“Burglary?” Ellery asked doubtfully.
“It looks like it.” Jack selected a French fry, considered it, folded it into his mouth.
They were having lunch on the outside patio at the Gull’s Wing Café. The patio was surrounded by July’s summer visitors to Pirate’s Cove and, yes, gulls. A lot of seagulls swooping in for the bites of burger and fried fish tourists offered up, despite the forest-worth of signs requesting people NOT to feed the birds.
“In your town?” Ellery joked.
Jack’s grin was sardonic. “I know. I must be losing my touch.”
Once upon a time, and not so long ago, Ellery would have made some little jokey, flirty comment about Jack’s touch, but they had recently decided to, er, hold the position. The position being friends. Strictly friends. Without benefits.
Well, no, because there were definitely benefits to being friends. Ellery was glad they were friends. Sure, he would have liked to see where things might have gone with Jack, but he was a guy who could take no for an answer.
“Why do you think it took the owners so long to report the break-in?” Ellery asked, staring down a particularly large gull watching him from the white railing.
“Nobody noticed. The burglar climbed vines on a trellis and got in through an upstairs window. There isn’t any staff when the Bloodworths aren’t staying on the island. The caretaker is about a hundred years old.”
“Was the window unlocked?”
“Nope. They had to break in.”
A gull landed on the pebble top table and fastened its beady gaze on Ellery’s grinder. Jack snapped, “Hey.”
The gull jumped, offered an affronted squawk, and took flight, wings beating the sparkling air. A few of the other diners—including Ellery—jumped as well. Jack’s hey was pretty commanding, even when it was off-duty. Not that Buck Island’s police chief was ever really off-duty.
Ellery said, “Maybe you should cut down on the caffeine, Jack. Just sayin’.”
Jack muttered, “It takes all winter to train them not to beg, and the first week of summer, it’s like living through the movie The Birds.”
“Mm-hm.”
Ellery was mostly kidding, though Jack did seem a little wound-up lately.
Jack grimaced acknowledgment. “Maybe.”
“So what did the burglar get away with?”
“Several thousand dollars’ worth of antique sterling silver. Picture frames, trays, serving sets and, of course, a whole lot of silverware.”
“Small items easily disposed of?” Five months ago, Ellery had inherited the island’s only mystery bookshop, and he was now something of an armchair detective. Not that it took a detective, armchair or otherwise, to draw that conclusion.
“Correct.”
Ellery said bracingly, “You’ll get ’em. It’s an island. People talk. Someone knows who your bad guy or bad guys are.”
“Or bad girls.” Jack chose another French fry. Sunlight gleamed off his wedding band.
Ellery wasn’t sure when Jack had started wearing his ring again—but then, he couldn’t pinpoint when Jack had stopped wearing his ring. He had not worn it on their sole “date,” but it had reappeared in the weeks since.
Honestly? Better not to try to analyze what was happening there.
But it was confusing sometimes. Sometimes like now, when Jack’s gaze would catch his own and linger, linger, until Jack finally looked away. Or sometimes Ellery would glance up and find Jack studying him as though Ellery presented a puzzle Jack just couldn’t figure out.
His thoughts broke off as a woman sitting a couple of tables away from their own suddenly squealed, “NO! NO WAY!”
She plucked a small black envelope from her companion, tore it open, and pulled out the small card inside. A wisp of tissue paper drifted on the breeze and was snatched up by a kamikaze seagull.
The other woman laughed, watching her friend, and then winced when the first woman lightly bonked her on the head with the card.
“I don’t believe it!” the first woman exclaimed. “Why you?”
The second woman laughed again. People at neighboring tables also laughed.
“What the what?” Ellery glanced at Jack, who was watching the exchange with a resigned expression.
“It’s the same every year.”
“What’s the same?”
“The countdown for the last golden tickets to the chocolate factory.”
Ellery always found Jack’s familiarity with children’s literary classics kind of charming, but this time he didn’t get the reference.
“Huh?”
“The hullabaloo over who rates an invite to the Marauder’s Masquerade and who doesn’t.”
Hullabaloo. What a great word. Ellery made a mental note, said patiently, “I think you think that I know what you’re talking about.”
Jack looked surprised, started to speak, but was interrupted by the crackle of the radio mic on his shoulder.
“Chief? Chief?” cackled Officer Martin. “Are you there, Chief?”
Jack sighed, threw Ellery a look of apology, and rose from the table.
* * * * *
“The Marauder’s Masquerade is one of the biggest social events of the season. Certainly, the most prestigious.” Nora Sweeny, head of the now-defunct Pirate’s Cove Historical Society, and Ellery’s assistant at the Crow’s Nest, was talking in an animated fashion. Ostensibly to Ellery, but really to anyone in listening distance.
“That’s interesting,” Ellery said absently. “So it’s a ball? A masquerade ball?” He was mostly being polite, his real focus on shelving new stock from the morning’s shipment from HarperCollins.
“Yes. Exactly. A gala ball and ghost hunt.”
“Ghost hunt?” That caught Ellery’s attention. He wasn’t much for gala balls, but a ghost hunt? That sounded like fun.
“Yes. The ghost hunt is the main event.”
“Whose ghost is being hunted?”
Nora’s face screwed up in thought. She was a small, slight, seventy-something with the energy of a woman half her age and the inbred fortitude of seven generations of staunch New Englanders. “There’s a difference of opinion there. Some claim the ghost of Tom Blood walks among the gravestones and statues of his descendants. That seems rather unlikely, as Captain Blood went down with his crew when the Blood Red Rose was lost at sea.”
“If it’s not Captain Blood, then who is it?”
Nora loved mysteries. Especially the real-life historical ones. It was safe to assume she would have a theory.
“His bride. Maria Catalina Isabella de Fontana. A seventeen-year-old Spanish noblewoman Blood abducted and then wed—supposedly with her full and willing consent. Which, given her age, doesn’t mean much. When his ship went down, she threw herself into the sea.”
“That seems to happen a lot on this island,” Ellery commented. “I’m starting to wonder if there’s something in the water.”
Watson, Ellery’s six-month-old black spaniel-mix puppy, waddled over and curled up between Ellery’s feet with a groan reminiscent of an elderly man lowering himself into his easy chair. Ellery had nearly tripped over Watson twice that morning already, but Watson seemed to be suffering a mild case of separation anxiety.
“Has Ellery been invited to the Marauder’s Masquerade?” Mrs. Clarence demanded, dropping her pile of books onto the counter for Nora to ring up.
Ellery laughed at the idea.
“Not yet,” Nora said cheerfully, grabbing the first of Mrs. Clarence’s paperbacks and ringing it up. Mrs. Clarence was a fan of spy and espionage books. “I’m sure he will be.”
“Why would I be?” Ellery objected.
Mrs. Clarence said, “Everyone who’s anyone is invited. Isn’t that right, dear?”
Nora nodded. “Exactly right.”
“I repeat, why would I be invited?”
The ladies ignored him. Nora beamed at Mrs. Clarence. “Have you received your invite, dear?”
“Me?” Mrs. Clarence chuckled. She was somewhere in her late sixties, very tall, very blonde, sleek and surprisingly stylish for one of Pirate Cove’s matrons. “Oh, I don’t think I’m on the Bloodworths’ social radar.”
“You never know, Edna. Nora’s been invited to the Masquerade many times.” Mrs. Nelson’s voice floated from the Cozy Mystery section. Mrs. Nelson was another of Ellery’s regular customers, although maybe customer wasn’t the exact word, given that she returned as many books as she kept. She was a member of Tuesday night’s Silver Sleuths Book Club.
Thanks largely to Nora’s tireless efforts and, probably, her standing as one of Pirate Cove’s best-informed gossips, the Crow’s Nest was becoming one of the village’s unofficial community centers.
Nora looked regretful. “Not since I wrote that biography of Tom Blood for the Historical Society’s newsletter.”
“Ah.” Mrs. Clarence looked sympathetic. “I’ve always thought Marguerite lacked a sense of humor.”
The invisible Mrs. Nelson concurred.
Nora sighed. “It’s a shame. The spread they put on is magnificent. Nothing less than magnificent. But I refuse to whitewash history. Not for all the crab puffs in New England.”
Ellery faced out the final book, and wheeled the empty book cart back to the counter, followed by Watson. He reached the counter just as Mr. Starling, another of the Crow’s Nest regulars, joined Nora and Mrs. Clarence at the cash register. Ellery regretted ever bringing up the topic of the Marauder’s Masquerade.
“There’s some talk the Masquerade was nearly canceled this year,” Mr. Starling announced. “That’s why the invitations went out so late.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Clarence. “That would be the first time in nearly eighty years.”
“No, dear,” Mrs. Nelson called. “They didn’t hold the Masquerade during the war.”
“Where did you hear such a thing, Stanley?” Nora no doubt felt she had been scooped.
Mr. Starling’s news even brought Mrs. Nelson, broad and stalwart as a schooner, sailing out from behind the tall shelves. “Are you sure it’s true?”
Mr. Starling nodded solemnly. “I have it on the best authority.”
Nora’s gray eyes narrowed. “I suppose you mean Jonas Landry. How someone that loose-lipped has survived as a lawyer for fifty years boggles the mind.” She glanced at Ellery, read his expression correctly, and blushed.
“Have you been invited to the Masquerade, Mr. Starling?” Ellery threw over his shoulder, pushing the book cart into his office.
Mr. Starling made a noise that around the holidays would be classified as bah-humbug. “I have no interest in that kind of nonsense.”
The doorbell chimed, and a group of young women wearing sunglasses and toting shopping bags pushed inside. Tourists. Which meant they might actually sell some books that afternoon. Except… The day trippers took one look at the club meeting taking place at the sales desk, exchanged looks, and backed right out again.
Ellery swallowed his disappointment. It was hard to find the right balance. He didn’t want to offend his regulars, but the Crow’s Nest needed more business to survive. A lot more business.
Meanwhile…
“Yes, that would explain why the invitations are going out so late,” Mrs. Nelson was musing. “She handed over a single paperback to Nora. “I’ll take this one, Nora.”
“You’ve already purchased and returned that one twice,” Nora informed her.
“Have I?” Mrs. Nelson looked astonished. She studied the cartoony figures on the bright pastel cover. “Oh, I believe you’re right. It was the pastry chef, wasn’t it? Ellery, you’re really going to have to order more stock.”
“No way,” Ellery said. “Not until every single title of existing stock has been sold.”
The four of them gaped at him, and Ellery laughed. “Kidding. I just shelved a whole new shipment.”
Mrs. Nelson shook her head. She said to Nora, “He’s such an odd boy, isn’t he, dear?”
“But charming,” Mrs. Clarence put in.
This was too much for Mr. Starling. He grumbled something and headed for the door.
“Will we see you tonight, Stanley?” Nora called.
Mr. Starling waved his hand and growled something unintelligible. The bell on the door chimed cheerfully as he departed. The ladies at the counter smiled at each other.
“You must join our book club, dear,” Mrs. Nelson told Mrs. Clarence. “We’re reading Diana Killian’s Corpse Pose.”
“Still?” Ellery said. “Weren’t you reading that last month?”
Nora and Mrs. Nelson stared blankly at him, and Ellery put his hands up in surrender. “Okay. Whatever. So long as you’re enjoying yourselves.”
Nora smiled approvingly and then beamed in welcome as another customer made her way diffidently to the counter.
“What have we here?” Nora held up the book to her eyeline to gain a closer look. “Ah, Brandon Abbott’s last book. Very good. His books have been selling like hotcakes since…” Her gaze slid to Ellery. “Since the dreadful tragedy!” Nora finished cheerfully.
Ellery sighed and went to tear down the signage from last weekend’s sale.
