Say No Moor Page 10

  “How many minutes would you say elapsed from the time Mr. Tori left the Sixteen String Jack suite until the time you heard Enyon cry out?”

  “Umm…” I did a quick calculation. “I ran down to the storage room. Ran back. Chitchatted with Enyon when he showed up. Chitchatted with the gang after Enyon left.” I bobbed my head. “Fifteen minutes?”

  “Do you know where your bloggers were during this time?”

  “I know they were outside Kathryn’s door when the commotion first began, but they didn’t hang around very long after they found out what the fuss was about. Probably wasn’t blogworthy. So, except for Kathryn, I assume they all went back to their rooms.”

  “So they tell me. To work on their computers. Your blokes Spencer Blunt and August Lugar vouched for each other. Caroline Goodfriend and Heather Holloway vouched for each other. The only person unable to provide an alibi was Mason Chatsworth, who, although booked into a single room, had no motive to attack Mr. Tori, and Kathryn Crabbe, who, as you’ve already pointed out, made a great show of locking herself in the loo for a space of time that no one can verify.”

  The tone of his voice sent up a red flag. Had Treeve Kneebone’s instincts been correct? Was Tredinnick angling to pin Lance’s murder on the first viable suspect he could find? Namely Kathryn? “Are you questioning Kathryn’s powder room stunt?”

  “Perhaps. If the bloggers were in their rooms when Mr. Tori departed for the kitchen, and all the Iowa guests were still shoehorned into the flooded suite in full view of each other, Mrs. Crabbe could have easily followed Mr. Tori into the kitchen without anyone seeing her and run back to the loo without being spotted.”

  “But…getting in and out of the powder room is a bit tricky. The door has a tendency to stick, so if she had to wrestle with it to get it open, wouldn’t someone have heard the racket?”

  “Mrs. Crabbe is a woman of impressive physical stature, Mrs. Miceli. I doubt she’d find a door—any door—an impediment. But please don’t misinterpret. I’m not accusing her of anything. I’m simply not discounting the fact that she had a window of opportunity and a motive, however anemic.” His bushy brows winged upward. “I’ve discovered that some people are extremely thin-skinned and get brassed off at the tiniest slight. I think of it as verbal road rage.”

  “Have you found any physical evidence that places Kathryn in the basement?” I was having a hard time wrapping my head around Tredinnick’s scenario. Was she sufficiently fleet-footed to pull it off? Did she possess the physical dexterity to dispatch someone as muscular as Lance, even with her height and rugged frame?

  “The crime scene unit was here this morning, but the only full prints they could lift off the cellar railing belonged to Enyon and Mr. Tori. There were too many officials here yesterday contaminating the area before they realized it was a crime scene. The railing turned into an alphabet soup of smeared prints. And as for hair, they found Enyon’s, but, as you’re well aware, Mr. Tori was rather lacking in that area.”

  “Are you going to arrest Kathryn?”

  “I never said anything about arresting the woman. At least, not yet. But you can be sure that your tour group hasn’t seen the last of me. You’ll be at the inn for how long?”

  “Until Friday.” I grimaced inwardly. As critical as I knew it was to track down Lance’s killer, I bemoaned the fact that we’d probably have to face more hours of grilling by the Port Jacob constabulary, which meant substantial changes to our day tours. I was not looking forward to breaking the news to Wally.

  “In the meantime, Mrs. Miceli, I’ll ride back to the nick and fetch Enyon for you. The bloke has had quite the long day of it. I’m sure he’ll be glad to return home.”

  Yes! “So he’s no longer a suspect?”

  Tredinnick offered me a broad grin. “There are times, Mrs. Miceli, when a copper has to rely on good old-fashioned logic to eliminate a suspect, and this was one of those times.”

  I waited for him to finish, noting a flash of movement on the edge of my peripheral vision.

  “We subjected Enyon to a brief psychological evaluation at the nick today, and it indicated that he’s as sane as any bloke can be. And no sane bloke is going to destroy his fledgling business by killing his cook the first day out. That would be financial suicide. He and Mr. Tori had their differences, but nothing that generated animosity strong enough to commit murder. So we’re releasing him—and you.” He nodded toward the door in a kind of dismissal. “Thank you for speaking with me, Mrs. Miceli. But trust me, we’ll be seeing much more of each other in the days to—”

  The door banged open. August Lugar stormed into the room, his cool, unflappable facade disintegrating before our eyes. “Someone burglarized my room and made off with every bit of cash I brought with me. All of it!” He stabbed a finger at Tredinnick. “And you know damn well who took it. There was only one person left in the house after we took off this morning. Only one person had personal access to all our rooms.”

  Oh, no. He was talking about—

  “Enyon Gladwish might not be a murderer,” August raged, “but he is a thief, and I want him arrested!”

  My oasis of momentary relief blew up in my face like a wad of exploded bubble gum.

  Great. This was just great.

  eight

  “Enyon isn’t coming back tonight,” I said in a rush of words, struggling not to sound panicked as I delivered the news to Wally.

  He set the plates he’d just removed from the dishwasher on the counter and grew very still as he regarded me, his complexion fading from ruddy to ashen. “Why not?”

  “August has accused him of going into his room and stealing all the money he’d tucked away in his suitcase, so Constable Tredinnick has decided to hold Enyon overnight for more questioning.”

  Wally stared at me, looking as if his whole life had just flashed before his eyes in a brief but painful heartbeat. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  My voice rose to Alvin the Chipmunk pitch. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  “When was this supposed to have happened?”

  “After we left the inn this morning. Enyon was the only person in the house before the police arrived, and the only person with access to the guest suites, so all fingers are pointing at him.”

  “How much money are we talking about?”

  “Over a thousand pounds British sterling. August told Tredinnick that he and Spencer tore the room apart, but they couldn’t find any trace of it.”

  “Was Spencer burglarized, too?”

  I shook my head. “He’s carrying his cash in a neck wallet.”

  Wally shook his head as he leaned against the sink to steady himself. “A killer isn’t bad enough? Now we’re dealing with a thief? And it’s only day two. I can hardly wait to see what’s in store for us tomorrow.” He fanned his fingers through his thinning hair before holding up his forefinger as if to activate a non-electronic version of a pause button. “Give me a minute to think.”

  The door to the dining room swung open. Dick Stolee stepped inside, looking surprised to see us. “Oh, good. You’re both here. Say, I’ve been elected in a landslide vote to ask what time we eat because we’re all famished. We thought the battered sausage and cheesy chips we had for lunch would stick to our ribs, but nosiree. And the ice cream sundaes on our way back up to the bus were so dinky, I can hardly remember eating mine. So we’re hungry again. Bernice says it’s because of that lousy pie none of us could eat last night. We’re all suffering from starvation accompanied by low blood sugar, dehydration, and possible kidney failure. So when do we eat, and what’s on the menu?”

  “Uhhh…” I lasered a look at Wally.

  The door creaked open again. Margi poked her head inside. “Here you are.” She retreated a step to call “They’re in here!” over her shoulder before hustling across the threshold to stand beside Dick. “Caroline Goodfriend wants to
know if this would be a good time for her to share the results of her genealogical search with the folks whose names she investigated.” She shot a wary look around the kitchen. “Doesn’t look like any food’s in the works yet.” She eyed the stove suspiciously. “You’re not going to serve any more of those pies, are you?”

  “I promise you. No more pies.”

  She smiled blissfully at my response, but I wondered how happy she’d be if she understood that an absence of pies meant an increase in the one food I knew I couldn’t ruin.

  Dry cereal.

  The door banged open and Dick Teig scudded into the room at the head of a human stampede. “Are we gonna have that show-and-tell thing anytime soon, Emily?” The gang crowded in around him like sticky buns in a bundt pan. “I cleaned up my ball of sea gunk and you’ll never guess what I found inside.”

  “Jimmy Hoffa,” jeered Bernice.

  Boos. Hisses. Razzberries.

  “A chewy chocolate center?” I volunteered.

  “I’m not telling you!” crowed Dick, letting loose a comically evil laugh. “I’m making everyone wait until the show-and-tell. But lemme tell you, it’s gonna wow your shorts off.”

  “It better wow someone’s shorts off for the mess you left in our sink,” sniped Helen. “I’m not touching that faucet until housekeeping thoroughly scours and disinfects the basin. Speaking of which, no one cleaned our room today, Emily. The bed’s still unmade, the towels need replacing, the mugs are dirty, and there’s no mint on our pillows. For the price we’re paying to stay here, I should think we deserve at least a couple of crummy mints.”

  “Our room wasn’t made up either,” confided Alice. “Is there some kind of maid’s strike going on?”

  “Was anyone’s room cleaned?” asked Lucille.

  “Ours was,” said Osmond. “At least, I’m pretty sure it was.” He scratched his head as he exchanged a confused look with George. “Was it?”

  “Don’t look at me,” protested George. “I don’t notice stuff like that.”

  “Well, I refuse to sleep in an unmade bed,” crabbed Bernice, “so if housekeeping doesn’t snap to it before I turn in this evening, someone is going to be giving me a big fat discount.” She waggled her eyebrows in my direction.

  “Is there something wrong with your physical stamina that you can’t make your own bed?” quizzed Tilly.

  “Yeah, there’s something wrong,” Bernice fired back. “I’m on vacation.”

  “Quiet!” Dick Stolee’s voice echoed through the room. “Why did you delegate me to track Emily down if you were planning to crowd into my space and talk over me? This is supposed to be my gig.”

  Tilly sighed. “Hand a man a little power and it goes right to his head. It’s rampant in every culture.”

  “I’m officially withdrawing my previous vote,” said Bernice.

  “Show of hands,” Osmond called out. “All those in favor of recalling Dick Stolee, raise your—”

  “I’m not gonna stand here and let you conduct a recall,” griped Dick. “I quit.” Elbowing his way out of the scrum, he charged through the door, shouting behind him, “Count me out of any of your future elections. The whole system’s rigged!”

  “Oh, dear,” fretted Margi. “What do we do now? Should we nominate someone else to take his place?”

  George waved his hand above his head. “Someone needs to refresh my memory. What did we elect him to do?”

  Shifting stares. Blank expressions. Silence.

  “Dang it,” groused Osmond. “I hate when that happens.”

  “Maybe we didn’t elect him to do nuthin’,” chimed Nana. “Kinda like them folks what we send to Congress.”

  “Show of hands,” said Osmond. “How many people think—”

  “No more voting!” I snapped. It was time to cough up a schedule, sketchy as it might be. “Okay, here’s the plan. Tell Caroline Goodfriend this would be a perfect time for her to go over your genealogies with you.” The interlude would give Wally and me time to scrounge up something for dinner. “We’ll serve dinner when she’s done, and the minute you’re through eating, we’ll have our show-and-tell. Then tomorrow it’s on to—” I fluttered my fingers, blanking out. I canted my head toward Wally. “Where are we going tomorrow?”

  “To the most iconic destination in Cornwall: St. Michael’s Mount.”

  Oohs. Ahhs. Nods of approval.

  “So off you go.” I made a shooing motion, but they remained anchored to the spot. I rolled my eyes. “Something else?”

  “Have we seen the last of the police constable,” Tilly inquired, “or will he be coming back to badger us about our whereabouts when the crime occurred?”

  “I’m afraid he’ll probably be popping by on a regular basis until he solves Lance’s murder. But the good news is, you’ve all been cleared, so I’m pretty sure he won’t need to question any of you again.”

  “Why not?” protested Dick Teig. “Does he think Iowans are too spineless to commit murder? Excuse me, but I take that as a personal insult.”

  “Try not to be too offended,” I soothed. “You made terrible suspects. You backed up all your alibis with rather lengthy video footage.”

  “That shouldn’t make a difference,” fussed Margi. “What if we lied about our alibis? What if the video was doctored? I’m with Dick. What makes the constable think that Iowans can’t be just as two-faced, deceitful, and untrustworthy as other people?”

  “Yeah,” Bernice enthused.

  Head bobbing. Fist bumps.

  I guess it was an indication of how topsy-turvy the world had become when people would take offense that they weren’t deemed malicious enough to be included on the deadly suspects list.

  I fixed my gaze on the group. “Did you lie about your alibis?”

  “No,” they responded in unison, heads shaking.

  “Did you doctor your videos?”

  “Of course not,” Tilly spoke up. “That would be the height of dishonesty.”

  “Then I hate to burst your bubbles, but before you can make a name for yourselves as deplorable human beings, you’re going to have to undergo some major behavioral modifications, so you better get cracking.”

  Faces fell. Shoulders slumped. The room filled with the murmured sounds of disappointment.

  “Emily, dear,” Nana tossed out, “if the constable don’t think none of us killed Lance, who’s he thinkin’ done it?”

  “Well—”

  “It has to be one of the bloggers,” Grace theorized. “They were the only other people in the house.”

  I shook my head. “They have alibis.”

  “All of them have alibis?” asked Lucille.

  “All except Mason Chatsworth, but Constable Tredinnick is convinced that our amiable green-haired millennial had no motive to commit murder.”

  “He must have spread his clotted cream and jam in the right order,” George reflected. “Didn’t give Lance any reason to terrorize him.”

  “What if the bloggers lied about their alibis?” asked Margi.

  “Then the constable will have to sniff out who was lying and why. But none of our bloggers knew each other before the trip, so I’m not sure what would compel them to lie for each other.”

  “What makes you so sure they didn’t know each other?” pressed Helen.

  I met her gaze, feeling slightly unsettled. “They appeared to be meeting each other for the first time at the meet and greet, so what reason would I have to think otherwise?”

  “What if they were lying about not knowing each other?” suggested Margi, milking her “liar, liar, pants on fire” theme for all it was worth.

  I stared at her, stunned into speechlessness. Oh. My. God. What if two of them did know each other? What if they were working as a team? Why hadn’t I considered that angle? “I…you could be right, Margi. I have no wa
y of knowing if any of the bloggers knew each other or not.”

  “Why is everyone supposing the killer was a guest at the inn?” asked George. “Is it too far-fetched to think that someone could have entered the kitchen from the outside? A neighbor? A deliveryman? Someone from the village that Lance had rubbed the wrong way one too many times?”

  All eyes flew to the mudroom door as if it had just morphed into a malevolent portal through which all evil passed.

  Someone from the outside? I hadn’t thought of that either. Treeve Kneebone had implied that Lance hadn’t fit in with the residents of Port Jacob. Had he created more enemies than friends while he was here? Mortal enemies? People who’d stop at nothing to get rid of him?

  Uff-da. A minute ago there were no viable suspects other than Kathryn. Now I had so many potential bad guys to choose from that I felt as if my head was going to explode with the possibilities. “George raises a good point. In fact, you’ve all raised good points.”

  “It’s like performing anthropological field research,” Tilly said proudly.

  I offered them a thin smile. “Look, all I can tell you at the moment is that I haven’t had a chance to make an exhaustive survey of our bloggers’ posts, but should any of you feel the urge to examine their archived content for material that might link them to any of their fellow bloggers, have at it. You could uncover a clue that Constable Tredinnick might overlook. Or if you access the local newspaper online, maybe something will leap out at you about the kind of relationship Lance had with the villagers and why one of them might feel impelled to arrive here in the middle of the day to kill him.”

  Nods. Excitement. Foot shuffling.

  “One more thing before you go.” I held up my hand to stop them from bounding out the door. “There’s been a theft. August Lugar has had all his money stolen from his suitcase, so until we discover the culprit, I caution you to keep your cash, passports, and valuables close to your body at all times. I packed extra neck wallets if you need another.”

  “Did he report the theft to the police?” asked George.

  “Yup…which is the reason why Enyon won’t be rejoining us this evening. He’s no longer a suspect in the murder, but he’s being questioned about the theft. The money didn’t walk away on its own, and Enyon was the only person with access to all the rooms, so he’s having to deal with the new allegations.”