Vanished (8 page)

“It's because his business was so small that I think there's more to it than drugs.”

“Yeah. Like gold.”

Michael stared at Molly across the table. “There we are, then.”

She stared back at him. “No, here we are. Asking questions.”

“Aleister's right, damn him. We don't want to attract the wrong sort of attention.”

“And yet…” Once again Molly drew herself up. She saved the notes on her phone, tucked it away, and said, “A man's dead. There are people in trouble—especially Dylan. If there's no new evidence, Michael, he'll be on trial for his life.”

“Not his life. The U.K. abolished the death penalty fifty years ago. He'll be on trial for his freedom.”

“Being locked away for decades to come, for something you didn't do—that's not a life.”

“No. It's not.” With a firm nod of his own, Michael stood up.

Molly got to her feet, then to her tiptoes to kiss her husband's cheek. “We'll be careful, okay?”

“We'll be all right,” he said, even as he reminded himself about those good intentions paving the road to hell.

T
HE
G
RAHAMS FOUND
E
MILY
and settled the bill just as she opened the door of the shop for Alice Coffey. Unlike Naomi's black clothing, which projected hipster attitude, Alice's soot-colored skirt and cardigan simply seemed stodgy. She swept by Molly, Michael and Emily, using her giant handbag like a locomotive's cow-catcher.

“She's called an emergency meeting of the Historical Preservation Society,” Emily explained.

“They're not meeting about my getting them conservation grants,” Molly told Michael as they dodged yet more customers to emerge onto the street.

“Is it Willie's death that's set the cat among so many pigeons, or his gold coins?” Michael replied. “Both.”

A delivery van filled the street from curb to curb in front of Creighton's Antiques, and two men maneuvered a Chippendale sideboard through the door of the shop. “I think I'll go check that out,” Molly said.

“If that sideboard's genuine it will cost a packet.”

“Not the sideboard. I want to ask Charlotte about the Abercrombie boy and the 1840 coins. What if she and Winston have had those coins all this time? Willie could have stolen them when he was doing repairs for the Abercrombies. I mean, finding out where Willie got the treasure might point to his killer.”

“That's working backward. I'd rather have a word with
Callum at the Smokehouse, see what he knows about Robbie Glennison. Mind how you go, love.”

“You, too,” Molly said, and watched appreciatively as Michael strode away—he did wonderful things for a pair of cargo pants, a black T-shirt and a light leather jacket. Then the delivery men climbed into their van and drove off, and Molly hurried across the street.

The bow window of the antique shop was piled like Ali Baba's cave with relics from the past: books, toys, dishes, boxes spilling jewelry. Today Molly's eye was caught by a necklace of semiprecious heart-shaped stones. The price printed on its tag was quite reasonable. When Charlotte Abercrombie herself looked out of the door with a friendly, “Hullo there,” Molly pointed.

“Is that from an estate sale?” she asked.

“Sort of.” Charlotte's hazel eyes, set deeply in her thin face, widened. “My boy Connor found it in one of the tunnels near Ravenhearst and I cleaned it up. I told him I'd put the sale price toward his school fees.”

“Connor's brave. Michael says the tunnels below Ravenhearst are really dangerous.”

“I worry all the time. Worrying, it's like gripping the armrests of your seat on the airplane, right? Keeps you flying?” Only half of Charlotte's mouth smiled. “Winston says every Abercrombie for generations has explored the tunnels, back before even Ravenhearst was built.”

Good. Charlotte herself had introduced the topic of the tunnels. Molly joined her on the front step of the shop, beside a rack holding colorful paisley shawls similar to the one Charlotte was wearing. “There was an article in the
Journal
reporting that a boy named Abercrombie found some Wallachian gold coins in those tunnels in the 1840s.”

“Oh, yes,” said Charlotte. “The lad was Winston's—I'm
not sure, great-great-great grandfather? An ancestor-in-law, leastways.”

“Where are the coins now? Still in the family?”

“No. One of the multiple great-grandmothers said the coins were cursed and sold them to a Crowe—Hugh, I think it was. They've not been seen since.”

“Locked in a vault at the Crowe's Nest,” surmised Molly, adding to herself that the 1840 coins might as well be in Fort Knox for all the likelihood of Willie getting his hands on them. So much for her bright idea of his coins being the 1840 ones.

“Alfie at the Mariner's Museum borrowed a similar gold coin from the British Museum and put it on display three years ago when the town council was trying to drum up interest in the Seafaring Days festival. That's when Fred Purnell wrote his article—loves legends and scandals, does Fred. Of course, others of the local folk were trying to nip Seafaring Days in the bud. Ophelia Crowe, for example, wasn't best pleased with Fred's article, or Alfie's display. Out of sight, out of mind, I suppose, when it comes to Charles Crowe's gypsy gold.”

The Mariner's Museum—something teetered at the edge of Molly's thoughts, but she couldn't grasp it. “Do you think the coins were cursed?”

“The ones Willie Myners turned up were cursed, weren't they?” Crossing her arms, Charlotte peered suspiciously toward Dockside Avenue and through the slit between the buildings that afforded a glimpse of the sea.

So intense was Charlotte's stare that Molly glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see pirates rushing up from the harbor. But she saw only visitors. “Well, yes, Willie was murdered. But to quote Fred Purnell, gold tends to create its own curse. There may have been
other factors involved, though, like jealousy, and, well—someone wanted to get rid of him,” she concluded.

“Quite,” said Charlotte. Despite the warm afternoon, by British standards, at least, she pulled the shawl even tighter around her shoulders. The faint odor of mothballs emanated from it, mingling uneasily with the scents from the tea shop across the street.

“How did you find out about Willie's coins?” Molly asked.

“He stopped by just two days ago, asking what they might be worth. I was gobsmacked to see more Wallachian coins, and a thaler, as well. When I asked where he'd found them, he smirked and said, ‘Wouldn't you like to know,' then wrinkled his nose, made an odd little squeaking sound, and clicked his teeth together.”

“Sort of imitating a rat? A tunnel rat?”

“No surprise there are more coins in those tunnels. Every time there's rain or a landslip, people go right back to searching. You'll not catch me in there.”

“Me, either,” said Molly, a tickle of claustrophobia tightening her shoulder blades.

“I gave him a fair estimate for the coins,” Charlotte went on, “but he wouldn't sell them to me, or even leave them on commission. He said he wanted to cut out the middleman. Or woman.”

Across the street, several older ladies, including Daisy Coffey and Rachel Donner, walked into the Delightful Tea Shop. “Emily says Alice called an emergency get-together.”

“I should think so,” retorted Charlotte. “First there's all the strangers in town for Seafaring Days, then mysterious and suspicious treasure, then yet another murder—she's having a hard time keeping Blackpool's reputation tidy.”

“If it had a tidy reputation, then it wouldn't be Blackpool,” Molly said.

“Miss?” called someone from inside the shop. “What's the provenance of this moon medallion?”

Charlotte went to attention. “Excuse me, Molly.”

“Of course.” She pointed to the necklace that she'd eyed in the shop's window. “Set that aside for me, would you please?”

“I certainly will,” Charlotte told her. “Ta-ta.”

Molly turned away from the window, her mind ticking. Alice wanted to protect the town's reputation. Aleister wanted to protect his family's. Willie's discovery of the coins had reminded everyone of the unflattering rumors about Charles…. Molly snapped her fingers.
That's right!
Michael had told her Dylan had seen Willie talking to Alfie at the Museum. Maybe Willie had gone there with his coins after he spoke to Charlotte.

Molly pulled her phone from her pocket and tapped Michael's icon, even as she headed toward Dockside Avenue.

 

M
ICHAEL SKIRTED THE VERANDA
filled with diners and strode down the alley at the back of the Smokehouse, taking a deep breath of the delectable smoke emanating from the curing shed.

But he caught no more than a glimpse of the racks of herring glistening with an oily, sooty sheen before Callum Wyn-Rodgers stepped out of the door, shut it and wiped his hands. “Well, hullo there, Michael. Good to see you. I'm afraid I'll not have time for a round of golf until next week.”

“Not to worry, Callum. I didn't stop in to ask about a game. I'm planning out the next part of my renovation
work at the house, and wondered if you could recommend my hiring on Robbie Glennison.”

Callum snorted. “I think not. Just sacked the man myself on Friday.”

“Did you now?”

Callum led Michael into the rear of the restaurant, past a long stainless-steel table glinting with the odd fish scale. “Robbie came in late once too often and botched the filleting and trimming twice too often. When I told him he was no longer working for me, he shouted and threatened me with the knife he was holding. One of the other lads rang the police, and P.C. Fotherby escorted him out… Damn!”

Michael strolled as casually as he could to Callum's side. His friend was inspecting several long, flexible boning knives hanging along the wall like the teeth in a shark's jaw. “I should have noticed before. A knife's gone missing. In the fuss, Robbie probably never handed his in. I'd sooner let it go than ask for its return.”

“Has a temper, has he?”

“He's got a temper, right enough. He was sent to anger-management courses some months ago, after he started fights at the Dockside and the Café, but I can't see as they've done him any good. He needs medication—and not the medication he's been buying from Willie.”

“Willie Myners?” Michael's casual, innocent air was wearing very thin, but Callum didn't seem to notice. “You've heard about him, I suppose.”

“I've heard he was stabbed to death trying to leave town with a chest of gold doubloons, and that the coins have gone missing.”

“I've heard there were only four coins, three Wallachian ones and a thaler.”

“Where's Wallachia?” asked Callum.

“Eastern Europe. Romania.”

“Ah, that's the gypsy treasure, then.”

Michael couldn't pretend he hadn't heard about that. He tried another angle. “Thanks for warning me about Robbie. I've seen him about town, thought he might be available for odd renos and repairs.”

“He is, yes. But you're running the risk of him leaving the job half-finished, or leaving you with a bigger job than you had to begin with. Rohan Wallace, now, he's right dependable.”

“Yes, he is…” The sound of “Pretty Woman” had Michael diving into his pocket. “Molly?”

Her trans-Atlantic accent filled his ear. “Charlotte says Willie brought his coins to her to evaluate two days ago, but wouldn't tell her where he found them and wouldn't leave them with her to sell. The coins that the Abercrombie boy found in the 1800s went to the Crowes, who weren't happy when Alfie Lochridge displayed one from the British Museum three years ago.”

“Alfie!” Michael exclaimed. “Dylan saw Willie talking to Alfie!”

“Bingo,” said Molly. “He seems to have taken a shine to you. Why don't you speak to him?”

“Sure. I'll try. Where are you now?”

“Walking past the Customs House, heading for the festival. Alice Coffey might have a—well, let's say informant, not gossip—in her cousin Daisy, but I've got Rebecca Hislop. Her booth is right there in the square, at the end of the pier, and she was already making sales when we walked by at eleven. She had to have been setting up at ten-thirty or so.”

Michael remembered the church bells had been signaling that it was almost eleven, but when Molly had been checking over the vendors, he'd been eyeing the
Black
Sea Pearl
and trying to decide whether to model the hero of his new game on Errol Flynn's classic swashbuckler or Johnny Depp's more contemporary one, who swished as much as he swashed.

“Well done, Molly—ah, I'm getting another call. Cheers.” Michael eyed the screen of his phone, hit a button then put it back to his ear. “Rohan. Is anything happening at the bicycle shop?”

“Naomi's heard from your sister's solicitor friend. He'll have Dylan out of jail by teatime.”

“That's good news.”

“In the meantime, Paddington's sent Krebs to close the shop and ransack it. She's puttin' screwdrivers in evidence bags, along with the knives from the kitchen and…” Michael heard Naomi's tired voice in the background. “And she's takin' Naomi's nail scissors. Coppers, they don't know when to quit.”

Michael had wondered more than once why Rohan had such a negative opinion of the police. “I'm on my way to the Mariner's Museum. Wait for me there, and I'll catch you up.”

“Sure, mon, no problem.”

Slipping his phone back in his pocket, Michael turned to Callum. “Thank you.”

Callum had his own phone in his hand. “Thank
you.
I'd never have noticed that missing knife if you hadn't stopped by. I'll pass it along to Paddington—Robbie needs interviewing, doesn't he?”

“He does that,” Michael agreed.

“Keep your clubs polished, eh?”

“I will.” Michael told himself that a round of golf at one of the courses near Darlington would be a welcome distraction. So would parasailing, or scuba diving or some other activity. But work came before play.

He left Bell Street for Compass Rose Avenue, a street almost wide enough for two cars to pass as long as they folded in their wing mirrors. The wood-and-plaster facade of Betsy Sewell's Curio Shop looked like something from a fairy tale, appropriately enough. Its front window sported an Other Syde poster, as well as incense burners, New Age books, souvenirs of Blackpool and assorted gimcracks.

Betsy herself stood on the front step, holding an elephant-shaped watering can over a pot of nasturtiums. “Hullo. You're Molly's husband, are you?”

“Yes, I am. Michael Graham.” He stepped closer to the window, wondering what the paper posted below the Other Syde notice was.

“You collected her after she came to the book signing last month. That went well, didn't it?”