“But that’s just it. It’s not us. The Historical Society hasn’t purchased the house. We were outbid. We didn’t even know we were bidding. Someone—an outsider—swooped in at the last moment and stole the house out from under us!” Nora reached the counter, resting her elbows on it and dropping her head in her hands.
Ellery bent over her. “Are you all right?”
Nora, still clutching her head, shook no.
Everyone else—with the exception of Jack—was talking at once: who, what, where, when, why…
The why was the real question, in Ellery’s opinion. Why anyone, let alone the Pirate’s Cove Historical Society, would want to buy Skull House, was a mystery to him. For one thing, it was out on Pequot Bluffs, miles from the village. For another, the house was a wreck. Not as much of a wreck as Captain’s Seat, maybe—or maybe it was, because no one had lived there for the last fifty years. That amount of dust was probably lethal.
“I’m sorry. But, you know, maybe it’s for the best,” Ellery said. “Skull House would probably cost a fortune to get in shape, and it isn’t exactly conveniently located. There are other houses.”
“No, there really aren’t,” Mrs. Nelson informed him. “When was the last time you saw property for sale on the island?”
Well…never. Granted, he had only lived on Buck Island for four months.
“And no new construction,” Mr. Starling said. “Per the Buck Island Conservancy.”
“The Maples’ properties are going to come on the market eventually.”
“Eventually,” agreed Mrs. Nelson. “Which could be years from now. You know how courts are.”
Nora moaned. “I know! I know all that.”
The bells on the door chimed softly as Jack eased it open. He raised a hand in farewell to Ellery, who nodded back regretfully. He couldn’t blame Jack for making his escape. He just wished Jack had taken the others with him.
“To think an outsider could just come in and buy one of our historical landmarks.” That was Mrs. Ferris.
“It’s not actually a landmark, is it?” Ellery asked. “Not technically. Not legally.”
No one bothered to reply.
Mrs. Smith asked, “Who is this mysterious outsider? Who has bought Skull House?”
Nora raised her head. Her eyes were dry, so that was good. In fact, she looked more mad than sad.
“He’s a writer. Very popular, if you like that kind of thing.”
“What kind of thing?” Ellery asked. If this mysterious someone was a mystery writer, this might not be a total disaster. It was very hard to get authors to appear for book signings when they had to travel by ferry to a small island in the middle of nowhere. Okay, Rhode Island. Still.
“Sex?” Mr. Starling asked hopefully.
Nora said in tones of loathing, “I’m speaking of Brandon Abbott.”
Ellery stared at her. “Brandon?” he repeated. “Brandon Abbott?” He heard and understood the words, but somehow they seemed to have short-circuited his brain.
“Brandon Abbott. Yes.” Nora’s gaze grew curious at his obvious shock.
“I know him!” Mrs. Smith exclaimed. “He’s like Stephen King. He writes all that spooky stuff.”
“Horror,” Ellery said, which pretty much summed up his feelings regarding Brandon Abbott.
“Do you know Brandon Abbott?” Mrs. Nelson asked, surprised.
“I used to. He’s my ex.”
“I thought—” objected Nora.
“My other ex,” Ellery said.
Chapter Two
The familiar, comforting, theatrical scents of aged wood, fabric, mothballs, and sewing-machine oil greeted Ellery as he walked into the costume room at the old theater on Wallace Street Monday evening. It was clear, from the sudden cease fire, that everyone had been talking about him. Even the blank papier-mâché faces of the masks on the prop shelf looked vaguely guilty.
Nora, in charge of costumes for the play, glanced up from her worktable beneath the fluorescent lights and audibly gulped. “Dearie! There you are! We were just wondering whether you’d make tonight’s rehearsal.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Ellery asked.
“Oh, well, you know…” Nora faltered. “You’ve got little Watson to consider.”
“Little Watson is being babysat—puppy-sat—by Sandy’s daughter. Like he’s been every other rehearsal night.”
Nora cleared her throat nervously. “True. True. That child is wonderful with animals.”
Ellery shook his head.
The Scallywags, Pirate’s Cove’s local amateur theater guild, were putting on Murder Mansion, which Ellery had been talked into adapting from his own rejected screenplay Murder Under the Eaves. He was serving as a consultant to the production.
His gaze traveled over the little crowd, taking in the uncomfortable expressions of nineteen-year-old Libby Tulley and her boyfriend, Felix Jones, son of Pirate’s Cove newly reelected Mayor Cyrus Jones, who was also present, Nan Sweeny, Sue Lewis (oh, great, the editor of the Scuttlebutt Weekly was part of this gossip session), and a few others, including theater director Dylan Carter.
In addition to running the theater, Dylan owned the Toy Chest, the shop next door to the Crow’s Nest. Dylan was the closest thing Ellery had to a best friend in Pirate’s Cove. During the rainy winter months they had bonded over a shared love of Broadway, “real” pizza, flavored vodka, and cities that did not roll up the sidewalks at nine thirty.
“Et tu, Brute?” Ellery said.
Dylan blushed. “Hey, I’m here for a fitting!”
“Turns out so am I!” He wasn’t even sure what he meant by that, but everyone laughed.
Everyone but Dylan, who looked pained.
Libby giggled. “Not me. I want to hear all the news.”
“Quiet, you,” Dylan growled. He was small, slim, and always impeccably dressed—in costume or out. A well-preserved sixty-something, he had merry blue eyes and silver hair stylishly buzzed short on one side. When they’d first met, Ellery had figured Dylan was gay, which just went to show you should never judge a book—or a theater director—by its cover.
Libby laughed again, unimpressed.
Anyway, it wasn’t like Ellery wasn’t used to it. You can’t be suspected of murder and not spark a little neighborly chitchat. But after the Maples murder case wrapped up, he’d hoped his fellow citizens would find somebody else to talk about. And, in fairness, they had: Brandon Abbott. But Ellery had made a fatal mistake when he’d blurted that shocked admission in front of five of Pirate’s Cove’s finest blabbermouths, about once having been close to Brandon. Brandon was the nearest thing to a celebrity resident Buck Island had ever had.
It was probably all over the island now—and half the island wasn’t even inhabited.
“What’s he like?” Felix asked. “Is he as creepy as his books?”
No question who he was.
“No clue. I haven’t seen him in years,” Ellery said.
And he’d have been happy to go more years without seeing Brandon. He knew it was paranoid to think he had anything to do with Brandon’s decision to buy Skull House. Brandon probably hadn’t given him a thought since they split up. Out of sight, out of mind was Brandon’s motto. Especially when he owed you money.