We climbed the six long steps and walked across the wide, wooden porch that wrapped around the entire building. I noticed several patrons lounging in wicker chairs. And one, I realized with a start, was the statuesque blonde with the Arctic eyes who’d stared at me the night of Angel’s appearance. She lounged in one of the chairs, reading today’s edition of the Providence Journal, which was delivered daily to all of Fiona’s guests.
Though I was seeing the woman in profile now, and with her eyes shaded by sunglasses, I was certain it was the same person. Today she wore a bright yellow sundress with a short hemline, her long, tanned legs stretched out in front of her, manicured feet in strappy, expensive-looking sandals crossed and resting on the wooden deck.
I quickly looked away before the young woman noticed my stare. Spotting Fiona inside the foyer, behind the counter at the front desk, I moved quickly through the beveled glass doors, which stood wide open.
Fiona saw us arriving, smiled warmly, and immediately waved us over. It was ten degrees cooler inside the rich, dark wood entranceway, where two mammoth potted palm trees flanked the door in a convincing illusion of a shady oasis.
The front desk in the foyer had been created by the Finches. Walls had been broken down around a cloak room adjacent to the entranceway. Then a solid oak counter was custom made and stained to match the Inn’s interior by Quindicott’s resident carpenter and interior restorer, Dan DeLothian, who also taught shop class at the local high school.
Fiona Finch looked resplendent today in a light-green pantsuit accented by an off-white lapel pin in the shape of a snow falcon in flight.
“What a treat to see you both,” Fiona said with a grin. “Come into the sitting room and I’ll serve up some mint iced tea.”
“Thanks for the offer,” I replied. “But we can’t stay long. Sadie and I have to get back to work soon.”
“By the way, Pen, Sadie . . . That was really a delightful event yesterday at the store,” Fiona gushed. “It was so thrilling to hear someone as controversial as Angel Stark read her work, and I can’t wait to finish her book.”
Sadie and I exchanged glances. “Actually, Angel Stark is why we’re here.”
“Well, then, let’s all sit and you can tell me what’s so urgent it can’t wait until the Business Owners Association meeting this evening.” Fiona directed us to a cluster of leather chairs near a front window and we all sat in a tight semicircle.
“Dana Wu dropped by my store first thing this morning,” I began, tactfully leaving out the part about Bud’s visit, and Johnny’s disappearance. “Seems she couldn’t find her client, Angel Stark . . . So, has Angel been back to the Inn since the reading last night?”
Fiona frowned. “You know I don’t make it a habit to reveal the private activities of my guests,” she said in a clear voice.
Then she leaned close, speaking to us in tone barely above a whisper.
“But since you ask, Ms. Stark did not return last night, or this morning. I turned down all the beds yesterday evening at about ten thirty. This morning when I brought the tea and coffee tray up to the second-floor sitting room, I noticed Angel was not up and about with the other lodgers.
“Then, about an hour ago, I went up to make the bed and noticed that it hadn’t been slept in. The sheets were undisturbed, the wrapped seashell Godiva chocolate still resting on the pillow.”
“Did you notice anything odd about the room?” I pressed. “Items missing or disturbed?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Fiona cried. “The room wasn’t tossed or anything! Do you really think something suspicious is going on? Do you suspect foul play?”
“Let’s just say that any clue to where Angel Stark has gone would be a blessing. Can you remember anything else that happened last night? Anything odd?”
Fiona put her finger to her chin. “Let’s see . . .” She sat up straighter.
“Barney says he saw a couple heading out past the site, toward the bird trail at about ten o’clock. But that’s not really odd because it’s summer, the weather was nice, and lots of young couples like to walk along the trail on summer evenings for a little privacy.
“But Barney insisted that he thought the young lady was one of our lodgers. Trouble is, Barney’s no good at remembering names or people, so he wasn’t sure which guest it was. And we do have several young, single women staying with us. Your friend Dana Wu was one of them.”
“If it was Angel Stark, then that would mean she did return to the Inn last night—even if she never made it to her room.”
Aunt Sadie spoke up. “I don’t suppose Barney recognized the fellow?”
“I asked him that very question, but he said he only saw the man’s back, from a distance in the dark.”
“When was Angel Stark scheduled to check out?” I asked.
Fiona made a face. “Technically, she had the room until noon today,” she replied. “But Ms. Stark hasn’t checked out or settled her bill, and her luggage is still in the room.”
We sat in silence for a moment. I could hear the breeze rustling the elms on the other side of the window.
“Hmm,” said Fiona. “Perhaps we do have a mystery brewing. Shall we mention it to the Quibblers? They did help out during the Timothy Brennan mess.”
“I have a feeling that the Quibblers will have plenty to quibble over at tonight’s meeting,” Sadie predicted. “The littering fines alone have got them crazy.”
“True,” Fiona replied.
“But we need more information on Angel—on what may have happened to her,” I pressed.
We halted our conversation long enough to allow a middle-aged couple to pass through the foyer.
“Look,” Fiona whispered when we were alone again. “I can’t let you into Ms. Stark’s room—that just wouldn’t be ethical. But what I can do is go up there myself and have a good look around. And if I do come up with something . . . anything . . . I’ll let you both know. If it looks urgent, I’ll phone. Otherwise, I’ll bring any information I learn to the meeting tonight and we can discuss.”
I nodded, pleased with myself that I’d persuaded her—and wishing Jack could have seen it. “Also, Fiona, if you haven’t yet finished reading All My Pretty Friends . . .”
“Only two chapters left to go!”
“Oh, very good,” I said. “I’d like you to bring the book tonight. It may come in handy.”
Then the grandfather clock in the foyer bonged on the hour. Realizing the time, I quickly stood. “We better go,” I told Fiona. “Mina is holding the fort all by herself. If there’s an afternoon rush she’ll be overwhelmed.”
Fiona rose to show us out. At the double doors we paused under the drooping fronds of the potted palms.
“Just one last thing,” I said. “I saw another one of your guests outside. A young woman, long blonde hair and longer legs. Sort of a Paris Hilton clone who has that patrician-disdain thing down pat. Brainert was thumbing through Angel’s book and thought she looked like the photo of Kiki Langdon, Bethany Banks’s closest friend. Could that be true?”
Fiona opened her mouth to reply but didn’t. Instead, she gazed over my shoulders, eyes wide, pointing.
I whirled to find the woman in question right behind me. Even more surprising, my super-chic sister-in-law, “La Princessa” Ashley McClure-Sutherland, was standing next to her, resplendent in pristine white slacks and sleeveless shimmering pink silk blouse, her salon-highlighted blonde hair tamed into a slick yuppie ponytail and her French-manicured hand lazily fanning herself with the Providence Journal’s society page. It was obvious from their expressions that the two of them had overheard me. They both looked like they’d just sucked on a lemon.