Of Spice and Men Read online

  “No, and thank goodness for that.” Ray removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair before replacing it. “Someone tampered with the production’s generators. They’re supposed to be filming an outdoor scene tonight, but with the generators down, that can’t happen.”

  “No wonder the director’s not happy,” Lisa said.

  “That’s putting it mildly.” Ray shook his head.

  I tucked my hands into my pockets to keep them out of the damp wind. “Any idea who might have messed with the generators?”

  “They were secured with locks and only two people have keys, but both of those people swear they had nothing to do with the tampering.”

  I was about to ask Ray if he believed those people when his radio squawked.

  “Excuse me,” he said to us. “I’ll have to respond to this.”

  As he spoke into his radio, Lisa and I moved a few feet away to stand on the sidewalk. Under the next streetlamp, Del Harris was speaking with a younger man who had a camera hanging around his neck.

  “We could use it as promo for the film,” the younger man was saying. “A mystery on set. What better way to grab people’s attention?”

  Del shook his head. “You want us both to lose our jobs, Jamal? I already told you Vince doesn’t want any of this leaking to the press. If it does get out, and if he gets even a whiff that you could be involved, he’ll fire us both so fast you won’t see it coming.”

  The younger man—Del’s son, I realized—sounded annoyed when he next spoke. “He’s missing out on a great promo opportunity.”

  “Maybe,” his father said. “But that’s his problem, not ours.”

  Jamal turned away.

  “I mean it, Jamal,” Del called after him.

  “Yeah, yeah,” his son muttered as he walked away.

  “Any idea who they are?” Lisa asked me.

  “Del Harris, the gaffer, and his son. I think Jamal’s a videographer, or something along those lines.”

  “Del’s on our suspect list.”

  “That’s right.” I took a step forward. “Let’s see if he’ll talk to us.”

  As we approached, Del glanced our way, no recognition showing on his face.

  “Mr. Harris,” I said as we reached him. “I met you the other day at the pancake house.”

  “Oh, right,” he said, although I wasn’t sure that he recognized me even then.

  “This is my friend Lisa. We wanted to let you know how sorry we are for your loss.”

  His forehead furrowed. “You mean Christine?” This time recognition did show on his face. “You were there the night of the fire.” He went on without waiting for me to confirm that. “How did you know I was close to Christine?”

  “Somebody mentioned that you were once married.”

  “That’s right.” He pulled a cellphone from the pocket of his jeans and tapped at the screen.

  “How’s your son holding up?” I asked. “They were still close, weren’t they?”

  Del acknowledged that with a distracted nod. “Sure, it’s been tough on him. He’s not quite himself.”

  His eyes searched the small crowd on the front lawn of the Abbott house, as if seeking out his son, but Jamal was no longer in sight. Del tapped at his phone again. “Christine was always good to him. To both of us, actually. Even after the divorce.” He paused for a second, as if considering something. “Even after her death, for that matter.”

  “How do you mean?” I asked.

  He shoved his phone into his pocket and took a step away from us. “Excuse me, there’s something I need to do.”

  He strode away from us, not looking back.

  “He didn’t answer the question,” Lisa said. “On purpose, do you think, or because he was distracted?”

  “I’m not sure. What do you think he meant? Something to do with her will?”

  “That would be my guess,” Lisa agreed. “And if that’s the case, and Del and his son are beneficiaries, that could be the motive we were looking for.”

  “It definitely could be.”

  We hung around for another minute or so, but nothing much was going on and most of the remaining crew had dispersed. As we turned away from the Abbott house and walked back to Lisa’s car, I thought things over.

  “First there was the fire and Christine’s murder. Then some of the props were stolen—Nicola told me about that. Now someone has tampered with the generators, messing with the filming schedule.”

  “You’re thinking all those incidents might be related?” Lisa guessed.

  “It does seem like an awful lot has gone wrong in the past twenty-four hours.”

  “The stolen props and damaged generators seem like attempts to knock the production off its rails,” Lisa said. “But if that was the purpose behind Christine’s murder, why choose her as the victim? No disrespect to her or anything, but Nicola was able to replace her fairly easily. Why not kill Chase or Alyssa? They’re the stars. That would have a much bigger impact on the film.”

  “True. Maybe it was easier to get at a crew member than the stars?” I mulled that over for a moment. “But then again, maybe not. Alyssa showed up at Brett’s place without any security watching over her. If someone was determined to harm her, they probably could have found an opportunity.”

  “So either Christine’s death isn’t connected to the other incidents or there’s some other motive behind them.”

  I climbed into the passenger seat of Lisa’s car and fastened my seatbelt. “Things only seem to be getting more complicated.”

  “We just need more information,” Lisa said as she started the engine.

  “Lots more information.”

  “You’ve got the day off tomorrow, right? Maybe you can hunt down some clues.”

  “I’ll try, at least.” I leaned back against the seat as Lisa turned down the next street. “Thanks for letting me vent, and for getting me out of the house this evening.”

  “Anytime.” She glanced my way. “Feeling any better about things?”

  “Slightly.” A flicker of light caught my eye. “Did you see that?”

  Lisa slowed down the car. “See what?”

  I pointed out of the passenger-side window at the abandoned Victorian we were passing. “I thought I saw a light in that vacant house.”

  After checking to make sure no one was behind us, Lisa brought the car to a stop and leaned over to get a glimpse of the house.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “No, it’s gone now.”

  “It supposedly haunted, you know,” Lisa said with a grin as she eased the car back into motion. “Maybe you saw a ghost light.”

  “More likely teenagers.”

  “Much less interesting, but yes, more likely,” Lisa conceded. “If only we had such a likely suspect for the murder.”

  “Hopefully soon,” I said.

  As Lisa turned the corner onto Wildwood Road, the car’s headlights swept over a figure walking along the side of the road. I glanced back as we passed by the pedestrian. I wasn’t completely certain, but I was fairly sure it was Max Fabel, probably heading back to the bed-and-breakfast.

  He was soon out of sight behind us, but he didn’t leave my thoughts so easily. There was something about the man that stirred up my suspicions, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he belonged on the suspect list as well.

  Chapter 11

  That night was the worst one I’d experienced since I’d moved to Wildwood Cove, and not just because of the weather. Soon after Lisa dropped me off at home, the predicted rain started to fall, and by the time I climbed into bed it was pelting against the roof. Normally I enjoyed the sound of pouring rain and could be lulled to sleep by it, but not this time. The noise only helped to keep my already unsettled mind from quieting down. I slipped into a light sleep for spells here and there, but never managed to fall deeply enough to leave my troubles behind.

  Thoughts of Christine’s murder danced around in my head as I tossed and turned, but my mind focus
ed primarily on Brett. Even though I’d seen him earlier that day, I missed him with a fierce and deep ache. I wanted to make things right with him as soon as possible, but I could feel fear holding me back, like a heavy anchor tethering me in place. It also didn’t help that my frustration hadn’t disappeared. Lisa had helped me gain some insight into my feelings, but that hadn’t made them go away. Every time I thought about Brett’s staunch defense of Alyssa, my blood threatened to boil, and beneath the heat of that anger my heart stung.

  I had plenty of time to think about my feelings as deep sleep continued to elude me. I knew what scared me most was the possibility that it might not be in my power to make things right with Brett. We both had to want that to make it happen, and what if Brett didn’t want it? What if having Alyssa back in his life made him want something—someone—other than me?

  Although part of my brain told me I was probably overreacting, my worries had enough power to send me tossing and turning for the umpteenth time. Flapjack had had enough at that point and abandoned me and my bed for some other spot in the house. He didn’t reappear until nearly six o’clock, when he decided it was time for me to get up and fix his breakfast. He rubbed his soft cheek against mine and meowed at me until I opened my eyes. Knowing there wasn’t any point in remaining in bed even if Flapjack left me in peace, I showered and dressed before making my way downstairs to set out some food for my impatient tabby.

  The rain had stopped sometime during the night, but heavy, dark clouds still hovered overhead and the ocean was as choppy as it had been the day before. I let Flapjack out into the yard and sipped at a breakfast smoothie while watching a weather report on the TV. Apparently the night’s rainfall had resulted from a minor storm passing over the region. It hadn’t carried the strength to cause any damage, but at least two more storms were expected to follow in its wake, one arriving over the peninsula that afternoon and the other making landfall later in the week.

  I switched off the TV and cleaned up after my breakfast. Then I stared around the kitchen, at a loss. Although I wanted to keep busy in the hope of stopping myself from overthinking matters, I couldn’t come up with any tasks around the house after my cleaning spree the day before. And I wasn’t in the mood to peel away the dated wallpaper in the spare bedroom, a job I’d begun but had yet to finish. I considered starting the process of packing up my kitchen in preparation for the renovations that would take place later in the fall, but I quickly nixed that idea. The renovations—which would be carried out by Brett’s dad and his workers—wouldn’t start for another three weeks, and I didn’t want to be digging through boxes every time I needed a spice or utensil in the interim.

  After some further internal debate, I decided to tackle some work at the pancake house. I wandered out the front door, looking for Flapjack, and found him sitting on the steps, his tail twitching as he watched birds flit from tree to tree. Instead of calling him in right away, I perched on the porch railing and watched the birds as well.

  “Have they been entertaining you?” I asked my tabby as several chickadees hopped and twittered in the branches of the fir trees.

  Flapjack barely glanced my way.

  “If only birds could talk,” I said. “Maybe then there’d be avian witnesses to the crimes that could tell me who went into Christine’s trailer to kill her, and who stole the props. Then both cases would be wrapped up.”

  One of Flapjack’s ears flicked, but he otherwise didn’t move, his eyes still fixed on the birds.

  I sighed, knowing that wishing for animal witnesses would do me no good.

  “Come on, buddy. I’m going out for a bit, so you need to go inside. You don’t want to be out here if the weather turns bad again.”

  With a little more encouragement, I got Flapjack inside and I set off on foot for The Flip Side. The tide was on its way in, but there was still a good stretch of sand between me and the choppy ocean. While the rain had stopped, the wind hadn’t abated much and I wished I’d thought to tie my hair back before leaving the house. I had to keep brushing curls out of my face so I could see, but I still enjoyed the walk. I spotted a couple of other figures out on the beach, far off in the distance, but I was basically alone with nature, the pulse of the ocean beating to my right as waves crashed over a sandbar. Seagulls struggled against the buffeting wind above me while I trekked along the wet sand, the damp, salty air bringing me fully awake better than any shot of caffeine could.

  When I reached the pancake house, I opened the office window a crack before settling at the desk. It wasn’t exactly warm enough for an open window, but I craved more of the fresh ocean air, and it kept me alert as I worked away at the computer for a couple of hours, taking care of some of the business’s administrative tasks.

  I wrapped up my work session by paying some bills, and then switched off the computer. Soon I’d need to update The Flip Side’s website to let people know about our special menu items for October, but Ivan wouldn’t have that list finalized until after my taste-testing session on Thursday. My mouth watered in anticipation of that event. I loved apple and pumpkin dishes, and I knew Ivan was planning to make good use of both ingredients for the specials.

  Still sitting at the desk, I checked my phone, my stomach doing a nervous flip-flop as I activated the screen. I both wanted and dreaded to find a message from Brett. When I saw that he’d sent me a text message a short while ago, my stomach did a series of more vigorous somersaults.

  We need to talk.

  I stared at the message, all my fears bubbling back to the surface, taking me dangerously close to the edge of panic. I forced myself to breathe slowly and evenly until I no longer felt quite so out of control. Maybe Brett’s message wasn’t as ominous as it seemed, but I was having trouble believing that.

  I dropped my phone into my tote bag. There was no way I could reply to his text just then. In that moment I had no desire to ever reply. I’d have to eventually, I knew. I couldn’t avoid Brett or our issues forever, but I decided to give myself some time to compose myself, to figure out how to put all my jumbled feelings into words once we were face-to-face. Most of all, I needed to prepare myself for what Brett might want to say to me.

  Ignoring the voice in my head telling me that I was making up excuses, I shut the office window and left the pancake house, locking up behind me. My stomach hadn’t given up its gymnastics, and taking deep breaths of the sea air did nothing to calm it down.

  I walked briskly along the beach, trying to burn off my nervous tension. The wind had picked up while I was working, and the waves crashing into the shore were higher now, heralding the arrival of the next storm. Fine mist dampened my face and hair, leaving little droplets on my waterproof jacket.

  When I drew level with my Victorian, I paused to decide my next move. Although I considered going inside and warming up with a cup of tea, I ended up continuing along the beach, my intention to see if Patricia was at home. I hadn’t forgotten about Max Fabel and my suspicions of the man. Since he was staying at Patricia’s bed-and-breakfast, I hoped she might have some information that would shed light on what he was doing in Wildwood Cove and why he was so interested in the smoke-damaged trailer.

  When I reached the yellow-and-white Victorian that housed the Driftwood Bed-and-Breakfast, I climbed the steps to the back porch and knocked on the French doors. Inside, the kitchen glowed with warm yellow light, but at the moment it appeared to be empty. A few seconds after I knocked, however, Patricia appeared from the hallway, smiling when she saw me.

  “Morning, Marley,” she said in greeting as she opened the door and ushered me out of the brewing storm.

  As I stepped inside the warm and welcoming house, a delicious smell of cinnamon and yeast met my nose. I closed my eyes and took in a deep, appreciative breath.

  “Something smells amazing.”

  Patricia led me into the kitchen. “I took a loaf of cinnamon bread out of the oven five minutes ago. Will you join me for a slice and a cup of tea?”

  “I�
�d love to,” I said, my mouth watering. The distraction of visiting my friend seemed to have settled my stomach.

  Patricia put the kettle on and picked up a bread knife to use on the cinnamon loaf.

  “Are you fully booked at the moment?” I asked.

  “No, only half. We’ve got Mr. and Mrs. Abbott here while the filming’s going on at their place, and there’s a man up from California.”

  “The man from California…that would be Max Fabel, right?”

  “That’s right.” Patricia cut four slices of bread and set them on a plate. “Have you met him? Oh, Sienna mentioned him the other night when you were here, didn’t she?”

  “And she pointed him out at The Flip Side on Sunday.” I paused, wondering if we were the only ones in the house. “Are all the guests gone for the day?”

  “Yes, I’ve been on my own for about an hour now.” She poured the boiling water from the kettle into the teapot. “I’m glad you stopped by. I was doing some baking and cleaning, but I’m ready for a break.”

  I was relieved to know Max wasn’t around to eavesdrop on our conversation. “What do you know about Max Fabel, other than where he’s from?”

  “Not much.” She took two teacups down from a cupboard. “He’s a journalist, and single, but that’s about all I know.”

  A journalist.

  Maybe that explained his interest in the damaged trailer. Was he sniffing out a story?

  Patricia cast me a sidelong glance. “Why do you ask?”

  I explained how I’d seen Max outside the special-effects makeup trailer the day after the fire. “He was looking around and taking pictures. It seemed odd at the time, but maybe he was here to write a story about the movie and things took a more interesting turn than expected.”

  Patricia carried the teapot and plate of bread over to the dining table, and I followed with the cups.

  “That could be,” she said as we settled at the table. “But he told me he was here on vacation.”

  “If that’s the truth, maybe the journalist side of him couldn’t resist covering the story once it unfolded in front of him.”