

“You don’t know that. Take hold of the rope. You can’t let him fall.”

Another part of the rope started to unravel, the fibers standing straight upright where they tore in two. “Jeffers, nothing will be solved by this. He was trying to find your wife, man!”

“I’m doing for him what he’d do for me. Nothing.”

Loose and muddy from the constant rain, the ground gave way under Paavo’s feet and he slid forward, toward
the bank. Martin dropped about three feet. His terror-filled shriek reverberated through the gorge.

Paavo’s hands had gotten burned and bloodied from the rope, but he didn’t let go. Wordlessly, he looked over his shoulder at Running Spirit.

“Goddammit! All right.” Running Spirit picked up the rope and started to pull. Working together, he and Paavo were able to quickly drag Bayman up to what was left of the bridge. Martin was able to grab hold of it and hoist himself onto it, then scramble quickly to the bank.

Lying facedown, Martin shut his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply. Paavo said nothing. He knew there was bad blood between the two, but he hadn’t realized it ran this deep.

Running Spirit stood over Bayman. “Don’t thank me,” he said.

Martin tried to stand, but his legs shook too badly, and he sat down again on the ground. “Thanks was the last thing on my mind,” he said bitterly. “A lawsuit was first.”

Their screams stopped abruptly. The cellar door rattled. Angie and Chelsea lunged against it, pushing with all their might, when all of a sudden it sprang open. A rain-soaked Reginald Vane held his arm down to them. “My goodness! What are you doing there?”

“Acting out my worst nightmare,” Angie said.

“Really?” Vane asked.

Angie clutched his arm in a death grip until she was outside in the wind and rain. “Help Chelsea,” she murmured as she dropped to the ground, not caring that it was wet and muddy. Her heart needed time to settle down, and her knees to stop knocking, before she could walk back to the inn.

“Miss Worthington,” Vane said softly, taking both Chelsea’s hands. “Are you all right?”

She nodded.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

Hearing his heartfelt kindness must have been Chelsea’s undoing, because all of a sudden she burst into tears. “I was so afraid,” she said.

“There, there, my dear,” he said, moving so that she stood within the circle of his arms as he patted her shoulder. “I didn’t know you were there, miss,” he said very softly.

But Angie had heard. “What do you mean? What difference would that have made?”

Chelsea, too, stepped back, a confused look on her face as Vane’s words penetrated.

Vane looked at them both, flustered. “I only meant, literally, I didn’t know she was in there. I only saw Miss Amalfi at first. And while you, Miss Amalfi, have Inspector Smith to see to your emotional state after such a trauma, Miss Worthington has no one. I’m glad I could be here to help.”

“What brought you out here?” Angie asked.

“I heard the thumping sound of the ghosts,” Vane said. “I tried to ignore it, but somehow I couldn’t. I fled the house to walk about outdoors, despite the rain. Mercifully, I heard your cries.”

Angie stood up. She didn’t believe Vane’s story, but what was the truth? And why would he lie?

“Let’s go in,” Reginald said. He took Chelsea’s arm and held it as they walked back to the inn.

“
My dear girl, what a horrible
fright you’ve had.” Reginald Vane patted the back of Chelsea’s hand, then quickly wrapped his hands around his mug of the hot chocolate he’d made for himself, Chelsea, and Angie. The three of them sat at the kitchen counter, Reginald and Chelsea side by side, while Angie felt shunted off into the corner.

“It was awful,” Chelsea said.

“I don’t know how you stood it. You’re wondrously brave.” Reginald’s ears reddened with his last statement and he straightened his bow tie.

What was I, Angie thought, chopped liver down there?

Finally she got sick of the reprise of poor, brave Chelsea in the root cellar and left the kitchen, feeling decidedly sorry for herself. Not only did no one care what happened to her, no matter how frightening, but she had to listen to concern over everyone else.

She put on Moira’s wide-brimmed rain hat and slicker and went outdoors, planning to walk over to the cliffs to
try to find Paavo and the others. She’d like to help search for Patsy, even though she knew she’d have to struggle not to slow the men down. Staying indoors felt too claustrophobic after having been stuck in that horrible root cellar. She needed to watch, and think, and figure out what was going on here.

She stuck her hands in her pockets and walked with her head down. The rain was steady, but the wind had stopped, so walking in it wasn’t unpleasant.

Speaking of unpleasant…her thoughts drifted to Moira Tay. She had to be the guilty one. Getting rid of Finley would make her owner of the inn. Getting rid of Patsy meant there were no obstacles to her and Running Jerk being lovers once more. And with Miss Greer gone, then what? Moira could do the cooking? No, that was no reason to kill someone. What clue was she missing?

She looked around, so lost in thought she’d paid little attention to where she’d gone. At the top of a knoll the young boy with the Chicago Bulls cap stood watching her. “Hello, there,” Angie called and headed toward him. The knoll was steep and she soon found herself struggling to climb it. “Can you give me a hand?”

The boy’s eyes widened and his face flushed. “Sure.” He scampered down the hill.

She held out her hand. He stared at it. “Wow. You’ve got long fingernails. Purple, too. Just like on TV.”

“Rose mauve, actually. But thanks.”

The boy rubbed the palm of his hand against his jeans, then took hers. To her surprise, he was strong enough to give a hard yank on her arm as he began to run back up the knoll. Angie could scarcely move her feet fast enough as she found herself going uphill almost as quickly as she usually went down.

Angie had to bend over, her hands on her knees, trying
to catch her breath, when they reached the top. The boy laughed.

“I didn’t know you’d get so tired,” he said.

“Who’s…tired?” she wheezed, then straightened, her hand on her still heaving chest. The boy’s eyes traveled to the curve of her breasts, then locked for a long moment. When he stepped back, his ears had turned flaming red.

“My name’s Angelina Amalfi. I never did learn yours.”

The boy bit his bottom lip before replying, “Danny.”

“Danny what?”

“Just Danny.”

“Ah.”

“Where were you going?” Danny asked.

“Toward the cliffs. I’m looking for a lady from the inn who’s missing.”

Danny’s face paled, his eyes wide. “Mom?” he whispered.

“Who?”

“Is Moira Tay missing?” Danny’s voice was small, scared.

Moira…Danny’s mother. Angie began to slowly walk along the knoll, Danny beside her. “No, not Moira. It’s another woman. Her name is Patsy. She’s thin, with light brown hair. Have you seen her around anywhere?”

Danny shook his head. “How come she’s missing? Did she go out alone or something?”

“It seems that way.”

“You got to be careful out here. You got to know what you’re doing, like I do. There’s some places, if you step on them, they can give way and you’ll slide all the way down the hill and end up in the ocean. It’s pretty dangerous, if you don’t know it.”

“So I’ve learned,” Angie said. Danny’s description brought back the memory of her own quick trip sliding
down the rocks yesterday, just before finding Finley’s body.

They walked in silence. Angie surreptitiously studied Danny and mentally kicked herself for not having noticed how much he resembled Moira.

“I’m twelve,” Danny said after a while. “How old are you?”

Angie smiled. “Considerably older than twelve.” Double it, in fact. She felt old.

“Really? I’m almost as tall as you are,” he said.

“Yes. You’ll be a tall young man, I think.”

“Do…uh, do you like tall men?”

“Oh, of course.”

“Good,” he said with a sigh.

She did a double take.

Suddenly, he ran off.

She stood watching him disappear. Well, Angie, she thought, you certainly have a way with men. Even young, completely inexperienced ones hightail it away from you as fast as they can go.

She continued onward. The rain, which had stopped for a while, began to fall once more. A bolt of lightning flashed and thunder rolled across the landscape.

She reached the cliffs, but there was no sign of anyone. It figured. Given her luck lately, they’d probably gone in the opposite direction to search. Being out here alone was probably foolish, anyway. Time to go back to the main house. She turned around and started walking, following her footprints in the soft, damp earth. The rain fell harder with each passing minute. As she retraced her steps, the footprints grew smoother, less visible, until they disappeared altogether in the rainstorm.

Foolishly, she hadn’t paid a lot of attention as she walked with Danny, more intrigued by his relationship to
Moira than where she was walking to. But at that point she was headed west toward the cliffs. It wasn’t as if she could miss them.

Going back and trying to find the inn was a different story. She’d have to find footprints or a trail. They must be somewhere. Thunder clapped. She wouldn’t let herself think about the mountain lions and snakes and wild boars Paavo had mentioned. It was daylight. They wouldn’t come out now. Would they?

Up ahead she saw an indenture in the ground. She ran to it. A footprint. Looking at the size and shape of the shoe, she realized it was hers. Lewis and Clark, move over! She’d blaze this trail right back to the inn. Maybe tracking wasn’t as hard as it was cracked up to be.

Carefully, she followed her footprints in the opposite direction from which they headed, not letting herself miss a single one. When she passed an especially gnarled tree for the second time, though, she realized something was wrong. She looked up, looked around, and realized she’d been following the footprints she’d made while walking around in circles looking for her footprints!

God, now what? No wonder she never left the city. Where was a taxi when you needed one?

Thoughts of Patsy and what might have happened to her filled Angie’s mind. What if Patsy had only meant to go for a walk in the woods and then met up with…what? Or who? And what did that person or animal do to her?

No
! It was the city where those horrible things happened. Not the country. But Angie would have known better than to go wandering into strange neighborhoods in the city. Why hadn’t she used the same caution here?

“Danny!” she called. “Danny! Come back, please!”

Silence.

She made her best guess and started walking in one direction.

Up ahead, she saw a small cottage with lush plants and ground coverings, unusual since it was winter. She knew Quint had a cottage on the property somewhere. That had to be his.

As she walked up to it, the front door opened. She froze, holding her breath.

“I didn’t know you wanted to come here,” Danny said, his head bobbing out at her. “I thought you were going to the cliffs.”

She released her breath in a whoosh. “Nope. Changed my mind.”

Quint’s cottage was small but clean and comfortable. It had a large sitting room with an eating area in front of the windows, looking out on what would be a lovely rose garden once spring arrived. A kitchen nook took up one side of the sitting room. Beyond the main room was a large bedroom with a single bed and, on the far wall, a roll-away all made up as if a guest were expected this evening.

“This is nice,” Angie said. “So you’re staying with Quint?”

“What makes you say that?” Danny struggled to keep all expression from his face as he followed her glance. “Oh, my bed.”

“Don’t you want anyone to know you’re staying here, Danny?” she asked.

“It’s nobody’s business.”

“That’s true enough.” Angie went to the window. The rain continued to fall in heavy sheets. “Aren’t you afraid out here alone?”

“In here? Afraid of what?”

Angie looked around the snug, secure little cottage. Good question, she thought. “Afraid of being alone, I guess,” she said.

“No. But Moira would let me sleep at the big house if I was scared or got lonely.”

“Good.” Angie peeled off her wet jacket and spread it over the back of a chair. “Have you always lived here?”

“No,” Danny answered.

“Just with Moira, then?”

“Moira?” the boy said, trying to sound surprised. “No, I don’t live with her.”

“You’re quite the loner,” Angie said.

“That’s right.” Danny clamped his mouth shut defiantly.

“If you’d like something hot to drink, hot milk, or chocolate, or anything like that, just show me where it is and I’ll make it for you,” she offered.

“Cow’s milk isn’t good for you, and chocolate has caffeine and other bad stuff, so I can’t have any,” he answered.

Now I know for sure this is Moira’s son, Angie thought. “Do you have soy milk?”

“I hate hot soy milk! The only thing Mom gives me is herb tea, but I don’t much like it. I’m fine. But Gran—I mean Quint, keeps coffee for himself, so if you’d like some, I’m sure he won’t care.”

Gran? Quint was the boy’s grandfather? That meant Quint was Moira and Finley’s father? Impossible. He and Finley, in particular, weren’t at all alike. For that matter, neither were Finley and Moira. What was she missing here?

“I’d love a cup of coffee. Bless Quint for having it—and you for telling me about it.”

As Angie went into the kitchen area, Danny sat at the table, watching the rain. “What do you think happened to the woman who’s missing?” Danny asked after a while.

“Some people think she ran away.”

“What if she’s dead? Like Finley.”

Angie’s hand stilled as she counted measuring spoons of ground coffee and put them in the filter. “You heard about Finley?”

“Yeah.” Danny didn’t elaborate.

“I see.” Angie finished setting up the coffee, then turned to figure out something to make for Danny.

“Maybe that woman jumped off a cliff like Elise Sempler,” Danny said.

“I can’t imagine she’d do that.”

“But didn’t they find something of hers by the cliffs?”

“You do learn a lot out here,” Angie said, impressed and curious about what else this boy might know. She found some apple cider and heated a cupful of it. “Do you think Patsy is much like Elise?”

“I guess not. Like nobody took her baby away or nothing.”

“Her what?” Angie stepped into the living room. “Whose baby?”

“Elise’s. Elise jumped because she was so sad after Susannah took her baby away.”

“Who told you that?”

“I’ve seen Susannah’s diaries, and some letters,” Danny said.

Angie’s heart leaped. The thought of getting her hands on the letters and diaries of the strange Semplers…

“They’re kind of hard to read,” Danny continued, “but I also heard Quint and some other people talking about what they said, so then I was able to understand.”

Angie tried to keep the excitement out of her voice. “Do you know where these diaries and letters are?”

“They’re here in a box. Finley wanted to throw them away, but my…Moira put them in a box and brought them here. She said it was evil to throw away their things. Moira believes in stuff like ghosts.”

“I’ve noticed.” And I just might start, Angie thought.

“Would you like to see the letters? I don’t think she’d care. She said it’s okay if I read them, but I have to be real careful not to tear them because they’re so old.”

“I’d like to see them. Very much.”

A little while later, they sat on the sofa. Angie had a cup of hot coffee, and for Danny she made a cup of hot buttered apple tea, a mixture of hot tea and hot apple cider. For flavor, she mixed together dark brown sugar, cinnamon, clove, the zest of a lemon, and a little butter, then dropped the mixture by the teaspoonful into the hot drink until the taste was just right.

Danny gave her a hatbox filled with Susannah’s memories, Susannah’s life—a single dance card, a theater program from Eureka, some ribbons, a lock of fine blond hair in a small envelope, a diary, and tied in a pink ribbon, a packet of letters.

As she went through the contents of the box, Danny sat down beside her with his cider. He proclaimed it the best thing he’d ever tasted.

Once Angie became used to the flowery script Susannah used with her wide-nibbed ink pen, she was able to read through the diary fairly rapidly. The early entries were dull, talking about needlework, gardening, an occasional book read, or her dog.

She turned a page and found a sprig of dried violets pressed between them, and soon, as she read, the world of the snug little cottage disappeared.