Vanished (3 page)

Dylan trembled with rage, his hands knotted at his sides. “I'll kill him, the dirty, rotten…”

“I'll have the law on you, Stewart. You've got no right knocking me about. If you can't keep your wife happy, then losers weepers.” Willie staggered away down the street.

“Stay away from her,” Dylan bellowed at the other man's retreating back, but his bellow broke into something more like a sob.

Rohan looked at Michael. Michael looked at Rohan. Michael turned the sign hanging in the shop window from Open to Closed, shut the door and took Dylan's
arm. The faint smell of beer emanated from his friend's jacket. He must have gulped down a pint after seeing Naomi with Willie earlier. Maybe another one would help him to calm down.

Rohan and Michael marched Dylan into the Dockside and found a settle that had just been vacated. Despite the rough-and-ready appearance of the ancient building, the pub, too, was filled with tourists.

“Hullo, Chuck.” Michael leaned across the bar to place their order. “Three pints of Sommerset Stout, please.”

Charles—Chuck—Greeley simultaneously pulled the pints for Michael and cast a sharp eye at a boisterous group of youths playing a slot machine in the corner. Feeling his gaze on them, they quieted.

Chuck arranged the glasses on a tray. “Has Molly given any thought yet to writing me a grant request? Such a fine old historic building as this shouldn't be allowed to fall into ruin. I reckon English Heritage or the like could help renovate the place.”

“She's taking a bit of a sabbatical just now,” Michael replied, without going into detail about her grant-writing work being so successful she could afford to pick and choose her projects. “I wouldn't get my hopes up, though. Most grants are for nonprofits.”

“Alice Coffey and her ilk, they'd have me running a nonprofit museum, not a going concern. Many thanks to your missus and Fred Purnell and all those trying to bring trade to the town.” Chuck palmed Michael's money and turned to another customer.

Michael distributed the pints and sat down beside Dylan. His friend stared into his dark ale as though for inspiration, then took a huge swig that left foam clinging to his upper lip. “Willie Myners is a nasty piece of work,” Dylan stated.

“He is that, mon,” Rohan agreed. “But what's he to you?”

“There he was outside the Mariner's Museum getting up Alfie Lochridge's nose, and Alfie looking down at him through those priggish eyeglasses of his—a pince-nez. Who wears a pince-nez these days? Anyway, Alfie was giving him a piece of his mind, far as I could tell.”

“Alfie gives everyone a piece of his mind, except for Michael here,” Rohan said.

“He says my video games are disgraceful though he appreciates their historical accuracy,” Michael explained. “I have a suspicion he's embarrassed to admit he plays them himself. Willie must have gone straight to the museum from Hopewell's yacht. Did you hear what he was on about with Alfie?”

Dylan shook his head. “Not a bit of it. Willie looked round, saw me and grinned like a jackal. I knew what he was thinking, the filthy…” He swigged again.

Michael swallowed a drink of his own ale, letting the complex flavors linger in his throat, before he asked what he had to ask. “What
was
he thinking, Dylan?”

“About Naomi. You saw them together. You heard what she said to me. She's not happy here, she's not happy with the shop, she's constantly on edge. Willie's promised her—God, what
hasn't
Willie promised her? I know she's gotten tranquilizer tablets from him. Now she tells me he's been dealing—uppers, downers, oddments of prescription drugs. And that's not all.” Dylan's speech was growing more slurred by the word, and Michael regretted buying him another drink. Usually, Dylan didn't allow himself to get drunk, but then, usually he wasn't this upset.

It was Rohan who answered the next question, saving
Michael from having to voice it. “You mean she's, uh, havin' an affair with Willie?”

He shrugged. “She spends a lot of time with him. Although maybe that's because of the pills. Or to hear more about how she and her artwork are too good for Blackpool.”

His glass was empty. So were his eyes, staring blankly at a wizened and weathered local fisherman just entering the pub. For a long moment, the newcomer's bloodshot eyes fixed on Dylan. He swayed forward, then he turned around and stepped up to the bar.

Pills, Michael thought. Even in Blackpool there would be people looking for a quick high or an easy low—and not just among the tourists and visiting students. There was no escaping human nature.

And that was one of the problems with the Stewarts' marriage. But just because Michael knew a good relationship took the ongoing commitment of both parties didn't make him a marriage counselor. Still, Dylan was his friend—for better or worse.

Dylan slumped in the corner of the settle. “Naomi's not a bad sort, not like Willie. She's just—she's not happy here. What do I do? I can't afford to take her away from this town. From him.”

Rohan finished his own pint. “Let's get him back to his flat, Michael—let him sleep it off.”

“Naomi might be there. I'm not sure he needs to talk to her just now, not in this mood. I'll take him home with me.”

Rohan helped Michael dig Dylan out of the settle and walk him to the door under the gaze of various tourists and Chuck Greeley, and also that of the fisherman, who again leaned forward, then again thought better of it
and went back to his drink. Maybe he wanted a bicycle, Michael told himself.

Dylan muttered, “Blackpool'd be better off without Willie Myners. Naomi would be better off without him.”

Neither Michael nor Rohan could deny that.

M
OLLY CUT THE SANDWICH IN HALF,
causing watercress to spill from one side and a slice of tomato from the other. She didn't even attempt to halve the second one, a pile of bread, ham and cheese. Michael could eat it whole. When she'd offered to throw together some sandwiches, she'd meant “throw”—cooking wasn't one of her skills.

Michael's voice on her iPhone hadn't minced words: Dylan was sleeping off a pint of ale too many in one of their spare rooms and he didn't want to leave his friend alone. She'd stopped by the Jade Dragon, but there, too, a line of customers extended out the door, not least because it was a cyber-café as well as a restaurant. Never mind, then. She'd run into Coffey's Grocers and bought a few basics, which was all Coffey's carried anyway. Then she'd retrieved her MINI Cooper from the parking lot outside the abandoned train station and hurried the twenty minutes or so home to Thorne-Shower Mansion, where she'd changed into boot-cut jeans and an Oxford shirt.

Now she carried a tray onto the balcony. Despite the glorious view in the distance of Blackpool's tiers of pantiled roofs and narrow streets, Michael's face was set in a frown. Molly poured him a cup of tea, something she'd learned from their housekeeper, Iris, to prepare in proper British style.

Silently they ate and drank, until at last Michael drained the teapot into his cup, added more milk and
sugar, and leaned back. “Rohan offered to help with Dylan, but I told him to enjoy his holiday weekend, so he went off for a tour of the
Black Sea Pearl.
Good job he's come to town—Blackpool needs someone with his skills. And he's a fine sportsman, as well.” Michael considered the expanse of the sea, more of a thoroughfare than the solitary road that led over moorland and past forest into Blackpool.

“So what's up with Dylan?” Molly asked. “It's not like him to get drunk. You'd think he was drowning his sorrows.”

“He is. We saw Naomi with Willie Myners.” In as few words as possible, Michael told Molly about the young couple's troubles.

Molly made a wry face. “Poor Dylan. Poor Naomi. I noticed her myself this afternoon, in the churchyard, looking like death warmed over. As for Willie, I saw—and heard—him on the yacht arguing with Hopewell's assistant, Martin Dunhill. That's what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Michael listened to her story, his frown returning. When Molly held out her hand, he took it in his, closing his strong, warm fingers around hers and gently teasing her palm with his thumb.

Even as she enjoyed the delicate shivers tingling along her arm, she said, “It sounds as if Willie's the local drug dealer. Paddington was giving him the evil eye, but short of catching him red-handed, what can he do?”

“Willie sounds to be up to more than drugs.”

“You mean the gold object in his pocket? That sure wasn't drug paraphernalia.”

“Dylan said Willie was talking to Alfie Lochridge earlier. Maybe he meant to ask Alfie about whatever he
has but Alfie would have none of it. Then Willie tangled with Dylan and here we are.”

Molly looked at her lovely Victorian mansion, at the view to die for, at her husband and best friend. “Yes, here we are. Are we lucky or what?”

“We've struck lucky, love.” Michael raised her hand to his lips, kissed it back and front, then delicately nibbled on her forefinger.

Caught between giggling and melting, she at first didn't notice the sound of the doorbell from the far side of the house—not until it was followed by a series of thuds. Someone was getting much too enthusiastic with Thorne-Shower's sea serpent–shaped brass knocker.

With a wink and a promise, Michael released Molly's hand and stepped into the house. They made it to the front hall just as Irwin answered the door.

On the porch stood Police Constable Douglas Fotherby, a heavyset man with a perennial dark stubble shading his lantern jaw. Without so much as a “hullo,” Fotherby asked, “Dylan Stewart's here, is he?”

So which of the good citizens of Blackpool had reported Dylan leaving town with Michael? Molly wondered. The town had big eyes and even bigger ears.

Irwin's muddy brown eyes, already enlarged by his glasses, widened even further. “I beg your pardon?” he said to Fotherby.

“You heard me well enough, Jaeger. Dylan Stewart. Someone's filed a complaint against him.”

“I can guess who,” Molly muttered under her breath.

Michael said, “Dylan's sleeping. You'd best come back—”

Fotherby pushed Irwin aside, strode into the house and demanded, “Where is he? This way?”

“Hey!” Molly exclaimed, just as Irwin, his iron-gray moustache quivering, shouted, “Here, you!”

They hurried after Fotherby as he galloped up the stairs and started opening doors. “Aha! There you are!” He dived into the bedroom, strode over to the bed and started shaking Dylan awake. “Stewart! Open your eyes! Sit yourself up!”

Awkwardly pushing himself off the mattress, Dylan stared at Fotherby and then around the room, until his gaze settled on the Grahams. “Michael, Molly, I'm sorry to cause trouble.”

“That's what you do best, is it?” demanded Fotherby. “Cause trouble? Listen here, Stewart, if you raise a hand to Willie Myners again…”

“Willie Myners?” Dylan's face flushed. “Why are you taking after me, you fool? Myners is the one causing trouble in Blackpool.”

“That's not what I hear,” Fotherby retorted.

Dylan tried to rise to his feet and fell back, the color draining from his face. “Ow, my head.”

“If I get another report of you bothering Myners, it's off to the lock-up with you. You hear me?” Fotherby shook his finger under Dylan's nose. Molly wished Dylan would bite it off.

“All right, enough of this.” Michael stepped forward.

Dylan gazed up at the constable, his expression partly resentful, partly nauseated. “Go harass someone else.”

As if taking him at his word, Fotherby turned on Michael. “And you, Graham. Stay well out of it or I'll be arresting you for, for…” He searched for something, his fleshy features creasing with the effort. “For perverting the course of justice.”

“I doubt it,” said Molly.

Fotherby included her in his glare. “Thought you were a proper clever-clogs, did you, interfering with the murder behind the theatre when you'd barely arrived in town.”

“We didn't interfere with anything. It interfered with us.” Which wasn't strictly the truth, Molly told herself, but still…

“You came poncing into Blackpool, telling us our own business,” Fotherby went on. “You'd better watch your step, the pair of you. Things happen to curious people here.”

“What sort of things?” Molly demanded, even though she knew very well what happened. They ran a very real risk of being killed themselves.

Michael pulled her back a step. “Is that a threat, Fotherby?”

The man smiled with his lips, not with his eyes. “Just keep on meddling, you'll find out.” And, settling his hat more firmly on his head—he hadn't bothered to remove it when he came inside—he swiveled to glare at Dylan. “You hear me?”

“I hear you, I hear you,” Dylan said, his hands loosening and contracting in his lap but not going for Fotherby's throat the way they had for Willie's.

“I'll show you out, Constable.” Irwin's gesture toward the door was more of a command.

His smile spreading into a sneer, Fotherby allowed himself to be escorted away.

“Well!” Molly said.

Dylan's comment was longer and ruder.

Shaking his head, Michael said only, “Let's get some food into you, Dylan. And an aspirin or two, as well.”

By the time Molly heated a can of soup, arranged a few crackers on a plate and made another pot of tea,
Dylan had washed his face and combed his hair. He sat at the breakfast nook table next to Michael and slurped his soup, his color improving by the moment. Or, Molly noted, it
was
improving until the quiet room erupted with an electronic version of “Sympathy for the Devil.”

Dylan hauled out his cell phone and looked at the screen. “Hullo, Naomi.”

Naomi's voice, compressed into a mosquito whine, emanated from the tiny speaker.

“I'm on my way. Half a tick.” Dylan shoved the phone back into his pocket. “Michael, thank you kindly for looking after me. Molly, thank you for putting up with me, but I'd best be getting on now. Naomi's apologized. She wants to make it all up.”

Molly could tell by Michael's fixed smile that he was thinking the same thing she was: the odds against Naomi and Dylan fixing their relationship were long indeed. But kudos to them for trying.

The Grahams detailed Irwin to return Dylan to town, and stood side by side watching the estate car vanish down the driveway and into the shadow of the trees.

They stood there in contented silence for several minutes. Molly considered the slowly fading sunlight—evenings lingered, this time of year—and remembered the golden gleam in Willie's hand. “What did Willie want to show Hopewell?”

“We've asked ourselves that already,” Michael said, “to no result.”

“What's this about Trevor Hopewell?” The strong female voice behind them was British, but inflected by a lengthy stay in America.

Molly glanced around to see the tall, spare figure of their housekeeper approaching from the small cottage
she and Irwin shared—in separate quarters. “Hello, Iris. Did you have a good day out?”

“Quite nice, thank you, though I had words with Holly McKenna over the codswallop she was feeding a group of tourists. There are loads of references for Yorkshire's history, so no need to make things up out of whole cloth, I don't care if she and Liam did originally come from Cumbria.” Iris's sharp features beneath her shock of white hair twisted in distaste. As the widow of an American history professor and the author of several historical romances, she had little patience with people who failed to do their research. Molly counted herself lucky that Iris was content to help out at Thorne-Shower, where her mother had once been housekeeper, as well.

With a few interjected comments from Michael, Molly filled Iris in on their day, starting with Lydia ignoring Addison in order to dance with Michael, and Aleister being upstaged by Hopewell's dramatic arrival. “The
Black Sea Pearl,
” said Iris. “That caused a sensation, and no mistake. There was Aleister almost flinging Lydia into Hopewell's arms, while Addison stood by looking as grim as a rejected suitor in an Austen novel. But then, Lydia was quite happy to flutter her lashes at Hopewell and prattle on about her adventures as a tunnel rat.”

“And Aleister didn't stop her?”

“Aleister looked very pleased with himself, as usual.”

“Hmm, sounds like Aleister is doing a little match-making,” Molly said with a grin.

“Most likely he's doing business with Hopewell Transport,” Michael told her.

“Where's your sense of romance?” she replied.

“Excuse me?” he countered. “I thought we were doing quite well when it came to romance.”

Grinning, Molly went on, “No surprise Hopewell would be interested in the tunnels—we've already seen that he's interested in treasure. So has Willie Myners.” She told Iris about the conversation she'd overheard on the
Black Sea Pearl,
and Willie's further adventures with Naomi and Dylan.

The estate car returned up the driveway and stopped in the parking area. Jingling the keys in his hand, Irwin greeted Iris and gave his own account of Fotherby's intrusion into the house. “Willie's a layabout and a sneak,” he added, “with a criminal record to boot. Dylan's not the only Blackpooler who'd be happy to see him walking Hopewell's plank.”

“Metaphorically speaking,” added Iris.

“So we hope.” Irwin's caterpillarlike gray eyebrows drew together.

Molly's wasn't the only face that went tight. The Blackpool murders of last spring were still too vivid a memory.

Michael's iPhone suddenly emitted Bollywood star Shahrukh Khan's version of “Pretty Woman.”

“Hullo—Dylan?”

Dylan's agitated voice was so loud it escaped past Michael's ear. Molly leaned forward. So did Iris and Irwin. “Naomi said she'd be home, but she wasn't. So I went round to Willie's flat at the Oceanview—thought she might be there after all. I heard someone running down the back steps as I knocked at the door, so I tried the knob. That's when I saw the lock was broken. The door opened right up. There's no one here now, but the place is a mess. Someone turned it over and then took to their heels when they heard me.”

“Stay there, Dylan,” Michael told him. “I'll be right with you.”

“
We'll
be right with you,” corrected Molly.

Dylan's voice rose in panic. “I don't know where Naomi is. She's gone. She's vanished.”