You got it wrong, doll, Jack quipped in my head. There's plenty of people who never had any "best" inside them to be brought out in the first place.
Jack's voice got me to thinking again about our case. "Barry was on that stage, too, last night. He used the microphone before Dr. Lilly."
You're right, baby. And I know what you're thinking. There might be a whole lotta people like Maggie out there, who aren't too keen on seeing Barry write another World Wide word.
"Hey, Pen!" Seymour Tarnish called, coming in to help with the event. "I need to talk to you." Pulling me aside, he told me that there was some sort of problem out front.
"Great, that's all I need." I followed him to find three people in formal clothing standing near our entrance: two men in suits and ties, and a tall blonde woman in pressed black slacks and a blue blazer.
"They're press," Seymour whispered.
"What?"
I talked with the small group and discovered that earlier in the week, Dr. Lilly had invited them personally to attend her lecture today.
"So what's going on?" said one of the men from a Newport newspaper. "This gentleman"-he pointed to Seymour -"told us that Dr. Lilly isn't speaking today, or any day. What's that supposed to mean?"
"Yes," said the tall blonde. "We're here to cover the publication of her book. Aren't you hosting a signing with her?"
I glanced at Seymour. He shrugged.
"I'm so sorry…" I explained that Dr. Lilly had had an accident, but that I couldn't release much more information than that until the authorities contacted her family. "Would you care to stay for our stand-in author? She's had quite an accomplished career as a novelist and screenwriter."
The press people glanced at each other, shook their heads, and turned to go. "Sorry, not interested."
I glanced at Seymour again as we watched them leave. "How odd," I said. "Is that a news van out there?"
Seymour nodded. "Yep, I can see the TV satellite antennae."
"Maybe I misjudged how well Dr. Lilly is known," I murmured.
"What do you mean?" Seymour asked.
"I mean, her backlist is respectable, but it's never sold any better than any other film historian's work. She's an academic not a media personality. This is the first I've ever heard of a wonky film studies book getting press attention."
"Mrs. McClure!" Mina called from the check-out counter. "I'm having that scanning issue again!"
"Sorry, Seymour, it's back to work for me-and for you, too." I jerked my thumb toward the Events room. "Get yourself in there and make sure the audience behaves."
Seymour saluted. "Aye, aye, captain! Your crowd control expert's in the house!"
CHAPTER 9. Dark Doings at the Lighthouse
You think you know something, don't you? You think you're the clever little girl who knows something. There's so much you don't know…
– Shadow of a Doubt, 1943
ABOUT NINETY MINUTES later, the clapping in the Events room signaled the end of the program. Then the author signing began, and Seymour marshaled the crowd in his own inimitable fashion.
"Come on, people, make a line! Don't you remember your kindergarten fire drills? Nice and straight please, so you can buy one of Ms. Kline's pretty books and have her sign it for you!"
I helped with the purchases, and before long the crowd of nearly one hundred people dwindled to less than ten. That's when Mina called me over to the check-out counter again. Only this time it wasn't a scanning issue.
"Mrs. McClure! Phone!"
I left Sadie with the remaining people and went to pick up the call. "Hello?" I said. "Buy the Book. Penelope Thornton-McClure speaking."
"I know!" replied a woman on the other end of the line. It was the slightly scratchy soprano voice of Fiona Finch, co-owner of Finch Inn. "Pen, I need to speak with you urgently because I'm worried about interrupting her appearance. And I don't how she'll react to this news. I hope you can break it to her easy."
"Whoa, slow down, Fiona. What news? And who's 'she'?"
"Dr. Lilly," said Fiona.
I tensed. "What's wrong?"
"Someone's broken into her suite and robbed her!"
I took a breath. "Fiona, are you sitting down?"
"No. Why should I?" she asked. "I was the one calling you with the shocking news. Isn't Dr. Lilly at your store, giving a speech right now?"
"Fiona, sit down."
"Okay, okay, I'm sitting!"
"Dr. Lilly isn't giving a speech right now because Dr. Lilly is dead."
"What!"
"Listen to me, Fiona, this is very important. Do you know what's missing from her suite?"
"No, I don't. Dr. Lilly wasn't staying in the main house. She wanted more privacy, so she took the bungalow in the converted Charity Point Lighthouse."
"Are you sure someone broke in?"
"Oh, yes. One of my maids came running back to our main house. She was frantic because the front door was obviously broken open and things were scattered about. She knew right away someone had violated the room, and she didn't want to be accused of stealing."
Hear that, baby? Jack purred in my head. The dead dame's hotel room was tossed. If that's not a lead, I'm the Spirit of Christmas Past.
"Stay put, Fiona, I'll meet you at the inn!" I said and slammed down the phone.
SEYMOUR AND I arrived at the Finch Inn around two that afternoon. Fiona greeted us at the front desk and took us to the parking lot, where the inn's guest transport vehicles were all neatly parked in a row. Seymour moved for the driver's seat, but Fiona immediately blocked him.
"Come on, Fiona," Seymour whined. "Let me drive."
"No way!" Fiona told the off-duty mailman as she vigorously shook her head. "I've seen the way you handle your ice cream truck. I don't have enough insurance to let you get behind the wheel."
Slight and brown-haired, Fiona was a fastidious, middle-aged woman with small, sharp features. I always thought of her as birdlike-an opinion reinforced by Fiona herself, given her vast collection of pins shaped like the feather vertebrates. Today, she wore a decidedly spring ensemble: a crisp white blouse under a pale yellow pantsuit, an enameled pink flamingo preening on its lapel.
Hearing Fiona's "no" on his request to drive, Seymour 's next move was to lunge for her keys. Smaller and faster, Fiona easily sidestepped his lumbering move and hugged the keys to her chest. They clanked against the enameled flamingo pin.
Seymour threw up his hands. "For the love of Guffman, it's only a golf cart! And you have three more."
"I had four more," Fiona shot back, "until a guest drove one into the duck pond."
Seymour smiled. "Yeah, I heard about that. But I'm not some bum driving along a badly lit path with a snoot-full. I'm a bona fide government employee."
"All the more reason not to let you near private property." Fiona pointed to the cart. "You have two choices, Tarnish. You can climb into the backseat or you can walk to Charity Point."
"Come on!" Seymour protested.
"Just follow the path along the pond for about a mile," Fiona said, climbing behind the steering wheel. "You'll reach the lighthouse in twenty minutes, if you walk faster than your typical snail's pace when you deliver my mail."
Seymour squinted at the diminutive yellow cart with its white-and-pink polka-dotted canvas top. "I need leg room. Why can't Penelope squeeze into the back? Then I can ride in the passenger seat."
"How gallant of you," Fiona replied dryly. "The answer again is no. Frankly, I don't wish to sit that close to you."
Seymour glared at the older woman, but he knew he'd met his match. Grumbling, he climbed into the back of the tiny golf cart. It took him a moment to settle in. I sat down, too, and we were on our way.