i iClue Mystery One: Jessie’s Mystery
Happy Seis de Mayo. This week, as some of you know, I’ve been guesting for the lovely Roecker sisters’ iClue Mystery. Solving my mystery means you’ll have the password that will enter you for a grand prize of an iPod Touch.
Here now is the entire mystery . . .
BACK STORY: My new novel, TIGHTER is about Jamie, who arrives on the fictional New England island of Little Bly to work as an au-pair—and is caught up in the disastrous events of what happened the year before. But my iClue mystery centers on the tragic Jessie Feathering, whose white-hot romance last summer proved to be as irresistible as it was fatal.
It had been taped to her windshield of her Beamer, so that she saw it before she left for Green Hill Beach Club that morning.
An index card, on which is scribbled a note:
Be with me, Jessie
She flipped the card into the back seat. “Thanks, babe, but I’m busy right now,” she called out, all fake nonchalance. The answering silence felt hostile. Her heart drummed in her chest. Of course, it could be anyone. But was it Peter, playing a game? They’d broken up—again, secretly, for the millionth time—last week. Nobody knew. Or so she thought. Or maybe . . . no. He didn’t know.
And if he did, he wouldn’t dare. Would he?
At the club, the girls have already staked out their lounge chairs. Same old same old. Poolside in the morning, Cobb salads with balsamic on the side for lunch at the Mud Hut. Then down to the ocean to bake away the afternoon. These lazy summer days seemed to slip so easily into one another.
But today was different. He’s here—somewhere—and he’s watching. Even as she greeted her friends, skimmed off her cover-up sundress to apply her own one-two combo of sunflower oil and SPF . . . she sensed him. Feigning another bored yawn, Jessie picked up her phone to check her messages . . . and her pulse jumped.
Ambient noise faded as Jessie blinked down at her emails. The screaming and squawking of the hungry seagulls. Her friends, Emory and Noogie, giggling over nothing together. That overplayed Bruno Mars song that the lifeguard loved too much.
Sandwiched between a Spam from FreePeople.com about their summer sale and a note from her Dad’s assistant—probably reminding her about her dental checkup, the message is from patronsaintof@gmail.com.
“That’s so not a valid account.” She was talking to herself; guiltily, she looked up and around. Any other day, she’d have tossed it unopened into her trash. But she had a feeling about today—that it would be more dangerous to ignore this creepy game than to play along.
Her finger double-clicked and opened to a vintage photo of a group of men seated both comfortably and precariously on a steel beam, high over the city, of a building under construction.
But now Emory was breathing down her neck. “What the . . . ?” She snatched the phone and tossed it to Noogie, who sniggered. “Patron Saint of? That some new club?”
“No, Jessie’s a sinner,” said Emory, “and now she’s got the Church after her.”
“And we all know why,” added Noogie, pointedly.
Jessie snatched back the phone and rolled her eyes. “Whatever. If pictures of old-timey construction workers are sending me a message, it’s pretty cryptic.”
But she didn’t like the feeling of the other girls’ eyes on her, or the implication of Noogie’s remark. A girl could play, right? And she’d have to do a lot worse around here to get the Church after her. She stared at the photo. Patron Saint of Buildings? And did this image relate to the card on her windshield this morning?
She suspected it did.
He was attempting to meet with her. That’s all she knew. Maybe it was Peter, or maybe not. He didn’t want her to know who he was. He was hoping to interest the flirt in her, the girl who’d be intrigued to see who showed up. If she got another clue, would she follow it . . . all the way to him?
“I’ll have one Bacon-Blue Cheeseburger,” she ordered, when they’d all trekked up to the Mud Hut for lunch, “plus a large chocolate shake.”
“Oooh, Jessie’s stress-eating.” Emory’s eyes twinkled over the menu. “No Cobb salad and iced-tea? What gives?”
“Nothing.”
“Another mini-break up with Peter, probably.” Noogie smirked. “Why don’t you two get married already? Save us all the drama?”
“Or maybe we should break up once and for—”
Her text pinged, a link from a five-digit code. Her heart leaped. Him. She knew it. “You give the shops your information, and the whole next month is bots and trons.” Could they hear the lie in her voice? They seemed more interested in the complimentary chips and salsa, as she clicked the link.
Emory burst out laughing as the fragile, warbling voice thinned the air. “Who sprinkled your phone so generously with vintage randomness today?”
Red-cheeked, Jessie lowered the volume. “No idea,” she muttered.”
Jessie should have known that this joker would end her day the way he started it. But this time it’s not an index but a postcard of a gorgeous tropical island. Lime green palm fronds and Windex blue ocean.
On the back, a time: 6:00 PM. Along the bottom, the place of origin had been inked out in heavy black marker, leaving only the words “Grenadines.” So there was no way to find out specifically which island she’d been looking at.
Upstairs in her bedroom, Jessie took a legal pad from her desk and scribbled down all the clues she’d assembled. So . . . what was the connection between a patron saint of builders, a forgotten poet, and a remote island in the Grenadines? Could she figure it without leaning on Uncle Google?
And then, in an electric pop of moment, Jessie knew.
She’d meet him all right, at the church on Little Bly that bore the same name as the saint, the poet, and the island. She checked her watch. She had half an hour.
“And anyone who’s put that kind of a puzzle together deserves at least half an hour of my time,” she decided, as she grabbed her car keys and headed out the door, hoping it would be Him.
Have you figured out what the password is? Hint: no abbreviations.
But to figure out who is competing for Jessie’s attention—with tragic consequences—you will have to read my book.
Go enter it into the iClue site for a chance to win an iPod Touch pre-loaded with novels by the six authors participating in iClue!
Nothing is better than homemade gifts. We got a few this year and we will treasure them. I used to be better at making them. Gold spray-paint macaroni vases, cellophane book-marks, latch-hook potholders. Once I made a book of paper dolls for my cousin. Another time I knit a cape for a friend’s dog. For the past couple of decades I have relegated myself to chocolate chip cookies.
