Sunny Side Up (Lake Erie Mysteries Book 1) (7 page)

I was resigned to using our gas-powered golf cart to make the mile-and-a-half trip down to the open-air market near the heart of town. Hamm decided after only a little grumbling that he would go into Port Clinton to the marine store while I was gone. He had been hinting since last fall that he could use some new dock lines and was content enough to go purchase some boat accessories while I was gone. I found it amusing that Hamm could spend hours at West Marine comparing prices, asking questions, and ultimately standing at a cash register with his credit card extended without making the connection that what he was doing could only be defined as shopping.

I felt a little twinge of guilt that I had told him June had forgotten her wallet when she went to the market and that she asked me to bring it to her, but when I mentioned that she was going to make his favorite dessert, he kissed me on the cheek and told me to have fun and take my time.

Hamm doesn’t usually approve of June-fueled mystery adventures because generally they end us up in some sort of hot water. I don’t ever lie to my husband per se, but sometimes I find it expeditious to give a little twist of fantasy to events that might cause him to suffer undue stress. My real job has me constantly running through script edits, looking for exactly the right spin to put on a story. So now, as I chugged along the winding bayside road in my golf cart, I ran through every possible explanation for the encounter June said she had witnessed between Sirena and some mystery man. First of all, what would Sirena be doing off the island so early this morning? Didn’t she have a business to attend to? Was it really even her, or had June’s imagination gotten the best of her? And what about all the commotion last night? She seemed awfully determined to get away from us. I guess I’d find out soon enough.

It was a beautiful morning. Lakeside daisies were blooming in the fields along the side of the road, popping up on nearly barren, limestone bedrock. I remembered when I first saw the frilly, little yellow flowers and learned that they are Ohio’s rarest, native plant species. This plant only grows in four areas, its largest population being right here on the Marblehead peninsula. Even though cars were passing me and honking at my slow progress, I tried to concentrate on the joy of driving through my own garden of endangered species.

I amused myself by holding my left hand out in the sunlight and watching my Del Sol color-changing nail polish change from pearl white to flamingo pink in the sunlight and almost missed my turn onto the dirt drive that led to the market. I kicked up a little dust, and nearly ran smack into Michael and Gunner walking away from the market entrance.

“Sorry, guys!” I waved and pulled into the entrance to find June. It wasn’t difficult. She was seated at a picnic table, peeking over the top of a newspaper like a spy in a B-movie.

“What in the actual heck took you so long, Francie? I’ve been sitting here for hours!”

“It’s been twenty-five minutes since you called me. Now what is going on?”

June motioned to me to hop up onto the tabletop next to her so we could both “hide” behind the Daily Scoop paper.

“Okay, so here I was, minding my own business, searching for the ripest strawberries and the firmest rhubarb, and the next thing I know, I see a flash of red exactly the shade of Cliff’s new girlfriend’s hair disappear behind the vendor’s barn. I automatically thought it must be Cliff and Sirena, so I started walking over to say good morning.”

I rolled my eyes behind the paper. This sounded like June was suffering from a case of jealousy and using her instinct for investigation to stick her nose in places where it didn’t belong.

June let out a huff. “I saw that eye roll. Anyhow, as I was walking over, I could see the shadows of two people on the grass behind the barn. They were clearly arguing, throwing their arms up in the air and gesturing like crazy, so I stopped. I kind of saw the whole thing like a puppet show in the shadows. A man grabbed her, and then she turned and slapped him across the face. The man raised his fist like he was going to hit her, then he turned toward where I was hiding and I had to run. I’ve been watching ever since, but I haven’t seen anyone I recognize come out from around the barn. We need to go check it out.”

“We are going to do no such thing. There is nothing to check out. You are going to pick up your bag of produce, sit your butt in my golf cart, and be very, very quiet all the way back home. Honestly, June, sometimes you’re even too much for me.”

“But, Francie, I’m sure it was her. She might need our help.”

“Think about it. If she’s been back there for twenty-five minutes, the only thing she might need is a blanket because she must be napping. Now, come on please. Let’s go.”

It’s really not like me to be the voice of reason, but for once I really believed that June’s imagination had taken a turn down a dark path.

“Okay, Francie, you win. It does sound a bit ridiculous when you say it out loud, but I’m not leaving until I know Sirena isn’t sneaking around on Cliff and getting herself in trouble. Let’s just take a quick peek behind the barn and then we can leave.”

I may not be an investigative journalist or a detective, but I do have a pretty good spidey-sense. And right now, the hairs on the back of my neck were standing at attention. Something was telling me that nothing good would come of this. I also knew, however, that June would not let it go. She would investigate on her own if I refused to tag along, and who knows what she would get herself into. So against my better judgment, I got to my feet and followed her in the direction of the big weathered barn.

We were about fifty feet from the old building when June’s phone began ringing out the Carly Simon classic “You’re So Vain.” There was no doubt in my mind about the identity of the person trying to reach her. She stopped and answered Cliff’s call, and from what I gathered from her side of the conversation, it didn’t sound like a social call.

While I waited for June to finish up, I wandered over to the section of the market where the artisan and crafts booths were grouped. I was pleased to see the Relaxed Crafts sign displayed on a nearby table under an attractive canopy, so I moseyed over to see what was new this season.

“Hi, John! I’m glad to see you haven’t given up your hobby.”

“Hi to you too, Francie! It’s so good to see you again. I’d ask you how your winter was, but what’s the point of that? The sun is shining and I’ve got lots of inventory thanks to my hobby. It’s what kept me sane when we were stuck in the house during all those snow storms. The only trick is I have to be careful not to take on too many projects at once now that summer’s here again.”

“That’s so true,” I replied. “It’s all about finding the right balance, isn’t it?”

“Yes and speaking of balance, I have something here I know you’re going to like.”

Not only was John a talented craftsman, he also had a real knack for sales. He directed my attention to a beautiful, monogrammed mahogany self-balancing wine bottle holder. It seemed to defy gravity; the bottle in the wood holder seemed to be “floating” perpendicular to the table.

“I’ve never seen anything like that. It’s beautiful! Of course I’ll be needing one.”

“I have your address on file. I can ship it to your home. You haven’t moved, have you?”

“No. Still in the same place. I’d like the darker stain and an ‘E’ for the monogram.”

I was still carrying the newspaper I had picked up from our “hiding spot” but needed my free hand so I could locate my glasses and sign for my purchases. I was about to ask John to throw the paper away for me when I noticed an article circled several times in red ink. The headline read “Chicago Millionaire Philanthropist Dies In House Fire: Valuable Coin Collection Still Missing.” I figured June must have been doing some digging for a new story while she was waiting for me to meet her so I tucked the paper into my bag, found my glasses and credit card, and signed for my purchase.

Just as John was handing back my credit card, June approached, disconnecting from her call.

“Well? What was that all about?”

“It was Cliff,” she said, sounding exasperated.

“I gathered that. What did he want? Was he looking for Sirena?”

June looked a bit sheepish. “No. I could clearly hear a lady’s voice giggling in the background. I mean, very clearly. It turns out that Cliff has been staying in a room at the same B&B where I was registered, and I’m assuming Sirena must have spent the night there with him.”

Pulling at strands of her hair and clearing her throat, she continued. “Anyhow, this morning, the innkeeper made the connection between Cliff and I because the two of us had stayed there together on a few occasions. He mentioned that I had left the bed and breakfast but I hadn’t officially checked out. He wanted to rent the room out, but wasn’t sure what to do since I had left a few personal belongings in the room. Cliff said he would contact me and find out what my plans were and what was going on. Somehow he ended up volunteering to take my things and make sure they were returned to me.”

“That would never happen in the city. Islands certainly have their own set of rules. I’m assuming Cliff wasn’t very happy about the task.”

“Not really. He said he was planning to spend the whole weekend ‘relaxing,’ but that if he came back to the mainland, he would leave my bags with Steve at the guard booth.”

“So, Sirena has been with him this whole morning?”

June was looking suitably embarrassed as she replied, “Yes. At least, it appears she was.”

I knew from experience that June could take pouting to a whole new level, so I just breathed a sigh of relief, thankful our snooping adventure was unexpectedly cancelled and changed the subject to whether or not I should buy a second floating wine holder for the condo. She knew what I was doing, gratefully took the easy out, and helped me select my second purchase.

A tap on my shoulder startled me into a quick turn, and I came within an inch of running smack dab into Roger Burns. “Oh, hi there, Roger. What are you doing way over here on the mainland this morning?”

“Sorry I startled you. I thought you saw me earlier over by the barn. I figured you were heading over to say hello, and I didn’t want to be rude.”

“I didn’t even see you. I guess I was concentrating on finding June, and then I got sidetracked by a little shopping. It’s nice to see you though. Is Ruby here as well?”

“Uh, no she isn’t. I just had some business to take care of. Well, take care. See you soon.”

June and I stared at Roger’s back as he disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

Our ride back to Beacon Pointe was sweetly uneventful.

By the time Hamm returned to the condo, laden with bags of nautical supplies, June and I were elbow deep in the kitchen, working on our respective dishes for the yacht club Memorial Day cookout later that evening. This was more like it: fresh ingredients from the market, Bloody Mary’s in a pitcher, cheese snacks on a plate, and the island sounds of Jimmy Buffet inviting us to find that lost shaker of salt. Hamm made himself comfortable on a stool at the kitchen counter, poured himself a drink, and spread some hot pepper jelly and cream cheese on a wheat cracker. Finally, the mood had lightened up a bit, and things were returning to a normal weekend pattern.

Hamm had chilled out and I was happy to discover he was in a talkative mood. “Honey, do you remember the Memorial Day excitement we had back when the kids were ten years old?”

“Do you mean the striking matches in the pocket excitement? How could I forget?”

“I know, right? We should write a book about the devilish shenanigans of pre-teens. On second thought, we probably shouldn’t proudly announce and describe in detail all the wool they managed to pull over our eyes.”

June swiveled her bar stool to face us. “Oh, this one I have got to hear.”

I smiled, thinking back to the return trip home from our Memorial Day weekend ten years ago. We had spent three days swimming at the beach, playing in the park, and watching fireworks from the back of the boat and were all exhausted on our car ride back home. The twins were in the backseat carrying on with their usual antics: teasing, poking, and generally just annoying each other. It was a typical ride home until smoke started filling the interior of the car and Ben yelled to pull over. Hamm swerved off the highway and Ben wasted no time jumping out of the car and proceeding to drop his shorts to the ground while running in circles and squealing. It turned out he had snuck some striking matches from the box by our grill in hopes of finding some sparklers or smoke bombs to claim for his own fireworks display. He never got around to using the matches for his intended purpose, thank goodness, but during their back seat scuffle, Ben wouldn’t stop teasing Beth, so Beth punched him in the leg repeatedly, and the matches did what they were designed to do—they ignited. The rest is history. This put a whole new spin on the phrase, “Liar, liar pants on fire.”