by Tracey Drew
Graceful spatial awareness—not one of my strong suits.
Once I’d regained my balance, I held up please don’t kill me palms. “Sorry. I did knock, but…”
That statement earned me a look clearly questioning the sanity of knocking when the music’s volume was loud enough to vibrate the pub’s walls. Hyperbole, I know, but it sure felt that way. As the next track’s guitar intro blasted out, he dug in his jeans pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped the screen. The room went silent.
“We open at eleven.”
He didn’t seem at all perturbed by being caught boogying with a mop, but me being me, I blushed for him. “I know. Again, sorry. I just wanted a quick word with your boss; if he’s around?”
“My boss?” He strode toward me and into a patch of sunlight streaming through a skylight above the bar.
Up close and facing forward, he was even yummier than in the distance and from behind. Sandy blond hair, due for a trim, a playboy’s jaw, and a glimpse of ink peeking out from under the neckline of his T-shirt. Yummy, and more than a little impatient because, you know, he had his screaming groupies to get back to.
“Yeah, Oliver Novak. Is he around?” Admittedly, a dumb question because what boss did scut work when they had an underling to do it instead?
The man’s eyes narrowed as he studied my face. “Are you one of Sean’s sisters?”
Ah. So this must be Sean’s replacement.
Though he knew my brother? Probably by reputation, so, ugh. Also, ugh that I resembled my brother enough that this guy could pick up on inherited genetic traits. Darn you, curly hair, blue eyes, and a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But there was no point in denying our relationship.
“Yes, I am. Tessa Wakefield.” I shot out a hand for him to shake.
He moved his foot in a nifty soccer move, caught the bag of chips he’d flicked up, and pushed them into my palm. “Oliver Novak. You wanna restack these?” His greeny-blue eyes were the exact shade of a new yarn called Spellbound that I’d ordered last week. And I was, for a moment, spellbound when his gaze locked with mine.
This was Oliver? Not the late-forty-something man with curly gray hair, blue shirt, and a bowtie that I’d imagined on the walk here? Okay, I admit, I was picturing Moe from The Simpsons—so sue me.
I must have been gawping like a goldfish because laugh lines suddenly radiated from those pretty eyes. “Please?” he added.
I clicked my back teeth together and dropped my gaze to the scattered packets. Just then, my stomach vocalized its displeasure at missing out on morning tea and gingernuts.
Oliver laughed, but it was a kind laugh, not a mocking one. “Chuck them back in the box, and I’ll split one with you while you tell me what I can help you with.”
“Deal.” As I crouched to scoop up the packets, Oliver headed behind the bar.
Once I’d set the box to rights—minus one packet because I never look a gift horse in the mouth when it comes to snacks—I leaned against the end of the bar.
“Beer?” He turned with two bottles in his hand.
I was about to shake my head but remembered alcohol’s loosening effect on the tongue. “Thanks.”
He cracked open both bottles and passed me one, which I promptly latched onto like a greedy orphan lamb. With any luck, the cool liquid would quench my sizzling cheeks.
I set the bottle down after a long draw and opened my mouth, my line of questioning all planned out on the walk to the pub. Instead, what emerged was, “Do you think my brother is capable of murder?”
Six
“I think everyone’s capable of killing another human being in certain circumstances,” Oliver said with a nonchalance that suggested he often fielded such questions from women who gatecrashed his pub in the middle of the day.
Since I hadn’t intended to blurt out my deepest fear to a stranger, I muttered, “Okay.”
He sent me a probing look from behind the bar and reached over it to pluck the bag of chips from my hand. Once opened, he offered me first pick.
I selected the largest unbroken one, its salty-vinegary smell making my taste buds sit up and beg. About to bite into it, I had an epiphany—there was no way to eat a potato chip without sounding like a wood chipper chewing through a dead tree. With a mental shrug, I bit into the tasty morsel anyway. I’d more important things to worry about than crunching chips in front of a man so far out of my league it’d take a zombie apocalypse where I was the sole undead woman in town for him to consider me dateable.
Oliver, who clearly had no qualms about noisy snacking, crunched down on a chip. His eyes smiled at me as we munched in surprisingly companionable silence. After we’d decimated the pack—he proved he was a good bloke when he let me have the last one—he pressed a paper napkin into my hand.
“Figured we’d think better on a full stomach.” He cocked his head. “Do you believe Sean’s capable of murder?” he asked gently.
“No. But as his sister, I’m genetically wired to believe that.” I met his curious gaze. “You’ve no emotional connection to him; in fact, I’m guessing you two didn’t get on, since you fired him.”
Oliver crumpled the empty chip packet and tossed it into a nearby trashcan. When he turned back to face me, he leaned forward and rested his folded arms on the polished wooden bar. “I didn’t let Sean go because we didn’t get on,” he said. “Is that what he told you?”
“He doesn’t say much at all,” I admitted. “At first, he muttered about differences of opinion, how it was your way or the highway type of thing, and said he would’ve quit if you hadn’t fired him first. Now he clams up on the subject whenever it’s raised.”
Oliver nodded, as if that was the response he’d expected.
“Why did you let him go?” I asked.
“It’s not my place to give away his secrets.”
I swallowed hard. “Sean has secrets?”
“Everyone has secrets, Tessa.”
The way he said my name sent a delicious shiver down my spine.
“Can you at least tell me if Sean’s secret could get him arrested for murder?”
He sighed and rubbed a finger along the cleft of his chin, making a soft scritching sound against his heavy stubble. “Maybe.”
“Something to do with the large amount of money he owes?” I pressed, even though I suspected a guy like Oliver wouldn’t be pushed into doing or saying anything he didn’t want to.
Oliver quirked an eyebrow. “Don’t you think you should be asking your brother this?” He drained his beer and tucked the empty bottle out of sight behind the counter. Then he picked up a damp cloth and ran it over the already spotless bar surface.
Polite chitchat over, hint, hint.
Message received, loud and clear. However, I still needed to ask one more question before I left.
And no, it wasn’t ‘are you single?’
“Were you tending bar about a week ago when Ed Hanbury was drinking here?” I posed it as a question, as, for some reason, I trusted Oliver to tell me the truth, but not Ed.
“I tend bar most nights,” he said. “But yeah, I remember Ed and his friends. They’re not exactly frequent-flyers.”
I slid a glance around the room, fitted out in quintessential Old New Zealand Pub style. Low ceiling with reclaimed wood rafters, giant TV mounted at one end for sports fans, and a battered pool table at the opposite end. There were few decorative touches because people came here to drink and socialize, not to order dirty martinis and evaluate artwork on the wall. “No offense, but this doesn’t strike me as an Ed Hanbury kind of place.”
Oliver smiled, and wow, did he have a bone-jellifying smile. “No offense taken. Your grandparents like it well enough.” His smile slipped. “I was sorry to hear about Nana Dee-Dee. I miss Mrs. G-and-T as I used to call her.”
“Thank you.” A knot formed in my stomach. Mrs. G-and-T. She would’ve loved that nickname.
“You were asking about Ed?” he prompted
a few beats of silence later.
“He told me there might’ve been some sort of confrontation between Lucas Kerr and another customer that evening.”
“Ah. Lucas. The unfortunate dead guy.” His smile returned. “I thought Sean had an older sister who’s a high school guidance counselor, not a detective.”
“I’m just naturally curious.”
“That could get you into trouble.”
“Why, Mr. Novak. Is that a threat?”
He chuckled. “It’s Oliver or Ollie. And more a suggestion to tread lightly.” His expression turned serious. “Someone killed Lucas, and unless they’re a complete sociopath, they’re scared the cops will find them. Scared people can lash out at an easy target. Cops aren’t easy targets, but you are.”
“I’ll be careful. Now, back to Lucas and Brian Werth? Tell me exactly what happened.”
A frustrated sigh as Oliver tossed the cleaning cloth aside and braced his spread-out arms on the bar. “The pub had started to empty near closing, and there were only a few bodies still warming their barstools. I left Mac behind the bar and went to check the bathrooms. I found Brian and Lucas outside the Men’s. Brian’s a big guy for a dentist, yeah?”
I nodded, having seen him in passing. It’d be like having the Incredible Hulk looming over you, his big mitt wrapped around the tiny buzzing device he intended to cram in your mouth. Fortunately, my genes had bequeathed me healthy teeth and gums, and I hadn’t required the man’s services. Yet.
“Brian had Lucas pinned to the wall by the throat. He got all up in his face and told him to stay away from his family.”
“Jealous husband?” I wondered aloud.
“Couldn’t say. Though he looked at Lucas like he’d happily extract all his teeth for free—with his fists.”
“What was Lucas doing? Protesting his innocence?”
“He didn’t say a word. Just stared up at Brian with his mouth frozen in a sneer.” Oliver rolled his shoulders. “Brain noticed me and let Lucas go. He stormed back along the hallway, and I heard the pub door slam as he left. Lucas straightened his shirt and stared after him with that same condescending sneer. ‘After a few drinks, some men just can’t control themselves,’ he said.”
Oliver’s mouth twisted. “‘Or their woman,’ I thought I heard him say as he pushed past me.”
“Thought you heard?”
“It was late, and I’d covered an extra shift for one of my employees. I might’ve misheard.”
Husband suspects local shopkeeper of slipping it to his wife and murders him—staging the scene to make it appear unrelated to marital jealousy. I toyed with the theory for a moment and declared it plausible. But not fully formed enough to wave under Detective Mana’s nose and point him in a different direction.
“Interesting.” I slid the three-quarters full beer bottle across the bar. “Thanks for the beer and chips.”
“You’re welcome.” He straightened to his full height and folded his arms across his chest. Muscles bunched left, right, and center, distracting me for an embarrassing stretch of time. I shouldn’t have had those five sips of beer.
“Why don’t you bring Harry down for Happy Hour sometime?” he asked.
“Sure.”
At that point, I would have agreed to almost anything to make a quick exit while I still retained some tiny shred of feminine mystique. Mystique being the ability to leave the pub without tripping over my feet or giggling like some teenage girl when the cutest boy in school gives her a nod of acknowledgment in the cafeteria.
I backed away from the bar, dithering over whether I should leave like a customer, via the front door, or go out the way I’d come in. The latter seemed overfamiliar. Customer, I decided and scurried to the front door. Which was secured with a series of Fort Knox–worthy locks, all conspiring to make me look as uncoordinated as I actually was while unlocking them. Finally, after much trial and error and a substantial amount of rattling, I wrenched the door open.
“Nice to meet you, Tessa,” Oliver called out from behind me, laughter rippling through his deep voice.
I spun back to him with a flustered, “You too.” And, inexplicably, a thumbs up.
Restraining my runaway hands from performing a double face-palm next, I hotfooted it out of the Stone’s Throw and headed toward the beach. Where I intended to throw myself off the pier. But before that, and before I could change my mind, I found the Discovery Dental Surgery number online and left a request on their answering service for a Monday morning appointment.
The sacrifices you make for family.
My phone tinkled merrily as I went to drop it back into my pocket. The only actual calls I received now were marketers, Harry butt-dialing me because he’d sat on his phone (yet again), or my mother, who thought sending a text to her children was tantamount to parental neglect. Running through a mental list of excuses I could use to avoid listening to a Mum rant, I peered at the caller’s name on the screen.
It was Sean. Who’d need to be held at gunpoint before using any form of communication other than text message or email.
I frowned at it for another couple of beats before tapping ‘Accept.’
“Tess? I didn’t know who else to call.” My brother’s voice bleated out of the speaker. “I’m at the police station in Napier.” At his ragged inhalation, my stomach plummeted. “They want to ask me more questions about Lucas’s murder.”
When your brother needs you, even when that brother can be a right royal pain in the rear, you drop everything and go.
At least, that’s what I do. What I’ve always done when my family needs me.
Mum gets her grandchild a plush toy birthday gift more suitable for a toddler than a twelve-year-old; I calm second oldest sister, Kelly, with assurances that a tween’s not going to like anything her grandmother gets her. Eldest sister, Jill, gets huffy when Sean rags on her husband about his new luxury SUV; I remind her that Sean can go on boring fishing trips with his brother-in-law, so she doesn’t have to.
I sprinted home, jumped in my car, and pointed it toward the city.
Napier Police Station—which from the outside looks more like a modern public library, minus the books and smiling librarians—made my heart stampede under my ribs. I walked inside, and if I’d had boots on, I’d have been shaking in them. After a brief conversation at the reception desk, I sat down to wait for an officer to brief me.
But I didn’t get an officer; I got Detective Mana himself.
Or perhaps that should be himself with a capital H.
I’m sure I wasn’t the only civilian in the station that gave him a second, and possibly third, glance as he strode across the foyer. He wore dress pants—not charcoal, these were more thundercloud gray. Was it casual Friday? Because in a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he was minus a suit jacket.
However, the detective’s attire, and admittedly, he knew how to work a good tailoring job, wasn’t as distracting as I’d have liked. All the nerves clamoring in my stomach fizzed as I sprang to my feet. Lightheadedness turned his dark hair fuzzy around the edges but brought his eyes into crystal-clear focus. They were chips of dirty ice, a pale, penetrating gray that had me swaying under their intensity.
Strong fingers gripped my elbow. “Are you all right?”
Nope, not all right. I was positively all wrong.
I blinked a couple of times, clearing the fogginess in my brain. For the second time today, my stomach gave a loud, protesting growl.
Seriously, universe? This was how you rewarded me for not burying my ex in a shallow grave and putting up with my family’s shenanigans? By turning my own bodily functions against me when in the company of good-looking, possibly single, men?
Still. There were more embarrassing involuntary bodily functions…
I forced a weak smile. But before I could reassure the detective with a hackneyed, ‘I’m fine,’ he gave me a speculative frown, those cool gray eyes taking X-ray images of my face to analyze.
/> “You haven’t had lunch, Ms. Wakefield.”
It hadn’t been framed as a question, but I answered anyway. “No. I drove straight down from Cape Discovery. I don’t snack and drive, Detective Mana.”
“Pleased to hear it.” He finally released my elbow, and I had to forcibly restrain myself from rubbing my fingers over the residual warmth on my skin. Cocking his head and looking eerily like a giant bird of prey spotting a small but tasty rodent, he said, “There’s a café a couple of doors down from the station. You should eat.” A dimple flickered in his cheek. “Before you get behind the wheel again.”
He must have caught my glance shifting over his shoulder to the Inaccessible to the Public doors leading into the inner sanctum of cops. “Your brother’s still being interviewed, Ms. Wakefield, but he won’t be too much longer.”
That was positive, wasn’t it? He hadn’t been arrested at least, but I was desperate to know what direction the investigation was taking. And that desperation gave me a boldness boost. “Have you had lunch, Detective Mana?”
His dark eyebrows twerked upward before settling back into what I was beginning to think of as his default expression—a slight ‘V’ of a frown.
“As it happens, no. It’s been a hectic morning.” The ‘V’ deepened. “And you don’t have to keep calling me Detective Mana. It’s Eric.”
Eric.
I turned the name over in my mind. There was guitarist Eric Clapton, actor Eric Dane, and let’s not forget the fictional vampire Eric Northman from True Blood. It was a serious, teeny bit intimidating name, and it suited him.
“You do look a bit hangry, Eric.” Which, come to think of it, might be an explanation for his default frown. Big guy like him would need a lot of fuel to keep running. “Want to join me?”
“For…lunch?”
A snarky comeback was on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed it. I needed the detective…Eric…to like me. Okay, not like me like me, but not want to arrest me either. “Yes. You do eat, right?”
I hadn’t managed to keep all the snark out of my voice, but his frown smoothed, and I got another dimple flash.
