Shelley Freydont - Celebration Bay 03 - Independence Slay (12 page)

My lesson plan
, Liv thought as she and Whiskey walked up the drive to her house. How had it come to this, that a person whose forte was organizing parties and corporate events somehow kept getting involved in murder investigations?

It wasn’t just because she was nosy. “I’m not nosy, am I?”

“Arf,” Whiskey said, and took off for his nightly inspection of the shrubbery.

“I take that as a no.”

When Whiskey reappeared, Liv went inside, but not to bed.

Her laptop was calling. She kicked off her shoes and sat down at her desk.

After a few minutes, Whiskey gave up standing in the doorway to her bedroom waiting for her to come to bed, yawned, padded over to the desk, and flopped down across her bare feet.

“Have I told you lately you’re the best dog in the whole world?”

Whiskey made one of those long whining yawns. Shook his muzzle and promptly fell asleep.

Liv clicked on the template she’d made for her last adventure into things that she shouldn’t look into. She’d saved it in a folder labeled LPFM. Lesson Plan for Murder.

She sat staring at the empty columns. She hadn’t expected to have to use it after the incident of the Harvest by the Bay Festival, when the sisters had first suggested she approach her questioning as they would a lesson plan.

But she must have had some intuition that she might need it again, since she’d saved it as a template. And here she was again, though Liv was appalled at having to admit that she might consider investigating on her own.

Well, she rationalized, she was just living up to expectations. And besides, even though she insisted she wasn’t a control freak and always delegated duties, in truth, deep down inside, she was a control freak. Was it her fault that she wanted to be the best, do the best, hire the best, have the best outcomes?

Which brought her back to the first excuse—reason—for her meddling: looking into things. She had a festival at stake. She began to type.

“Jacob Rundle murdered on the roof as he participated in the reenactment. Gardener. Case of mistaken identity?”
Question mark.

The Motive column she left blank. Though in the Comments column she entered: “Why would someone want to kill a gardener?” And another big question mark.
For mistakenly mowing over the daylilies? For overwatering the cactus, for hitting a water main when digging out the—
She didn’t write any of that down. It sounded too ridiculous.

She stopped. Thought.

Leo had said he and Henry had found some treasure, but not the “real” treasure. What if the gardener had been digging and accidentally uncovered the “treasure.” Would he have turned it over to Henry, or would he have opened it first? If it were gold would he just have taken it with no one the wiser? But if it were a document, as Ted suggested, and if he’d found something incriminating about Henry’s ancestor, would he generously hand it over and promise to never tell, or destroy it, nobly keeping his employer from disgrace?

Nah, not the Jacob Rundle she’d seen in action. If it were gold, Rundle would have kept it. And if it were a document, he would have offered to give it back—for a price.

She entered two words in the Motive column to the right of Rundle’s name. “Theft, Blackmail??” Put two question marks beside it. Already she was picking holes in that theory. If she were going to blackmail someone, she wouldn’t have dressed up as a patriot to meet her victim on the roof in the middle of a pageant with an audience of close to a thousand people sitting below.

She would have just gone into the house, taken Henry aside, and asked for a reward or blackmailed him with what she’d found.

And why on earth would Henry agree to meet him on the roof, when Hildy and Leo had said he didn’t like Rundle in the house. Maybe because the roof wasn’t the house?

Only, instead of getting money from Henry, Henry killed him?

And that would certainly take care of the question of how the killer had escaped. He’d just gone back inside. Did Hildy know? That would make her an accomplice, even if it were after the fact.

And how had he eluded the police? Ted, Liv, and A.K. had gotten there within a few minutes… unless Rundle was dead before the first signal was given. It was possible that Henry had been on the roof to give the signal and had given it.

Then Leo interrupted him, and he had to do something drastic. Like jump over the parapet and climb back into the house. But the dust hadn’t been disturbed on the floor; Chaz had said he would have to have flown.

But there was the folding-stair entrance. Maybe he hadn’t just disappeared, but made a big show of it, and while Leo covered his head in fear—which Liv had seen him do—Henry just climbed back down the stairs.

But why hadn’t Leo recognized him?

Or had he and just not made the connection yet? He’d been dressed like the ghost… because he was playing the ghost, like he did every year. He’d probably planned to get away before the body was discovered.

She leaned back and looked at her screen. So far the only motive she had was connected to the treasure or the purported treasure. But she had a lot of unanswered questions. Like why do it now with so many people around and when he was supposed to be at his sister’s, where his alibi could be checked?

It didn’t make sense.

And if Henry didn’t kill Rundle, someone else had…

Henry Gallantine should have been portraying the ghost on the roof that night. But as far as they knew, he hadn’t given the signal but left Jacob Rundle to do it. And he’d never made it to his sister’s. His car was missing and so was he.

Maybe he was dead, too.

She added this to her lesson plan and looked over her columns. So far she had three people—Henry, Jacob, Leo. Two motives—gold, document. Questions—nearly twenty. Answers—goose egg. She yawned. She was getting too tired to think straight. But her mind was turning too fast to go to sleep.

She went to IMDb, the Internet Movie Database, and typed in “Henry Gallantine.” Spent a few minutes reading about his movies, looking at photos and video clips. There were a couple of him at award functions several years back.

He’d been a cute kid and not a bad actor if the short clips she watched were any indication. He was still a good-looking man, not terribly tall, maybe five ten, but fit.

Formal, charming, and distinguished looking. Was he in good enough shape to leap to a parapet and jump to the ledge beneath, climb through the window or jump through the opening to the folding stairs, and make his escape before the police arrived?

Was he hidden inside the massive old house, and then, once the coast was clear, would walk out to wherever his car was parked and drive away… to where? Had he already escaped?

Liv searched the Internet for a stream of his old movies. Most weren’t available, but there was a version of
Treasure Island
.

Perfect. A period piece about a treasure. A fitting end to the weekend.

She stretched, dislodging her sleeping dog. Disgruntled, he got to his feet and padded off to his own bed. Liv curled up on the couch and started the movie.

It only took a few minutes for Liv to be hooked. Henry Gallantine was one likable kid on screen. An enticing teen-idol type. And his Jim Hawkins was a perfect foil to Long John Silver.

And she wasn’t at all surprised when Henry, being chased around the ship, climbed nimbly up the mast only to swing across the bow on the rigging to land on the other side of the deck.

• • •

When Liv woke up the next morning, the first thing she thought of was that she wouldn’t have to wear red, white, or blue to work. The second thing she thought was,
Has Bill caught the murderer yet?
And the third,
Did Henry Gallantine do his own stunts?

She hurried through her morning routine, anxious to get to the office and hear the latest, but when it came time to leash Whiskey, he refused to budge.

“What?”

He padded into the living room and put his feet up on the desk chair. And Liv saw what he was waiting for. His stars-and-stripes bandanna lay where she’d taken it off him the night before.

“You are such a fashion hog.” She tied it on him and they started off to work. She was halfway there when she began to feel that post-event letdown funk. It always happened, like walking to a cliff edge—or a parapet—and falling over, the image of Chaz disappearing over the side of the wall still vivid in her mind. Her stomach did a sympathetic flip.

In Manhattan she just tried to keep going, maybe had a morning of exhaustion followed by some retail therapy and it was off to the next project.

Now she was about to have several weeks where she wasn’t really needed. Which was a good thing.

She could work on her recap of the year, find the things that hadn’t run as smoothly as they should have, bookmark things that were working fine, come up with plans for improvement. Start on her projections for next year. Look for new holidays and events to add to the roster.

She could get back to running consistently. She really needed the exercise—fit body, fit mind.

Maybe even take a few days totally off. Feet up, book open, air-conditioner turned up to near freezing; television on mute while she drank iced tea in her pajamas.

She could take up crocheting, or quilting. There were so many things to do in Celebration Bay if she only had the time.

But she wouldn’t have time. Especially if people kept getting murdered. Hopefully the murders they’d experienced were just an aberration and not a trend.

She picked up pastries and coffee, but both places were busy with customers and Dolly and BeBe didn’t have time to talk. Which was just as well. They’d only want to talk about the murder, and Liv really just wanted it to be over.

She climbed the steps to Town Hall. Whiskey sat at the closed door of the Events Office while Liv dropped the leash, anticipating his mad scramble to Ted and their daily songfest. She opened the door. Whiskey jumped in. There was no Ted.

Whiskey went to the desk. Sniffed around Ted’s chair. Looked back at Liv.

“Beats me,” she told him. “Maybe he’s taking a late morning.” That would be a first. But they had been running at full throttle for seven months. They both could use some downtime.

Liv put the bakery bag and cups on Ted’s desk and went back to shut the door. But before she reached it, Whiskey shot out into the hallway.

“Whiskey, come back here.” She hurried after him. But instead of turning to the right toward the door to outside, Whiskey turned left and was caroming down the hall. “Where are you going?”

He ran past the unoccupied receptionist’s desk and skidded to a stop at the closed door of the mayor’s office. Looked back at Liv. She cold hear the murmur of voices inside. It was early for the mayor to be in his office. Maybe there had been a break in the case. But the other voice didn’t sound like Bill Gunnison or A.K. Pierce.

“Come on, let’s get to work.” Liv reached for Whiskey’s leash. Whiskey barked. The door opened. Ted looked out at them; Whiskey jumped up and put his paws on Ted’s knees.

Liv rolled her eyes. All those obedience lessons and Ted was undoing most of them.

“Come in, Liv. I’m sure you’ll be interested in hearing this.” Ted gestured Liv in.

Liv was as surprised as Whiskey was disappointed. He dropped to all fours and whined. Ted bent down and distractedly scratched his ruff. Waited until Liv had stepped into the mayor’s office.

There was a stranger sitting with the mayor. He stood as Liv entered. He was about five foot eight, with a delicately featured face topped by a black comb-over. He was dressed in a navy-and-gray plaid sports coat, khaki trousers, and a white button-up shirt finished off with a bow tie. Nothing patriotic about him.

She had no idea who he was. She was sure she’d never even seen him before.

Hopefully, he wasn’t a tourist who had come to complain about something. Or from any county office that was looking to fine them for some minor infraction of the county code.

Ted cleared his throat. “Liv Montgomery, this is George Grossman.”

Liv shook hands with the man. “How do you do?”

The mayor looked ill at ease, so she turned to Ted for more information.

Ted raised an eyebrow at her. “Mr. Grossman has just informed us that he is the new owner of Gallantine House.”

“What?” Liv blurted, but quickly covered her lapse. “I mean, so nice to meet you. I didn’t know Gallantine House was for sale.”

“Well, not me personally,” Grossman said as he leaned over to shake her hand. “I represent Onyx Historical Housing Conservancy. We locate historic homes that have museum potential but that have fallen into, shall we say, less-than-pristine condition. We either buy them outright, completely furnished, or fit them out with appropriate artifacts from our permanent collections.”

Mayor Worley popped up from his desk chair. “I was just explaining to Mr. Grossman that Gallantine House is leased to the town for ninety-nine years for use during the month of July for the reenactment. And that we hope that his organization will continue to honor that lease.” His smile was polite, tight with no sign of teeth.

Grossman chuckled. “And I’ve been telling your mayor that I can’t promise anything. That is up to my board of directors. I’m just here to catalogue the contents of the house and make a detailed record.”

“But what about the reenactment?” the mayor asked.

Liv watched Grossman’s jaw tighten. “What I saw Friday night was not a reenactment. Totally without merit. A travesty of historical accuracy. Though the fireworks were good.”

The mayor turned an apoplectic red. “But—”

“Mayor Worley. As we are all aware, there was never a battle in Celebration Bay during the Revolutionary War or any other war. There were never any British ships blown up by patriots on the lake. Certainly not with any pyrotechnics like the ones we saw Friday night.

“And even if there had been, Henry Gallantine wasn’t even in residence during the time of the supposed battle, much less standing on the roof waving a lantern. He was being tried in a general court-martial for treason.”

“Of which he was later exonerated,” the mayor said.

“Of which he was exonerated,” Grossman agreed. “Though it was never actually proven he was innocent.”

“Well, of all the—” Mayor Worley snapped his mouth closed, seemed to lose his train of thought, and cast an agonizing look at Ted and Liv.

“Well, we’d like to welcome you to Celebration Bay,” Liv said, since the other two had been struck mute.

Grossman turned his attention to Liv. Sensing a possible ally?

“First I would like to know where Henry Gallantine is,” Grossman said.

You and the rest of the world
,
Liv thought. She wondered if his board would still be interested in buying after they learned about the murder and that Henry was either dead or a possible suspect. Traitor, murderer. History repeating itself in a twisted sort of way.

“And have him tell us why he didn’t inform us of his intent to sell,” added Gilbert Worley.

For some reason both men were looking at Liv, the mayor desperately, Grossman as cool as a cucumber.

“When we met with Mr. Gallantine to go over the plans for the reenactment,” Liv said, “he didn’t mention he was selling.” She finished with a look at Ted, who had also been there.

“Just so,” Ted said, almost as if he were bored by the announcement. Which couldn’t possibly be the case. If Grossman didn’t honor the lease, they would have to find new grounds for the reenactment, which would probably fall to Liv and Ted, which meant she could kiss the rest of her summer good-bye. And where would they find a place as perfect as the Gallantine lawn?

“Well, someone must know,” Grossman said. “I was supposed to meet him Saturday to sign the papers. But when I arrived, the police informed me that the house was a crime scene. And Gallantine was nowhere to be found.”

“So you haven’t actually signed the contract?” Ted asked.

“No, but it was virtually agreed to, dependent on whether the house is actually salvageable or not. And I do have this letter of authorization from Gallantine himself, allowing me full access to the house and grounds for my inventory.”

At this, Ted cut his eyes toward Liv before looking at Grossman directly. “Perhaps you should talk with the sheriff, Bill Gunnison.”

“I have. He said the house and grounds are still a crime scene, but that I could have access to the downstairs if accompanied by a representative of the town.”

Liv got a sudden sinking feeling.

“Mr. Grossman.” Mayor Worley was finally galvanized to action. He came around his desk. “I really don’t know what more we can tell you at this time. No one has seen Henry Gallantine since last week. Perhaps he has confused the time or the day. I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait for his return.”

Grossman didn’t deign to answer but gave the mayor a look that brooked no argument. His diminutive appearance, the bow tie, and the comb-over were deceiving. He might not beat out anyone in a physical fight, but Liv had no doubt he wielded a lot of power in other ways.

“And your real estate agent doesn’t know where he is?” asked Liv. If said agent was Janine, they could stick her with him. But not even Janine would sell Gallantine House out from under them, even for what had to be a huge commission. She might put on airs, but she was a Celebration Bayite to the bone. Wasn’t she?

“We didn’t use an agent. Gallantine knew I was interested. He was going to have his lawyer present to make certain all the t’s were crossed and the i’s dotted. Once my board okays the deal, we’re prepared to take occupancy immediately.”

Ted raised his eyebrows. Liv bet he’d be making a call to Silas Lark as soon as they got back to the Events Office.

Whiskey took this moment to shuffle over and sniff Mr. Grossman’s pant leg.

Grossman looked down. “Ah, a West Highland white. Which breeder?”

“Actually he’s a rescue dog.”

“Terrible, people who don’t care for their pets. This fellow looks in decent shape.” He leaned down and took Whiskey by the muzzle, an indignity that he rarely tolerated, except from Liv or Sharise at the Woofery.

Liv half expected Grossman to pull back Whiskey’s lips to look at his teeth.

Whiskey immediately backed away and bared those teeth.

Mr. Grossman brushed his hands together. “The sheriff assured me that the Mayor’s Office would have someone who would accompany me on my inventory. Not an ideal way to work, but I understand the necessity under the circumstances.” He finished the statement looking at the mayor, clearly expecting him to come forth with a volunteer.

And all eyes turned to Liv.

“I’d love to. It sounds fascinating, but I have a meeting with Bayside Security at nine. In fact, I’d better run. So nice to meet you.” She practically dragged Whiskey out of the office.

“I have to take shorthand,” Ted said, and followed her out.

As soon as Ted closed the Events Office door behind them, Liv began to fire questions at him. “Did you know about this? Is it possible that Henry would sell without informing anyone?”

“Whoa. Not until we’ve had sustenance,” he said. “Shoo. I’ll get the supplies.”

Liv went into her office, while Ted and Whiskey went through their morning routine.

“Who’s my favorite dawg?” Ted crooned.

“Aroo-roo,” Whiskey answered.

“Dawg,” Ted repeated.

Liv sighed and drummed her fingers on her desk while she waited for it to end. At least it wasn’t “Yankee Doodle.”

And while she drummed, she thought. A gardener is killed during a heavily attended reenactment. The owner, who should have been on the roof instead of the gardener, goes missing. Leo Morgan actually—probably—saw the killer, but can’t identify him—yet. And the new owner, who no one has ever heard of, shows up demanding to take residency.

Suddenly things were moving at a breakneck pace. Her chances for a vacation receding just as quickly to slim-to-none.

Ted came in with the tea tray, the pastries, and the newspaper.

Liv grabbed for it. It wasn’t the
Clarion
but the
Plattsburgh
Press-Republican.
Disappointed, she scanned the front page to make sure they hadn’t made the headlines.

At least Chaz was back and semi-functioning, though not nearly up to his usual snark. Still no edition of the paper, but Liv had hope. She wondered what he’d think of Gallantine’s decision to sell.

“I’m afraid your coffee isn’t very hot. Want me to nuke it?”

Liv shook her head. “Never tastes the same.” She reached for a slice of cinnamon bread.

She managed one bite before the outer door opened and they heard footsteps across Ted’s office.

“Gilbert,” Ted said and pulled the paper from his muffin. “We’re back here, come on in,” he called without even turning around.

The mayor came in.

Ted took a big bite of muffin just as the mayor said, “What are we going to do?”

Since Ted’s mouth was full, the mayor turned his question on Liv.

Liv gave Ted a look that said
Thanks a lot.

Ted just chewed his muffin.

“Well,” Liv said, “if it’s true that this Onyx Conservancy has made an offer on the house—and we only have Mr. Grossman’s word for it—we’ll have to renegotiate with him.”

“With the way he just insulted the reenactment?” The mayor turned away as if he planned to storm out of the room at the very idea of negotiating with Grossman. But he turned just as suddenly back to Liv.

Ted swallowed. “Gilbert, you’re giving me whiplash. Pull up a chair and let’s discuss this rationally.”

The mayor spotted an extra chair by the wall, dragged it to the desk, and sat down.

“Care for a bear claw?” Ted held out a napkin. “Sorry, we only have two plates.”

“How can you think about eating at a time like this?” The mayor distractedly took the napkin and reached for one of the pastries. “How can this happen?” He waved his pastry in the air. “Our own historical society wasn’t even interested in buying it.”

“Oh,” Liv said. “So Gallantine had tried to sell before this?”

“No, but Janine thought it would be better if the town controlled the mansion, since Henry is letting it go to wrack and ruin. She approached the historical society. No interest there at all.

“Not that Henry would sell it even if there had been. His family has lived there for generations. And now of all times to have a stranger show up and says it’s practically a done deal. And Henry isn’t even around to say yea or nay.” He chomped down on the bear claw, sending a rain of icing particles down his shirtfront.

“And where the heck is Henry?” he continued. “Why didn’t he give us any warning that he was planning to sell?”

“If he was about to sign a contract, they must have been talking about this for months,” Liv said. “There would have to be inspections, the lawyers must have been involved. Do you know who Gallantine’s lawyer is? Silas Lark by any chance?”

“Daniel Haynes,” Ted said and sipped his tea.

“The general?”

“One and the same.”

Liv laughed.

“What can you possibly find humorous in this situation?” Worley said.

“Just two fine revolutionary families still doing business together after all these centuries. I’m always amazed at the ties that bind this town together.”

“The good people of Celebration—”

“Save it, Gilbert,” Ted said, and reached for his tea.

“You’ll have to talk to Daniel, then,” the mayor said impatiently.

“Lawyer-client confidentiality,” Ted said.

“This affects the whole town,” the mayor countered.

“He won’t talk,” Ted said. “But when property goes on the market, even privately, you can bet the real estate community knows about it.”

Mayor Worley put down his pastry. “You think Janine knew about this?”

Ted shrugged, but Liv caught the momentary gleam in his eye. “I don’t know, but someone in her office would.”

“I’ll give her a call right away.” The mayor stood up, started to leave, reached back for his bear claw, and strode out of the office. Stopped at the door. “And you need to figure out what we’re going to do about it.”

“Maybe you should run for mayor,” Ted said as soon as the door closed behind the mayor.

“Me? He was talking to you.”

They both looked over to Whiskey, who was happily gnawing on a flag-shaped treat.

“As good a candidate as any. And it does have a certain ring to it. ‘Whiskey for Mayor.’” Ted grinned.

“Can you imagine what Hildy Ingersoll would do with that one?”

“Lovely,” Ted said, and took another bite of muffin.

“Do you think Janine really knew about the pending sale?” Liv asked.

“I have no idea, but I’d guess no. If she did, she would have hustled herself into the deal, and if she didn’t, she’ll be hopping mad. Either way, it won’t hurt anybody for the mayor to ask her.”

Liv struggled with a smile. “Except maybe the mayor.”

“At least it might stir up things between those two. Help push the
blumen
off the
rosen
so to speak.”

“Why does Gilbert let her boss him around? What hold does she have over him?”

“Beats me. Her charming personality?”

“Ugh,” Liv said. Janine was another Celebration Bay native who liked to cause trouble, but in a quasi-sophisticated pencil-skirt-and-high-heeled way that was usually aimed at Liv.

Liv took a sip of her latte and made a face. “Lukewarm.”

“Mine, too. Shall Whiskey and I make a desperate-for-a-latte run?”

“In a minute, but first… someone must have known Henry Gallantine was planning to sell his mansion.”

“I hadn’t heard a thing. Scout’s honor.”

“Hmm. If you didn’t, it’s pretty certain that no one else in town did.”

Ted shrugged. “You flatter me.”

“Nope. Just calling it like it is. But what about Hildy? She’s there every day, right?”

Ted nodded.

“She would be upset if she knew her job security might be coming to an end.”

Ted nodded.

“And she was surprised that Rundle was on the roof instead of Gallantine.”

“Yeow. I’ll never figure out how your mind runs in several directions at once while keeping the strands untangled. You think Hildy may have killed Rundle thinking it was Gallantine?”

Liv leaned back in her chair. “Sounds totally absurd, doesn’t it?”

“Not totally. But she’d definitely be out of a job if he was dead.”