The Crêpes of Wrath: A Pancake House Mystery (5 page)

“All you need is a little TLC, right?” I ran my finger along the edge of the chair. It came away covered in dust.

I got back to my feet, not wanting to let myself get distracted by the antique chair. Navigating my way around a stack of boxes to the nearest window, I looked out over Jimmy’s property, wondering what events had unfolded that morning that had led to his death.

My eyes settled on the detached workshop and a funny sensation thrummed through my stomach as I recalled my encounter with Daryl Willis. I still didn’t believe his explanation for his presence on Jimmy’s land. Maybe it would be a good idea to take a closer look at the workshop.

Shutting the door to the dusty storage room, I jogged down the stairs and out of the house. When I reached the door to the workshop, I came to a halt, realizing I had to turn back. The door was secured with a shiny padlock.

I retraced my steps to the house and entered Jimmy’s office. While in the hospital, Cousin Jimmy had told me that if I ever needed to get into the workshop, I could find the key in the upper left-hand drawer of his desk. As soon as I opened the drawer, I spotted the key among some pens, pencils, and other office supplies.

Grabbing the key ring, I returned to the workshop, but when I tried to fit the key into the padlock it wouldn’t budge. Confused, I tried again, but there was no doubt about it—the key didn’t fit the lock.

I returned to Jimmy’s office once more and searched every drawer of his desk. I found no other keys. Walking slowly back across the yard, I tried to come up with an explanation. Perhaps Jimmy had misplaced the key to the padlock and had forgotten he’d done so. Or maybe the shiny padlock was new and he’d forgotten that he’d replaced the lock, that he hadn’t yet put the new key in the desk drawer.

Neither explanation sat quite right with me. It wasn’t like Jimmy to be forgetful. However, at the time he’d told me about the key he’d been suffering from double pneumonia, so I supposed it was possible that his mind wasn’t quite as sharp as normal.

Still, the situation bothered me. I circled around the workshop, trying the first window I came across. It was locked tight and when I tried to peer through the dusty glass, I saw nothing but shadows. I continued around the small building and found another window. When I tried to jerk it upward, it moved an inch or two. Encouraged, I put my strength into wrestling with the window. Although it resisted my efforts at first, it eventually gave in and moved upward with a creaking groan of protest.

Leaning in through the open window, I allowed my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness, but I still couldn’t see much. Wondering if I was crazy, I hoisted myself up onto the sill and wiggled my way through the window. It was a tight squeeze and I almost got stuck at one point, but a moment later my feet hit the cement floor of the workshop.

Wiping my grubby hands on my jeans, I made my way carefully toward the door, stubbing my toe in the process. I felt along the wall until I found the light switch. I flipped it on and the overhead lights came to life, chasing away the shadowy darkness. As I took a step, a crunching sound came from beneath my left sneaker.

I crouched down and noticed shards of shimmery blue glass scattered across the floor near the door. That didn’t seem right. It wasn’t like Jimmy to leave a mess like that. Straightening up, I worked my way around a table saw. I stopped short when I spotted two framed canvases leaning up against a sawhorse.

Picking up the first one, I saw that it was an abstract painting with wide strokes of bold colors. I’d never seen it before in my life. Setting it down, I picked up the second painting, a seascape depicting a tall ship amidst gray, choppy waves. With my heart thumping in my chest, I inspected it more closely, deciphering the signature in the lower right-hand corner.

Johnson Thornbrook.

My hand trembled ever so slightly as I set the framed canvas down next to the abstract picture. I hadn’t seen either painting before, but I still recognized the seascape. The artist’s name and the subject exactly matched those of a painting recently stolen from the home of Gary Thornbrook, one of The Flip Side’s regular customers.

I stood there in the workshop, staring at the canvases at my feet, my stomach sinking lower and lower. Jimmy had stolen goods stashed in his workshop, goods taken from the home of one of his most loyal customers.

Why?

I knew the obvious answer was that he’d stolen the paintings and was the burglar who’d caused so much trouble in Wildwood Cove lately. But I didn’t want to believe that answer. I
couldn’t
believe it.

Could I?

Growing up, I’d heard stories about Jimmy’s wild youth, both from Jimmy himself and from my mom, and I knew he hadn’t always been the most law-abiding of citizens. Still, none of the stories came close to painting him as the type of person who would break in to people’s homes. Besides, once he’d met his wife, Grace, he’d changed his ways.

Grace had died years ago now, though. Had Jimmy changed his ways yet again since her death?

No. I refused to believe it. There had to be another explanation. Someone else must have stored the paintings in the workshop. Someone like Daryl Willis.

I had my phone halfway out of my pocket before I paused. Sheriff Georgeson knew Jimmy and he also knew I’d seen Daryl hanging around the workshop, but I didn’t know if that was enough to make him believe that his fishing buddy wasn’t a thief. Once word got out about the paintings, would Jimmy forever be remembered as a criminal?

It seemed so wrong, so unfair, especially since he was no longer around to defend himself. But I was here and I could clear his name.

Thinking back, I tried to remember when the most recent break-in had occurred. The theft of Gary Thornbrook’s paintings had taken place a few days before my arrival in Wildwood Cove. It had still been the talk of the town at that point, along with the break-ins that had preceded it, but I wasn’t sure if another one had occurred since. If the thief had remained active while Jimmy was in the hospital, that would provide him with an alibi, but until I had that information, I didn’t want to call Sheriff Georgeson and tell him about my discovery.

I slid my phone back into the pocket of my jeans and wiggled my way out the window, shutting it behind me. On my way back to the house, I absently brushed at the cobwebs clinging to my clothes, my mind still on the paintings and how they might have ended up in the workshop.

“What do you think, Jack?” I asked when I entered the foyer and Flapjack brushed up against my legs in greeting.

He purred and blinked at me. I picked him up and he rubbed his cheek against my chin.

“I bet you know what goes on around here when nobody’s home. If only you could tell me what you saw this morning and on the day those paintings ended up in the workshop.”

Flapjack gave me another chin rub and then squirmed in my arms, bored with our cuddle time. No more enlightened than before, I set him down on the floor and he wandered into Jimmy’s office. I followed him and sank down into the desk chair while he hopped up on the windowsill. When my eyes settled on Jimmy’s computer, inspiration struck. I booted up the machine, hoping to have the information I was after within the next few minutes.

Once I was able to access the Internet, I navigated my way to the website for Wildwood Cove’s community newspaper. As soon as the site flashed up on the monitor, I knew I was in luck; the paper published its articles online as well as in the physical paper. Scrolling down the page, my eyes skimmed over the article about Lisa’s brother Carlos and another column about fundraising efforts for a new playground in Wildwood Park. Continuing down the page, I passed over two more articles before I found what I wanted.

The short news item stated that the local burglaries remained unsolved but were believed to be linked to similar break-ins in Port Townsend and possibly Edmonds as well. The article also included a quote from Sheriff Georgeson to the effect that he and his deputies were continuing to investigate. I scanned past all that information, zeroing in on the date of the most recent break-in. As I absorbed the information, I sat back with a sense of relief.

Jimmy couldn’t have been the thief. The last burglary had taken place ten days ago, when Jimmy was in the hospital. My theory that someone else had stashed the paintings in the workshop had to be right. Now I could tell the sheriff about the stolen goods without worrying about tarnishing Jimmy’s reputation.

Before calling Sheriff Georgeson, however, I decided to take care of some practical matters. A few further minutes spent on the Internet turned up a phone number for Hugh Ogilvie, Jimmy’s lawyer and Lisa’s employer. Grabbing the phone from the desk, I punched in the number and waited for the call to go through. Lisa answered after two rings and when she realized who was calling, she expressed dismay over Jimmy’s death. I wasn’t surprised that the news had already spread through town, but I had to wipe away a tear or two as I accepted her condolences.

After we’d spoken for a few minutes, Lisa offered me an appointment with Mr. Ogilvie for the following afternoon and I accepted. When that call was over, I found a webpage and phone number for a nearby funeral home and made an appointment with them as well.

With those phone calls out of the way, I decided to get my grocery shopping over with. Minutes after hopping into my blue hatchback, I pulled into a free parking spot across the street from the small grocery store. As I took my first step out onto the road, a banana-yellow sports car zoomed around the corner, heading right for me. I jumped back as the car whooshed by, my heart leaping into my throat. I caught a glimpse of a woman with blond hair and sunglasses behind the wheel, but then the car was gone.

Shaking my head at the woman’s crazy driving, I jogged across the now-clear street and entered the store. I decided to get my shopping done as quickly as possible. I wasn’t keen on running into anyone who might recognize me and want to talk about the day’s horrible events. I knew I’d only end up crying, and that wasn’t something I wanted to do in the middle of the grocery store.

Fortunately, I didn’t spot anyone I knew, and I managed to get everything I needed in my cart without anyone saying a word to me. Once I had my two bags of groceries stashed in the back of my car, I settled into the driver’s seat, ready to return to Jimmy’s house. As I put my keys into the ignition, I spotted two familiar faces farther along the street. Creepy Daryl and Sienna Murray’s boyfriend, Logan, stood with a fair-haired young woman outside a small establishment called Johnny’s Juice Hut. Judging by the fact that she had one arm looped around Daryl’s, I assumed that the young woman was his girlfriend, Tina. Daryl was smoking a cigarette, but he tossed it to the sidewalk and ground it under his foot as I watched. Without noticing me, all three headed inside Johnny’s Juice Hut and disappeared from sight.

I was glad they hadn’t seen me watching them. I didn’t need Daryl staring at me with his hooded eyes. The mere memory of encountering him at Jimmy’s place was enough to keep me on edge for a while. I wondered again if he was responsible for the presence of stolen items in Jimmy’s workshop. I definitely planned to share my suspicions with Sheriff Georgeson.

Pushing thoughts of Daryl aside, I drove back to Jimmy’s house. As soon as I’d plunked my groceries down on the kitchen counter, I dug around in my pocket for the card Sheriff Georgeson had given me and dialed his number. I paced the kitchen as the call went through but paused when Georgeson picked up after the first ring.

“Sheriff, it’s Marley McKinney. I found something I thought you should know about.” I told him about the paintings in the workshop and the connection to the break-in at Gary Thornbrook’s home.

“Did you touch anything?” The tone of his voice told me he was taking my report seriously.

“Yes,” I said with a wince. “I didn’t realize at the time that the paintings were stolen. I assumed they were Jimmy’s.”

“I understand, but please stay out of the workshop until I get there. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

I promised I’d stay away from the outbuilding in the meantime and ended the call. While awaiting the sheriff’s arrival, I put my groceries away, my head spinning the entire time. Part of me still couldn’t grasp the fact that Jimmy was gone forever, that he wasn’t still at the hospital recovering from pneumonia, eager to get back home. Yet at the same time, my mind constantly went around and around, wondering why anyone would want to hurt him.

The rumble of an approaching vehicle grabbed my attention half an hour later. I hurried out through the front door to meet up with Sheriff Georgeson as he climbed out of his cruiser.

He nodded at me in greeting. “Ms. McKinney.”

“I can’t open the workshop door,” I told him. “The lock looks new and Jimmy’s key doesn’t fit it. I climbed in through a window.”

If he thought it was odd that I’d gone to such lengths to get inside the building, he didn’t let it show. Instead, he walked around to the trunk of his car. “I can cut the lock off.”

Wearing gloves and with a set of bolt cutters in hand, he followed me over to the outbuilding and snapped off the shiny padlock, keeping it in his hand as he pushed open the door. After he flicked on the light switch, he stepped inside while I hovered in the doorway.

“Careful, there’s some broken glass on the floor,” I warned, but his boot was already crunching down on some of the shiny blue shards.

He crouched down to get a closer look at the glass and picked up a larger piece that he found tucked beneath the workbench. He fished an evidence bag out of his pocket and dropped the shard inside.

“Is that significant?” I asked from the doorway.

“I’m not sure.” Georgeson straightened up and turned his attention to the rest of the workshop. “Where are the paintings?”

I directed him to the far side of the table saw and several seconds ticked by as he examined the two framed canvases. I rubbed my arms and chewed on my lower lip while I waited.

“I believe your suspicions were correct,” he said, setting the artwork down on the workbench. “Both of these paintings match the description of items stolen from Gary Thornbrook’s home. I’ll get one of my deputies over here to dust the workshop for fingerprints.”

I backed out of the doorway as he exited the workshop, producing his cellphone from his pocket.

“The most recent burglary was ten days ago,” I said before he could call his deputy. “Jimmy was in the hospital then, so he couldn’t have had anything to do with the thefts. Someone else must have stashed the paintings here. Daryl Willis, maybe? That would explain why he was hanging around earlier.”

“I’ll have a word with Daryl. Unfortunately, though, I can’t rule out Jimmy’s involvement.”

I stared at him with surprise and dismay. “Why not? He was in the hospital with pneumonia. Ten days ago he could barely get out of bed without help.”

“I realize that, but he could have had a partner, an accomplice. We’ve suspected for some time that at least two people have been involved in the burglaries, and Jimmy was still in good health when the break-ins started.”

My spirits sank like heavy stones dropping to the bottom of the sea. “But there’s no way Jimmy was a thief.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. McKinney. I liked Jimmy and I don’t want to believe he was involved either, but at this time I can’t prove that he wasn’t.”

“I understand,” I said with a frown. I did understand, but it still bothered me.

“I’d like to have a look around the house, if that’s all right.”

Seeing no reason to object—if I even had the authority to do so—I showed him into the house and lingered in the kitchen while he took a quick look in each room. Although I was certain he wouldn’t find any stolen goods lying around inside the house, I still breathed a sigh of relief when he finished his search and had nothing to report.

As Georgeson headed outside to phone one of his deputies, I remembered something and followed at a distance, approaching him once he’d finished the phone call.

“I forgot to mention that Jimmy did make it home this morning. I found his bag.”

Georgeson asked to see it, so I let him inside again and showed him the black bag sitting in the foyer. I mentioned how I’d found it in the middle of the stairway to the second floor.

“I thought maybe someone had interrupted him on his way upstairs. Maybe his killer knocked on the door.”

“Could be,” Georgeson agreed.

“Although, if that’s what happened, why did Jimmy then go to Myler’s Point with his killer? If he went voluntarily, he must have known whoever it was.”

“I talked to some of the neighbors earlier,” the sheriff said as he set Jimmy’s bag down on the floor. “I’ve yet to find anyone who saw or heard anything, but I’ll keep asking around.”

I followed him back out onto the front porch, but when his deputy arrived, I returned to the house. After setting out some dinner for a purring, appreciative Flapjack, I flopped down on the couch and stared out the large family room window at the blue-gray ocean, its waves topped by whitecaps.

The day seemed endless; the sun hadn’t even set yet. I felt as though I’d somehow failed Jimmy. I thought the timing of the latest burglary would clear his name, but it hadn’t, and if word got out about what I’d found in Jimmy’s workshop, his name would no doubt be tarnished.

I couldn’t let that happen, I decided. Somehow I’d find a way to clear his name.

While I was at it, maybe I could find his killer as well.