Vanished (15 page)

Imprinting Molly's smile and blown kiss on his mind, he ducked into the opening.

 

M
OLLY STOOD WITH
O
LIVIA
until each of the tunnel rats had made their way into the darkness. The light from the various torches winked out and the sound of footsteps diminished and died.

“Well then,” Olivia said. “Is Iris working on another historical novel?”

“She's just starting one set during Bonnie Prince Charlie's rebellion in 1745,” replied Molly, even though the story that was running through her own mind was that of Theseus wending his way through the Cretan labyrinth until he came at last to the Minotaur.

If Michael and the tunnel rats found the gold, would that reveal the killer? Was the murderer biding his time
until someone located the treasure for him? Lydia had a point, though. In the long run it didn't matter whether the gold had been Charles Crowe's or where he got it from, it only mattered that it existed. That it was believed to exist.

“See you later,” Molly told Olivia.

Plotting her next move, she walked past the enticing piles of books and stepped out of the shop—and almost collided with Addison Headerly, who was peering through the window. In everyday clothing, his freckles emphasized by the sunlight of the last few days, he seemed no older than Connor. “Oh, sorry,” he said, taking a step backward and almost falling over the curb into the street.

“Don't apologize. I ran into you. I don't believe we've formally met—I'm Molly Graham.”

“I know. Your husband does those brilliant games…. Um, Addison Headerly. Pleased to meet you.”

Gravely, they exchanged handshakes. “Were you looking for Lydia? She's gone off with Michael and the other tunnel rats.”

“Well, I, um—I asked her to lunch, but she said she was busy. I guess she was, this time, but…” His words came in a rush. “No Headerly's good enough for a Crowe. Aleister's made that clear. It all goes back to an ancestor working on one of Charles Crowe's ships. I don't know what went wrong, but there's been bad feeling ever since.”

“It's not your fault you're a Headerly,” Molly told him, almost repeating Lydia's words. “But people have long memories in Blackpool.”

Her sympathetic smile was perfectly genuine. She could question his taste, but she couldn't question his devotion. She
could
ask him about something Lydia had just brought up, though. “We saw Lydia, Aubrey and Aleister
at the Tea Shop yesterday afternoon, but you weren't with them.”

“I wasn't invited. I probably shouldn't have wasted the effort going to church—well, going with the Crowes, that is. Especially when Aleister himself couldn't be bothered to show up on time.”

That's right, Rebecca had heard the same thing from Sandy Mason. “Why was he late?”

“I'm not sure. He was in a fine state when he arrived, though, I can tell you that.”

Was he?
Molly made a note of that.

With one more yearning glance into the shop, Addison turned away. “I'd best be getting on— Oh, my God!”

Leaping forward, he seized Molly in a bear hug and dragged her into the street.

M
OLLY PUSHED AT
Addison's chest, threw his arms aside and broke free. Spitting out the wool fuzz from his sweater, she demanded, “What do you think you're doing?”

A tattoo of footsteps and several people converged at the spot, among them her caretaker, Irwin Jaeger, who must have been down the street, and Olivia Tarlton from inside her shop. “Molly!”

“Ma'am!”

“Are you all right?”

“What happened?”

Their voices were like a chorus around her.

Addison's pointing forefinger trembled.

Molly followed its direction, to see a wire basket lying half-crushed on the sidewalk, spilling peat moss and orange nasturtiums over the curb into the street. With her head squashed against Addison's chest, she hadn't heard it hit. But thank goodness he'd seen it falling. If it had landed on her, she'd be lying in the street herself right now, and the color staining the cobblestones wouldn't be orange. “Oh,” she said, her voice squeaking and her knees turning suddenly to jelly.

Olivia looked up at the cord dangling from a window of the B and B. “It must have broken.”

Irwin set down the bulky plastic bag he was holding, emblazoned “Norton's Hardware.” His large, capable
hands inspected the end of the cord extending from the handle of the basket. “Cut through. Wait here.” He dived into the B and B. Voices echoed. A moment later, the upstairs window flew open and Irwin looked out. “No one's here. Whoever cut the cord legged it down the back stairs and away. The owner was hoovering the carpets, didn't hear a thing.”

“Oh,” Molly said again, and to Addison, “Thank you.”

“It was cut on purpose? But why would—oh. You're, um— Glad I could help.” He turned and hurried off toward Dockside Avenue like someone escaping contagion.

No, Molly told herself,
why
wasn't that hard a question.

Irwin emerged from the door of the B and B, followed by a plump woman wearing an apron and wielding a broom and dustpan. “Sorry, dear. The people renting the room left this morning and I hadn't cleaned it yet—I can't believe anyone would play a joke like that. The very idea, a perfectly good basket, and you might have been hurt.” She set to work clearing up the mess.

A joke, thought Molly.
Hardly!
She remembered Aleister's words that morning: “Exposed. Isn't that how you feel, with a killer on the loose?” Had that been a threat, soon to be put into action, or was he simply playing his usual role of sinister mastermind?

The show over, the other passersby wandered away. Fred Purnell and Tim Jenkins were nowhere in sight, fortunately. Freedom of the press was a more palatable concept when the press was not making free with your own predicament.

“Come inside, and I'll make tea,” offered Olivia.

Molly imagined sweet, milky tea washing away the acid in her mouth. She thought of chocolate, or whisky or
some other restorative. She visualized Michael working his way through the tunnels, when she was the one who needed the hard hat. He'd be more upset than she was when he heard about the basket attack. “Thank you, but I'd better keep on moving.”

With a dubious nod, Olivia returned to her customers.

Molly offered Irwin what she hoped was a jaunty grin. “We've been warned off, but we're in too far to quit now. A good thing Addison has quick reflexes.”

“Good job the killer's timing was not quite on,” Irwin said grimly.

“Trust you to call a spade a spade. This just proves that we're onto something, doesn't it?”

Irwin's steel-wool eyebrows almost shook hands over the rim of his bifocals. “Right.”

Molly flexed her knees—good, they'd solidified, even though the back of her neck still felt like crepe paper—and strolled on up Pelican Lane. Collecting his bag, Irwin fell into step beside her. She changed the topic. “You got the new pane of glass, I see.”

“Yes, ma'am. And I had a coffee with James Norton—the older one, the father. He's right excited about Seafaring Days and the murders and the coins and all.”

“I bet he is,” Molly said.

“Usually he's going on about the war and U-boats along the coast and such, teasing me because of my German family, but not today. Today he wanted to talk about the Crowes.”

“Who doesn't?”

“He knew Aleister's grandfather, Ophelia's brother. Philip kept dismissing stories of the hidden gold just as Aleister does, even as he got involved in some rather questionable business himself.”

“Yeah,” Molly said. “Tell me about it.”

“James was saying that when his own grandfather was a boy in the 1860s, he was friends with older folk who'd known Charles. Charles was a self-made man, clever and daring. Once he made himself some money in the shipping trade, he started helping out folks round Blackpool—for a price. Pretty soon he owned most of the town, and he'd uncovered most of the town's secrets. James compared him to a Mafia boss. Either you paid him off and kept your mouth shut or you vanished, and your family counted themselves lucky if your body washed up on the beach.”

“And here we are, several generations later, still dealing with his secrets.” Molly stopped in front of the Style Shop, which faced the Calm Seas churchyard. “I'm going to stop in here.”

Irwin opened the door for her. “Get yourself another pretty frock, ma'am. That'll ease your mind.”

Molly laughed out loud. “Irwin, if Iris heard you giving me that advice, she'd wallop you with a soup ladle.”

His moustache couldn't quite hide his smile. “It made you laugh, though. I'll get on to the house, start repairing the window. Have a care now, and don't go off on your own. I don't want to tell Michael you've been hurt.”

“Neither do I. Thanks.” Molly stepped into the shop.

Angela Ogbourne's Style Shop occupied a recent building that had no history. On the other hand, the structure was sound enough that it wasn't one of Rohan's habitual job sites.

Angela was folding chiffon tops that reminded Molly of scoops of rainbow sherbet while several customers browsed. With her artfully mussed dark hair, skintight jeans and sandals decorated with faux jewels, she could have fit in on any London street. “Hullo, Molly.”

“Good— I guess it's afternoon now, isn't it?”

“Half past twelve or thereabouts,” said Angela.

“You didn't happen to get in any Stella McCartney jackets, did you?”

“Molly, I can't afford Stella McCartney. No one else in Blackpool can, either—well, except for maybe Lydia Crowe, but she doesn't have your taste.”

“I saw her at the Tea Shop yesterday after church. Pretty fabric in her blouse. A silk blend, I'd bet. But I'm not so sure about the skirt.”

“You've got that right. I saw her going into the church while I was opening up. The short skirt, the sexy shoes, like she was out for a night of clubbing.”

Molly turned her back on the clothing, accessories and shoes, and gazed through Angela's plate-glass window at a vista of the churchyard and its ranks of tombstones. “Did you see Aleister going into the church yesterday morning, too?”

“You can't miss Aleister, not in one of those navy blue suits. Savile Row, has to be. Still, when he dresses down in a tennis sweater or his polo togs, he's quite dashing.”

Smiling, Molly reminded Angela of the question. “Aleister? The church?”

“Oh, my, yes. First Aubrey and Lydia arrived, and met up with that young chap Lydia's been leading on. They went inside. Then Aleister appeared and stopped like a bird dog spotting a pheasant. He positively swooped across the churchyard. A minute later, Luann Krebs came rushing over. Aleister must have phoned her.” Angela placed the last top on the table.

“And then?” Molly prompted.

“Turns out there were two chaps dossed down in sleeping bags in front of the Crowe mausoleum. It was sad, seeing them running among the tombstones, carrying
all their things out the gate and away. I reckon they're still running. Aleister can tear more strips off you with a whisper than most people can with a shout.”

“Absolutely.”

Angela's meticulously lined lips crumpled. “Those two must have had nerves of steel. Naomi Stewart says she's heard bony fingers scratching at the inside of the mausoleum door—Charles Crowe himself, probably, come up from the crypt wanting to make more money.”

“I wouldn't be surprised,” Molly said, even as she ruled out Aleister as Willie's killer, and by extension, Daisy's. Assuming there was only one killer in Blackpool, not two.

“Speaking of money,” Angela went on, “what's all this that Daisy Coffey, rest her soul, was putting about? That chap Willie had a bag of… Why yes, madam?”

A middle-aged woman held up a print dress, in a pattern that looked like an explosion in a flower shop. Her beringed fingers waggled through a rip in the seam. “Will you discount the price?”

“Certainly, madam. Five percent. Then I'll ring Sandy Mason at the Launderette and tell her to expect you. She'll mend the seam and press the dress, as well.”

“She'll charge you for the service, not me,” said the woman.

“Of course.” Angela's smile stiffened but she motioned the woman to the counter.

With a smile and a wave, Molly retreated back to the street. Sandy had patched Michael's cricket and rugby outfits, and hemmed up one of Molly's jackets. She made a good living in Blackpool, where traditional concepts of make-and-mend lingered as long as ghost stories.

Molly gazed through the covered lych-gate into the churchyard, but she didn't really see it. She visualized
Michael and the others walking, crouching, even crawling through the tunnels. She imagined Willie Myners lying mortally wounded on his boat, and Daisy Coffey dead behind the Bait and Tackle Shop—what a way to go.

She tried several different scenarios, with several different murderers—Trevor Hopewell, Fotherby. Maybe Martin Dunhill had found a device like Hermione's time tuner from
Harry Potter.
Maybe one McKenna had killed Willie while the other murdered Daisy Coffey. But she came up short on every one.

Liam and Holly McKenna's office occupied a small room above Margaret Coffey's grocery shop, the space they rented from her in return for reading her fortune. She wondered what Margaret knew about her tenants.

Carefully walking next to the curb, taking no short cuts up dark alleys and looking over her shoulder as often as she looked right and left, Molly made her way to Dockside Avenue.

The large window in the front of Coffey's Grocers displayed yet another of the McKennas' posters, along with the usual stacks of soft drinks and boxes of potatoes and apples. Through the window, Molly saw Margaret totting up a basket of snacks, drinks and sunscreen for several tourists.

Molly strolled into the shop with its scents of ripe fruit and dusty spices, chose a cheese and chutney sandwich from the half-empty rack and dithered over a cooler of drinks until a lull left Margaret alone at the till.

Molly set her sandwich and a can of Diet Coke down on the counter. “I'm so sorry about Daisy.”

Margaret's face beneath its helmet of brown hair was the color and texture of dough that had risen and then fallen again, and revealed as much emotion. She scanned
Molly's items. “That'll be three pound sixty-five pence, please.”

Molly pulled a five-pound note from her pocket and handed it over.

Margaret tucked the bill into the register and said, “Daisy. I told her again and again that tongue of hers would cause trouble, especially with a lag like Willie Myners living next door. But she thought she was viewing a real-life crime program. Still, I shan't be saying ‘I told you so' when I talk with her again. She was my sister-in-law. She deserves some consideration.”

“When you talk with her again?” Molly asked.

Margaret counted out the change. “Holly McKenna says soon as Seafaring Days is finished, she'll try and contact Daisy for me. She's only passed over, mind you, she's not gone.”

“Well, ah, yes, er, no…” Molly got her own tongue under control. “I know a lot of people claim to have occult skill. Holly really does?”

“Quite. She's very perceptive. You see so many charlatans about these days, but not Holly and Liam. They did a reading for me just before I opened Sunday morning that was pitch-perfect. Trouble from the sea, they said. Strangers in town. Money coming my way.”

None of that was at all hard to predict, Molly thought. If the McKennas had predicted Daisy's death, now, or Willie's… A man stepped up behind her, ready to check out. Molly had time to ask Margaret only one more question. “You must have opened early Sunday morning, for the festival.”

“No, I opened bang-on eleven, as always. Holly and Liam arrived at half past ten, and I opened at eleven.” Margaret slammed the cash drawer. “Would you like a bag for those?”

“No, thank you.” Molly gathered up her sandwich and drink and stepped aside, imagining Liam and Holly bent over Margaret's hand—or crystal ball, maybe—just as someone plunged a knife into Willie Myners. That crossed them off her list.

Outside, Molly was lucky enough to find an empty bench in the shade of the town hall. There had been times here in Blackpool that she thought she'd never be warm again—the chill of the sea, fog and the winter winds cut to the bone. But now even the puffy summer clouds had evaporated, leaving the sky clear, and sunlight filtered through a moist haze. The water in the harbor could have been glass. The skull-and-crossbones flag atop the
Black Sea Pearl
hung limp as a black shroud.

Even in the shade a trickle of sweat ran down Molly's back. She looked across at the Blackpool Café, thinking that a seat on one of the balconies would be the most comfortable place in town right now.

Apparently, she wasn't the only one with the idea. Aleister Crowe was sitting at a corner table with Tim Jenkins, the remains of a lunch spread between them. Aleister's fingers were steepled, as though he were a finance officer interviewing a loan candidate. No telling what sort of story Jenkins was bargaining for, but Aleister would no doubt come out ahead.