by Patti Larsen
I really needed Malcolm to retrieve his trained gorilla already. My nerves weren’t up to my own safety and that of my family, let alone random others who might wander into a perceived field of threat only Darius seemed aware of.
“Olivia.” I hadn’t seen much of her since she’d been ousted in the November election, Vivian taking the seat in a landslide vote of support. I wondered if Reading residents—especially business owners—were feeling the implications of the loss of the tourism-centric former leader? I gestured for her to take a seat, but she shook her head, the shining bob she preferred falling into silken place from its previously ruffled condition. How did she have even her hair trained to behave and obey like that? She’d always run a tight ship, our Olivia Walker. Guess her entire person reflected the precision she’d always used to keep Reading on the map.
“I can’t stay,” she said, rushing through her words before stopping in a lurch, swallowing hard. She glanced behind her then, blanched, two bright points on the tips of her cheekbones showing as her eyes widened at the sight of the looming bodyguard. I waved Darius off this time, shooting him a glare that made him start slightly before taking one—count ‘em, one—step back, hands folded in front of him, flat gaze still focused on my visitor.
His retreat seemed to do the trick, though, as she pulled herself quickly together, smoothing the front of her pale yellow suit jacket, the press pleat line of the front of her trousers so sharp they could cut paper. I never liked her in that color, thought it made her olive complexion sallow, but she’d failed to ask me for fashion advice so I kept my opinions to myself.
Considering my favorite outfit the last few years had been faded t-shirts and jeans with sneakers and a messy bun/hanging ponytail of unbrushed red curls? Yeah. I wouldn’t have trusted my judgement either.
“Well, nice to see you.” This was awkward. She stared at me with her pupils slowly growing huge, throat working like she wanted to speak, hands clenching at her sides as though she fought some epic internal battle that meant the be all and end all of Olivia Walker. I was a heartbeat from reaching out and asking her if she was okay when she finally blurted out why she’d come.
“You have to stop the treasure hunt,” she gasped. “Before it’s too late.”
Hang on. She said what?
I gaped, knowing I was doing it, not sure what this was about. Did she know about Gregg Brown and his interference? Had she learned something about the Tortuga dive team I didn’t know about? My own panic and sudden reticence about the project, so fresh and fed by my night of bad dreams resurfaced as a wave of anxiety that gave me goosebumps while Olivia reached out and grasped my hand, almost painfully tight.
“Trust me,” she hissed in my ear while I hastily shook my head at Darius who—oh my god, he did not reach under his jacket for something that couldn’t be a gun—closed the distance so fast I almost hit him when I raised my other hand to warn him off. “It’s not worth it, Fee.” She backed off then, sweat visibly beading on her upper lip, her forehead, the fingers that released mine shaking when she wiped at the moisture. “They won’t let you succeed. I should know.” Olivia’s own panic fed mine. They? My mind blanked while she went on, voice almost a moan of fear. “Even suggesting we use Captain Reading as a tourist draw brought me more trouble than I could ever have imagined.”
Wait. Of course I knew who she was talking about. And, unlike the intrusion of Gregg Brown, the doubt and discomfort his invasion had caused, her fear of the family I now understood she was warning me about? Couldn’t have firmed up my resolve more.
Whether she knew it or not, Olivia had just sealed the deal on the treasure dive as far as things went, Gregg Brown or no Gregg Brown. Because no matter what else went on in this town, as far as I was concerned the freaking Patterson family could suck it.
But before I could tell her as much—surely she saw my utter and consuming rejection of her warning on my face as my realization woke and flamed in the all-devouring Fleming fire of hell no—Olivia’s lips were at my ear again. And she uttered one word, only one, before retreating.
“Blackstone.”
She spun then, hustling past Darius who let her go, who followed her all the way to the door and closed it firmly behind her when she left. I stood there a long moment, waiting for the entry to thud softly shut, sinking slowly to the edge of my desk, hugging myself tight.
The mysterious corporation that had been a thorn in my side—okay, I always had a thing for taking stuff personally—since the fake extinct woodpecker sighting had almost cost my friend Jared and his partners their zipline park. Even if that corporation hadn’t employed my former cheater boyfriend, Ryan Richards (said a lot about their low brow taste and choice in employees), the fact they were impossible to track, had their fingers in so many weird and seemingly unrelated pies while hiding the true nature of what they were up to while poking their collective corporate noses into the inner workings of my town?
Yeah. Blackstone. They could suck it, too.
Thing was, though, they had their own little private army, didn’t they? And were somehow linked to the Patterson family. I’d found that out firsthand when I’d tried to sneak into Alicia and Jared’s wedding last fall, break and entering into the Marie Patterson Olympic Equestrian Center and Super Secret Criminal Mastermind Lair™ (okay, I was making up that last part, but partially believed it, don’t tell me I’m the only one). Only Crew making me a deputy and Liz joining me in the ensuing murder investigation I’d stumbled on (like anything else was new) kept me from being either a) arrested b) ejected or, most likely, c) water boarded and then taken out back and shot or something equally nefarious by the black-outfitted super soldiers with their giant guns and sunglasses that made me want to stir rebellion in the lower classes for no real reason except rebellion, yo. Down with the man and all that.
I guess I was glaring because when I looked up, Darius had joined me, his own normally empty expression creased in a frown.
“Want me to take care of her?” He didn’t ask like it was a big deal. To the contrary. He might as well have been inquiring if it was time to take the garbage out.
Okay, so I didn’t intend to lose my crap that morning, not on Crew, not on anyone. Certainly not on the giant mountain of manhood in the dark suit with the very large and very deadly gun under his double breasted jacket. In fact, if it had been an ordinary morning and I’d had a solid night sleep and breakfast even, or maybe a coffee someone else had made instead of the crappy cheap one I’d thrown together from Dad’s jar of instant that had been all I had access to, I might not have lost my epic Fleming temper.
Hmmm. Yeah. Or maybe not.
I don’t think Darius expected it, likely one of the only reasons I remained alive and breathing as I lurched toward him and hit him in his very broad and very solid chest with one shaking index finger, the flames of my fury washing over me and consuming every scrap of self-preservation I’d ever had the good sense to cultivate.
“Don’t you ever,” I hit him again, noting that my finger hurt and he felt distinctly like a rock wall under that dress shirt, “ever,” okay I was going to need a splint for my poor, injured digit, “poke your nose in my business again.” Shaking? Check. Pissed off? Check. A little worried in a tiny but growing seed of oh my god what did I just do kind of way that the behemoth of manflesh with the gun might not like the tiny redhead poking him ineffectually or telling him what to do.
Oh, checky-checko-checkeroo.
It could have gone badly. Should have. Darius worked for Malcolm, after all, not me, not really. Though, he did have orders to keep me safe, he wasn’t mine to push around and if shove came to guns blazing, I wasn’t betting on the bulky beast of Mob burden to put up with the likes of little old moi.
Except, apparently, not only were the Irish organized crime gods smiling on me, one look at the amused expression on Darius’s face told me he found me adorable and, at the very most, my demands in line with the antics of my pug.
Yeah
. That went over well.
This time when I jabbed him it was with my fist, since my finger wasn’t up to the task. He grunted in shock, eyes widening, and he actually backed up half a step in response. Okay, swayed back and shuffled one foot. But I’m not above giving myself kudos in the pay attention and take me seriously department.
“I. Mean. It.” Three hits, not hard, but solid enough even that chest of solid stone had to feel it. “You’ve been on my butt and lurking in my shadow far too close for my comfort. And I’m done.”
Rebellion in those normally flat, empty eyes.
Oh no, he did not. “Darius,” I said, voice dropping in volume and temperature, “I will call Malcolm and have him assign me one of the other boys. Don’t think I won’t.”
Okay, that got through to him. Definitely panic and unhappiness at war with—wait, was that sorrow?
He nodded, backed down for real this time, taking a long stride in retreat before staring at the floor.
“Sorry, Miss. Fleming,” he said in that always surprising tenor voice of his. “I’ll behave.”
Huh. Well, okay then. I wasn’t exactly sure what to do with the rest of my bubbling confidence in my ability to bully a bully and so, rather than let him know that—heaven forbid—I seized my purse in a firm grip and stomped for the exit, the clock telling me it was coffee time at well past 8AM and that the distraction of paperwork had done its job. Feeling at least as though I’d conquered something if not quite knowing what, exactly, I headed for Sammy’s with my anxious pug on her lead, my head high and my temper singing.
Boo-yah.
***
Chapter Nine
It didn’t take long for the gusty wind to make me regret my decision, though the rain had stopped and the sun was trying to come out through the clouds overhead. It wasn’t often we dealt with storms of this nature in July, but they did happen. Mountains made for odd and unpredictable weather sometimes. Petunia was clearly smarter than I, the darling, had stayed clear of Olivia’s visit and the subsequent conflict I’d created—taking responsibility for it, sure was—I’d stirred with Darius. Not like her to mind her own business so the continual nervous looks she shot me were obvious indicators she’d sensed trouble and was worried about me.
Her level of anxiety should have cooled me down. I hated causing her stress, after everything she’d been through. But even Petunia’s discomfort did little to cut through my layered animosity toward anything and anyone that might tweak my last nerve.
As I stomped my way to Sammy’s, though, I had to admit part of my irritation was tied into the delay in the first dive this morning. How sad I’d reached the point I just wanted to get it over with. The childlike delight and excitement of the hunt for the treasure to this point had carried me through some truly horrible events and tied me closer to the people I cared most about. Losing the bright shiny of that made me almost hope we didn’t find anything at this point.
Disappointment seemed a fitting end, somehow.
Now, don’t get me wrong. If we found the treasure, great. And. The bitter taste in my mouth was going to be hard to wash away. Olivia’s warning about Blackstone wasn’t helping any, and I couldn’t help but wonder at the worry nagging me suddenly, a worry I gave full examination to as I approached the glass doors to the coffee shop.
They’d interfered before, covertly, like assassins in the night. A sick feeling invaded my temper, stomach now in the kind of knots that took weeks to unravel. Because it wasn’t entirely inconceivable Gregg Brown was working for Blackstone, was it? His out of the blue arrival smacked of their tactics, didn’t it? And if he was, indeed, tied to that most secret of corporations, could I bear to allow them a hand in discovering the Reading hoard? I had no proof, of course, though you could bet the moment I got the chance I’d be doing my best to find out. It had always proven difficult in the past, however, to find out anything substantive about Blackstone, so it was very possible even if they were funding Gregg Brown and his treasure hunting exploits I’d never know the truth of it.
Wasn’t that a vile and bitter bit of gristle to chew on. Growl.
I kept my head down, not wanting to have the rehashed conversation I seemed to have to go through every time I stuck my head out the door these days, hurrying past a pair of older women who watched me go by. I could feel their curiosity burning a hole in my back, though when I glanced out of the corner of my eye I noted, at least, Darius was doing as asked and was keeping almost a block between us.
There was that silver lining to hang onto. If I was in the mood for such things. Instead I lingered over my predicament about Gregg Brown while avoiding questions about Petunia’s, sympathies mixed with questions about when I was breaking ground, not to mention endless inquiries into the treasure.
I was over today and it was only 8AM.
The only distracting moment came when I looked up at the last moment before passing through the entry, attention caught by a young man in a suit climbing into the back seat of a dark sedan. Not that black cars and people in such attire were entirely foreign—case in point following me around everywhere like a double-breasted shadow—but his youth and something familiar about his face and the way he carried himself caught me and held me, door half open, wash of coffee-scented air wafting over me, while the lean, dark haired kid looked up and met my eyes.
And waved before disappearing into the car and closing the door.
I watched the sedan go by, a weird tightness in my chest making breath difficult. I couldn’t place him, but it was clear he knew me, wasn’t it? And though I had no reason to feel uneasy, something about him and his attitude gave me pause and only added to my layers of anxiety.
So, now you know the state of mind I was in as I finally stepped through the front door of Sammy’s coffee, my pug tugging on her lead in the knowledge she was about to get a sugar-laden snack from the girls behind the counter, and came face-to-face with Rose Norton. Not my favorite person to begin with and, from the snide look of judgment and disdain creasing the folds of her near-gaunt face, the feeling was as mutual as possible.
We didn’t talk much these days, both of us usually satisfied with matched sets of glares since I’d decided screaming incoherently in public at someone who clearly didn’t deserve my focus or attention wasn’t worth the negative press it gained me every time I lost my crap on her.
Thing was, today? It had become impossible to stay silent. Not because of anything in particular she’d done, but due to the glaring and obvious affront the nasty little piece of work wore in her hair.
Now, I had no proof that the butterfly pin holding back her bangs over her left eyebrow belonged to my Grandmother Iris at one point. In fact, I was sure the collection of identical pins I had tucked into the music box that had been one of her gifts to me were likely purchased from some department store in Montpellier either by my grandfather or her lover, Daniel Munroe. However, as my eyes locked on that familiar shape, worn so brazenly like a fully-intended attack on me and mine—made worse by the loss of Petunia’s and my mood and just everything, I admit it—it took everything in my power not to reach out and jerk the butterfly from her hair before punching her right in that upturned nose of judgment and vitriol.
“You thief,” I snarled before I could stop myself, pointing at the pin, hand shaking, a rush of fury uncoiling from where it had been bubbling since yesterday, happy to have a target. “That’s Grandmother Iris’s pin. Where did you get it?”
Rose’s shock at my snarling attack was so genuine it helped cool some of the heat of my rage, but only some. She recovered quickly, hand rising to her hair, as if to protect the butterfly. I only then noted some of the jewels were missing from one of the wings. What had she done to my grandmother’s hair pin, the wretch?
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she snapped back. “This was a gift from Robert.” She huffed past me, tossing her dark hair. While my hateful cousin had been growing a beer belly over the last few years, Rose seemed to be d
onating herself to his expansion at expense of her own physique. If she lost any more weight she’d be a skeleton. And while I refused to feel an ounce of compassion she might not be well, I instead decided that’s what happened to horrible people like the two of them—eventually, one just consumed the other in an evolutionary cycle of nature determined to eliminate evil.
I almost reached out to stop her as she exited the coffee shop, gritting my teeth to restrain my hand that ached to grasp her and spin her around to face me. But, I knew better. No way I was putting myself in a position to be charged—specious or not—with assault on her precious little person. But I’d be getting my pin back (mine, damn it), you better believe it.
And if Robert stole that from my grandmother what else did he have he wasn’t supposed to? Never mind the slice of the treasure map I knew he had in his possession. The possibilities of what he’d taken? Endless.
After all, it had taken me a bit to get home after my grandmother died, leaving the B&B empty of guests but open to someone who, clearly, had no problem taking a five finger approach to helping himself to the precious possessions of others.
I guess I’d been standing in the doorway, fuming, with my mind running, for longer than was considered normal or necessary because when I finally came back to myself and shook off the tension of the encounter, I realized everyone in Sammy’s was staring at me. And, in that same moment, when they discovered themselves staring, went back to instant conversation and pointedly ignored me. Why did I suddenly feel like I was in a badly directed TV sitcom?
My life. I really had to get over myself.
Except, I had this magnetic personality, it seemed, that attracted the sort of people who gave my blood pressure reason to skyrocket. A short moment of visual connection with one of my least favorite people, Barry Clement, ended in mutual scowls as Dr. Aberstock’s assistant and traitorous lackey of the Patterson family looked away, held nothing against my next, more physical, encounter. As evidenced in the subsequent appearance of the shark-like also Patterson pain in my backside, Geoffrey Jenkins.
