Chapter 8
eight
“L et me get this straight.” Zoey shoved a plate with a strawberry-lemon beignet across the black iron table to Elisa before taking the other chair for herself. “Noah Hebert ran into a burning building for you?”
The fairy lights clustered in fleurs-de-lis shaped wall vases across the sage-colored walls blurred in Elisa’s tired eyes as she skimmed her thumb over the dish’s stamped Bayou Beignets logo. After her morning, she didn’t have much appetite for the fuchsia and yellow street staring up at her. Her head hurt, and her arms ached from cleaning. “Well, a smoking building, technically.”
“Hey, where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And in this instance, I mean literally and figuratively.” Zoey folded her arms over the table and leaned forward. “I heard you swooned in his arms?”
Good gravy, Magnolia Bay’s gossip mill churned faster than the Pioneer Woman made butter. “Don’t even go there. Captain Sanders said it was a mix of shock, low blood pressure, and skipping breakfast that rendered me unconscious.”
Of course, Noah had brought over a sump pump he’d had in storage at the inn, which was sort of hero-like and made the cleaning that morning go much faster. But telling Zoey would only feed her friend’s delusion.
Zoey wiggled her eyebrows as she bit into her cookie-topped beignet, the bangles on her wrist jangling. “Sure. Low blood pressure…and chemistry.”
Elisa pinched off a piece of her dessert. “I fainted . I didn’t get hit in the head.” Which is what it would take to fall for Noah Hebert again—sump pump or not.
Zoey tilted her head. “Or maybe Noah isn’t as bad as you’ve been told your whole life.”
“I’m starting to regret agreeing to Trish’s suggestion that I take a break before we get back to cleaning.” Elisa popped a bite into her mouth. “Besides, you were the one threatening to remind Noah about what a jerk he’s been. Let’s go back to that.”
Zoey lifted both hands. “Look, you know I’m on your side. But Noah seems to be helping you a lot suddenly.” She grinned. “Can’t we all just get along?”
Elisa snorted. “Try telling that to the multiple generations of two families who both think the other stole their land.”
“Did they?”
“Someone’s in the wrong. I’ve been told it’s the Heberts, of course.”
“I don’t get it. It was such a long time ago.” Zoey shrugged. “Why not just accept the fact that whoever holds the current title is the legal owner, and move on with your lives?”
“I’m not hung up on it, personally. I couldn’t care less about the land around the Blue Pirogue.” Elisa pressed her thumb against a rogue piece of fuchsia icing. “But it became about more than the land. You know it got personal for a lot of people—especially Noah’s generation. After his dad, well, you know.”
Zoey nodded. “Oh yeah. Scandal of the decade, apparently.”
“You’d think it’d been the scandal of a century. Besides, it’s not just the feud or the stories I’ve been told that have given me my opinion about Noah.” Elisa jerked her gaze to meet her friend’s. “I also have personal experience, remember?” The lending of one sump pump didn’t negate a decade of history.
“Maybe.” Zoey pointed at her with a ring-adorned finger. “But I also know what I saw when I pulled up at the inn the other night—and it wasn’t two people looking at each other like they were locked in an eternal battle.”
“Then you need glasses.” Elisa leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “You’d be cute in them, actually.”
“Don’t change the subject. Though you’re right.” Zoey ate a piece of cookie off the top of her pastry. “I’ve known you long enough that I’ve earned the right to point out the obvious now and then.”
Elisa pinned her friend with a stare. “And what’s so obvious that I’m missing?”
“Easy.” Zoey swiped crumbs off the table onto the floor. “Feud or not, history or not—you’re looking forward to this collaboration with Noah.”
Elisa sat straight, her chair squeaking on the tile floor. “I am not?—”
“You’re trying to convince me—and yourself—that you’re not, but you are.” Her friend nodded. “You’re into this, aren’t you? Tell the truth…and don’t make me pull the scout’s honor card.”
Elisa frowned. “We were never scouts.”
“Well, I was, for a day back in sixth grade. Then I realized I hate camping and brown isn’t my color.” Zoey grinned.
Elisa’s head pounded too hard to argue. “Maybe I was looking forward to the hunt. But only because it had the potential to be fun. Following clues, solving a mystery, finding treasure…it’s a puzzler’s dream.” Her eagerness to get back to the clues surged just from speaking about it.
Then reality diffused the spark. “But I’m not sure how much it’s going to matter. We’re stuck on the first clue.” And now she had the soggy diner to deal with.
“Stuck already? That doesn’t sound like you.” Zoey furrowed her brow. “Though to be fair, it doesn’t sound like you had much time to solve it before the café caught fire, either.”
“True.” She could still remember the stricken look on Noah’s face as he grabbed her hand and hauled her off the Chug a Mug sofa, the way he’d blocked the café’s door with his arm to keep her from going in first…
So maybe it was more than the sump pump.
“The annual Scavenger Hunt is coming up this summer, right? That’s not scratching your puzzler’s itch?” Zoey stood from the table as a middle-aged couple strolled inside the shop, the chimes on the door jingling in their wake. She called to them, “Be right with you!”
“The Scavenger Hunt is a good time, but it’s a lot of work. And it’s a puzzle I have to plan for everyone else.” Elisa hesitated as the truth of her next words hit hard. “This one was planned for me.” Which didn’t make sense considering her lack of relationship with Gilbert Hebert. Still, she couldn’t deny that it made her feel special.
“Planned for you…and for Noah.” Zoey arched an eyebrow at Elisa. “ Together .” Then without waiting for a response, she headed for the couple perusing the display case in their matching Magnolia Bay tourist T-shirts. “See anything you like?”
Before the couple could answer, the chimes sounded again, and Linc Fontenot barreled inside, a scowl sketched across his face. “Zoey Claire!”
Zoey jerked at his bellow. “Jumpin’ June bugs, Linc! What’s your problem?”
Elisa smirked. She might technically be Zoey’s best friend, but Linc had always been a close second. And Zoey might be the only person on the bay who could get away with talking to Linc like that.
He came to stand directly in front of Zoey, his eyes narrowed. “You told me the beignets were almond-free.”
“The ones you got were.” She crossed her arms, clearly not intimidated by his towering frame.
“Aye. Does this look almond-free?” He raised the hem of his long-sleeved T-shirt, revealing a six pack of abs covered in pink hives.
The middle-aged woman standing at the counter gawked until her husband nudged her. Elisa covered her mouth to hide her grin.
Zoey tugged his shirt down, then grabbed Linc’s arm and steered him a few feet away from the counter. “I’m with customers.”
“I’m a customer. A loyal one, at that.” He scowled again. “Who you tried to kill.”
“You are not deathly allergic to almonds. I told you there was the possibility of cross contamination—along with that sign in bright red letters.” Zoey pointed to the counter by the cash register.
Linc lifted his chin. “You never warned me.”
“Maybe if you hadn’t been complaining about my prices, you could have heard me. Besides, this could be from anything—like laundry detergent or soap.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Do you have any Benadryl?”
He growled. “I don’t take medicine.”
“Then be itchy. Preferably somewhere other than my store.” She attempted to turn his broad shoulders toward the exit.
Linc, unfazed, didn’t budge. He lowered his voice, ducking his head. “What kind of medicine did you say it was, again?”
“ Benadryl . Oh my word, Linc. Look, I’ll swing by Magnolia Grocery and bring it to you as soon as the part-timer gets here to relieve me.”
“Okay.” Linc, still scowling, reluctantly moved toward the door. Then he called over his shoulder to the couple still standing wide-eyed by the display case, “Don’t get the lemon tarts.” He lifted his shirt again in warning.
“Out!” Zoey shoved him through the door, shutting it behind her with a clang of the chime.
Elisa caught Zoey’s eye and raised one brow, her spirits suddenly lifted. “Speaking of together ...”
“Speaking of don’t even go there …” Zoey pointed in warning, then adjusted her logo T-shirt and smiled at the stricken couple. “Now, where were we?”
“Harold likes strawberry.” The woman, who sported a fanny pack, gestured to the display. “I wanted to try a chocolate, but I was afraid it might melt in the car.”
“Too messy on the seats.” Harold nodded, his straw hat askew. “We’re not used to hot spring temps like this up in Michigan.”
“Our traditional beignets probably handle the heat best.” Zoey moved behind the counter and grabbed a pair of tongs. “Or maybe you’d prefer caramel?”
As their conversation droned on, Elisa pulled out her phone and sent Trish a text letting her know she’d be back soon. She still needed to figure out the best way to break the news to Delia, if someone hadn’t beaten her to it.
The chit-chat continued from the serving counter.
“Where are you two headed next?” Zoey tucked the cardboard flaps inside the bakery box.
Harold pulled his wallet from his shorts. “We have a tradition—every new town we visit, we see a lighthouse if we can.”
“It’s silly. But it’s our thing. Isn’t that right, dear?” The woman hooked her arm through Harold’s. “Every year for thirty years.”
Harold handed over his payment. “She likes the lights in those big ol’ structures. Finds it romantic, somehow.”
“How can you not?” The lady sighed. “Lighthouses are pure poetry.”
Elisa frowned. The word poetry niggled her brain, sparking an idea just out of reach. Paul Revere. The poem. Clue #1.
And I on the opposite shore will be…
Her eyes widened.
Hang a lantern aloft…as a signal light…
“That’s it!” She shoved her chair backward. Her heart thudded a frenetic rhythm in her chest as she grabbed her purse. “Zoey, I’ll call you later.”
She’d solved the first clue.
* * *
His grandfather’s personal library was the only space in the Blue Pirogue that Noah couldn’t bear to update.
He strolled the perimeter of the room, his gaze roaming from title to title on the cherrywood shelves. Afternoon sunlight poured through the narrow windows lining the west wall, sending dust particles dancing across the beams. He’d come to test his theory on the spoon collection, but stepping foot in the room for the first time in weeks and looking—really looking —slowed down time. Like maybe Grandpa wasn’t gone. He was just at a Puzzler’s Club meeting or picking up those orange hard candies he liked from Magnolia Grocery, and would be back any minute. He’d laugh and his bushy eyebrows would creep up his head as he regaled Noah with some exaggerated tale.
But there were no footsteps heading into the library. The spoon collection sat in a display case near the window, but lethargy and nostalgia held Noah back from checking. Not yet.
Running one finger down the spine of a hardback copy of Johnny Tremain , Noah took a deep breath, imagining he could still smell peppermint and cigars. Most likely, though, he smelled the smoke from the diner clinging to his own hair.
What a day. He’d put in several hours at the café with Elisa, setting the diner back to rights in hopes of giving Delia the smallest shock possible when she came home from the hospital.
He’d also spent a portion of that clean-up time trying not to notice how adorable Elisa looked sopping wet. Trying not to remember the time they’d overturned his boat, and she’d popped out of the waves, sputtering for breath with her hair plastered over her face like it’d been while standing under those fire sprinklers. He’d peppered her nose with relentless kisses that afternoon in the bay until she’d laughed and forgiven him.
Not that he’d wanted to attempt the same today. It was a memory—one out of a million from that summer.
His hand skimmed over several American history texts, then stopped at the empty spot on the shelf. Odd—Grandpa’s collector’s edition of The Count of Monte Cristo wasn’t in its usual place. Maybe he’d read it more recently and left it elsewhere in the inn.
His fingers then landed on a dusty frame of Grandpa and Noah standing on the dock, taken when Noah was eleven. In typical pre-teen fashion, he’d refused to smile for the camera, but even now, he could see the joy he’d felt that day fishing—and it’d had nothing to do with the impressive bass dangling from the end of his line.
“I wish you were here.” The whispered words seemed to ricochet off the matching cherry desk with the antique lamp and the old-fashioned letter inbox. Grandpa never had adjusted to the concept of email, preferring to do things “as our capable forefathers did” when it came to communication. Of course, he did eventually learn to play Solitaire on the boxy desktop computer he’d finally been persuaded to buy.
If he could ask his grandfather for advice now, he would. He’d already spoken with two mold mitigation people, and one wanted a large deposit up front—a payment that would take the remaining money in the inn’s account plus a chunk of Noah’s personal savings, which he was currently living off while on hiatus from his landman work running title. He could ask his project manager for a new project and start working half-days from his laptop, but that would delay progress on the final restoration, which would then delay his return to Shreveport.
And he needed to get back to Shreveport.
“I guess if you were here, I wouldn’t have to figure all this out, would I?” Noah released a humorless laugh. The second mitigation company was booked up for months—not surprising in the wake of Hurricane Anastasia. But they didn’t require nearly as high of a deposit, having adjusted their fee schedule out of sympathy for their sudden influx of customers.
So Noah could pay more and get it done sooner, or save money and be forced to stay in Magnolia Bay longer—assuming the treasure hunt would deliver funds that would cover the remaining balance on either option.
“Everything feels like a catch twenty-two lately.” Noah set the framed photo on the shelf. Grandpa couldn’t hear him, but it still felt freeing to release the concern into the air. Maybe God would hear instead and send some sort of inspiration or solution.
Not that Noah deserved it.
He ambled to the desk, pulled the miniature key to the collector’s case from the drawer where Grandpa always kept it, and slid it into his pocket. There was another key next to it, bigger and half-buried under a pile of envelopes. What in the world did that go to?
Then his gaze caught Grandpa’s ancient letter opener, the one with the carved pelican—the Louisiana state bird—on the end, and Noah smirked. When he was a kid, he liked to play with the items on Grandpa’s desk, so Grandpa told him a spooky story about a cursed ghost pelican living in the bay so he’d be too scared to pick it up and risk cutting himself.
He’d believed that story until he was nearly thirteen.
Noah chuckled under his breath, picking up the time-dulled blade. “I think I believed almost everything you told me.” The stillness of the library absorbed his declaration, the statement disappearing into the numerous volumes of words surrounding him. “There are several stories now I sure wish I could hear again.”
Such as the time Grandpa pranked everyone in his first puzzler’s club meeting by pretending not to speak English. And when he took a cross-country road trip in his twenties with his brother—Noah’s Great Uncle William, now deceased—and ended up having dinner with two well-known celebrities but didn’t realize it until halfway through the meal.
Or why he divorced Grandma Edith when Noah was seven.
He drew a tight breath and set the letter opener back in its case. Hebert men were known to be quitters in all the ways that mattered, and Noah refused to let history repeat itself.
The story about the cursed ghost pelican might not be real, but that generational curse sure was.
Noah’s cell buzzed in his pocket, providing a welcome relief from his thoughts. He checked the display—unknown number. He silenced it and slid his phone back into his pocket, then crossed the floor toward the spoon case. Might as well get to work.
He unlatched the glass door and searched the rows of antique silver until he found the collectible Paul Revere spoon. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and the dust patterns in the case didn’t appear disturbed. Still, to be sure, he carefully lifted the velvet display tray and peered under it.
Nothing. He’d been wrong.
Which meant Elisa had been right.
His cell buzzed again, same number as before. He sighed and answered as he put the tray back into place. “Hello?” Probably a spam call.
“Noah, finally.”
Elisa? His gaze darted back to the spoons. Had his being wrong somehow sent an invisible radar pulse to alert her? “How did you get this number?”
“That’s not important.” Her breathy tone indicated excitement—unless she was jogging. “Are you ready to go?”
“Go where?” He peered cautiously out the front window to make sure she wasn’t running across his yard again.
“To get clue number two.” Victory crackled through her tone. “I figured it out.”
Of course she had. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see. Be ready in ten.” Her voice pitched higher. “No, five.”
He headed for the library door, flipping the light switch, and pulled the door shut behind him. “I’m ready now.”
“Good, because I’m here.” He could hear tires crunching the Blue Pirogue’s gravel drive. “Bring some cash.”
What was she up to now? He patted his pocket for his wallet. “Got it.”
Her voice wavered. “And maybe some lavender oil.”
He tensed. “That’s oddly specific.”
“You’ll see when we get there.”
Oh, brother.