Stolen (3 page)

For a moment, the auditorium was completely silent. Then a few whispered comments and questions broke the stillness. The volume of voices rose, and Wineguard stood in the spotlight rubbing his hands.

“Maybe, ladies and gentlemen, maybe we'll be the ones to find out what happened to all those valuables seventy years ago. Maybe we'll find out who robbed that train and killed those people so callously. At the very least, I hope we open a fresh avenue of investigation.”

The double doors leading into the theater suddenly banged open. A rectangle of fluorescent light from the lobby fell into the room. A woman stood silhouetted in the doorway.

“Inspector Paddington!”

“Here.” Paddington heaved himself up and whipped a torch from his equipment belt. He snapped it on and a bright blue-white beam shot out.

The woman in the doorway flinched, shielding her eyes with one hand. The inspector's light revealed the blood spread across her fingers and wrist.

“Come quick,” she urged. “There's been a murder.”

M
URDER
! T
HE WORD FLOWED
through the theater audience like quicksilver.

Michael heaved up from his seat with the intention of going to Molly. But by the time he got to his feet, several panicked theatergoers had filled the aisles, blocking his way. To make matters worse, Molly didn't stay on the stage. Instead, she somehow scrambled down and managed to tuck herself in neatly at Paddington's heels. A couple of policemen flanked her.

Michael ground his teeth as he pushed roughly by two men, almost knocking them down.

“Molly!
Molly!
”

If she heard, she didn't turn round.

Michael cursed his wife's independence, though that was one of her most attractive features. He pushed again, but found himself blocked by a woman with two small children. The boy and girl clung to her legs like leeches.

“Mr. Graham.”

Glancing behind him, Michael discovered a petite woman trailed him. Not only was she following him, but she had a double-fisted death grip on his leather jacket.

“Sorry.” She didn't look apologetic in the least. “But I'm not letting go as long as you're headed out of here. I simply will not allow myself to be trampled.”

“Joyce Abernathy.” Michael vaguely remembered her name from the introductions.

“You can call me Joyce, if you'd like.”

Brilliant.
Michael faced the crowded theater again. People had already choked the aisles into gridlock.

“Or if that's too familiar, you can call me Miss Abernathy.”

Ignoring the woman for the moment, Michael looked around the room. A dim exit sign hung over a door at the side of the large screen. He sidestepped the mother and her two offspring and headed toward the stage. A throng of people already congregated there, and he pushed through the cloud of perfume, cologne and stale tobacco smoke.

“Where are we going?” Amazingly, Miss Abernathy held on and kept up despite the mismatch between his long legs and her short ones.

“Out.”

“Which way is the murder?”

“How should I know?” Michael wanted to find Molly. He shoved the exit door open and it banged against the wall of the building. As he stepped into the cool night, he could smell the salt of the nearby sea as well as fish coming up from the harbor.

“Do you get many murders here? You seem quite calm about this.”

“Hardly. If this is a murder, it's the first one that's happened in Blackpool since I've been here.” Michael sprinted down the alley behind the theater.

“This must be exciting for you. I know I'm excited.”

You're a strange little woman, Miss Abernathy.

 

“S
HE'S OVER HERE
.”

No more than a step behind Paddington, Molly had to resist passing him. She peered around his burly frame and saw the woman's body crumpled up in the shadows at the edge of the sidewalk near the theater.

Rachel Donner, the woman who'd cried out for help, stood nearby. Molly recognized her now. She was one of the seven survivors. In her seventies, Rachel was slightly plump and short. Age had marked her beauty, and pain and fear now marked it even more. Her hand played at the silver rose pendant hanging from a necklace at her throat. She stood nearly ten feet from the body, her arms wrapped around herself. “There.” She grimaced. “Abigail's there. Iris and I were talking. Abigail had stepped away for a cig. She knows I can't handle the smoke with my asthma. The shot came out of nowhere. Someone just shot her.”

Although Molly had never seen a dead person outside of a funeral home or church, she was familiar with death through pets. She felt guilty about the comparison almost the moment she made it, but there it was. The woman had a stillness about her that couldn't be mistaken for sleep.

She lay on one side, her gray hair spread loose across the pavement. Surprise and fear had widened her eyes before death. Her lean face showed seventy plus years of a hard life, and her translucent skin was pulled tight over sharp bones. Sea air and the work of a fisherman's wife had roughened her skin and hands.

Paddington pulled a small notebook from inside his coat. He wrote briefly with an ink pen, then retrieved his walkie-talkie from his coat pocket. “Abigail Whiteshire. Run that name for me. Quickly.” He spelled it. “Get me an address and phone number.” After he tucked the walkie-talkie back into his pocket, he turned his attention to Molly again. “Do you happen to know where the other survivors are?”

Molly shook her head. Then she realized what Paddington was really saying, what made him ask the question— Abigail Whiteshire was one of the survivors, too. A cold chill stole down her back.
Iris. Iris is one of them. God.
She clenched her fist and made herself remain calm, but she searched the gathering crowd for Michael.

“Maybe we should find out where they are,” he said.

 

“M
OLLY
.” M
ICHAEL'S HEART
calmed a little when he saw that she was all right.

“I'm fine.” A short distance away, she stood beside the body of a prone woman. Uniformed police officers surrounded the area.

“Keep those people back.” Paddington gestured angrily. “I'll not have them trampling my crime scene.”

Immediately two young policemen surged forward and intercepted Michael, an outthrust arm catching him in the chest.

“I'm going to have to ask you to stay there.” The policeman was one of Paddington's veterans, grizzled and solid as a fire plug. Before Michael could even shift, the man's fist gripped the fabric of his coat. “Please, sir. Your cooperation would be for the best.”

Reluctantly, Michael held his distance.

Joyce Abernathy released her own hold on Michael's coat and sprinted around him. She'd almost gotten past the policemen when the younger one reached out and grabbed her.

“No! No, miss! You can't go over there!”

“Let me go!” Joyce fought against the policeman, but he was twice as big as she was. “Where is Simon?” She strained to see past her captor's shoulder.

Puzzled, Michael tried to remember where Simon Wineguard had gone. The man had disappeared almost as quickly as Molly had.

“Bloody cow! She poked me in the eye!” The young policeman clapped a hand to his face.

The older officer stepped away from Michael, captured
one of Joyce's hands almost effortlessly and snapped handcuffs on her. A second later, he pulled the other wrist in and secured it, as well.

“Settle down, miss.” His voice was rough and used to giving commands.

“I need to find Simon.”

People surged forward as the numbers in the alley increased.

“Is she dead?” A woman only a short distance away from Michael stopped and raised a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God. Is she dead?”

“Please stay back.” The young officer tried to assert his authority while holding a hand to his wounded eye.

“Stay back! Stay back or I'll run the lot of you in!” The older policeman's voice thundered over the crowd and temporarily quieted them.

“Of course she's dead. A lot of people have been killed in this alley.”

Everyone's attention swung to a young man with a shaved head and bristling black beard. Neon light from the theater glinted off the gold hoops dangling from his ears. He wore a leather jacket over a long-sleeved shirt and a loose pair of black jeans. The man looked a little more healthy than emaciated, but only a little. His dark eyes gleamed like black fire and he spoke in a rolling, well-modulated voice.

“Don't you remember the stories about Big Nick Berryhill and how this alley's cursed?” The young man wheeled on the crowd and those nearest him stepped back immediately. He raised his hands to call even more attention to himself. “In 1683, Big Nick Berryhill, captain of the pirate ship
Bloody Breath
—called that because he was fond of telling victims they'd taken their last bloody breath—slew three of his henchmen in this very alley.”

Whispers rose among the throng and people drew even farther back.

Michael recognized Liam McKenna then. McKenna was a fairly new arrival to Blackpool, as well, but he'd immersed himself in the town's culture. He and his sister Holly owned and operated Other Syde Haunted Tours, a local tourist attraction that focused on supposedly “haunted” areas of Blackpool.

“Big Nick killed those men without warning.” Liam paced the area in front of the crowd like a natural-born showman. “Slit the throats of all three of 'em. Clean as a whistle, he did.” He mimed cutting his throat to get his point across better. “Left 'em here in the alley for the rats to feed on.”

Mothers pulled their children back, but the kids looked mesmerized by the tale.

Although Michael didn't know Liam McKenna or his sister well, stories circulated about the two of them having criminal pasts. So far they'd done nothing wrong in town.

“Them three men was spying on Big Nick.” Liam's voice turned into a conspiratorial rasp. “They were after his treasure. And Big Nick knew it.” He flung an arm to encompass the alley. “But as they lay dying, they put a curse on Big Nick Berryhill and everyone in Blackpool that trod through this lane.”

“What kind of curse?” The mother of the boy who spoke cuffed him and he yelped.

“Don't encourage that loon,” she warned.

“‘Loon,' am I?” Liam drew himself up. Dark anger coiled within him and showed in the too-tight smile on his narrow face. “You live in a town of ghosts, of macabre murders, and you say that I am a loon, madam? I'd bet my
eyes that the curse those pirates placed on Blackpool is responsible for that poor woman's death.”

Muttered curses of another kind filled the alley, but no one spoke them too loudly. A cold breeze from the bay blew over Michael and he turned up the collar of his jacket as the back of his neck prickled.

“Big Nick Berryhill went down with his ship soon after they left Blackpool that murderous night.” Liam told his tale with gusto, obviously enjoying the attention.

The older policeman handed off Miss Joyce Abernathy to the younger officer. The woman seemed more calm now, but she still searched the crowd.

“You'll want to be moving along.” The older policeman walked toward Liam.

“And if I don't wish to move along?” Liam stood defiantly.

“Then I'm gonna arrest you for disturbing the peace.” The officer reached for his truncheon.

Grinning, Liam turned back to his audience. “If any of you want to know more about the ghosts of Blackpool, come see me.” He brought business cards out of his jacket pocket and threw them over the crowd like confetti. “I'm Liam McKenna, host of Other Syde Tours. Ghosts are my business.” He stepped away just ahead of the policeman reaching for him and melted into the ranks of the crowd.

Michael's iPhone buzzed in his pocket. He thought about ignoring it, then noticed that Molly held hers in her hand with a plea in her eyes. He fished out the phone and glanced at it.

 

Find Iris. She was with Abigail.

M
ICHAEL LOOKED AT
M
OLLY
and quickly touched his fingertips to his lips. He waved. She nodded but didn't wave in return. Casually as he could, Michael turned and headed back through the mass of people.

Iris Dunstead was their housekeeper. She was also one of the seven survivors Molly had shown on the theater screen along with Abigail Whiteshire—the woman he'd just seen dead on the alley's pavement.

That doesn't mean she's in danger.
Michael tried to console himself with that thought as he lifted his phone and brought up his contact list. But he couldn't forget the image of the body in the alley.

And Iris was supposed to be with her.
He shivered slightly, and it wasn't the chill this time. He and Molly were quite taken with Iris. She reminded him of a particularly dotty great-aunt he'd had.

The phone rang once and Irwin picked up.

“Good evening, sir.”

“There's been a problem.”

“The dead woman in the alley. Yes, sir. I'm aware of it.”

“I guess bad news travels quickly.” Michael turned and walked to the front of the theater. The crowd had thinned but bicycles filled the area.

“Actually, Miss Dunstead told me, sir.”

“Miss Dunstead? You've seen her?”

“She's with me now, sir.”

In disbelief, Michael looked up the street and saw Irwin standing outside the limousine. The light from the phone illuminated one side of his calm face. Michael suspected that the world could spin off its axis and not draw a raised eyebrow from the German caretaker. He was as taciturn and unflappable as Batman's Alfred.

“She does know that the police—in particular, Inspector Paddington—will want to speak with her,” Michael said.

“I'm not certain what she knows at this point, sir. But Miss Dunstead has assured me we have an engagement of some import to tend to. In fact, she was in the process of calling you when you called me.”

“What?”

“Perhaps it would be better if you were to take the matter up with her, sir.”

“I will.” Michael slid the phone into his jacket pocket as he reached the limo. He'd tell Molly he'd found Iris once he'd talked to her.

Irwin opened the rear door as if nothing were amiss.

Miss Iris Dunstead, in her seventies, was lean and fit. She wore a plum-colored evening dress that set off her white corsage, short white hair and white gloves, giving her a regal appearance. She even wore makeup. Michael could have counted the number of times that had happened on the fingers of one hand.

“Oh, please, Michael.” Iris shook her head slightly. “Don't stand out there with your mouth open. You'll swallow a fly or some other dreadful insect.” She scooted over and patted the seat beside her. “Please hurry. If we're in luck, we're going to catch the murderers.”

 

M
OLLY STARED AT THE
iPhone in her hand and willed it to flash on with a text message. She worked hard not to stare
at Abigail Whiteshire's body, but the task was impossible. She couldn't help wondering how the woman had been killed and if she was somehow responsible.

Of course you're somewhat responsible. You set up the event this evening. You let yourself get caught up in the history of the robbery. Abigail Whiteshire wouldn't have been here if you hadn't arranged everything.

A portly man carrying a black bag called to Paddington from the crowd.

The inspector yanked his glare from Molly and peered at the new arrival. Then he waved. “Dr. Littleton. Good of you to join us.”

Littleton held up his bag. “I thought perhaps you'd need me.”

“I do.”

The police officers widened the line enough to let Littleton through. The doctor was in his fifties with a clean-shaven face and a thin mustache. Horn-rimmed glasses gave him a professorial appearance. He wore a black suit and a long coat.

As he passed Molly, Dr. Littleton touched his hat in greeting. “Evening, Mrs. Graham. I must say, it was an excellent party until…this.”

“Thank you.”

Littleton knelt down beside the victim. In addition to his duties as a physician, he also held the post of coroner. Usually the crime scenes he worked were mishaps and pub brawls that had ended lethally.

He let go of the dead woman's arm. The limb flopped lifelessly to the ground. He pressed his fingers against her neck. “She appears to have been shot with a pistol at close
range, judging from the powder burns. I'd say death was instant. I'll know more later.”

Paddington nodded. “That'll do for now, Doctor. Is her handbag under her body?”

Littleton turned his attention back to the dead woman. “Give me a hand, would you?” Together, he and Paddington rolled the lifeless body up and peered under it. “No handbag here.”

“What about a pocketbook?”

The doctor searched the dead woman's clothing, then leaned back in surprise. “There doesn't seem to be one.”

“I've never met a woman who didn't travel with a handbag or pocketbook.” Paddington searched the ground, flicking the torch around carefully. “That means hers has to be here somewhere.”

Molly stepped back and scanned the vicinity, as well. Her iPhone buzzed for attention.

 

Found Iris.

 

She tapped the keys like lightning. Where?

 

She was with Irwin.

 

W
HAT ARE YOU
doing?

 

Michael stared at the text on his phone and wondered that exact same thing. If he had any sense, he'd—

“Contact Paddington?” Iris lifted her left eyebrow sarcastically. “That's what you're thinking, isn't it?”

Guilt crashed over Michael as he met the older woman's
gaze. He hadn't been able to hide anything from his great-aunt, either. He sighed. Then his iPhone vibrated again.

 

Michael?

 

Irwin piloted the limo through the darkened streets at well past the posted speed limits.

“Paddington would seem like the logical course of action.” Michael tapped a quick message to Molly.

 

Patience, love.

 

Iris blew a raspberry and shook her head. “You saw how mired he is there at the back of the theater. By the time he could get free, the men we're after will be long gone. It's a good thing I told Rachel to go home and wait there for the police to get to her. Her nerves wouldn't have been able to take this.”

“Men?” Michael's stomach turned cold and felt like it had been filled with broken glass.

“Yes. Two of them. One shot that poor woman while the other drove a motorbike to make their getaway.” Iris smoothed her coat. “I refuse to let that happen. Bad enough I saw them murder her.”

“Getaway?” Michael knew Iris loved murder mysteries, though she was actually a writer of historical novels. She and Molly shared favorite authors and chatted about books they'd read.

“As I said, two men drove up on a motorbike. One got off and shot Abigail to death. He searched her and took her handbag. By that time, Rachel and I were shouting at them. Rachel ran for help while I watched helpless, as the men got back on their motorbike and drove away. Would you call it something other than a getaway?”

“No.” Michael looked through the front window. Irwin drove smoothly. “You saw them do this?”

“Yes.”

“Why did they attack her?”

“I don't know. Rachel and I were out in the alley before Abigail. Maybe they left us alone because there were two of us, but I think they were after Abigail.”

“Why?”

“While that one searched her, he took something from his pocket—a phone, perhaps. He looked at Abigail again, snatched the handbag and they were gone in seconds.”

Immediately, Michael's mind spun, bouncing off the various angles that his imagination supplied him with. “What were you doing out in the alley?”

An uncomfortable expression crossed Iris's face. “To be quite frank, I found myself feeling a bit under the weather. Rachel walked me out to get some air.”

“She was nervous, sir.” Irwin looked back in the rearview mirror. “Tonight's introduction at the event didn't agree with her.”

“Was that why Abigail was out there?”

“She was having a cig,” Iris said.

“Okay.” The iPhone buzzed in Michael's hands again, but he ignored it when he saw it was Molly wanting an update. “So they were after her handbag?”

“I don't know. It all happened so fast.”

Michael took a breath and let it out. “Where are we going?”

“To Abigail's house.”

“Why would the murderers go there?”

“Because they didn't get what they were looking for.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I heard one of them say ‘It's not here!'” Iris
shrugged. “I'm thinking that's why they took her purse—to get her keys.”

Michael considered what they were facing and sat back in the seat. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt thick. He didn't know if he hoped Irwin arrived in time or not.