Worst Laid Plans (A Maddox Storm Mystery Book 1) (14 page)

I shook off the shadow of her ghost and scuffed aside debris to make a path to the boxes. I was here to learn about Ms Daggon’s life, not analyze my own.

There wasn’t much of an intimate nature in Ms Daggon’s belongings. I waded through boxes, riffled in her closet and snooped under the bed. The most interesting thing I found was a set of psychedelic blue and yellow self-heating curlers and that was only interesting because I couldn’t fathom why she’d bother. I’d never seen her hair out of that pale pink net.

Then I stumbled across a lone photograph at the very bottom of a small shoe box buried in the mass of larger boxes.

At first glance, the only intriguing thing about it was that photos were memories and nothing else in this room was vaguely memorable of the life Ms Daggon had led. But when I held it up for a closer look, I noticed the green phosphoric blur.

I didn’t recognize the young man caught mid-stride and I wasn’t familiar with the building he’d obviously just exited, but I knew without a doubt that Mr Biggenhill had taken this black and white photo. And given the long-range shot, this was no selfie even if selfies had been a thing back then.

I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a photo of the man Ms Daggon had held a flaming torch for, but why on earth would she treasure a single, random picture that he’d snapped?

Taking the photo with me, I did what I could to camouflage my intrusion. The bits of broken lock went into one of the cardboard boxes. I pulled the door shut and adjusted the crime tape to angle over the gaping hole. It wouldn’t pass close inspection, but I was hoping no one would notice until after the case was closed and then who’d care?

NINE

My midnight excursion had raised more questions and provided no answers.

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep a wink all night. In no mood to mess around with bran or crunchy wheat, I called Jenna and we arranged to meet at eight o’clock.

I arrived before her and snuck into Cuppa-Cheeno from the boardwalk entrance. Lily and Cuppa-Cake would always have my undying loyalty, but sometimes a girl just needed an almond croissant.

Jenna was coming up the steps just as I reached the North Pier. The poor guy passing her on his way down stared so hard, he lost his footing and stumbled. I couldn’t say I blamed him. She looked like a ramp model, skinny jeans and a chocolate brown leather jacket and the breeze whipping her loose blond hair.

I grinned and waved her down with my bag of contraband croissants.

She took the coffee holder from me and cocked a brow. “What’s got you so bright and chirpy this early in the morning?”

“That reminds me.” A grimace wiped out my grin. “I have an appointment with a divorce lawyer on Tuesday.”

“You realize a psychiatrist would have a field day with your word association, don’t you?” She linked her arm in mine as we walked. “I say bright and chirpy and you think divorce.”

“My lawyer’s name is Mr Bright,” I said with a sigh.

We settled at the end of the pier, our legs dangling over the side. I slung my purse from my shoulder, breathing in the crisp air and admiring the view as we exchanged coffees and croissants

The
Lazy Lady
was making her way across the lake toward us. She was the
Lakeview Spa Retreat’s
old paddle steamer, the sort that belonged in the last century and a whole lot further south, like somewhere along the Mississippi. The giant wheel at the back was striped in white and blue and, true to her name, lazily churned the water on her slow journey. The
Lazy Lady
explored the lake on a dinner cruise each evening and acted as a private water taxi for the spa’s guests during the day.

Pedestrian traffic on the boardwalk thickened as the steamer approached the South Pier. Mainly tourists, hoping to catch a glimpse of some big name star. It didn’t happen often, but the slim odds were all part of the fun. Us locals took a more blasé approach. We waited until the gathering crowd erupted into excited twitches before we deigned to look.

“Have you spoken to Joe?” asked Jenna.

I brought my gaze in and picked at a sprinkled almond. “I’m not ready.”

“Do you think you might be ready before Tuesday?”

I sent her a look. “What are you getting at?”

“Okay, I was quite happy to set the lynch mob on Joe when I heard what had happened.” She pulled a face. “But you guys were so cute together.”

“Yeah, we were.” A slew of unbidden images came to me. I shook them off and bit into my croissant.

“You don’t suppose there could be some explanation worth listening to?”

I chewed slowly and looked into the distance while I gathered my thoughts.

There was no explanation that could magically wash this away and I wanted my best friend to understand so she could stop worrying that I may be making a mistake.

I wiped flour dust from my mouth and brought my legs up to cross them as I turned fully to her. “If I’d found out Joe was cheating on me any other way, maybe I could forgive him. But I walked in on them. I saw him. It doesn’t matter if he’d had one too many and forgot he was married. It doesn’t matter if Chintilly trapped him and took advantage or even if she’d pulled him in for a rehearsal of some new play she was auditioning for. I saw his hands all over her and I saw the look on his face,
our
look, slack with desire.

“I don’t know how to fix this, Jenna. If we gave it a second chance and he ever looked at me like that again, I don’t know how to make myself believe that look is just for me.”

“Oh, Maddie.” She blinked hard and gave a gruff laugh. “Now I want to set that lynch mob on him all over again.”

“Or we could just dig Lullu out.” I slapped a hand to my mouth and cringed the moment the suggestion slipped out.

Lullu was just a rag doll stuffed with straw and we weren’t voodoo priestesses, obviously, but the fact remained. We’d pretended she was Ms Daggon and we’d pricked her full of pins and now Ms Daggon was dead. Nothing to do with us, of course, but it did cast a sinister spin on our childish prank.

“Don’t give me that look,” Jenna said. “That was years ago and I don’t feel bad about it, not at all. She’d just made you wear that blouse with the sewed up armholes, remember? You spent the whole class waddling about like a stuffed sausage.”

I laughed. “Whatever you do, don’t say a word to anyone about Lullu. Detective Bishop already has enough ammunition to put me away for life.”

“He won’t,” Jenna said with a wicked smile. “Jack told me, your name’s been culled from the investigation. I think the dreamy detective likes you.”

“Then he has a funny way of showing it,” I scoffed. “He called me a gnat and a nuisance the last time we spoke.”

She fluttered her lashes at me. “That’s just him being a boy, tugging at your pigtails.”

“Well, he’s going to scalp me when he discovers what I’ve done.” I pulled the photograph from my purse to show Jenna. “I found this in Ms Daggon’s bedroom. Who do you suppose it could be?”

Jenna studied the picture of the clean-shaven young man, her face scrunching in concentration.

“It has to be important,” I said. “That’s the only photo I found amongst her things.”

“Mr Biggenhill?” she said, drawing the obvious conclusion. When I told her why it couldn’t be him, she shrugged. “Then I have no idea.” She frowned at me. “Why were you searching Ms Daggon’s room?”

“I had no choice,” I said defensively. “Detective Bishop actually thinks Burns or Mr Hollow could be guilty.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Jenna said. “Mr H wouldn’t hurt a fly. Burns, on the other hand… It’s always the quiet ones you have to be careful of.”

“First Mrs Biggenhill, now Burns.” I rolled my eyes. “You’re almost as bad as Detective Bishop.”

“Someone killed Ms Daggon,” she said softly, totally serious. “And we know it wasn’t you or me.”

“That’s why I went through her things. She didn’t have many friends, but I bet she had loads of enemies.” I looked down at the photo of the clean-shaved young man. “Has Jack said anything more about the investigation?”

Jenna’s blue eyes gleamed with delicious gossip. “I’m not to say, naturally, but Jack should know by now that rule doesn’t apply to you.”

“My lips are sealed.” I stowed the photo back in my purse and grabbed my coffee, then gave her my full attention.

“Ms Daggon rented out her cottage for extra money.”

“That’s why she was staying at Hollow House,” I said, not really breaking Mr Hollow’s honor. That much had to be common knowledge, at least in the town one over where she’d lived.

Jenna leant in closer. “She needed the money to hire a private investigator.”

“She lied to Mr Hollow!” I exclaimed. “She told him it was for her lawyer and the suit she’d filed against the board of education.”

“Not a law suit, but she
was
getting the dirt on members of the board.”

I blew out a disgusted breath, not a bit surprised. “She was blackmailing them.”

Jenna nodded. “To persuade them to withdraw her retirement notice.”

As relieved as I was to learn Detective Bishop had a handful of legitimate suspects, I had a strong feeling I was onto something with that photo. Okay, maybe I just curious. But I had to know.

We discussed the various means at our disposal to uncover the mystery man while we sipped coffee and nibbled on croissants.

I ruled out Mrs Biggenhill. She’d want to know where I’d gotten the photo and the truth would only upset her. Plus, she’d probably demand it back. Asking around town would merely escalate into the same problem.

“Maybe I could swear my mom to secrecy,” I said doubtfully.

“If we go that route, we may as well go directly to the fountain source,” Jenna said. “If anyone knows anything—”

“—it’s Miss Crawley.” I scrubbed my brow and groaned. “That’s also the fastest way to get us spotlighted on her blotter.”

“Maybe we can trade for her discretion,” Jenna said.

I peeked up at her and groaned louder.

Jenna and I weren’t best friends for no good reason. Our minds were a pea split in the same pod and I knew exactly what she was going to say next.

∞∞∞

The deal was done in blood and sweat.

No, seriously.

My palms were sweating and no one ever sold their soul to the devil without it ending in bloodshed. I’d watched enough re-runs of Supernatural to know how this worked.

Miss Crawley clasped her hands to contain her excitement, because it wouldn’t do to show emotion, and swept me into the front parlor. Jenna had conveniently needed to get back to The Vine, leaving me to enter the beast’s den on my own.

“Make yourself comfortable, dear,” Miss Crawley said. “I’ll fetch us a pot of tea and then you can tell me all about Ms Daggon’s final hour and how you stumbled upon the unfortunate creature. A dreadful business, but times like these pull our town together.”

I was going to burn and I probably deserved it.

The room was a delicate arrangement of antique chairs and tables with spindly legs that didn’t look capable of supporting much more than fresh air. I sat down carefully and consoled myself that I was here for a worthy cause. After all, the dead couldn’t rest easy while their murders went unresolved. Another gem I’d picked up from my Supernatural obsession a couple of years back.

I glanced over the display cabinets and wiped my sweaty palms along my thighs as I listened to Miss Crawley tinkering in the kitchen.

I hadn’t really thought this through.

Then again, I hadn’t really expected to get this far. After setting my mother on her, I’d fully expected Miss Crawley to give me the
cut direct
and slam the door in my face and I’m sure you don’t know what the
cut direct
is, but that’s a whole other story.

Miss Crawley was the former proprietor of
Miss Crawley’s Establishment of Etiquette for Young Ladies.
Right here in town, actually, in the building that’s now our community center. Thankfully the demand for turning out fine young ladies dropped into oblivion before I was born, but when the internet and blogging came along, Miss Crawley jumped right on top of that.

Guess what her blog is called?

Miss Crawley’s Advice on Etiquette for Fine Ladies.

Not that I read it, but the bar running down the side was a live streaming Aunty Agony column and always good for a laugh. And again, not that I would know, but if you’re wondering about the
cut direct
, Miss Crawley’s blog would be the place to start looking.

I extracted the photo from my purse, ready for Miss Crawley when she came through.

She deposited the silver tray on the polished table and perched on the chair beside me, tipping forward to pour from a stub-nose spouted porcelain teapot into matching cups.

“This is the photo I told you about,” I said, sliding it alongside the tray.

“Ah, the mystery photograph that’s created all this buzz.”