Olive and Let Die (25 page)

There was a pause. “Yes, Georgie. What can I do for you?” The voice was low and a bit gurgly, as if he needed to clear his throat.

I was a terrible liar. “Uh, I don't know if you've heard, but Melanie has had . . . an accident. She's in the hospital here in the Bay. She mentioned that she had you working on a project for her. Could you give me a status update so I can report back to her?” Mentally I crossed my fingers, then did it for real just for good measure.

“Why didn't that assistant of hers call? She's the one I've been dealing with.”

“She's taking care of other things for Melanie. They're very busy, you know.” I hoped I sounded just a little bit frosty—enough that he'd know I meant business but not so much that he'd get annoyed with me.

Another pause. “Well, you can tell her that I've hit a dead end. There's no marriage license, no birth records, and no church records anywhere to be found. I'll keep working on the newspapers. Did Caitlyn find anything yet? We split up some of the research.”

Pieces were starting to fall into place, but there were still so many missing. Why would Melanie be looking into genealogy? And whose genealogy was she looking into? There was only one answer. There was another heir out there, possibly more. The lawyers apparently didn't know about whoever it was, because they would have notified all the potential heirs.

“Caitlyn? No, I don't think she's found anything yet. Say, have you been paid? You know, with Melanie's illness I want to make sure you don't fall through the cracks.”

“She gave me a big retainer a couple of months ago. I'm still using it. Believe me, I'll let somebody know if it runs out. It takes a lot of hours to go through the newspapers looking for documentation, you know.”

“Newspapers?” I blurted.
Don't blow it now, Georgie.
“Uh, Melanie didn't tell me what research methods you were using to . . . complete the project.” Ugh. Even though genealogical investigators were apparently not bound by the same vow of confidentiality as attorneys, he could shut me down at any moment.

“A hundred years ago newspapers had community correspondents. The local writers would send in their village's gossip—who was sick, who attended the church social, who opened a new business.”

“Sounds nosy.” Keep him talking.

“Eh, it's like those celebrity news shows today. People love to know about other people's business.” A deep wet cough sounded on the other end of the line. “I've gotta go. I have a lot of papers to go through today. Tell that assistant I'll send her an e-mail regarding my progress.” He hung up.

That hadn't gone especially well. I'd been able to confirm
that Sheldon Todd was working for Melanie, but not much else. I considered my options. No way did I have enough time to go to the library and hunt through years of microfiche. With so little to go on, I might not recognize the crucial piece of information anyway. Presumably it was about the Bloodworth family, but even that wasn't a sure thing. No, best leave this to the professional, who could work far more efficiently than I could.

I glanced at my watch. Still an hour before we officially opened tonight. Time enough to go check on Melanie. But I still had no car. I could take Sophie's White Whale, the enormous Lincoln, but the thing was so hard to park. And by the time I maneuvered the beast through the narrow streets of the Bay and found a place to park it where there was no chance of someone with a more sensible vehicle dinging the doors, it would be just as quick to walk. “Be back in a few,” I said as I waved to Dolly and exited the kitchen door.

Bonaparte Bay was bustling. Late-season tourists milled about, stopping to window-shop. Midge had placed a rack of clearance items outside the T-Shirt Emporium, and I was happy to see customers taking sweatshirts inside to pay for them. Like a bear puts on fat to prepare for hibernation, the shops and restaurants of the Bay depended on this last infusion of cash to get them through the long, no-income winter. Things were looking good.

Spinky's was on my left. If I didn't stay to chat too long, I could check on Inky. And get a look inside the restaurant.

The front door was open, so I went in. “Hello?” The newly upholstered red vinyl booths had been installed, as had chrome-edged tables and a new black-and-white-tile floor done
in a checkerboard pattern. Framed records and vintage album covers hung on the walls—Elvis. The Rolling Stones. Tom Jones. Zorba the Greek. The effect was kitschy but fun. I predicted they'd do well selling burgers, fries, and onion rings.

Inky came through the kitchen door, a broad smile splitting his face and making the snake tattoo on his neck twitch. Spiro came out behind him, looking spiffy in dark-wash jeans and an emerald green polo shirt that brought out the green in his eyes and complemented his olive skin beautifully. I always felt a bit . . . dowdy next to these two.

“Georgie sandwich!” Inky wrapped his muscular arms around me, then Spiro followed. By the time they released me, we were all laughing. It had been a long time since I'd laughed with Spiro. It felt good.

“I just came in to check on you, to make sure Inky has been cleared of all the charges.”

Inky waved his long slender artist's fingers. “The lawyer's taking care of the final issues, but yes, I'm off the hook.” He grinned again. “And while I was in the lockup overnight, I convinced some of the guys in the cells to make appointments for new tats when they get out. So it's all working out.”

Spiro spoke up. “That bastard Channing was here working, you know. We hired him to do some of the carpentry—I mean, if you have to hire a handyman, you might as well get a good-looking one, right?”

I nodded. I'd been ready to hire him to winterize the farm too. And Liza had also been taken in by his tool belt and pretty face.

Inky continued. “So he had access to the kitchen, the plastic wrap he used to strangle poor Doreen, and the perfect
opportunity to frame one of us for the murder. And he might have gotten away with it”—he gave me a gentle buss on the cheek—“if it weren't for you, you meddling kid.”

I laughed again. “Glad everything is working out here. I'm headed over to the hospital to check on Melanie. Come for dinner in a couple of weeks, will you? Sophie's leaving for Greece and I want to give her a bon voyage party.”

“That's nice of you, Georgie,” Spiro said. “Mana will be pleased.”

Wow. If I'd ever had any doubts that Inky was good for Spiro, they were erased now. The change in him was wonderful to see.

We gave each other quick hugs and I was out the door.

TWENTY-FOUR

The hospital had a slightly stuffy, antiseptic smell as I made my way to Melanie's room. The guard was gone, now that the danger was passed. Melanie was propped up on pillows with the head of the bed elevated. Her lips were pursed as she held a small mirror with one hand and applied a pale pink lipstick with another. Her blond tresses were artfully disheveled, and she wore a luxurious satin bed jacket. Caitlyn stood in one corner of the room, deep in conversation with a bearded man holding a clipboard and wearing a wireless headset. On a small folding table sat a huge video camera.

“Hey, Melanie. How are you feeling? What's going on?” But I had a feeling I knew.

Melanie smiled. “Georgie, meet Louis. He's the assistant director of
The Desperate and the Defiant
.”

I nodded in Louis's direction.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

“Let me guess. The show is writing in a hospital storyline for you.”

The satisfied expression on her face confirmed my guess. “Not just a hospital storyline—a gunshot. I've gotten myself mixed up with the mob trying to protect one of my daughters, and I was shot and left for dead. Until a very handsome doctor came along and rescued me, taking me to his mountain cabin and nursing me back to health until he could get me to a proper hospital. After an avalanche closed off all the roads, of course. But we'll film all that later.”

She was clearly in her element. Spleenless and stitched up, she was still an actress. I had to admit that, even though it was one of the things that had kept her away from me for so many years, she still had her passion for her work. A thing I could understand, given my love for the Bonaparte House. Although it wouldn't have hurt her to pick up the phone once every decade or so. Passion and family were not mutually exclusive.

“Has the doctor been in today? When are you getting out?”

She shifted in bed, wincing only slightly. “Tomorrow, as long as I don't have to travel. And as long as we're done filming, of course. The show is making a nice donation to the Hospital Auxiliary Fund in exchange for letting us use this as a set.”

I was glad to hear it. Our tiny hospital needed all the help it could get. “You could come home with me. I don't have any formal nurse's training but I can change the sheets and keep you comfortable and well fed.” As soon as I said it, I knew it would never work. There was no bedroom on the first floor, and she'd never be able to handle the stairs. Still I was glad I made the offer.

Melanie stared. “You'd do that for me? After . . . everything?” Her voice was soft and pitched up in a question, as if she couldn't quite believe her ears.

I patted her hand, the one without the IV attached. “You're not completely forgiven.” I smiled. “But of course you can stay with me if you want.” The restaurant was closed this week. It wouldn't be hard to move tables and set up a bed in one of the dining rooms. Well, it would be a pain in the behind. But it was doable.

Her eyes misted over. “Thank you,” she whispered. “But Caitlyn has already made arrangements for us to stay on at the Spa. And once the producer here sees the place, I feel pretty confident he'll want to film there. Win-win for everybody. I get to recover in luxury, the show gets some spectacular castle footage, and your friend Liza gets paid.”

I felt a swell of relief pierced by a teeny-tiny pang of disappointment. As angry as I still was, it would have been nice to spend some time with her.

“Why don't you come and spend a few days at the Spa with me?”

“I'd like that, Melanie.” And it was true.

Caitlyn, who'd been busy with the producer, approached us. She didn't seem to be any worse for having been tied up, gagged, and having a knife held to her throat. “Louis says we're almost ready. There's a local actor coming in this afternoon to play the staff doctor, and a couple of the nurses here are going to play themselves.”

Melanie nodded, her self-satisfied smile returned to its rightful place on her lips. “Georgie, are you free tomorrow morning?”

I nodded.

“Then would you go out to the farm with Caitlyn? I've decided not to sell to Rainbow Acres just yet. But I've agreed to lease it to them for the yoga retreat and I'd like you and Caitlyn to work out the details with Hank before we take it to that law firm in town to draw up the agreement. You can have the rent,” she offered, her voice tentative.

Tempting. It would be nice to fatten up my nest egg, getting me that much closer to my dream of buying out Sophie from the Bonaparte House when she was ready to sell. But it didn't seem right. I wanted to own that dream and earn the money myself, not just have it handed to me.

I shook my head. “I have a better idea. Why don't we donate the rent to various groups and charities in the Bay and the surrounding area? There are plenty of places where that money could do some real good, like the volunteer fire department and the school PTO.”

Melanie drummed the fingers of her free hand on the bed rail. “Brilliant,” she finally said. “Another win-win. I'm sure we can get some nice publicity out of it.”

I turned to Caitlyn. “Pick me up at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, and I assume you'll call Hank to meet us there?”

“Yes,” she said, punching something into her ever-present phone.

“You're not afraid to go back to the farm, are you?”

She looked up. “What? No. Not with Channing . . . gone.” Her expression was unreadable. I wondered if she really had liked him and that's why she'd been following him around. Or was it just her mysterious “research”?

Which reminded me. “Melanie, I realize we can't discuss
this here.” I cut my eyes to Louis, who was talking into his cell phone and paying no attention to us. “But I want you to give permission for Caitlyn to tell me tomorrow all about why you're really here and what she's been working on. You owe me that much.”

Melanie looked thoughtful. “Yes, I suppose you're right. I didn't want to talk about this until we had it all settled. If it can be settled.” Melanie turned to Caitlyn. “Tomorrow you can tell Georgie everything.”

Caitlyn nodded. “Okay.”

I looked at my watch. Five minutes till the Bonaparte House opened for the dinner service. There was just enough time to hustle back there. Not enough time to even try to guess what Caitlyn was going to tell me tomorrow.

Fortunately, the customers came in steadily all night, so there was no opportunity to dwell on the upcoming revelation. Sophie had returned just after we opened, dragging her enormous hard-sided suitcase through the kitchen. She called eighty-six at nine o'clock, earlier than usual, but the streets were empty. We had two more weekends to go, then we'd be done for the season. It was always bittersweet closing up on the last day. But this winter I was looking forward to having the Bonaparte House to myself. And to spending some time with Jack. And I had a project to keep me busy—sorting through Gladys's recipes. Somehow I thought I might not miss going to Greece after all.

I followed Sophie up the stairs. She had a pocket full of cash receipts tonight, and had won a thousand dollars at the casino, so she was in a good mood.

“How's the tramp?”

Snort. “You mean Melanie? She's getting out of the hospital tomorrow, then she's going to stay with Liza at the castle.” Just wait till the episodes with Melanie and the mysterious doctor aired. Sophie would have the screaming meemies.

Sophie opened the door to her room and turned to face me. Her hazel eyes narrowed. “You okay about her here?”

I was pretty sure Sophie could find a way to get rid of Melanie if I'd asked. “It's all right. We're . . . getting to know each other again. I still don't quite trust her, honestly.”

Sophie bobbed her head up and down, her lacquered burgundy helmet moving not a fraction of an inch. “That's good. You gonna be careful.”

I wondered. Did Sophie feel threatened by my new relationship with Melanie? After all, she'd taken me in and treated me like a daughter. “Sophie,” I said.

She looked up at me.

“I love you.” And I wrapped her in a hug.

Her body stiffened, then relaxed and she returned the hug. “I love you too. Now go to bed.”

A grin played at my lips. There was nobody like Sophie.

I threw on an oversized T-shirt and crawled under the covers. Normally I would have taken a quick shower before bed to eliminate the food smell from my hair, but tonight I didn't feel like bothering. The television remote was where it belonged, for once, on the night table, so I flipped through the channels until I settled on a ridiculous pseudo-documentary about UFOs.

As the interviewee replayed the details of her abduction, my mind wandered over the revelations of the last few days. Two murders. A trust worth millions—maybe hundreds of
millions. A family that had died out, all but for my mother, me, and my daughter.

Or had it? Channing apparently thought there was another heir and was willing to kill—twice—in order to see that person get his or her share of the inheritance. Which meant he had some connection to this person. Maybe whoever it was had paid Channing to look for proof. As a handyman, he had worked for dozens, maybe hundreds, of people and businesses around the Bay. So he had access to a lot of homes and shops—which was how he'd managed to frame Inky.

My thoughts turned to Sheldon Todd, the genealogical investigator. He'd said he was looking for documentation. What if Channing had not been trying to find evidence for his enigmatic employer so that person could prove a claim? What if Channing had been paid to destroy it?

Then there was the arrowhead and the associated file that had been stolen from Jack's apartment. Channing had worked for Gladys, so he could have taken those objects anytime. Why wait until Jack, a trained Coast Guard officer, had taken possession of them before the theft? It would have been far simpler—and safer—to take the items from a little old lady.

And what the heck did that arrowhead have to do with any of this?

I certainly wished I'd brought a glass of wine upstairs. But it was warm under the covers and it was a long way down the spiral staircase, across the dining rooms, and into my office and my locked desk drawer.

I sat up in bed. The quilt fell off my shoulders, but I barely registered the change in temperature. Something other than my semisecret bottle of wine was in that drawer:
Doreen's Bingo box. And the key I'd removed from the false bottom.

And the Bingo card with the odd markings. It
was
a treasure map. I was almost sure of it now.

Suddenly I understood. It wasn't the interesting but not valuable arrowhead itself that was the final clue, which was why the pieces wouldn't fit. It was the location where the arrowhead had been
found
, dug up by Herman Montgomery and my grandfather fifty or so years ago.

And I was pretty sure I knew where that was. On that little mound covered with the rusted farm implements out back of the farmhouse. Jack had said there were mounds built by indigenous people several thousand years ago all over the North Country, so it seemed likely that that was where this particular artifact had come from. Tomorrow, I'd have another look at the pile of junk. And bring a shovel from the toolshed, just in case there wasn't one in the barn.

The television droned as I put all the pieces together one more time. And this time, they all fit. There were two remaining questions. What would Doreen's carefully hidden little key open? And what would I find inside?

It was somewhere around two in the morning when I finally fell asleep. I woke, bleary eyed, five hours later to find the television still on and an infomercial for an expensive exercise program playing. I shut it off, lest I get any ideas. Long walks and an occasional evening yoga class in the high school gym were more my speed during the winter months.

After a quick shower, I headed downstairs. Sophie was already up, sitting with Dolly at the kitchen counter and drinking coffee. A box of donuts from the local bakery sat
on the counter. I filled the third cup with coffee and cream, then sat down and selected a glazed jelly.