Twenty minutes later, Liz was inside Mrs. Ingles’s office sharing a cup of Earl Grey and a couple of Scottish shortbread biscuits from the open tin on her former English teacher’s desk. It looked like the same tin Mrs. Ingles had had on her desk years ago. Whenever Liz saw a red-plaid cookie tin, she thought fondly of Mrs. Ingles.
“It’s so great to see you again, Elizabeth. I heard you’d moved back to the island. We’re lucky to have you. Hope you’ll do a book signing for your next award winner?” Mrs. Ingles’s hair might have grayed and thinned, and her face might be overrun with wrinkles from baking in the hot Florida sun, but her clear Isle of Skye–blue eyes remained as warm and bright as ever.
Liz laughed, “That would mean I’d have to write it first, Mrs. Ingles.” Liz would never call her anything but Mrs. Ingles, and Mrs. Ingles would never call Liz anything but Elizabeth.
Mrs. Ingles searched Liz’s face, concern showing in her gaze. “All in good time, I’m sure.”
She’d always encouraged Liz to become a writer, and Liz would be forever grateful. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about the Harringtons. I’m sure you heard about Regina Harrington-Worth’s death?”
“You mean murder, don’t you?” She handed Liz another shortbread biscuit from the tin and Liz took it, even though she was still full from two slices of bee sting cake.
“I want to show you a photo. Maybe you can tell me who everyone is?” Even though Liz had pretty much guessed who was who, she knew Mrs. Ingles might add valuable insight into the past, seeing as she’d lived on the island all of her life. Liz handed her the phone.
Mrs. Ingles expertly put two fingers on the screen, then expanded the image. Librarians seemed pretty tech savvy nowadays. Liz was determined to add Aunt Amelia to that group.
“Celia Harrington, nicknamed Cece, is on the right, to her left is her husband, Percival II, then we have Mark Jenkins and his wife, Tina,” she said, sticking her nose closer to the screen. “Mark and Percival started the historical society together. Cece was barely seen in Melbourne Beach. She was more into Vero Beach high society.”
“Do you know who is still alive? Any juicy rumors or scuttlebutt about the people in the photo?”
“Tina Jenkins is the only one still alive. As for scuttlebutt…” She raised her right eyebrow. “There is one small rumor that my brother-in-law told me when he was working with Percival II on one of his treasure-salvaging expeditions.”
Liz leaned forward, worried that Mrs. Ingles might see the saliva pooling in her mouth. “Yes?”
“Well, I guess it can’t hurt now, because they’re both dead. There were rumors that Mark and Cece were having an affair. I think if you look closely at the photo, you can see Mark looking directly at Cece, not his wife. Mark was much better-looking than Percival II.”
Liz took back the phone, and sure enough, there seemed to be a definite connection between the two. It was like Francie’s father and Regina’s mother shared an intimate secret. “Speaking of treasure salvagers, can you point me in the right direction on any news or photos about Percival II’s score on the San Carlos? I’ve been to the treasure museum, but the researcher in me wants to learn all I can about him and his finds.”
“This past February, we held a retrospective of his life, including numerous photos that were displayed in the showcases at the entrance to the library. We also made everything available online.” She pulled an empty pad of paper toward her and scribbled something on top. “Here’s the IP address, where you’ll be able to see everything. It was a great tribute.” She handed Liz the piece of paper.
Liz stood, took the paper, then snatched another biscuit.
Mrs. Ingles smiled. “Take the whole tin. I have another. Oh, and I’ll ask my brother-in-law if he has anything interesting relating to the San Carlos. Now you have me intrigued.”
Liz walked over to Mrs. Ingles and gave her a hug.
She looked up at Liz. “You know, now that I think about it, something strange did happen on the first morning of Percival II’s retrospective. Someone had opened one of the show cases—we didn’t keep them locked back then—and stole a few photos. They weren’t anything special, from what I could see. Just a couple of photos of Percival II’s salvaging ship and his crew from the day they discovered the cargo section of the San Carlos.”
“Are you a member of the Barrier Island Historical Society, Mrs. Ingles?”
“Yes. A lifetime member, my husband and I both.”
Liz stepped toward the door and said, “It looks like I came to the right place. Thank you, teach. I promise not to be a stranger.”
Mrs. Ingles closed the biscuit tin and handed it to Liz. “You know we’re reading Let the Wind Roar in our book club on Tuesday nights. Stop in. Everyone would fall on the floor in a faint if you did.”
“I might do that, just to see the fainting,” Liz said, grinning, as she walked out of the office.
Fifteen minutes later, Liz was parked at the rear of the hotel. She strolled toward her father’s office. Lining the walkway were waxy green bushes sprouting a profusion of delicate white jasmine. To her right, a huge roseate spoonbill with bright pink wings, like a flamingo’s, foraged the lagoon’s shoreline for aquatic treats. Liz took a deep gulp of the cleansing, scented air and knocked on the office door. She’d forgotten her keys and longed for the good old days when locking a door at the Indialantic by the Sea Hotel was considered a travesty.
Her father answered with a worried look on his face, which quickly changed when he saw Liz. He was clean shaven and smelled of citrus. His dark hair had a touch of gray and his unlined face made him look ten years younger
