Brewing the Midnight Oil Read online

Ivy shivered at the sight of the building. Not just because of the creepy exhibits within, but her memories of the terrifying adventure here.

  Everett parked around back by the office window. It had been repaired since they had broken in. Ivy felt a pang of guilt, even if they had saved a life.

  Someone inside must’ve noted the screaming-green sports car. Uniformed security rounded the building. Everett lowered his window.

  “Klein?” the guard asked. “This way.”

  She got out of the car, the wind gusty. Ivy tried to manage the skirt. She didn’t want to pull a Marilyn Monroe. Especially since she hadn’t bothered to change out of her comfy granny panties. Why had she agreed to this?

  They wandered around to a makeshift loading dock. A forklift beeped at them. It rolled past, burdened with a piano-sized crate. The guard led them to a familiar office. Two men in suits waited inside. The door was closed behind them.

  “Gus Beranger.” The man thrust out his hand at Klein. Augustine of Hippo Beranger, named for the saint that the city of St. Augustine itself was named after, was a wedge of a man. He stood maybe five-six, his shoulders nearly that wide. A square head with waves of silver hair seemed directly attached to the shoulders.

  Everett shook. “You need our help with something.”

  Part of Everett Klein’s charm was an inhuman ability to phrase questions as statements.

  “I still say we handle this internally.” The speaker was a tall black man, huge jaw, gleaming shaved head.

  Gus frowned at him. “We did handle this internally, Frankie. Look where it’s gotten me.”

  The man didn’t react, but he stopped talking.

  “In ten days, we host the annual True Treasures event here,” Gus said. “That means all the real goods, the priceless stuff, the items we display as replicas with the real thing in a vault somewhere.”

  Gus gave Frankie a hard stare.

  “Something was stolen,” Everett said.

  After giving Everett and Ivy an assessing up-and-down, Gus pointed his thumb. “Let’s us take a walk.”

  The Grand Odditorium was a mix of traditional museum and freak show. They walked past the hallway for The Beasts that Time Forgot, a display of local fossil animals, and then Medical Horrors and Torture, followed by Freaks of Nature that housed preserved specimens and taxidermy of two-headed animals and the like. Gus led them down the last hallway.

  Since grade school fieldtrips, Pirates of the Spanish Main had always been Ivy’s favorite exhibit. It was decked out as a sunken ship. Through broken ribs, windows showed chests stacked with coins and jewelry, royal crowns, yards of pearls. The greenish color of the glass and the flickering lights gave it that underwater vibe. Running centrally were free-standing cases.

  Ivy looked at each as they walked. She saw a rusty cutlass supposedly belonging to one of Robert Searle’s pirates, a pistol supposedly the property of Sir Francis Drake, a polished stick and a rope said to be a garrote used to execute convicted pirates. Gus stopped at the last case. Inside was a bust covered in black velvet. A tiara topped the featureless head. It gleamed, silver and gold, a spray of small diamonds, a pink stone the size of a silver dollar caught in a fancy net of filigree.

  “The prize of my collection,” Gus made a sweeping gesture.

  “Stolen,” Everett said.

  The wealthy man sadly eyed the replica in the glass case. “I’ll have the whole town here, wanting to see the real megalodon jaw, the real mammoth skull with its tusks, the real Drake pistol—which we have fully verified by the way—the real gold, the real silver plate, the real Princess Ursin’s ruby rosary, and especially, the Queen’s Dowry Tiara. It’s a huge draw every year. Forget the family visits and school trips, this is the real show, the event of the year. I can’t let anyone find out about this, and I sure as hell can’t exhibit this piece as the real deal.”

  “That’s why you’ve come to us instead of the cops.” Everett said.

  Gus nodded. “The investigation calls for delicacy.”

  “The authentic tiara was stored in your home vault,” Everett said.

  “Delicacy,” Beranger leaned forward and whispered.

  The detective nodded. “I’ll need to see the employment records of everyone who has access to your home vault. Also, a list of all the residents over the past year.”

  “I’ll have it all couriered to you when my office opens.” Gus shook hands again.

  Ivy held her questions until they were seated in the Viper, heading toward August Botanica. “How did you know the real tiara was kept at Gus’ house?”

  Everett didn’t look up as he navigated the crazy streets of Historic St. Augustine. The Colonial Quarter was still thick with traffic. San Marcos was a parking lot. He cut across the peninsula toward Ponce de Leon. “Google.”

  Duh. “But why the residents over the past year?”

  He pointed the car north. “As of a year ago, the real tiara was exhibited at this shindig. Unfortunately, it could’ve been stolen at any time this past year. No timeframe, no alibi needed, plenty of time to cover any evidence. This might be tough.”

  Everett pulled the car to the curb behind Blanche’s. “So how do we crack it?”

  “I’ll go through the paperwork when I get it. Can you stop by the office after work?”

  Ivy got out of the low car. “I’ll be there.”

  Lights were on in the shop, but the doors were still locked. Ivy pushed in, bell jangling above. Ivy rolled the barn door open. The greenhouse was occupied only by flora. Her cousin was a comfort-seeking creature. Ivy headed to the consultation room.

  “Sakes, where were you? I thought I’d have to open the shop.” She sat at the table in the air conditioned room, typing on her laptop. “I thought I was supposed to help you with a potion.”

  “You were,” Ivy said. “At sunrise.”

  “Sunrise? On my day off? Why did I agree to that? Must’ve done it in a fever.”

  “I’m-a go open up,” Ivy said.

  Blanche looked up from the screen. “Wait, aren’t you gonna tell me where you were?”

  “With Detective Tight-Butt in the Green Sex Machine.” Moira appeared, sitting on the consultation couch. She wore a men’s suit with no shirt and a broad-brimmed hat. RuPaul was having an influence on her wardrobe.

  Ivy nodded. “I’m working on a case.”

  “A case of what?” Blanche’s brows drew together.

  “A criminal case, sugar-pie,” Moira said. “A mystery. I swear, Blanche, too much college has educated the sense out of you.”

  Chapter 3

  Between customers, Ivy tended her poison garden. It was snugged in the corner between the staggered shelves that held her herbs, cacti and smaller plants for sale; and an angled rack of garden décor. A spell kept customers from wandering in there. Blanche hung out in the consultation room, away from the Biddy Committee clattering around Light House. She needed the quiet to work on her thesis. Moira was suspiciously absent, not even appearing to comment on the wardrobes of Ivy’s clientele.

  All day, Ivy thought about this case. She really wasn’t qualified to be a detective, even if she had helped solve Abigail’s abduction. The only reason she tried was because Abigail was a friend and long-time customer. What the heck did she know about jewelry heists?

  Before closing for the day, she grabbed a tiny vial of Growtion, lots of nutrients and a little magic, from the fridge. If Klein wanted help with his office plants, he was going to get it. She headed down the hall to the consultation room. Blanche was packing up.

  “What kind of thesis do you need to write for a degree in ceramics anyway?” Ivy asked.

  “It’ll be a full-blown dissertation when I’m done. My thesis is the impact on archeological discoveries on modern ceramics art. Once I get my PhD, I could teach, or start up my own studio. Of course, I don’t need a doctorate to either of those.”

  “Maybe you just like the sound of Dr. Blanche Light Munroe.”

  Her cousin smiled a
little. “Perhaps. Or maybe it’s all a big stall so I don’t have to become an adult. But this isn’t some hippy degree. A big part of the curriculum is reaching out to galleries and agents and the like. It puts you on the road to being a professional artist.”

  “As opposed to a starving artist?” Ivy said.

  “Something like that.” Blanche slung the laptop case over her shoulder. “You coming up to the house for supper? Daddy’s making fish and chips.”

  Uncle Roby always made fish and chips. He would make it again tomorrow night, maybe dressing it up with sweet potato fries and whatever he caught off the dock. It was his specialty. His only other dish was bacon and eggs for breakfast.

  “I gotta get with Everett Klein.”

  “Oh, right, your mystery. What did you say it was? The missing crown jewels?”

  They walked out, Ivy pausing to lock the door. “It’s a tiara, a marriage gift for some princess or something. You’ve seen it. It’s on display in the Pirates of the Spanish Main exhibit in the Grand Auditorium.”

  “I guess it didn’t make that big an impression on me,” Blanche said. “When you’re a kid, I guess you focus on other things, like the dinosaur bones and the underwater treasure stuff.”

  Ivy had to smile. “Yeah, I’ve always liked that display. I think I paid more attention to the showy stuff this morning than I did to the actual stolen artifact.”

  “You don’t have the first clue what you’re doing, do you Cuz?”

  Ivy shook her head. “Nope.”

  She drove her little truck to Everett Klein’s office. Located in a shady part of town and cleverly disguised as one half of a duplex, it was hard to find even though Ivy had been there before. At the door, she hesitated. Did she knock, or just let herself in? Were they actually partners? Not feeling at all partner-y, she rang the doorbell.

  “It’s open,” she heard. Ivy did a turn in the reception room. She saw his dying plants sitting on the shelf below a bay window. Curtains were drawn tight. A quick finger in the potted soil came up dry. She took a quick inventory—there was a philodendron potted in a nice white urn decorated with grape vines, a rare angel wing begonia with polka dots, and a plain terra cotta pot that looked to hold a dry salad. In opposite corners, she saw a fern and a mass cane in floor pots.

  “Your plants are missing two magic ingredients.” Ivy walked into his office. The desk was stacked with files. “Water and sunlight.”

  Klein didn’t look up from the computer. “Those are supposed to be low-light plants.”

  “Yeah, low, but not no-light plants. Where’s your watering can?”

  “I use the carafe on the coffee machine.” He angled his head to the right. Ivy walked past into a regular old kitchen. There was still cowboy coffee in the container. She rinsed it, filled it, and added just a couple drops of Growtion. She watered the plants on the bay window sill first and cranked open the curtains. It took another pot and a half to get the floor plants up to speed.

  “Have you come up with any suspects?” she asked as she worked.

  Everett chuckled. “Beranger has. He’s fingering the estate and descendants of Robert Ripley.”

  Ivy paused in her watering and gave him a stare. “You mean, Robert L. Ripley, the Ripley’s Believe It Or Not guy?”

  “Apparently, Beranger’s grandfather started the Grand Odditorium as part of a bet with Ripley. The Berangers have been in the import-export business for a long time, and grandpa had amassed an interesting collection. Both museums started up around the same time. Ripley’s is of course the better known, but with the playground, picnic area, pavilion and all that, the Grand Odditorium has better attendance.”

  Ivy asked, “What was the bet?”

  “Beats me. I guess neither side has won yet.” He moved from the keyboard to the desk, digging up a file. “Take a load off.”

  He nodded to a visitor chair. Ivy sat and took the file. Inside she found photos of the real tiara and a lot of historical information.

  “It’s cursed?” She read a few lines.

  “Anyone not of royal blood dies if they possess the tiara,” Everett wiggled his index finger at the file. “There are a couple newspaper clippings that back that up, and some photocopies of a missionary’s diary that’s also relevant.”

  Ivy read for a while. Some of the newsprint had browned and become brittle. “You think it’s cursed?”

  “Absolutely not.” Everett flipped a few file folders around. “It goes to chain of evidence. Well, provenance in this case.”

  “And Gus Beranger is still alive,” Ivy pointed out.

  “He doesn’t own it. The tiara is held in a trust for the museum. Technically, no one owns it. Pretty clever way to avoid a curse.”

  Perhaps it was, Ivy mused. But she was eager to get on with it. “What’s our next step?”

  He stacked up files and handed them to her. “We interview people with access to Beranger’s home vault.”

  Ivy hefted the folders. “All these people?”

  “There’s a guard posted on the vault twenty-four-seven for starters.” Everett leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “The vault is in the east wing of Beranger’s residence. The east wing is also the offices for his import business. Four employees work out of the office. Plus, he has a staff for the house, butler, maid, cook, all of whom also have some access. Then there’s family, a wife, two kids from a previous marriage who are mostly off on their own. Other employees, warehouse foremen, lawyers, money managers, make regular visits to that part of the house.”

  Ivy balked at the enormity of the task. “We have to talk with all these people?”

  “We should probably consider Beranger’s rivals. Robert Ripley can get scratched. But import-export can get pretty cutthroat, and it can draw a certain criminal element. Smugglers, human traffickers, drug dealers—some might be out to put Beranger Import out of business, and some might want to steal a valuable object.”

  “Is there some way to narrow it down?”

  Everett nodded at the pounds of paper in her hands. “Do some homework. Read through the background and see if anything sticks out. We’ll hit anyone looking a little suspicious up early on.”

  “What do we do in the meantime?”

  “Interview the house staff and employees working in the east wing. I’d like to get on it first thing tomorrow.”

  Ivy plopped the files on the desk. “Hang on a second. Why do you need me for any of this? I don’t have the first clue what I’m doing.”

  Everett took his hands from behind his head. He put his elbows on the desk. “Honestly, I don’t need you for any of this. But someone convinced Beranger that we two are a team.”

  Why this idea felt so attractive, Ivy couldn’t say. She would be assisting on a real life case. There was still her shop to consider. Someone had to man the cash register during the day. Still struggling internally, she scooped up the file folders. “I guess I’m in.”

  “Great. Keep track of your hours.”

  That gave her pause. “Are you paying me for this?”

  “No, I’m claiming the hours as an expense.”

  She felt her face screw up. “What do I get out of this?”

  “You get to ride around in a rare muscle car and act like an authority figure. Take it or leave it.”

  ***

  She trooped out to her truck, encumbered by the stack of files. Is this what detective work was? It was no wonder everyone didn’t do it. It seemed like much more fun on TV.

  Ivy grabbed some Cuban take-out on her way home. Halfway there, she decided to head to Light House instead. Tomorrow she could indulge in some fish and chips. For the time being, she was certain her mama knew something about cursed tiaras. Mama was an expert on local lore and history.

  She sent Blanche a text while sitting at a red light. Her cousin texted back that supper was long done and there were no leftovers. Ivy unwrapped her frita sandwich and ate it on the way.

  Chapter 4
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br />   “Tell me everything.” Blanche sat in the parlor with the Bitty Committee watching reruns of Expedition Unknown. Aunt Abitha had a thing for Josh Gates, but Ivy thought he sounded a little too much like Kermit the Frog.

  Their current stray cat crawled up in Ivy’s lap as she sat in a recliner. “Not much to tell, really. Someone stole an artifact from Gus Beranger’s private vault, and we’re supposed to figure out who did it and where it is.”

  “Gus Beranger—the guy who owns the Grand Odditorium?” Blanche gave her a sideways look of concern. “You were nearly killed there by those magic parasites.”

  An image of the shambling, cobweb-covered creatures popped into Ivy’s brain. She did her best to push it away. “Hopefully, we won’t spend a lot of time in the museum.”

  “What was it that got stolen, sugar?” Mama asked.

  “Pirate treasure. Sort of.” Ivy fished through her stack of folders. She came up with a photo of the tiara.

  Mama put on her glasses. “Sakes, is that the Treasure Fleet tiara?”

  To Ivy’s chagrin, she didn’t actually know what it was called. “It’s supposed to be cursed.”

  “It most certainly is!” Mama sat back in her chair, hands folded, getting into lecture mode. “In 1715, a hurricane sunk twelve ships loaded with silver plate and treasure down near Vero Beach. Part of the booty was a collection of gifts from the king of Spain to his future wife. That included the tiara. Havana smiths created the tiara from the gold and silver of several Aztec death whistles.”

  Auntie Abitha stole her eyes from Josh Gates in a wet suit. “Did you say death whistles?”

  “They weren’t verified until archeologists dug up several samples in 1990 at the burial site of a human sacrifice.” Mama started warming up.

  Moira shimmered into view on the couch. “Yawn!” she said.

  “When the whistle is blown, it makes a sound like a human death shriek.” Mama smiled. “They’re even shaped like little human skulls. Isn’t that clever?”

  Ivy wasn’t sure clever was the word. “So the jewelers melted the whistles down and made a crown.” She tried to get Mama back on track.