Olive and Let Die (5 page)

Jack killed his lights and pulled into the employee parking lot behind the Bonaparte House. A movement over by the Dumpster caught my eye, and a familiar redhead was
illuminated by the floodlight. I waved to Brenda Jones, Bonaparte Bay's Dumpster Diva, and she raised her hand in greeting. She added a couple more long-necked bottles, which glowed amber in the evening light, to her sack, then cinched it up and pushed her grocery store carriage, probably from the new Dollarsmasher out on Route 12, across the gravel of the parking lot. Brenda made the rounds of the restaurants and the docks every night, twice a night during the busy summer season in July and August. I always left the Bonaparte House returnables out for her. She had a nice little business, and it was good for everybody: She made money, and she kept the village clean.

Jack came around to my door and opened it, offering me a hand to step down from the high vehicle. As I reached the ground, he put his arms around me and drew me in for a kiss that curled my toes. “Sophie could be watching,” I said, my lips close to his.

“I don't care,” he said.

At that moment, neither did I. But I was too old to be sneaking around like a teenager and afraid my mother—or in this case, my soon-to-be-ex-mother-in-law—would catch me. I'll come clean with her soon, I promised myself. But who was I kidding? She probably already knew. I kissed him again and said good night.

FIVE

The next morning I stayed in bed, reading a steamy romance novel by Raphaela Ridgeway. I wished I'd remembered to close my bedroom window last night, because an uncomfortably brisk wind was blowing across my bare arms. I considered covering up with the quilt and reading under the covers with the clip-on book light I kept in the nightstand. Unfortunately, sleeping in any later was not an option today.

The distinctive rumble of Dolly's ancient Crown Victoria sounded in the parking lot. I jumped out of bed and ran to the window, pulling back the curtain just a tiny bit so I could see out. Sophie and her cousin Marina, each wearing the same windbreaker in a different color, Sophie's fuchsia, Marina's lime green, climbed into Sophie's cavernous car. Dolly parked her own car, then got behind the wheel of the pristine white Lincoln. Sophie rolled down the window and waved up at
me, even though I knew she couldn't see me. The woman had some kind of sixth sense, I tell you. Always had.

The breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding came out in a little whoosh. A hot shower and some breakfast would wake me up.

I emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of scented steam, toweling my hair. I dressed quickly, threw on a pair of beaded earrings bought at the last Bay craft fair, and gave my lips a swipe with the rose-tinted natural lip balm Liza made over at the Valentine Island Spa. My phone chirped, indicating a message. Jack's handsome face appeared on the screen when I opened the text.
On my way
, it said.

Twenty minutes later we arrived at the Camelot and I knocked on the door of Room 8. When there was no answer, I knocked again and put my lips to the crack between the door and the jamb. “Melanie? It's us, Georgie and Jack.”

A sound like furniture being moved came from behind the door, then the metallic clink of the chain being slid back and the deadbolt being turned. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, immediately feeling guilty. She had every right to take security precautions, was probably wise to do so. I wondered if I'd remembered to rearm the security system back at the Bonaparte House.

Melanie opened the door. Deep purplish half-moons sat in the hollows beneath her eyes. Her hair stuck up in platinum blond tufts—clearly uncombed. Lines etched her face, and it appeared she hadn't slept, but at least she was dressed, thank God. She rummaged around inside her huge Fendi bag and pulled out a baseball cap, which she jammed on her head. I had a sudden image of Mary Poppins and wondered if next she'd
pull out a coatrack. At least it wasn't underwear. A pair of oversized Jackie-O-style sunglasses completed her ensemble. “Get me out of here before I scream,” she said. She picked up the bag, and I couldn't help noticing that her hand trembled as she reached for it. “I need a shampoo and a bath with products that don't make me itch. Clean clothes. And some coffee.”

Wow. Melanie was in a state. I felt sorry for Caitlyn, who I suspected was going to bear the brunt of Melanie's morning crabbiness when they were finally reunited. She lowered her chin, pulled her glasses down to the tip of her nose, and looked up at Jack. “I need Starbucks, and you're just the man to get it for me.”

Jack chuckled. “It's a long way to a Starbucks from Bonaparte Bay.” He opened the door and held it open for us to exit.

“The Express-o Bean makes great coffee,” I said, a bit defensively. So far our little village had managed to keep out the national chains, which suited me—and every other business owner I knew—just fine.

It didn't take long before we were sitting in Jack's boat, a thirty-eight-foot Bayliner with a cuddy cabin and the most adorable little kitchen below decks. Jack put his coffee—black with one sugar—into the cup holder on the console and throttled up the engine. The vibrations traveled from the soles of my feet right up through to the top of my head. I unwrapped the sandwich I'd bought at the Bean, replaced the leaf of spinach and the sundried tomato that had fallen off the egg, and took a bite. Heaven. A lone figure stood on the dock as we pulled away. Spencer put his camera to his eye and started snapping away.

Melanie pulled the baseball cap lower and adjusted her glasses. “That man is a serious pain in my butt.” Mine too, but I was pretty much resigned to the pictures by this point. Fortunately, the
Blurb
had a circulation of about twelve. But I certainly wished that every photograph did not show me from behind or depict me cramming something into my mouth.

The morning sun glittered off the surface of the St. Lawrence, making me long for my own sunglasses. The breeze was cool, no surprise for a late September morning on the Canadian border, and I pulled the zipper of my North Face fleece all the way up. I leaned back on the bench seat and got comfortable. I'd lived on the river my entire life, but it had only been since Jack entered my world a couple of months ago that I'd come to truly appreciate the beauty of this area. I sipped at my very good coffee and watched the islands and the Victorian mansions whiz by.

Our destination was the Spa on Valentine Island. Owned by my good friend Liza Grant, whose family had built the place a hundred and thirty years ago, Valentine Island epitomized the golden age of the Thousand Islands. Prior to the Civil War, her distant relation, General Ulysses S. Grant, had been stationed at Sackets Harbor, a U.S. Naval base strategically located where Lake Ontario and the St. Lawrence conjoin. After the war and during his presidency, the general had visited the Thousand Islands again as a guest of George Pullman of Pullman train car fame. The area grew in popularity among the wealthy, and hundreds of grand residences had been built on the many islands and along the shore. Not quite as grand as the Newport, Rhode Island, mansions of the uber-wealthy such as the Vanderbilts and Astors, some
serious Victorian bucks had nonetheless been invested in these houses and the local economy. We were still riding that wave today with our restaurants and gift shops and tours.

Melanie had been staring off the starboard side of the boat the entire ride, and had not uttered a word. I didn't really know her, so I couldn't say if she was preoccupied or just not a morning person. Perhaps a bit of both. “Melanie,” I said. No response. “Melanie.” A bit louder this time. Absent at roll call. Why had I expected anything different?

Jack looked from her to me and his face broke out into an adorable smile. The sun reflecting off the surface of the water had nothing on those pearly whites. “Aw, let her sleep. Let's just enjoy the ride.” One hand left the wheel of the boat and his fingers threaded through mine, warm and strong. Our palms pressed together as a gentle buzz of energy ran up my arm. All those years I'd been married to Spiro, I'd never felt a contentment like this. Jack was right. I would put Melanie out of my mind for the moment. We'd be dumping her at Liza's soon, and then I could get down to the business of enjoying my day off.

My chest constricted with a pang of guilt. What about Doreen? When I got back to shore, I would make some inquiries. If Melanie and I really were Doreen's only next of kin, I'd have to get started on funeral arrangements. Which Melanie could pay for. I hadn't known poor Doreen in life, but I would do right by her in death. I squeezed Jack's hand a little tighter.

A few minutes later we pulled up at the Valentine Island dock. Jack cut the motor and jumped nimbly over onto the wooden structure. I tossed him a line, and he tied the bow
of the boat to a metal cleat with a few deft movements. I tossed him the stern line and he repeated the process. This boat wasn't going anywhere until we said it was time to leave—a lesson I had learned the hard way once when I allowed Liza's boat to float away, untied, and it ended up a couple of towns away.

Melanie roused herself from the stupor she'd been in and looked up. My eyes followed hers up the rough-cut stone steps until they landed on Liza's home and business. A fairy-tale castle complete with crenellated turrets and sky-high walls made of local limestone lay a couple of hundred yards up a slight hill. There was no need for a moat or drawbridge, the entire island being, of course, surrounded by water. Chrysanthemums in shades of rust, gold, lavender, and crimson lined the stone walkway. Combined with the reds and golds of the leaves on the maples and oaks that dotted the landscape, the assault of color was intoxicating.

A figure came toward us, his feet making a series of gentle thuds echoing on the dock. A little taller than average, but shorter than Jack, the man carried himself with the easy physicality of a lifelong athlete. His jet-black hair was wavy and worn just a little too long to be presentable, as though he'd canceled his hair appointment in lieu of one too many pickup lacrosse games. He smiled and reached for Melanie's small bag.

His eyes were like a couple of dollops of dark chocolate ganache, and they had a Stallone-y dreaminess. “Liza's tied up with a problem in the kitchen, so she asked me to come down and greet you. I'm Channing.”

I'd never needed an escort to visit Liza before. But then I
realized this little midmorning snack of studmuffin was for Melanie's benefit. Liza knew how to treat her spa guests well.

Melanie looked him up and down and apparently liked what she saw. “Get me to the dining room stat, McYummy. I need a wheatgrass smoothie with a sea algae chaser
now.
” She placed her hand at the crook of his elbow and gave a little rub as they started up the path. I gave an eye roll. Jack laughed.

“Come on, Georgie,” he said, offering me his arm. “Let's get Melanie settled, then we can get on with our day.”

I looped my arm through his and we followed.

Caitlyn met us at the huge double oak doors. She was in full assistant mode, cell phone in hand, black-framed hipster glasses planted firmly on her tiny freckled nose. “You missed your hot river-stone massage this morning. I've rescheduled it for later this afternoon. If we can get you ready in the next”—she glanced at the screen of her cell phone, which I thought might be permanently fused to her hand—“fifteen minutes, we can get you back on track with the glacial microsand exfoliation and water lily full-body wrap.”

Melanie disengaged herself from Channing, letting her fingers trail along one brown, muscled forearm as she did so. He didn't seem to mind. Was probably used to it, in fact. I'd never seen him before and I wondered what he did here. Liza ran a full-service spa, but I didn't think it extended to providing gigolos for her guests. But anything was possible.

Melanie turned to Caitlyn. “I'm going to the dining room first. Did any messages come in for me?”

Caitlyn shook her head, her shiny brown bob swinging. “Just the usual fan mail. And hate mail. No phone calls.”

Melanie frowned. Channing offered her her bag and she took it.

“Maybe I'll see you at the pool,” he said to Melanie. She brightened. Understandable.

He turned to me and Jack. “You're Georgie, right? Liza said I should tell you that she's tied up, so she can't come and say hello, but she'll call you later.”

I nodded. Although she would never divulge the identities of her rich and famous guests, wealth being much more important than fame, it turned out, the Spa was about as exclusive as they came. Imagine a whole castle full of Melanies, and you'd have a pretty good idea of what Liza probably dealt with on a daily basis. “That's fine. Melanie, Caitlyn? I'll talk to you later.”

Melanie nodded at me, and the trio was swallowed up by the giant oak doors.

*   *   *

“So where are
you taking me?” My words were loud enough to be heard over the whine of the twin engines, but not so loud I sounded like I was yelling. I hoped.

“We're almost there. Relax. You've had a tough couple of days.”

I couldn't argue with that. Finding another body and being reunited with my long-lost mother definitely qualified as
tough
.

Just past Wellesley Island we pulled up at a dock attached to an ornate stone boathouse on the shore. The boathouse was bigger than the house I'd grown up in, so I couldn't wait
to see the mansion that was associated with it. We repeated the tying-off process, and Jack offered me a hand.