Lost and Gowned Page 8

  After three rings, she answered.

  “This is Chelle.”

  “Hi, it’s Thyme.”

  “Is something wrong with the dress?” she asked worriedly.

  “No, I’m not calling about the dress.” I knew the best way to approach the subject would be to ease into it, but Victor was right; we were running out of time. So I plunged right in. “Rosemary’s missing. We think she may have been abducted from the resort … and my parents might know something about it.”

  “Oh, Thyme—”

  “I don’t care that you were in on the secret. I just need to know whether you talked to them after Rosemary disappeared,” I assured her. It was mostly true.

  She exhaled. “Your mom called about an hour after you left with the dress. She said some goon had grabbed Rosemary outside her room, and she and your dad were going after her. She had it in her head that it was related to their financial troubles, but she didn’t tell me why she made that connection.”

  “Did she tell you where they were going?”

  “I’m sorry, honey, but she didn’t. She was really upset. We didn’t talk long. I tried to convince her to call the police, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She kept saying she’d caused this mess, and she’d fix it.”

  My heart fluttered. It was what we’d suspected, but knowing for sure my parents had gone off to save Rosemary ramped up my already considerable anxiety. Victor took my hand in his. I gripped his tightly.

  “Okay. She hasn’t called you back, has she?”

  “No,” Chelle said mournfully. “And I’ve tried her phone several times. Either her battery is dead or it’s turned off. My calls are going straight to voicemail.”

  “Will you let me know if you hear from her?”

  “I will,” she promised.

  “Ask her about the guy in the suit.” Victor stage whispered beside me.

  “I have one more question. There was a man out on the street when I left with the dress—”

  “The gentleman in the suit?” she broke in.

  “Yes!”

  “He was standing across the street in front of the bank. I only noticed him because he noticed you. He watched you get in the truck and then ran, literally ran, to his car and tore off after you. I almost called to warn you in case he was planning to follow you, but he caught the light at the corner. And you know that light—it’s gotta be the longest traffic light in the county. You were probably home by the time it turned green.”

  I managed a weak laugh. “Did you recognize him?”

  “Never saw him before in my life. And what kind of wacko wears a suit in Seashore?”

  “Okay, well, I have to go. But don’t forget to call me if you talk to my parents.”

  “Don’t worry, I will. Oh, I jotted down his license plate. Do you want it?”

  My eyes bugged out. “The man in the suit’s?”

  “Sure. He was at the red light long enough for me to get a pen and paper.”

  Victor must have heard enough to follow the conversation because he was grinning like a kid.

  “Yes, please.”

  She rattled off the plate, I repeated it, and Victor scribbled it in his reporter’s notebook.

  “That’s it. It was a District of Columbia plate,” she added.

  I thanked her and ended the call.

  “Lucky break she got his plate,” Victor said.

  “No kidding. Let’s call and tell the others.”

  “I want to check one more thing first.”

  “What?” I was impatient to call back to the resort with a promising lead. And I sort of figured we’d earned a treat. The Sugar Plum was just steps away, after all. It would be a shame to a waste a trip into town.

  Victor stepped up to the curb. “I want to go to the bank across the street where he was standing.”

  “Why?” We weren’t going to find cupcakes outside the abandoned bank building. At least, not any cupcakes I’d want to consume.

  “Old reporter’s trick. It always helps to see a scene from the subject’s vantage point.”

  We crossed the street, and I tried to keep my grumbling to the bare minimum. We stopped in front of the bank building and looked in the window. All I saw was a dusty, empty lobby. I turned to snark at Victor, but he wasn’t looking inside. He had turned and was staring toward Chelle’s boutique.

  “Where were you parked?” he asked.

  “Right in front of the dress shop.”

  My cell phone’s ringtone began to play “The 59th Street Bridge Song,” more commonly known as “Feelin’ Groovy.”

  “It’s Sage,” I said as I reached into my bag for the phone. Rosemary’s was “Homeward Bound.” The ringtones were a nod to the album that had given us our names.

  Victor leaned casually against the building’s façade looking out over the square.

  “I was just about to call you. Mom and Dad did see Rosemary’s kidnapping. They told Chelle they were going to go after her,” I said as soon as I picked up the call.

  “That sounds right. Dave found five sets of footprints in the gardens on the grounds outside of Rosemary’s room. They belong to Rosemary; the guy who grabbed her; mom and dad; and, we think, the stranger in the suit. Mom and dad and the suit guy all would have had a view of her being abducted.”

  “That man in the suit is like a bad penny,” I muttered. “But, listen, Chelle got his license plate number.”

  “That’s great. Give it me and I’ll see if Dave can have a friend run it.”

  I read off the D.C. plate number from Victor’s notebook and she read it back to me.

  “That’s it,” I said absently, staring into the darkened bank’s interior. A thought was nibbling at my brain—the way I should be nibbling at a dark chocolate-covered cake pop from the Sugar Plum.

  “What is it?” Sage asked.

  “What is what?”

  “You sound a million miles away.”

  “I’m getting an idea,” I said, as my train of thought began to take shape.

  I felt Victor’s attention slide from the street over to me, his curiosity no doubt piqued by the excitement in my voice.

  “You need to pull together a list of properties that had mortgages with the bank when it closed,” I told my older sister.

  “Excuse you?” she bristled.

  “Herk’s the most likely person to be behind Rosemary’s disappearance. And if this is some sort of demented ploy to pay us back for cutting him out of the loans, then he probably has her stashed in one of the other properties impacted by the bank’s closure.”

  “Why do you say that?” she demanded.

  “Because Herk didn’t just take over Mom and Dad’s loan. He went around buying up the debt from all the local businesses that couldn’t meet the New York bank’s more rigorous lending requirements. And, realistically, that was probably most of them. He’d have put the squeeze on everybody, not just the resort. So, by now, there’s a good chance he owns a property where he could hide a kidnapping victim. Maybe a rental beach house or something, I don’t know. That’s why we need the list,” I explained as the pieces started to fall into place.

  Beside me, Victor nodded his agreement.

  “Maybe,” Sage said. “But why do you want me to do this—couldn’t you ask around town?”

  I snorted. “That’s not exactly efficient. Besides, you were a forensic accountant. There must be online databases you can access that show ownership information, loan details, and other gobbledygook. Aren’t there?”

  “Sure, but I can’t just pull together a list by snapping my fingers. It’s going to take time.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Victor waving and pointing his thumb at his chest. “If you want, Victor can help with it. He’s a business reporter, after all. He probably speaks your language.”

  “Okay,” Sage said, warming to the idea.

  Victor was staring at the bank window. “Thyme,” he said.

  I shot him a look that said ‘dude, I’
m on the phone.’

  “Thyme,” he repeated urgently, tapping on the glass.

  “Hang on a sec,” I told my sister.

  I scooted over to the other end of the window to see what had caught his attention. It was a yellowing flyer from the summer the bank closed. The sheet announced the sale of several commercial properties at auction. Given the timing and the locations, they almost had to have been bank customers. I’ll Dye for You (the hair salon that had predated Clare’s), an auto body repair shop that also serviced farm equipment, and a storage facility out on the road that led to the Garden State Parkway.

  I looked at Victor. “You think it’s one of these?”

  “Either the storage facility or the mechanic shop. I’d bet anything.”

  I recognized the thrill of the chase in his words. He was using his reporter-on-a-story voice.

  “Hey, Sage, Victor has an idea.” I’m putting him on.” I passed the phone to Victor.

  “Hi. Listen, I don’t think we need to do the research Thyme just asked for, after all. I think she’s on the right track, but we can narrow the field down to two properties. I’m looking at a flyer posted in the front window of that old bank. There’s an auto body shop on Ocean Road. And a storage facility … right, Uncle Jed’s, that’s it.”

  He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, full of energy, like a puppy in need of a long walk and a ball to chase. “If you could just pull commercial transfer records and find out if that loan shark has an interest in either of those properties, I think that’s our starting point.”

  He and Sage went back and forth a few times, trading phrases like real estate investment trust, and limited liability partner. I surveyed the street, listening with one ear to Victor speaking financialese.

  I found myself wondering whether the Sugar Plum still made those white chocolate and apricot scones dusted with crystallized ginger. They were great with a cup of tea. Or I could go for a couple caramel brownie bites. I checked my watch, wondering what time the sweets shop closed out of season.

  I was just about to cross the street to see if it was my lucky day, when Victor dashed my sugary dreams by exclaiming, “We’ll meet you there. Leaving now.”

  He ended the call and handed me back my phone.

  “Where are we going now?”

  “Herk has an interest in the REIT that owns Uncle Jed’s Storage Yard.”

  “What’s a REIT?”

  “It stands for Real Estate Investment Trust.”

  I grumped my way back to the car. I’d been this close to a delicious infusion of sugar and fat.

  “How do we even know it’s the storage place and not the auto body shop?” I demanded as I flung myself into the passenger seat and tossed him the keys.

  “You want me to drive?”

  “Yeah, my blood sugar’s too low. I’m starving,” I muttered darkly.

  He turned and looked at me before he started the engine. “You know, Thyme, we’ve been dating for a while now.”

  I folded my arms across my chest and eyed him cautiously. “So?”

  “So, this isn’t my first time at the rodeo. I know the hour or so before dinner is your witching hour. Open the glove compartment.”

  I gave him another suspicious look, but did as he as he instructed. A bonanza of snack bars, dried fruit, and chocolates cascaded out into my lap. Like manna from heaven.

  My mood instantly lightened, and I turned to beam at my beloved. “Thanks,” I said unwrapping a truffle.

  “No need to thank me. It’s really a matter of self-preservation. To answer your question. The auto body shop burned down two years ago.” He started the car and pulled out onto the road.

  “Did Herk own that, too?”

  “Yes. It was owned by the same REIT. I’m guessing they committed arson in furtherance of insurance fraud and then let the property sit empty. It hasn’t been resold and no building permits have been issued.”

  “Okay, the storage yard it is,” I mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate goodness.

  Chapter 19

  Rosemary

  “Now, where did you learn about this explosion? Was it part of your course work?” my dad asked.

  I had instantly regretted using the word ‘explode.’ Both of my parents were looking at me with so much hope in their eyes that I just knew I was going to let them down in a big way.

  “It won’t really be an explosion,” I explained for what felt like the seventeenth time, careful to keep my tone patient. “There will be a chemical reaction between the bicarbonate of soda in the antacid and the hot water. It’s not dissimilar to the fizzing that happens when you drop one of the tablets in a glass of water to drink it, Dad. But, here we’re going to add four or maybe even six of the tablets broken in half to a bottle of pretty warm water and put the cap back on really tight. The water and the tablets will react to create CO2—carbon dioxide gas—which is going to build up so much pressure that it’ll launch the cap right off and make a pretty big bang.

  My mom giggled with excitement.

  I frowned. “It’s going to be more like a firecracker than anything. But if we time things just right, the next time that big lump of sparkling personality comes to check on us, it should be enough of a distraction that we can rush the door and surprise him. Then we just need to hope we’re faster than he is. But you shouldn’t expect a big cloud of smoke or anything.”

  “What if we put in the whole package of tablets?” my dad asked eagerly.

  “I think the most we can hope for is a loud noise. A half-dozen tablets will be more than enough,” I cautioned.

  The water bottle rocket was a time-honored elementary school science experiment. It wasn’t going to take my sophisticated knowledge of chemistry to pull it off. What it was going to take was impeccable timing. And a dollop of luck.

  My mom seemed to know what I was thinking. “Don’t worry, Rosie, the Universe is on our side.”

  “Oh, but we’ll have to get the keys to the truck from him,” I suddenly realized, feeling sick to my stomach. No chance.

  “Turn that frown upside down, sweetheart,” my dad ordered. “Your mother can hot wire that old pickup in ten seconds flat.”

  I stared at my parents. My father was visibly proud of his wife’s questionable talent. My mom was blushing and grinning.

  “Is that really true?”

  “Sure. I kept losing the keys that year I was so busy with my campaign.”

  Ah, her ill-fated run for the school board.

  “Okay?” I prompted.

  “And I couldn’t waste time searching for them. I had events to attend. So, I watched some videos on the Internet and taught myself how to turn over the engine without the keys.”

  “What if it’s locked?”

  “Oh, I never lock it,” she assured me.

  “Well, Igor or whatever his name is might have.”

  My father straightened his shoulders. “I’ll break the glass if it’s locked. Stop worrying. Devoting energy to things you don’t want to happen just brings them into existence. You should know that.”

  I held my tongue rather than get sucked into a discussion about his favorite topic of manifesting one’s own destiny.

  We sat for several moments in tense and silent anticipation of hearing footsteps and gravel. But as the minutes stretched on and no one approached the storage pod, my adrenaline waned. I felt myself slumping back into a cloud of despair.

  My mother must’ve noticed the change in my demeanor because she suddenly struck up a conversation to distract me from my misery. “We saw you gathering lavender earlier. Is that for the flower arrangements?”

  “No, I’m making Grandma Bay’s honeysuckle lemon cake with lavender cream,” I told her.

  “For the wedding?”

  I nodded. “Right.”

  “That’s quite an ambitious undertaking.” She gave me a worried look.

  “I do run my own catering business, Mom. Trust me, I’ve made plenty of much fancier wedding cak
es for much bigger weddings than mine. And, I want to do something personal, something special.”

  “But you weren’t the bride at any of those weddings, were you?” she persisted.

  “Point taken.”

  My father had a different concern. “Why are you running a catering company? What happened to chemistry?”

  I wrinkled my forehead in confusion. “Surely, Aunt Ruby told you about Rosemary’s Gravy?”

  My mom ducked her head and answered in a tiny voice. “She told me. I … may not have mentioned it to you, Bart.”

  My father’s eyebrows shot up his forehead, so I hurried to answer the question before we had an unplanned explosion in the storage unit.

  “I had to leave the lab to make more money after you saddled us with the resort and took off.”

  A shadow crossed his face, and his energy changed from anger to sorrow.

  “But,” I continued, “I really love catering. Creating the recipes is part science, part art. And nourishing people brings me a joy I honestly never felt in the research lab. Plus, I’m pretty good at it. I won’t rule out going back to chemistry someday, but I really am fulfilled now.”

  They both smiled. I could see their relief and their pride.

  I couldn’t believe what I was about to do, but I did it anyway. I squared my shoulders and said, “I guess I owe the fact that I found my calling to the two of you. I never would’ve had the nerve to start my catering business if I hadn’t worked as a private chef first. And I would never have been working as a private chef if I hadn’t needed to earn a lot of money fast. So thank you.”

  I could tell they were both searching my face to see if I was being sarcastic or snarky so I kept my expression perfectly sincere.

  “I mean it,” I insisted. “And I wouldn’t have met Dave, either.”

  My mom exhaled and crossed the room to wrap her arms around me. “I’m so glad to hear that.”

  “Me, too,” my dad said, blinking rapidly and taking off his glasses to clean them on the hem of his shirt. “How did a caterer and a homicide detective meet?” he mused.

  “It’s a long story,” I deadpanned.

  A cold ache that had been lodged in my heart for so long that I no longer felt it started to loosen. I was about to open my mouth and tell my parents I loved them and forgave them when loud footsteps and raised voices sounded outside the door.