Death at the Deep Dive #7
Chapter One
Eight gold coins gleamed and glinted in the lamplight.
Make that eight gold coins and one silver.
Ellery Page, owner and proprietor of the quaint mystery bookshop known as the Crow’s Nest, let out a long breath and picked up the silver coin, fingertips tracing the unfamiliar size and design. It looked old. Very old. On one side a woman held two wreaths aloft. He could just make out the (Latin?) words SÆCVLA VINCIT and below: VIRTVTI ET HONORI. The other side was etched (engraved?) with the profile of a young man and the words PHILIPPUS D.G. HISPAN INFANS
So… Spanish?
Was the image supposed to be King Philip?
He had no idea. He wasn’t even sure if the coins were real.
Granted, they looked real. The details of the gold pieces—the believably worn engravings, the rough, slightly misshapen edges, even the heft of the coins—doubloons?—felt real.
Seemed legit.
Appearances could be deceptive. But if this was indeed Vernon Shandy’s diving collection bag—and whose else could it be?—was it likely the coins would be fake?
Granted, when it came to the Shandy clan, some kind of elaborate scam was always a possibility, but given Vernon’s untimely and mysterious disappearance in the 1960s…
Eyes still on the small pile of coins, Ellery reached for his cell phone and pressed the contact number for Pirate Cove’s chief of police Jack Carson.
Jack’s phone rang once and then Jack, who also happened to be Ellery’s boyfriend, said, “Hey, I’m not quite done here. Did you want to go ahead and grab a table?”
“Uh… Do you think you could maybe stop by here for a couple minutes?”
Jack’s tone changed. “You okay? What’s up?”
“I’m okay, but…I’d rather not say any more until you get here.”
“Are you being held hostage?”
Jack was kidding, of course, though given Buck Island’s—and Ellery’s—history, maybe anything seemed possible to him.
“No. I’m alone. I…found something.”
Jack said crisply, “On my way,” and disconnected.
Poor Jack. He probably thinks I found another body.
Ellery started to put his phone down, but stopped. If these coins were the real thing, how valuable were they?
A quick search of Wikipedia elicited the following information:
The doubloon (from Spanish doblón, or “double”, i.e. double escudo) was a two-escudo gold coin worth approximately $4 (four Spanish dollars) or 32 reales, and weighing 6.766 grams (0.218 troy ounce) of 22-karat gold (or 0.917 fine; hence 6.2 g fine gold).
Translation please?
More searching unearthed a 1989 Los Angeles Times article and the news that early pieces of eight were handmade and known as cobs. Higher quality versions were machine-made. And Spanish milled dollars were worth about $50 to $350.
So, if a gold doubloon was worth $350. in 1989, presumably it was worth more now?
As a last resort, Ellery tried eBay. As he scanned the listings for gold coins dated circa 1700s (just on the off-chance that these really had come from the legendary wreck of the pirate galleon known as the Blood Red Rose) he sucked in his breath and let it out in a sound typically only heard from maiden aunts when their prize Pekingese tried to, er, get jiggy with a stray.
US $32,500.00
US $39,500.00
US $46,500.00
US $75,000.00
US $124,500.00
“Yikes.”
Watson, Ellery’s the black spaniel-mix puppy stopped gnawing his chew toy to gaze in startled inquiry.
Granted, the coins listed for sale were in mint condition with certificates to prove their provenance, but this answered one question: yes, the items in the collection bag were valuable. In fact, that small mound of metal on his desk probably qualified as treasure.
Pirate’s treasure.
Eight gold coins worth—just taking the low-end figure—two hundred and sixty thousand dollars? People committed murder for less.
Ellery glanced instinctively up at the ceiling entrance to the bookshop attic. Little more than a month ago, someone—and he had a pretty good idea who—had broken into the Crow’s Nest searching for, most probably, this very collection bag.
Alarm coiled down his spine. Never mind the attic. Had he locked the front door? Ellery couldn’t remember.
He rose, left his office, striding past the sales desk, the large oil paintings of pirate galleons battling stormy seas and changing tides, hopping over Watson, who thought this was a terrific new game, down the aisles of towering bookshelves. He reached the front entrance, . He moved to slide the lock. At the same moment the brass bell chimed as someone started to open the door.
Ellery exclaimed in alarm, and slammed shut the door.
On the other side of the divided glass panes, an exasperated Jack called, “You called me, remember?”
Ellery yanked the door open. “Sorry.”
“What’s going on?” Jack ignored Watson who, wishing to claim his share of the welcome, was jumping up and down. “Why are you so spooked?”
“I— It might be easier if I show you.”
Jack’s dark eyebrows shot up. He said cautiously, “Are you going to show me something living or something…no longer living.”
Ellery laughed shakily. “I’m going to show you an inanimate object.”
“Thank God for that. One more body and people will start to talk.”
Ellery, headed back toward his office, threw over his shoulder, “I’m pretty sure they’re already talking.”
Jack, stopping to pat Watson, replied, “I’m pretty sure you’re right.” He straightened, followed Ellery into his office, stopping short in the doorway. He took a moment to study the litter of water-stained diving bag and coins. “I thought the collection bag was stolen when the bookshop was broken into.”
“I did too. But I decided to finally reorganize the storage closet, and when I started pulling stuff out, I found the bag in the very back.”
“How is that possible?”
Ellery shook his head. “But this explains why Tackle Shandy—or whoever it was— thought it was worth the risk.”
“I’d say so.” Jack sounded grim. “If these coins are genuine, they must be worth a fortune.”
“I did a little comparison shopping on eBay while I was waiting for you to arrive, and this haul could be worth anything from a quarter of a million to more than a million. Depending on where and when the coins were minted.”
Jack’s blue-green gaze held Ellery’s. “A million dollars?”
Ellery nodded.
“That’s a lot of clams.”
“If they’re genuine.”
“Yeah. Okay, well, first things first. This haul is going straight into the evidence locker down at the station. Tomorrow I’ll phone the Rhode Island Marine Archaeology Project in Newport.”
“I’m just going to grab some quick pics.” Ellery held his phone up.
Jack nodded absently. He was studying the ceiling entrance to the attic. He did not look happy.
Ellery moved around the desk, snapping photos of each coin, front and back. He wasn’t sure why, exactly. Once the coins were in the hands of RIMAP, they were no longer his problem. He might never even see them again, outside of a museum—ideally, a Buck Island museum.
He paused to examine one coin, then held it out to Jack. “Can you tell what that says? The tiny writing to the left of HISP? Is that a date?”
Jack held the coin beneath the lamp, squinting at the worn engraving. “Maybe 1611?”
“Could that be right?”
“1611? Yes. If these are the real thing, well, the 1650s to 1730s were the golden age of piracy.”
“You know what this means?” Ellery glanced at Jack, who looked resigned.
“What do you think it means?”
“Everyone seems to think that diving suit we found in Buccaneer’s Bay originally belonged to Vernon Shandy.”
“And the collection bag was part of the suit.”
“Right. And Tackle himself said Vernon was obsessed with finding the Blood Red Rose. That he spent all his spare time hunting for her.”
Jack smiled. “You think these coins are from the Blood Red Rose. You think Vernon found Captain Blood’s ship.”
“Yes. I do.”
“But don’t you think, if Vernon found the Blood Red Rose, he’d have told someone?”
Ellery considered. “Yeah. He would. He’d have to. He couldn’t retrieve her treasure on his own. He’d probably share that information with certain family members. I don’t know that he’d share it with everyone and no way with anyone outside the Shandy family circle.”
Jack grunted. The Shandys were one of Buck islands oldest and most notorious families. They kept themselves to their selves and their relationship with law enforcement was wary at best.
Wary on both sides, truth be told.
Jack said, “If the coins are real—and they look real, I agree, but neither of us are experts—then you could be right.”
“And if we’re right about that,” Ellery said, “then you know what else I think?”
Jack studied him for a thoughtful moment. He sighed. “You think Vernon Shandy was murdered.”
“I sure do,” Ellery replied.
“What’ll you have to drink, gents?” Though the pub was nearly empty, Tom Tulley appeared to be in a jovial mood when Ellery and Jack sat down at their usual table at the Salty Dog.
By October, the tourists were mostly gone and the island was returned to its (in the view of the citizens of Pirate’s Cove) rightful owners. The days were cool and crisp, luminous with autumn’s gorgeous, golden light. The ocean was still warm enough for swimming and it was easy to get a good table in any restaurant or bar without a wait. The chilly nights were fragrant with the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth. Twilight strolls along the beach were lit by meteor showers and the white, silky filaments of milkweed pods.
“What was that blue cocktail you made for me last Friday?” Ellery shrugged out of his jacket with Jack’s help. Jack had the unobtrusive, courtly gesture thing down to a science. He moved away to hang their jackets on the hooks near the door.
“Blueberry iceberg,” Tom answered. “Libby came up with that recipe. Blueberry vodka, blue curacao, lime juice, and a splash of sparkling water.”
“That was great. I’ll have that again.”
Tom nodded, asked Jack, “How about you, Chief? The usual?”
Jack’s usual was whatever was on tap. He nodded. “How’s Libby doing?”
Tom’s daughter Libby was away at college on the mainland.
“Thriving,” Tom said gloomily. Libby was the light of his life and he missed her dearly.
Ellery, studying the new addition of a blackboard menu, inquired, “What’s the End of Summer Special?”
“Secret family recipe.”
Jack and Ellery exchanged looks. Jack said, “What do you want to bet Fritos are involved?”
Tom looked outraged. “Hey, how dare you reveal my secrets!” He grinned broadly and departed with their drink order.
“He’s in a good mood,” Ellery remarked.
“It’s October. Everyone cheers up once the tourists leave.”
Which seemed counterintuitive for a community that pretty much subsisted on the tourist trade, but even with only one summer under his belt, Ellery got it. Buck Island during tourist season was a different planet from Buck Island the rest of the year.
He and Jack chatted about the ongoing renovations at Captain’s Seat. The previous month, Ellery had finally received a nice chunk of change from Brandon Abbott’s estate, allowing him to move ahead with crucial if unglamorous things like electrical repairs and replacing the roof.
Tom returned with their drinks. They both ordered the fish and chips, to Tom’s disappointment, and then, as he once more departed, clinked their glasses.
“Cheers,” Jack said.
“Yo ho ho,” Ellery replied. He sipped his cobalt cocktail. “Mm.” The tart sweetness of the cocktail and the crackling warmth of the nearby fireplace were the perfect pairing for a chilly autumn night. He sighed. “I have to say I’m very relieved you-know-what is you-know-where. The thought that it was just lying there in that cupboard all this time makes me feel a little queasy.”
“Any chance that it wasn’t in the cupboard the whole time? I thought Felix said he left it out on a storage shelf.”
“He must have been mistaken. It was his last day at work and his last day on the island, so no wonder he was distracted. When I asked him, he barely remembered Cap giving him the bag at all.”
Jack made a noncommittal noise and sipped his beer.
“Whoever broke in would have to have been in a hurry.”
Jack conceded, “The assumption would be you had looked in the bag and so it was unlikely to have been left in the shop at all.”
“Exactly!”
Jack studied Ellery for a moment. His smile twisted. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First off, there’s no proof the collection bag you found belonged to Vernon Shandy. The assumption is the deep dive suit was his, but there are plenty of other divers on this island. No one knows for a fact who hid that suit in the warehouse with the Historical Society’s collection. Or for what reason.”
“To hide those coins,” Ellery said.
Jack shook his head. “That’s an assumption.”
“It’s a working theory. And it’s the most logical.”
“Maybe. But let’s say you’re right. Let’s go with your theory that the suit belonged to the Shandys and that the suit was stashed away to hide the coins.”
“Doubloons.”
Jack laughed. “You really do love the idea of pirate’s treasure, don’t you? If your eyes were any shinier, they’d be glowing.”
Ellery laughed and sat back in his chair. He shrugged. “Okay, yes. I do love the idea of pirate’s treasure.”
“Especially pirate’s treasure with a mystery attached.”
Ellery couldn’t help pointing out, “Wouldn’t all pirate’s treasure have a mystery attached?”
“Hm. Good point. But here’s what I was getting at. Even if we go with your theory about who owned the collection bag and why it was concealed, it still doesn’t prove those coins came from the Blood Red Rose.”
“Ah. Okay. You’re right.”
“There are a lot of wrecks in the waters around this island.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll give you that one.”
Jack laughed. “Thank you. And finally, even if your theories are correct about who owned the diving suit and collection bag, where the coins came from, and why they were hidden in the Historical Society’s collection, there’s still no proof that Vernon Shandy was murdered.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Ellery objected. “Something happened to him.”
“Something, yes. He left the island, that’s for sure. But the surrounding circumstances are unknown.” As Ellery opened his mouth to debate this, Jack continued, “And there are plenty of reasons the Shandys might want to conceal those circumstances.”
Tom returned to the table bearing platters of golden deep fried fish, crispy french fries, and tangy coleslaw. He set the sizzling plates before them. “Another round?”
Jack asked Ellery, “Are you driving back to Captain’s Seat or staying over?”
There had been a time, not so long ago, when Jack would not have so casually or so openly asked that question.
Ellery smiled. “If Watson and I haven’t worn out our welcome?”
Jack gave him the slightest of winks and said to Tom, “Another round, thanks.” He added to Ellery, “We can always walk home.”
Tom gave Ellery a droll look. “Coming right up!”
Tom departed, Ellery and Jack reached for the salt and pepper shakers, exchanged the vinegar bottle, repositioned the little jars of tartar sauce.
Jack broke off a piece of fried cod and said, as though there had been no interruption, “I’m not trying to bust your balloon. Obviously, there’s an element of mystery surrounding these events. It just doesn’t automatically, inevitably indicate murder.”
“Well, no, of course not.” Ellery chewed thoughtfully on a french fry.
Jack observed him for a moment. “Which isn’t going to stop you from poking your nose into other people’s business and asking a lot of awkward questions, is it?”
Ellery’s brows shot up in surprise. “Me? Come on, Jack, whatever happened to Vernon Shandy is none of my business. Anyway, whatever happened, it was over half a century ago. Nobody’s going to remember anything this long after the fact. Assuming anyone involved is still around. Which is unlikely. Right?”
Jack sighed, shook his head. “That’s what I thought.”
Corpse at Captain's Seat #8
Chapter One
“Another secret passage?” Ellery Page, owner and proprietor of Pirate Cove’s only mystery bookshop, balanced the phone receiver between his cheek and shoulder as he hurried to finish the Crow’s Nest’s payroll. With house guests arriving for the weekend, he was in a rush to wrap things up within the next hour, so he could get over to the ferry landing.
“We can’t be sure unless we open the wall up,” Tony Brambilla, Ellery’s contractor, was saying.
Brambilla and Sons had managed to pull off something close to a miracle as they’d worked to finish renovations on Captain’s Seat before the winter—and Ellery’s guests—set in. When Ellery had inherited the dilapidated 18th century mansion after the death of his Great-aunt Eudora nine months earlier, the place had been just about ready for the wrecking ball. A recent fire on the second floor had not helped matters.
Ellery said quickly, “No! Don’t open any walls. My friends are arriving on the one o’clock ferry.”
“All righty. Well, that door on the leeward side bedroom no longer sticks and the loose floorboards have been repaired. If there is a passage behind that wall, it probably connects to the tunnel opening onto the library.”
During the extensive renovations, no less than two separate secret passages had been discovered within the walls of Captain’s Seat. That was not unusual for the oldest buildings on an island that had once served as a pirate hideout. However, as exciting as was the sound of secret passages, the walkways inside Captain’s Seat had turned out to be dank, dark tunnels filled with empty broken crates, spiders—one of Ellery’s least favorite things—and not much else. One day he’d get around to fully exploring those interior alleys, but they were low priority. After all, he’d happily lived nearly a year in the old mansion without even realizing they were there.
“Enjoy your house,” Tony was saying. “In the spring, we can talk about tackling those structural cracks in the cellar.”
Ellery’s heart sank at the words structural cracks, but he said with determined good cheer, “Yes. Thanks for all your hard work, Tony. Captain’s Seat is like a different house.” A house not in imminent peril of spontaneously combusting every time he flipped a light switch.
“It’s good to have Pages on the island again.”
That sentiment seemed to be broadly held on the island, but it still surprised and touched Ellery. Prior to inheriting Captain’s Seat, he hadn’t even known Buck Island existed—let alone his Great-aunt Eudora.
He ended the phone call with Tony, firmly blocking out all thoughts of structural cracks. He was just finishing up the payroll as the doorbell chimed in welcome and Nora Sweeney, his assistant manager, returned from lunch.
Nora was a wisp of a woman, just over five feet in her sensible shoes. Her eyes were the color of steel and she wore her long gray hair in a severe ponytail. Though prone to gossip and wild flights of imagination, she was clever, loyal, and boundlessly energetic. In addition to her vast knowledge of the island and all its inhabitants (past and present) Nora possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of mystery, which had proved beyond valuable to Ellery. Before inheriting the Crow’s Nest, he’d had zero interest in crime, either real or fictional.
What a difference a few months could make!
Watson, Ellery’s black-spaniel-mix puppy, hopped down from the long wooden library bench where he had been gazing solemnly out the picture windows at the empty cobblestone streets.
Pirate’s Cove in November looked suspiciously like a ghost town, right down to the eerie tendrils of white mist winding around hanging signs and plant urns and porch columns. It was hard to remember that just two months earlier, tourists had crowded the streets, buzzing around in rented golf carts and filling up the beaches, shops, and cafés. Filling up local cash registers as well.
Nora stooped to pat Watson. “Looks like we’re going to have snow this weekend,” she announced.
“You’re kidding.” Ellery went to the windows, gazing out at the ominous leaden skies and white capped harbor. Granted, ominous was normal for this time of year. “A lot of snow?”
Nora unwound her long red scarf. “I shouldn’t think so, dearie. Not this early in the season. February’s the worst month for snow. This time of year, we won’t see much beyond a little powder. It’ll provide a bit of local color.”
“Right.” He was already regretting his decision to not invest in a backup generator. But money only stretched so far, and the roof, plumbing, and electrical wiring had taken precedence.
Nora joined him at the windows, musing, “I hope your friends won’t have too rough a crossing.”
Yikes. “Me too.”
For a moment or two they watched the wind gusting across the waves, rocking the scattered boats in the harbor.
Yes, the island could be a bit desolate this time of year.
As though reading Ellery’s mind, Nora said, “I don’t suppose your friends will be all that interested in outdoor activities anyway.”
“No. True.” Ellery glanced down at Watson, who wagged his tail hopefully. “Let me finish up a few things, buddy. Then we’ll go for a you-know-what.” To Nora, he said, “Tony Brambilla says they think they’ve discovered another hidden passageway, but they can’t be sure without opening the wall up.”
Nora’s eyes kindled with excitement. “That makes sense. Captain’s Seat is nearly as old as the Pirate Eight.”
The Pirate Eight were the first manor houses built on Buck Island. All eight homes had started out as pirate fortresses.
“Why would Captain Horatio Page have needed a bunch of secret passages? He wasn’t a pirate.”
“True, but he was surrounded by pirates.”
Ellery considered that cryptic remark as he returned to his office to make sure he hadn’t left anything pressing undone. This was the first long weekend he’d taken since moving to the island—not counting two weeks of convalescing from a concussion sustained while snooping.
As he was checking his email one final time, Jack phoned.
Jack Carson was Pirate Cove’s chief of police and Ellery’s boyfriend—in fact, he was now Ellery’s fiancé. A delightful fact Ellery was still getting used to.
“Hi, what time are you heading over to the ferry?”
Ellery glanced distractedly at the clock. “Two. Are you going to be able to get away tonight?”
“That’s the plan,” Jack said. “Do you need me to bring anything or—?”
“No. Just you.”
Jack made a sound of amusement. “I think I can manage that. How many of your old crew are arriving this afternoon?”
“Flip, Tosh, Lenny, and Chelsea. Tomorrow we’ve got Oscar, Freddie and Belle.”
“Okay. And Tosh and Freddie used to be married?” That was quintessential Jack, making sure he had the cast of characters straight. Jack was not a play-it-by-ear guy. He was a show-up- on-time-and-know-your-lines guy.
“Correct.”
“But that’s not going to be awkward because it was a long time ago and everyone is over it.”
“Right. Hopefully.”
“And Belle and Oscar used to date, but now she’s dating an English peer.”
It sounded kind of ridiculous when Jack put it like that, but was nonetheless accurate.
“Yes.”
“And you’re confident we’re going to get through the weekend without them killing each other because they haven’t killed each other yet.”
Ellery spluttered a laugh. “Something like that. I mean, it’s all ancient history.”
“Yeah, why doesn’t that reassure me?” Jack sounded wry. “Have you seen the weather report for the weekend?”
“Nora says it’s going to snow.”
“She’s not the only one. You might want to chop some extra firewood. Just in case.”
That was a good thought—and so very Jack.
Ellery said, “Will do. Anyway, getting snowed in could be fun.”
“Getting snowed in could be very fun, although probably less fun with a crowd.”
Ellery’s mouth curved. “I can’t argue with that. But we’ll have other snow days.” He could say that now with confidence.
“That we will,” Jack said, and Ellery could hear the smile in his voice.
The sea surrounding Buck Island was more than a body of water. For centuries that mysterious deep had created a barricade against the outside world and shaped the character of the islanders. It remained a constant presence, hovering on the edge of the island’s every interaction. The sound of it filled the dark nights, its blue shadow provided the backdrop of every single day.
As Ellery waited for the ferry, he could taste the sea on the raw east wind, smell it as the winter-rough water tumbled and roiled golden strands of seaweed. A clammy mist clung to his skin. Watson repeatedly shook himself as though trying to rid himself of the salty sting.
The ferry was late by nearly twenty minutes, and when it finally docked, only a handful of slightly green passengers stumbled down the gangplank. Most of them seemed to be Ellery’s friends.
“Ellery!” Tosh waved to him, towing Lenny along.
“Ahoy!” Ellery waved back. “Welcome to Pirate’s Cove!”
Tosh and Lenny were followed by Flip, who looked like a well-groomed ghost (right down to the phosphorescent tinge of his face) and Chelsea, huffing and puffing as she dragged a mountain of luggage behind her.
Watson, who had never met any of these people in his brief life, nonetheless began to bark as though he’d spotted long-lost comrades.
Arf! Arf! Arf!
“Oh, my gosh, he’s SO cute!” Tosh’s voice rang across the water.
Unsurprisingly, Tosh—tall, red-haired, and boundlessly energetic—seemed the least bothered by what had clearly been a rough trip from Point Judith.
Ellery started down the concrete walkway, and everyone spent the next few minutes hugging and kissing hello.
“I can’t believe you’re finally here,” Ellery told them.
Arf! Arf! Arf! Watson seconded.
“Same,” Lenny moaned. “If I’d realized we had to round flipping Cape Horn…”
Tosh said, “Ell, you look terrific! You’re like a walking ad for J. Crew. Here, take Lenny before she falls into the harbor. Our luggage is still onboard.”
Ellery stopped hugging Flip—Phillip Daly to talent agents and casting directors—in order to receive Lenny, or “Goth Girl” as they’d referred to her back in the day. Lenny was small and wiry with black-green hair and wide green eyes. Usually, her eyes were wide. At the moment, they showed a tendency to roll back in her head.
“Ugh,” Lenny moaned, and sank through Ellery’s hold in order to sit on the cement. “Another three minutes and I’d have thrown myself overboard.”
“That happens a lot in these parts.” He moved to help Chelsea with the tower of suitcases she was attempting to haul single-handedly up the walkway. He called after Tosh, “Wait. Isn’t this your luggage?”
Flip and Lenny laughed. “That’s just Chelsea’s gear,” Flip told Ellery.
“Hey, I’m past the age of living out of a knapsack,” Chelsea snapped.
Ellery did a doubletake. Not at the luggage. At Chelsea.
Chelsea was, without question, the most gifted actor in their clique, but off-stage she had always made a point of scorning any kind of (her word) artifice. She was average height, average weight and, regardless of the season, preferred to dress in jeans and flannel shirts. As long as Ellery had known her, she’d worn her lank brown hair to her shoulders and avoided any makeup more elaborate than lip balm. But now?
Now Chelsea’s brown hair was stylishly cut and gilded with coppery highlights. She wore lash extensions and had clearly had lip injections. Like Tosh, she wore combat boots, jeans, and a black parka that, except for the color, looked exactly like Tosh’s teal one.
“Wow. Chelsea. I almost didn’t recognize you behind all those suitcases.”
Chelsea knew exactly what he meant. Her smile was sour. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“And that’s just her hair products,” Flip put in.
Chelsea made a face at him. “Ha. Ha.”
“Help,” Lenny moaned. She was now flat on the cement as Watson worked frantically to deliver mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Ellery abandoned Chelsea’s luggage and went to rescue Lenny. He scooped up Watson who, knowing his life-saving work was not done, objected loudly. An elderly seagull perched on the white railing, was offended by such language, and began to offer his views.
The remaining passengers straggling off the ferry gave their impromptu theatrical production wide berth.
“Where are you parked, Ell?” Flip drew Lenny to her feet.
“It’s the navy-blue VW behind the snack bar. I think we can all squeeze in, but I hired a taxi to bring your luggage to the house.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” Chelsea looked more uneasy than relieved.
But yeah, unless Ellery wanted to make several trips to and from the ferry landing, he had to do that. “Common procedure. No worries. Ezra won’t lose your luggage.”
Chelsea looked unconvinced.
Lenny, half-draped over Flip’s shoulder, said, “Someone should tell Ell about the escaped maniac.”
Naturally, Ellery laughed. Chelsea said, “You only think she’s kidding.”
“Here’s Tosh,” Flip said, and they all turned to watch Tosh ably steering two large suitcases down the gangplank. The wheels of the luggage thumped noisily on the aluminum and carbon fiber ramp.
Watson, firmly clamped beneath Ellery’s arm, wriggled to get down, shouting enthusiastic greetings, as though Tosh had just returned from an overseas voyage.
“Did you tell him about the homicidal maniac?” Tosh was only slightly out of breath as she rejoined them.
Ellery laughed again.
“He doesn’t believe us,” Lenny said.
Flip said, “Yeah, but really.”
“Oh, come on.”
Tosh shook her fiery hair back, saying earnestly, “No, Ell, listen. When we got to the ferry terminal there were all these cop cars with flashing lights. We asked what was going on, and one of the officers said a patient had escaped from the Rhode Island State Psychiatric Hospital, and that they had reason to believe he was going to try to get to Buck Island.”
Ellery rolled his eyes. “Okay. Sure. Do they call him the Cat?”
“What?” Tosh was confused. She looked at Flip.
“Or does he have a hook for a hand?”
Flip snorted, but said, “We’re not making this up.”
“Okay, maybe it’s a mass hallucination. All that fresh air at once could be dangerous for you city folk.”
“City folk?” retorted Tosh. “Who are you supposed to be? Rilla of the Lighthouse?”
Ellery laughed.
“Okay, but seriously,” Lenny said. “And then once we boarded, the crew came around and checked all our tickets again.”
“Well, there you go,” Ellery said. “We all know the only reason to collect tickets is to prevent homicidal maniacs from enjoying free rides.”
“Okay, but there weren’t that many passengers. And after they checked our tickets, the crew started searching the boat. They were trying to pretend it was standard procedure, but come on! They were checking the lifejacket storage bins. They were obviously looking for someone who shouldn’t have been on board.”
Chelsea said, “We’re not saying he actually got on the boat. Just that they were obviously worried he might have.”
Flip said, “I know it sounds like one of those spooky campfire tales, but—”
It seemed some things never changed.
Ellery was half-amused, half-exasperated. “You know, it’s not like I’ve forgotten we did The Cat and the Canary at Tisch.”
Flip, Tosh, Lenny, and Chelsea all looked at each other with varying degrees of blankness.
Ellery prompted, “Eccentric Uncle Cyrus dies and leaves his estate to his niece Annabelle with the stipulation she has to spend the night in the creepy family mansion, but then when Annabelle and the other heirs arrive at Haunted Hollow, they’re stalked by a mysterious figure they believe to be the Cat, an escapee from the local asylum who’s hiding out in the secret passages. I know you remember. Flip was the Cat and Noah played Uncle Cyrus.”
Noah. Wow. He felt a pang at that memory.
“Noah. That’s right,” Flip murmured.
“Oh,” Tosh said. “I do remember. I played Annabelle. You were Charlie.”
“You were terrible,” Chelsea informed Ellery.
“I know.”
Tosh said vaguely, “Noah. God.” She glanced at Lenny, who was frowning at the ferry as if still waiting for a final passenger to disembark.
Ellery uneasily studied the Pirate Queen, rocking back and forth in her mooring.
Was something going on with the crew? There seemed to be a lot of serious-faced conferencing going on between the crew members gathered at the stern of the ship.
“I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who even remembers that production,” Tosh said. “But even if it is a funny coincidence, why on earth would we make up a story like this?”
“Why would you saran-wrap me to the sofa?”
Tosh and Lenny started giggling. Flip looked slightly guilty. Chelsea said, “You looked chilly lying there.”
“Why would you pose a demon mannequin in my closet? Why would you—”
Flip interrupted, “Okay, yes, we all love practical jokes. Let’s not forget, you’re the one who put that demon mannequin in my bed.”
“Oh, that was brilliant!” Tosh exclaimed. “They heard your scream all the way over in Manhattan.”
Flip made a face at her.
“You put a fake tarantula in my oatmeal!” Ellery was laughing though. They were all laughing.
“Oops. That was me,” Chelsea admitted. “I lied about it being Flip’s idea.”
“Anyway,” Flip said, “Your boyfriend’s the chief of police, right? Why not ask him?”
