“There were ten of us in the class,” Betty continued. “We’re supposed to meet in a week and bring in our squares. Francie will take everyone’s squares, mix them up, and make crazy mismatched blankets for the kids. Luckily, she’ll be doing the final step of sewing the squares together. I just like making them.”
“Obviously,” Liz said with a laugh. She looked around at the Sea Breeze Suite. It was hard to believe Betty had been staying at the hotel for over twenty years. She’d moved in after her husband, a professor at Florida Tech, passed away.
By the far wall was a bookcase filled with photos of her grandchildren and two different sets of Nancy Drew mysteries. The first set was from the thirties; all had their pristine dust jackets and were covered in clear plastic sleeves. The second set was from the mid-sixties to the early seventies, the time period when Betty had worked as a ghostwriter for the Nancy Drew line and a few other mystery series, including the Dana Girls and the Connie Blair mysteries. Having voraciously read all of Betty’s yellow-spined hardcover Nancy Drews as an adolescent, Liz thought she caught subtle differences in a few of the writing styles. No matter how hard she’d pleaded over the years, Betty stuck to her binding nondisclosure contract and was taking The Secret of the Ghostwriter Mysteries to her grave.
Next to the Nancy Drew books was a set of twelve pale-lavender hardcovers that Betty had authored using her real name, Beatrice Lawson. The Island Girl Mysteries took place on a fictitious island off of Florida’s east coast, and featured a surfboard-wielding sleuth named Kit Sullivan and her plucky dolphin sidekick, Misty. The books were published in the mid-sixties and had a great following. Betty could have continued the series, but she’d run out of ideas for mysterious adventures involving a fifteen-year-old girl and her pet porpoise.
Liz finished her tea and roused Killer, waiting a few minutes until the pins and needles in her feet subsided from the Great Dane’s weight. She stood and said, “I got up so early, it was too soon to go to the emporium to make sure everything was going according to plan.”
Her alarm had gone off at seven. Liz had popped out of bed, taken a shower, dressed, chugged a cup of coffee, and was out of her beach house by seven thirty. The sun had still been low in the sky, and the water was glistening with lines of silver atop each gently rolling wave. She couldn’t have asked for a better day for the Spring Fling. The emporium doors opened at ten, and Liz wanted to make sure everything was ready. Instead of stopping by the Indialantic’s kitchen, like she usually did each morning, she’d gone directly to Aunt Amelia’s rooms to coordinate the day’s activities, and then to Betty’s.
“You’ve always been a planner,” Betty said, starting a new square. “I remember you plotting out all your stories with meticulously detailed outlines. I am so happy it paid off with Let the Wind Roar.”
“Thanks to your proofreading and editing. If it wasn’t for you, I probably wouldn’t have even found an agent.”
“Oh, I’m sure you would have, you’re that good. How’s the next one coming?”
Liz was saved by someone knocking on the suite door. Betty was tangled up in fuchsia yarn, so Liz answered.
A dapper Captain Netherton stood in the hallway. Instead of a cane, he held a walking stick. “Liz, my dear. No need to answer the question I was about to ask. I see the big galoot lounging beyond you with his paramour, Caro.”
“‘Big galoot’ is right,” Liz said. “Although he carries on like he’s a quarter of his size. A few minutes ago, Caro chased a ball of yarn under the coffee table and Killer followed her. When he tried to stand up, he looked like a giant tortoise with a coffee table shell.”
Captain Netherton laughed.
Killer glanced their way, his unclipped black ears rising to half-mast. “You talking about me?” they said.
Liz turned to the captain. “I hope you got your fresh linens yesterday?”
“I did, and thank you. You didn’t happen to see the nautical chart I had of the waters off the island, did you? I’d just ordered it, thought I’d left it on my desk. Now it’s missing.”
“Yes. It was on your desk. I saw it there yesterday, around three o’clock.”
He said, “That’s strange. A mystery is a-brewin’. I might need the assistance of a mystery writer to help me go on The Quest of the Missing Map. Liz, do you know anyone?” He looked at Betty and winked.
“Can’t think of a one,” Liz said, then winked back.
Betty pretended to be crocheting, but Liz saw the corners of her mouth turn up.
“I really appreciate that you’re working the raffle table,” Liz said to the captain. “I hope you got the box of brochures I left outside your door yesterday for Queen of the Seas?” Pictured on the front of the brochure was a photo of Queen of the Seas and a distinguished Captain Netherton, with his dark gray eyes and white-toothed smile. He wore a navy blazer and white pants with a sharp crease. His cap sat at a jaunty angle, and he had one hand on the wheel in a relaxed fashion, instilling confidence and an air of experience. In bold-faced letters below his photo was printed: Indialantic by the Sea Hotel and Emporium Invites You to Join Captain Clyde B. Netherton for a River Cruise on Queen of the Seas to Tour the Barrier Island’s Riches. You Will See Dolphins, Bald Eagles, Manatees, Birds from the Nearby Bird Sanctuary, and Even the Occasional Alligator, While the Captain Fills Your Head with Natural History Lessons and Tales from the Old Days of Pirating and Sunken Treasure Ships.
“No problem, my dear.” He
