Worst Laid Plans (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 1) (16 page)

“Okay, stop.” Jenna gave me a look. “Listen to yourself, Maddie. Everything is
maybe
,
might
and
what if
.”

“But it would explain the sentimental value of this photograph to Ms Daggon.”

“If she knew he was alive,” Jenna said, ever the voice of reason, “why did she accuse and hound Mrs Biggenhill for killing him?”

“To put everyone off the scent?”

“That’s extreme, even for Ms Daggon.” Jenna laughed. “Besides, Mr Biggenhill had everything here.” She ticked them off. “His job. His house. His friends. Why leave all that behind when he could just leave his wife?”

“There are husbands who are afraid to leave their wives,” I said, thinking of my Broadway play, The Rambler. “Husband abuse is a real thing.”

Jenna groaned. “I’m confused. Is Mrs Biggenhill a sweet little old lady or a bully capable of heinous crimes?”

“I don’t know and I’m not accusing anyone,” I said. “I’m just pointing out that there are reasons someone might want to disappear and that they might have friends willing to aid and abet.”

Jenna scowled down at the photo. “You’re not suggesting Mr Biggenhill has been renting a room at
The Lounge
all this time?”

“It
would
be a place to begin…looking...” I trailed off as I caught sight of Principal Limly and his wife approaching from the green. “Lookie there.”

Jenna looked and looked and looked.

I chuckled. “You’re trying to shave his hair and beard and slice a hundred pounds off his waistline, aren’t you?”

She brought her eyes back to the table and me. “Actually, I’m trying to picture myself thirty years from now. Growing old is a nasty business.”

We sipped our coffee and watched as the elderly couple crossed the road and walked down Main Street. Principal Limly was a good few years younger than Ms Daggon, but he couldn’t be that far from retirement age himself.

When Mrs Limly popped into a store and he remained standing by the door, I pushed to my feet. “I’m going to have a word with him.”

“About what?”

“What do you think?”

Jenna nearly spluttered out another mouthful. “You cannot be serious.”

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “I won’t do anything stupid.”

“Define stupid,” she muttered. “How would you even start a conversation like that?”

“I’ll come up with something.” I moved my purse from the floor to the table. “Keep an eye on my things. I won’t be long.”

∞∞∞

Principal Limly was stopped outside Silver Bangles, a distinctly female fashion accessory store.

I sailed right on by, glimpsed him out of the corner of my eye and spun about to an abrupt halt. “Principal Limly? What a lovely surprise.” I said enthusiastically.

“Why, hello there, Maddox.” His eyes filled with warmth and twinkled. “And how’s my favorite student?”

I knew for a fact he said that to all his students, past and present. Except maybe Johnny Delaware, who’d sprayed his car with shaving foam as a graduation day prank. The inside of the car.

“I’m well, thank you.” I flipped my smile upside down. “It’s terrible about Ms Daggon. I’m so very sorry. You were close friends, weren’t you?”

“She was a good woman.” He stroked his beard, releasing a heavy sigh. “She’ll be sorely missed by the staff and all her students.”

Were we even talking about the same woman?

“I have some beautiful memories of her.” My tongue nearly strangled me on the lie, but I pulled out my full repertoire of acting skills and swiped away a tear that rolled down my cheek. “You may not have heard, but I’m staying at Hollow House this visit, for a change of pace, you know? It’s so quiet and peaceful outside the bustle of town.”

He nodded. “Mrs Limly mentioned you found Ms Daggon that fateful morning.”

“That was truly horrible.” One hundred percent truth. “Especially coming after the night before. She made me a cup of tea and we had a long, sweet chat. I think she was feeling a little nostalgic.” I bit down on my lip. “Almost as if she’d known…”

Principal Limly cleared his throat. “Ms Daggon was going through a personal upheaval,” he said sadly. “Reaching the end of an era, you might say. It probably had something to do with that.”

“That sounds about right,” I agreed. “She showed me a photo, of you, actually, taken by Mr Biggenhill.”

“Goodness, that’s going back some ways.” He scratched his beard, his gaze going to the handcrafted jewelry nestled in a display of feathers in the store front window. “I can’t think of when Harold Biggenhill would have taken my picture.” His gaze came back to me. “If I recall, he much preferred snapping away at wildlife, nature shots and such.”

“And friends and family, surely?”

“He was a good many years older than me.” Principal Limly grunted and shook his head. “We were acquainted, naturally, but I wouldn’t have considered us friends. You must be mistaken about that photo, Maddox.”

“Ms Daggon seemed quite sure,” I said. “You were all at some place called
The Lounge
when it was taken
.
And it was right after you’d just gotten married….or so she said. Does that sound familiar?”

Some of the warmth fled his eyes and I felt instantly bad. I was pushing, poking my nose into things that had nothing to do with me. Maybe Principal Limly really didn’t remember, or maybe he was still protecting Mr Biggenhill’s secret second life.

“Perhaps if I saw this photo, it would jog some memories,” Principal Limly said after an awkward pause. “Do you still have it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

I was not about to confess to committing a felony to my old principal.

“It’s probably amongst Ms Daggon’s belongings and the cops have locked and sealed her room. You could try asking them to release it to you once the investigation is over,” I suggested, thinking he may appreciate the keepsake more than any of Ms Daggon’s relatives, if she even had any.

“I might just do that,” he said, then swiftly changed the subject. “How long are you planning to stay?”

I shrugged. “I don’t have an exact timetable.”

“Ah…” He chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling with warmth again. “To be young again, without commitments to tie you down.”

I’d rather enjoyed my commitments, but I just nodded and smiled.

“Hollow House is a beautiful setting at this time of year,” he went on. “I’ve been thinking of treating Mrs Limly to a night there, what with our anniversary coming up next week.”

“You really should.”
You can thank me later, Mr Hollow.
“I’m sure she’d love it.”

“I think I will,” he said decisively. “I’ll call and make the reservation right now. Our anniversary is on Wednesday. Do you have the number?”

I didn’t. And to my knowledge, there was no means to obtain it. I really had to have that talk with Mr Hollow about bringing his operation into the digital century. And maybe ask Burns what are freaking number was.

“I’m on my way back there now,” I told Principal Limly. “Why don’t I make the booking for you? I’ll make sure you get the best suite available.”

“That’s kind, thank you. Mrs Limly has always wanted to try out that terrace restaurant.”

Uh oh.

I opened my mouth to explain, but just then his wife stepped out of the store and Principal Limly leaned closer and put a finger to his lips, saying in a hushed voice, “Let’s keep this a surprise. She’ll be delighted.”

He seemed so thrilled at the prospect, I didn’t have the heart to disappoint him.

∞∞∞

Mr Hollow was not impressed with my good news.

“The Terrace has been closed since last November.” He harrumphed and stomped his cane on the flagged stone floor. “Where am I supposed to find a cordon bleu chef at this short notice?”

Burns finished penning in the Limly’s reservation with a flourish of his fountain pen, then closed the leather bound book with a decided thud. “Should I call Mops & Tops?” he asked of Mr Hollow.

I crinkled my nose at him. “Is that a cordon bleu caterer?”

“The cleaning service we use from Skaneateles,” Burns informed me. “They used to come in twice weekly, but we’ve been making do with every other month.”

“I’ll help you make everything presentable, on the surface at least,” I shot back quickly. I’d made a mistake, it seemed, assuming guests were good for business, but it didn’t necessarily have to be an expensive one. To Mr Hollow, I added, “I can ask my mother to cook Wednesday night.”

“No offense to your mother, but reputation is everything and I do intend to reopen The Terrace one day, when the time is right,” he muttered.

“Well, I’m offended!” I slammed my palm down on the reception desk and glared at the impossible man. “My mom’s an excellent cook and you can’t have the egg without the chicken.”

That sounded awful, as if I were comparing Mom to a chicken.

“You can’t have The Terrace without guests,” I clarified. “And in this instance, you can’t have guests without The Terrace. Maybe a small compromise is in order, don’t you think?”

Burns gave a small stretch and slumped low in his wicker chair.

Mr Hollow glared at me from beneath his thick, furrowed brow. “If anything goes wrong, it’s on your head.”

I sighed and walked off, disgusted with the thanks I got for nabbing our first paying guests of the season.

ELEVEN

Growing up, Mr and Mrs Adams had been like a spare set of parents to me. They’d run The Vine without Jenna’s help for most of their lives and they didn’t really need me on Saturday, but I hadn’t seen much of them since I’d moved to New York City. It was nice to spend the day in their company. It was also nice to be too busy to obsess over Mr Biggenhill and that troublesome photograph.

If Nana Rose could see what I’d been up to, she’d wag her finger and warble, “Idle time is the devil’s playground, child.”

Thankfully she couldn’t see me.

Nana Rose was on her honeymoon, a six-month cruise around the world. Personally, I thought it was fantastic. She’d seen a lot in her sixty-nine years, and outlived two husbands, and after this she would honestly be able to say she’d seen it all. My mother had a slightly different opinion on the matter and Nana Rose’s name hadn’t been mentioned in the house since the elopement.

Later that night, I snuck downstairs and returned the photograph to Ms Daggon’s shoe box treasure chest.

The past belonged in the past.

I put some effort into restoring the broken lock, but gave up when I lost another piece and a couple of screws to the big black hole inside the door. I used the remaining screws to fasten the brass plate and handle as best I could.

By mid-morning Sunday, I was second-guessing my decision. The past did belong in the past, but what about when it crept into the present?

There were many reasons for a man needing to run, as I’d told Jenna, and an abusive spouse was only one of them.

There was also running from the law.

Running from loan sharks.

Running from a deal gone sour.

Running after witnessing a mafia execution.

The list was endless and what if that past had caught up to Ms Daggon?

The FBI wouldn’t poison her, I didn’t think, but any of the others might—out of pure spite if they thought she knew where Mr Biggenhill was but wasn’t telling.

The likelihood was remote.

I wasn’t sold on the idea, not at all.

Plus, this was a job for the police, not for an unemployed actress on the cusp of a divorce.

And yet…

I squashed the impulse and set off for the long walk into town and Mom’s Sunday roast. Since I was after a favor, I was on my best behavior. I wore a maxi skirt in autumn colors and rubber-soled pumps. I hadn’t brought any formal blouses with me, but I covered my tee with a linen jacket.

Dad was in the front parlor with his paper and a beer shandy. I gave him a quick hello hug and then went through to the kitchen.

Mom looked me over with a pleased eye. “Why, don’t you look pretty? You should wear skirts more often.”

I smiled and inhaled deeply. “That smells glorious.”

“It’s your favorite, rosemary lamb.”

I plopped onto a chair and eased my pumps off. I’d thought the rubber soles would be good for walking, but I hadn’t considered the fact that they were new and hadn’t been worn in yet. “Anything I can do?”

“Not at the moment, honey,” Mom said. “The roast still has an hour to go. I was late getting back from Betty’s.”

“How is she?”

“Very well, apart from her allergies playing up.” Mom brought her tablet to the table and took a seat beside me. “We were hoping you could verify something.”

She opened up an email and tapped one the headlines in the digest post.
Farewell, Belinda Daggon.