I was suddenly at a loss for words.
“Oh, Penelope, dear,” Aunt Sadie called. “Come along. We haven’t got all day.”
My jaws snapped shut. Saved!
“Have to bolt,” I cried, silently thanking my aunt for wanting a little excitement this a.m. “Sorry, Eddie, another time. You heard my aunt. Gotta go.”
As I rushed to Sadie’s side, I called over my shoulder, “Drop by anytime, Eddie.”
“Oh, I will, Pen,” Eddie replied. “I will.”
As I hurried down the sidewalk, I felt Officer Franzetti’s eyes suspiciously watching my back. I fought the urge to turn around again. After walking several blocks in silence, Sadie halted and began to scold me.
“I told you not to talk to the police, Penelope,” she cried. “Eddie may be an old friend, but you can’t always trust the law.”
Though I was too far away from the bookshop to hear Jack’s voice, I was sure the ghost would have whole- heartedly agreed.
CHAPTER 10
“I got a hot tip,” said Pete mysteriously. “Look out it don’t burn your fingers.”
AFTER SADIE AND I walked up the shady drive, lined with century-old weeping willows, I studied the cars in the Finch Inn’s small paved parking lot, half expecting to see a black Jaguar with a blue and white sticker on the trunk—the same one I’d seen speeding away from the knocked-down Angel Stark the night before.
I surveyed a number of upscale vehicles—a few silver BMWs, a dark blue Mercedes, and one red Porsche— but there was no black Jag among them.
“Hard to be believe they’re finally getting somewhere with that gourmet restaurant of theirs,” said Sadie, eyeing the skeletal wooden structure by the Quindicott Pond, surrounded by a barricade of yellow construction rope. “Wonder how pricey she’s gonna make it.”
“Pricey is good,” I told my aunt. “Pricey is upscale. And the perception of ‘upscale’ means more urban- dwelling, book-buying tourists with wads of disposable income will be trolling through town.”
“Think so?”
“Sure. The elite have practically made it an axiom: The more you have to pay, the more it must be worth.”
Fiona had always said the Inn’s struggle for full bookings year-round was hampered by Quindicott’s lack of upscale dining—Franzetti’s Pizza and the Seafood Shack were as elegant as it got for twenty miles.
The Finch Inn itself was certainly charming enough to satisfy any couple looking for a romantic getaway. With brick chimneys, bay windows, shingle-topped gables, and a corner turret, the place was a classic Victorian-era mansion. The wood structure rested on a solid gray fieldstone foundation, and the exterior was characteristic of the Queen Anne style, which had made its debut in nearby Newport back in 1874. Barney and Fiona Finch even kept the place painted in its high Victorian colors—reddish-brown clapboards with a combination of olive-green and gold moldings.
Four floors held thirteen distinctly decorated guest rooms, each boasting a fireplace and views of Quindicott pond. Most unique was its proximity to the Pond, a sizeable body of salt water fed by a narrow inlet that raced in and out with the tides from the Atlantic shoreline many miles away. A nature trail, a favorite for local birders, circled the pond and stretched into the backwoods, following the inlet for about eight miles.
We climbed the six long steps and walked across the wide, wooden porch that wrapped around the entire building. I noticed several patrons lounging in wicker chairs. And one, I realized with a start, was the statuesque blonde with the Arctic eyes who’d stared at me the night of Angel’s appearance. She lounged in one of the chairs, reading today’s edition of the
Though I was seeing the woman in profile now, and with her eyes shaded by sunglasses, I was certain it was the same person. Today she wore a bright yellow sundress with a short hemline, her long, tanned legs stretched out in front of her, manicured feet in strappy, expensive-looking sandals crossed and resting on the wooden deck.
I quickly looked away before the young woman noticed my stare. Spotting Fiona inside the foyer, behind the counter at the front desk, I moved quickly through the beveled glass doors, which stood wide open.
Fiona saw us arriving, smiled warmly, and immediately waved us over. It was ten degrees cooler inside the rich, dark wood entranceway, where two mammoth potted palm trees flanked the door in a convincing illusion of a shady oasis.
The front desk in the foyer had been created by the Finches. Walls had been broken down around a cloak room adjacent to the entranceway. Then a solid oak counter was custom made and stained to match the Inn’s interior by Quindicott’s resident carpenter and interior restorer, Dan DeLothian, who also taught shop class at the local high school.
Fiona Finch looked resplendent today in a light-green pantsuit accented by an off-white lapel pin in the shape of a snow falcon in flight.
“What a treat to see you both,” Fiona said with a grin. “Come into the sitting room and I’ll serve up some mint iced tea.”
“Thanks for the offer,” I replied. “But we can’t stay long. Sadie and I have to get back to work soon.”
“By the way, Pen, Sadie . . . That was really a delightful event yesterday at the store,” Fiona gushed. “It was so thrilling to hear someone as controversial as Angel Stark read her work, and I can’t wait to finish her book.”
Sadie and I exchanged glances. “Actually, Angel Stark is why we’re here.”
“Well, then, let’s all sit and you can tell me what’s so urgent it can’t wait until the Business Owners Association meeting this evening.” Fiona directed us to a cluster of leather chairs near a front window and we all sat in a tight semicircle.
“Dana Wu dropped by my store first thing this morning,” I began, tactfully leaving out the part about Bud’s visit, and Johnny’s disappearance. “Seems she couldn’t find her client, Angel Stark . . . So, has Angel been back to the Inn since the reading last night?”
Fiona frowned. “You know I don’t make it a habit to reveal the private activities of my guests,” she said in a clear voice.
Then she leaned close, speaking to us in tone barely above a whisper.
“But since you ask, Ms. Stark did
“Then, about an hour ago, I went up to make the bed and noticed that it hadn’t been slept in. The sheets were undisturbed, the wrapped seashell Godiva chocolate still resting on the pillow.”
“Did you notice anything odd about the room?” I pressed. “Items missing or disturbed?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Fiona cried. “The room wasn’t
“Let’s just say that any clue to where Angel Stark has gone would be a blessing. Can you remember anything else that happened last night? Anything odd?”
Fiona put her finger to her chin. “Let’s see . . .” She sat up straighter.
“Barney says he saw a couple heading out past the site, toward the bird trail at about ten o’clock. But that’s not really odd because it’s summer, the weather was nice, and lots of young couples like to walk along the trail on summer evenings for a little privacy.
“But Barney insisted that he thought the young lady was one of our lodgers. Trouble is, Barney’s no good at
