Olive and Let Die (23 page)

I drew a second circle around
Arrowhead
and tapped the pen against it. That was the piece that didn't fit, and I kept coming back to it. The artifact had been found at my grandparents' farm in the sixties, according to Monty's index. It seemed to be unremarkable—there were several similar artifacts and entries on the index, and Jack had said that arrowheads turned up all the time. So what was special about this one? Someone had stolen both the arrowhead and the associated folder. It meant something. It had to. But what?

The small clock-radio I kept on the corner of the desk read eleven thirty. Time to go see Melanie, then come back here and get ready to open at three o'clock.

Dolly had finished unloading my tiny trunk into her own more spacious one. “I'll go drop this stuff off at the church, run a couple of errands, and be back by two.”

“Thanks.” I honestly, truly did not know how we would manage without Dolly.

Nuts. I still had to find Spiro and Inky a cook or they'd try to steal her away again. And that was a headache I did not need. Of course I wanted Spinky's to succeed. Just not at the expense of the Bonaparte House.

I pulled into the front parking lot of the hospital and went in through the main doors, which slid open noiselessly in front of me. I nodded to the nurse at the main desk, someone I didn't recognize, and took the stairs to the second floor rather than waiting for the elevator.

A Jefferson County sheriff's deputy sat in a molded plastic chair outside Melanie's room. He rose when I approached.

“Name?”

“Georgie Nikolopatos.”

He consulted a clipboard and checked something off, presumably my name. “You're on the approved visiting list. Let's see your ID, then you can go in.”

I pulled out my license, which he examined. He nodded his head toward the door.

Melanie lay in the hospital bed with her upper body at a slight incline. She was hooked up to various intravenous drips and the same beeping monitors I'd seen yesterday. Her eyes fluttered open as I came toward her and sat in the chair by the bed.

“Hey, Mel. How're you feeling?”

“Water,” she said, her voice raspy. “Don't call me Mel.”

“Right. Sorry. Has the doctor been in yet this morning?”

“How long could rounds take in a place this size? Yes.” She wrapped her lips around the straw and sucked. Even without makeup, she didn't look too bad. Plastic surgery, insanely expensive skin care products, and a dermatologist on call could probably do that for you.

“And?” I reached over and took the plastic cup from her, placing it on the tray table.

“And I'm going to be here at least three more days. He doesn't want me traveling for a few weeks. So I'll be staying at the Spa during my recovery.”

Wow. That was going to cost a mint. Not that I wasn't glad for Liza. Castles weren't cheap to run. I just hoped Melanie wouldn't try to stiff her on the bill.

“Where's Caitlyn?”

“Running errands for me. She'll be back soon.”

“What kind of errands, Melanie? If you needed something from the drugstore, Kinney's is just down the street from the restaurant.” But I had a feeling she wasn't out buying deodorant or a hairbrush. How much longer was my mother going to hold out on me?

“Oh, I had her working on a research project for me.”

Research. There was that word again.

“What's she researching?”

She shifted in the bed and let out a groan, her face contorting with the effort. “Not now.” One of the machines attached to her IV drip made a little chirp, perhaps dispensing medication.

I leaned in closer and dropped my voice to a harsh whisper. “Do you not realize you were almost killed? And that two other people are dead? I found Doreen's letter. I know about the Bloodworth Trust. Did you get a letter about it?”

It was probably unfair of me to grill her when she was in an obviously weakened state. But I didn't want any more deaths and she and Caitlyn were the only ones who might have answers.

“Yes. Letter. Trust. Rumors.” Her eyelids fluttered, then closed. “Rumors,” she whispered, and fell asleep.

That had gone well.
Rumors
. It could mean anything.

The deputy checked me off his list as I headed toward the elevators. I punched Caitlyn's number into my phone. She didn't answer.

Damn. I'd promised Jack I wouldn't be alone today. Although I was pretty well convinced at this point that I
wasn't a target. Melanie and Doreen were heirs to the Bloodworth Trust. I, however, had received no such letter from the attorneys. Which must mean that I wasn't eligible to receive the proceeds, for whatever reason, and therefore I stood in no one's way of getting the money.

I could go and confront MacNamara Junior or Senior, but I counted my chances of getting any information out of them at slim to bupkus. That pesky attorney-client privilege would prevent them from telling me anything about the trust. I could go in and say I was handling Melanie's affairs while she was incapacitated, but without a properly executed power of attorney, they'd never buy it.

Which left me with Caitlyn as my only source of information. I went into the family lounge and closed the door. I pulled Melanie's cell phone out of my purse. My intent had been to leave it on the table for her, but I'd forgotten while I was upstairs. Caitlyn might not answer calls from me, but she would from Melanie. I fired off a quick text.

Call me with update.

It was a matter of seconds before a response came back.

Georgie? Is that you?

Curses. Foiled again. How had she known?

The phone rang and I answered it.

“Melanie doesn't text,” Caitlyn informed me. “She says it ruins her manicure. What do you want?”

My eyes darted around the room, making absolutely sure
I was alone. “I want to know what's going on. What are you researching?” My tone was harsher, more demanding than I'd intended.

“I've already told you I can't talk about this until Melanie gives me the okay. Which she hasn't done.”

“Caitlyn, people are dying. An innocent man is accused of murder. And I think you've got information that will explain everything.” I was just getting warmed up when she cut in.

“You'd be surprised what I
don't
know.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” My blood pressure rose.

“It means that I don't have all the answers. And when I do, I'll go straight to the police with them.”

“What do you know about an arrowhead?”

“Huh? Like a Native American thing?” She sounded genuinely surprised by my question, but it was hard to know for sure without being able to see her face.

“Never mind. I've got to go to work. But this isn't over. As soon as Melanie wakes up again, I want you over here getting permission to tell me what you know.”

“Uh, sure.” What she really meant was probably something like,
No way in hell. You're not paying me.

I rang off and threw the phone into the depths of my purse.

When I got back to the restaurant, Dolly had also returned. “Be out in a few minutes,” I called, closing myself up in my office. I reached into my secret drawer and pulled out a half-eaten bar of dark chocolate. The square melted in my mouth as I closed my eyes, leaning back in the chair. When I opened them again, they fell on Doreen's Bingo container. I dumped
the contents onto the surface of the desk and gave the box a shake. There was something in there, and yet the box was empty. How could that be?

What would Nancy Drew do?
She'd check for a false bottom, that's what. I grabbed a ruler and stuck it inside the box, jotting the number on a piece of scrap paper. Then I measured the height of the box from the desk. Sure enough, there was a discrepancy. It was only a quarter inch, but it was there.

The sides of the box had been needlepointed in a pattern of raised stitches. And one row of stitches, a quarter inch from the bottom, was done in white yarn that was a couple of shades off from the rest of the box.

I grabbed the scissors from their usual spot in the mug containing my pens and pencils and gave a snip. The stitch popped open and the yarn, which had been under a bit of tension, relaxed. I straightened one loop of a paper clip and used it to pull out the stitches one by one. When I made it all the way around, the false bottom broke free and I took it out.

I half expected to see an arrowhead. But on the real bottom of the box lay a key.

I blew out a breath, then picked up the key for a closer look.

It was small and flat with an uncomplicated profile. Definitely not a door key. It might go to a desk or dresser drawer, a cabinet, a padlock, maybe a small lockbox. My thoughts flung back to the farmhouse and I groaned. It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. This key could go to anything.

And yet, Doreen had gone to a lot of trouble to hide it. She would have had to create the false bottom and sew it in,
and this was about as obscure a place as she could find. My eyes landed on the daubers. They seemed ordinary enough. The Bingo card, though, wasn't.

She clearly hadn't played this in any Bingo game at the Legion or the Reservation. The crossed-out letters at the top, the circled number 68. They meant something. I just didn't know what.

I shoved the box and its contents into my bottom drawer with the almost-gone chocolate bar and my private bottle of wine. The key went into my pocket. Perhaps proximity to my body might allow it to communicate with me.
What do you open, little key? And what's inside the thing you open?

My musings were cut short by the sounds of footsteps and voices in the hallway outside my door. The wait staff had arrived.

I took a moment to call the hospital. Melanie was still in and out of consciousness, but seemed to be improving, so there was no cause for concern there. The nurse predicted she'd be more alert tomorrow when the effects of the anesthesia and pain medication would have lessened. She was still under police guard, and would be until the person who shot at her was caught.

The second call I placed was to Liza.

“Hey, girl,” she said. “I haven't seen Caitlyn, if that's what you're going to ask. She doesn't seem to have been back in at least a day.”

“I think she's been staying at the Camelot. Maybe the boat rides were cramping her style.”

“Any idea yet what she's up to?”

“No, but I'm working on it.”

“I took it upon myself to help your investigation. Since she's felt free to wander around my castle pretending to be lost, I felt free to freshen her and Melanie's room personally.”

“Did you find anything?” I leaned forward with interest.

“I would never invade my guests' privacy.” Damn. I might. “But in my general straightening up, nothing seemed out of place.”

“How about any paperwork? Notebooks, folders, anything like that?”

“I put fresh sachets in each of the drawers in both rooms. Nothing but clothes and some toiletries. Same with the closets. And nothing under the mattresses or the beds.”

I was willing to bet that Caitlyn kept everything electronically on her phone. It would be simple enough to snap pictures of whatever she was working on, then organize everything into folders she could access anywhere. Simple enough for a young woman of her generation anyway.

“The reason I called was to ask for Channing's number.”

Slight hesitation. “Channing? I'd thought I might keep him . . . engaged for a while this afternoon.”

I laughed. “Tempting as the divine handyman is, Georgie doesn't poach, you know that. I want to hire him to winterize Doreen's house before it freezes. You know, drain all the water pipes so they don't burst, that kind of thing. I was hoping to meet him tomorrow morning, say nine o'clock. It has to be early because we're open for lunch tomorrow.”

“I had him scheduled to work around here tomorrow morning, but that can wait. Unless one of us calls you back, expect him at nine.”

“Thanks. And, uh, have a nice afternoon.”

Her laugh was mischievous. “Oh, we will.” She rang off.

The Bonaparte House did a bustling business that night. A hundred and forty dinners—significantly more than I'd expected—and we managed not to run out of anything. I put aside several of the cash transactions for Sophie. That always made her happy. She didn't know—or maybe just didn't care—that the computerized ordering system kept track of it anyway and we still paid taxes on the income. It was a sport for her.

By the time eleven o'clock rolled around and I called eighty-six, I had a roster of happy servers with pockets full of tips. I offered them each a complimentary dinner for a job well done, but they'd all made plans to go to Fat Max's after work. “Have a good time,” I called out after them. “Don't drink and drive.” All I got was laughter.

Well aware that I was breaking my promise to Jack, but unwilling to ask Dolly to stay with me, I set all the alarms and went to bed.

TWENTY-TWO

Almost before I knew it, the birds that hadn't flown south for the winter were chirping outside my window. The sun was just coming up over the river, painting the sky in shades of butter and salmon.

I made the bed and tossed a load of laundry into the washer before I got into the shower. Fifteen minutes later I was toweling off and had even managed to wipe the sink and counter. It felt good to do something as mundane and mindless as housework, and yet I still couldn't get the puzzle pieces to stop rattling around in my brain.

When I got back out to the farm this morning, I'd focus my attention on figuring out what Doreen's little key went to, not that I'd have a whole lot of time before I had to get back to the restaurant. There didn't seem to be any alternative other than trying it in every drawer and cabinet until I found what it fit. The prospect was daunting. It might not
even be in the house. It could be out in the barn, a place that was probably full of furry wild critters I had no interest in getting to know better. I could ask Channing to go in with me if necessary. He looked like the type that could fight off slavering beasts for a lady.

It was a lovely morning for a drive into the countryside. I stopped at Rainbow Acres for a load of hothouse lettuce and tomatoes, which I packed into the coolers I'd stowed in my trunk. We'd sold a lot last night, so I was glad to have a chance to restock. The weather was good, which meant a lot of day-trippers coming into town for the leaf-peeper cruise on the
Lady Liberty
tour boat. And that usually translated into a good night at the Bonaparte House.

I drove slowly as I approached Doreen's farm. I supposed I should start thinking of it as Melanie's farm, since it had only been Doreen's temporarily. I'd stayed alone last night in my own home with no problems, but shots hadn't been fired at me there. Still, if Channing didn't get there soon, I was going to have to go in. There wasn't much time this morning to dillydally.

I pulled over next to a field dotted with huge round wheels of hay. My teeth caught my lower lip and I pulled the key and Doreen's Bingo card out of my purse.

Card. Key. Arrowhead. Card.

I examined it again. The B and the I were scribbled out. That left N, G, O.

N, G, O. I tried rearranging the letters. G-O-N. Gone? N-O-G. Nog? Maybe if it were New Year's Eve.

G-O. Go. Go . . . north?

My heart rate sped up. The number 68 was circled. Go
north 68 . . . degrees? I'd need a compass for that and even then I might not be able to work it. What about 68 . . . feet? Yards? Paces?

After the initial burst of excitement, my spirits sank. Even if I was right about what the card meant, it did me no good. If this was some kind of X-marks-the-spot map, there was one crucial piece of information missing. There was no starting point.

Back to square one.

Or was I? Assuming what I was looking for was at the farm, which direction was north? No clue. And I was fresh out of compasses.

I heard a car coming up behind me on the gravel road. I glanced in my rearview mirror. A car was approaching a little too fast, sending up a fine spray of dirt and tiny stones. Channing had a red pickup, but this clearly wasn't him because it passed the driveway to the house. My eyes again went to the rearview mirror and the lighted E in the lower-right-hand corner. The Honda was pointed east. Apparently, I did have a compass.

I turned the key in the ignition and moved the car until the display read
N.
North was a big meadow behind the house. My eyes fell on a tableau of rusty metal. Atop a gentle knoll was some kind of ancient-looking farm machinery, the kind that was probably drawn behind oxen or draft horses back in the old days. My estimating skills were not well developed, but it could be sixty yards or so from the back door of the house. Something certainly could have been hidden in that old machine.

What if it were buried, though? Digging was hard work
and I'd never find it without a metal detector. Did Dolly and Harold have one? Possibly, but it did me no good right now.

I debated. Should I wait for Channing? It was already nine fifteen and he was late. If he didn't show, I wouldn't be able to test my theory until tomorrow, and even then I'd have to interrupt someone else's day to come with me.

The heck with it. No way was this waiting until tomorrow. Melanie was the target, not me. I pulled the car into the driveway, parked, and made my way out back.

Despite telling myself that I wasn't in danger, I'd never felt so exposed in my life as I did walking across that open field. My heart beat wildly and the pulse pounded in my ears. Ridiculous. Mine was the only car here. Still, I glanced over my shoulder more than once as I made my way through the damp knee-high grass.

The knoll was gently sloped up only two or three feet above the surrounding earth. It was circular, with a pronounced depression in the middle, like a bowl made out of dirt and grass. Inside the bowl was an assortment of metal detritus. In addition to the large horse-drawn implement—a hay rake perhaps—there were a number of other items I couldn't identify. All were in various states of rust and decay, clearly having been left out over many, many harsh winters. A metal milk can was the only intact object, its lid off to one side. I peered into it. Empty.

This had been a waste of time. There was nothing here that required a key, unless it was buried, and I wasn't about to go digging when I had to go back to work so soon.

I started back across the field, my legs and feet wet from the dewy grass. A woodshed was built onto the back of the
house, like most old farmhouses in this area. Above the woodshed were two windows that overlooked the field, half covered by old curtains. Had I been in one of those rooms yesterday? I tried to orient myself but it was no use. I had no sense of direction and probably never would.

A curtain moved. I started, then shook my head. The house was a hundred and fifty years old and had likely never been insulated. It would be full of drafts. And it occurred to me I had left a window open upstairs yesterday.

A dark red pickup truck sat in the driveway. I hadn't heard it pull in. This must be Channing. I was never so glad to see someone else's boyfriend in my life.

Only, I didn't actually see him. The cab of the truck was empty, unless he was lying on the front seat. He wasn't on the front porch, nor was he in the yard. There'd be no reason for him to be in the barn. I hadn't been inside the house yet so the doors were still locked. Or were they?

The front door stood slightly ajar.

“Channing?” Maybe I'd neglected to make sure the lock was engaged yesterday. He must be inside evaluating what needed to be done.

Nonetheless, I put my hand on the canister of pepper spray I'd lifted from Melanie's purse before I left.

I approached the door and gave it a gentle kick. It swung open on creaky hinges. “Channing? It's Georgie.”

A grunting sound came from the back of the house.

“In the kitchen. I'm looking at the pipes under the sink.”

I relaxed. As I suspected, the front door must not have latched properly. Mr. Handyman Hottie could take a look at it before he left.

At the kitchen door, I froze.

Channing wasn't under the sink.

He was holding a knife to Caitlyn's neck.

I took a deep breath, determined to stay calm even though panic was rising like spring snowmelt through my chest and head.

“Channing. What are you doing?” Did my voice quiver? For Caitlyn's sake I would not show fear if I could help it. How had she gotten here? Had he brought her in his truck?

He snorted. “You're not really in a position to be asking questions.” His dark eyes flashed. “But why don't you ask your little friend here?”

It wouldn't do much good. She had a gag in her mouth and wouldn't be able to answer. Her pale skin shone with perspiration.

“She's not my friend.”
Forgive me, Caitlyn
. “What's she done?”

“Don't lie to me. You're in on this with her and Mommy.” He had a handful of Caitlyn's hair and he pulled back, exposing her throat. She winced. “She's been following me around for days, trying to pretend she's crushing on me. It's ridiculous. I'm way out of her league.”

Conceited ass. “Why's she following you? I honestly don't know.” If he was talking, he wasn't cutting—or killing.

“She almost ruined everything with her snooping.” Caitlyn squirmed and emitted a muffled cry through the gag. “Sit still! I'm not through with you yet.”

I decided to press the issue. Gently. “What did she almost ruin? Because I can tell you she's been a serious pain in my ass too.” I wished Caitlyn could see my face, so she'd know
I was doing everything I could for her, but her head was pulled back at too sharp an angle. Apologies would have to come later—if there was a later.

“The trust, idiot.”

Understanding dawned as I fought the urge to lash out at him for calling me a name. “You're an heir to the Bloodworth fortune. A descendant.”

Understanding faded with his next word.

“No.”

“Then why do this? It doesn't make sense. You don't have a pony in the race.”

“There's only one rightful heir to those millions. And it wasn't Doreen and it isn't your mother.” He pulled the tip of the knife away from Caitlyn's throat and pointed it at me. “But I'm going to finish the job I started on her just as soon as I take care of you two. No loose ends, no one to stand in the way when the truth comes out.”

What the hell was he talking about? He was keyed up, but he didn't seem crazy. Although how sane could someone be who killed over and over for a fortune that wasn't even his?

Three sharp knocks sounded at the front door. All three of us froze.

“Georgie? Channing? Can one of you stop by the Acres on your way back to town? I've got a yogurt delivery and my truck broke down.” Hank stepped into the kitchen doorway.

I saw my chance. I pulled out the canister of pepper spray and gave Channing a blast full in the face. He dropped the knife and threw his hands up to his eyes as he broke into a full-out sweat. Hank kicked the knife out of Channing's reach and grabbed him in a bear hug from behind. Channing
writhed in his arms, in pain that was almost palpable. This stuff really did work.

I ran to Caitlyn and untied her. She was panting, and her light sheen of sweat had turned into a full drenching. She coughed. “My glasses,” she wheezed. “The spray hit them. Take them off me,” she begged.

“What should I do with him?” Hank grunted. He was sixty if he was a day, not to mention a smoker.

Before I could answer—and not that I knew the answer anyway—the younger, more agile Channing twisted out of Hank's sinewy arms and ran for the front door. I grabbed Caitlyn's arm and pulled her along behind me.

Channing jumped into the front seat of his truck and started the motor. Hank raced after him, but had to jump back when Channing peeled out of the driveway. He fell to the ground.

“Take the Beemer,” Caitlyn said. “It's faster than your car.”

“Where is it?” I demanded. I was not going to let him get away, and the Beemer was nowhere in sight.

“In. The. Barn.” Caitlyn continued to wheeze. Was she asthmatic or had she gotten more exposure to the spray than I'd thought?

I glanced back at Hank, who had gotten to his feet and had a cell phone to his ear, presumably dialing for help. I threw open the barn doors and we raced into the car. She tossed me the keys and I backed out after Channing, who was approximately a quarter mile down the road by now.

My foot jammed the pedal to the floor. “Call the State Police or the Sheriff's Office,” I said, oversteering a bit and
having to correct my course. “For God's sake, don't call 911.” Cindy in dispatch couldn't be trusted to get the message right.

“I can't look up the number without my glasses!” she wailed.

Well, nuts. Channing crested a hill ahead of me. There was an intersection just beyond that. I sped up so I'd be able to see which direction he turned.