by Tracey Drew
Every churchgoer—even an infrequent one such as myself—knows if you want a shot at a slice of banana cake or a melting moment biscuit, you have to beat the rush of people with the same idea. First come, first served. Fellowship could wait until after tea and home baking.
Sure enough, a few parishioners had already hurried out of Saint Barney’s back exit and were hotfooting it along the path—including Dylan Werth. With his lanky stride, he easily overtook a mauve-coated lady using a walker. But obviously raised with some manners, he pinned the hall door open and let her enter first.
If I knew teenagers, and I did…
Leaning back against the church’s brick wall, I waited. Dylan reappeared less than a minute later, cradling a paper napkin in his hands as if it contained the crown jewels. There was no way any teenager would voluntarily stay in a room with their parents and other ‘old’ people if there was an option of escape.
After a quick glance back at the church, he took off in the opposite direction, heading toward the old graveyard that sloped down to the boundary wall. I followed. By the time I’d stepped around a giant weeping angel monument, Dylan had settled on the stone wall to devour what appeared to be a large wedge of carrot cake. He had a smear of cream cheese frosting on his nose.
“That cake looks good.”
He squinted up at me. “It is.”
I went to sit a socially appropriate distance away from him on the wall, but there was no way my cute but impractical slim-fitting linen dress would permit the maneuver. I ended up in an awkward lean against one of the evenly spaced wall pillars. “Best part of church, huh?”
This asked as one of my pointy heels sank into a soft patch of earth. I yanked it out again and stood like a flamingo.
“Yup.” Dylan continued to methodically work his way through the cake, his face conveying how embarrassing it would be to be seen talking to someone over the age of twenty.
Tough luck, kiddo.
I calculated I had maybe fifteen minutes max to pry any useful information out of the boy before one of his parents came looking.
“You’re the dentist’s son?”
Another squinty-eyed peek over the frosting. “Stepson.” He hooked a finger over his shirt’s stiff white collar, tugging it away from his bobbing Adam’s apple. “He’s my stepdad.”
Something I hadn’t known. “Oh.” I dipped my chin at the last few mouthfuls of cake. “Guess he wouldn’t approve of all that sugar you’ve just consumed.”
His freckled nose crinkled. “In our house, dessert is a four-letter word.”
I grinned at him. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
While I contemplated how to switch topics from cake to corpse, Dylan licked frosting off his fingers then swiped his shirt cuff across his mouth. “Are you the lady who found the dead guy on Friday?”
“Uh-huh.” Interesting that he’d referred to Lucas as ‘the dead guy.’ Like he hadn’t known him. Another trick I’d learned was to not get up into teenagers’ faces when you suspected they were lying.
“You knew Lucas a little?” Before he could lie, I added, “My brother worked at the store, and he saw you there a few times.” I embellished with an it’s not important; just making conversation shrug and stared across the road to where a man was getting ready to mow his front lawn.
Dylan cleared his throat. “Yeah. Um, Lucas is an okay guy…was an okay guy.” I could feel the boy’s gaze on the side of my face, searching for a reaction or some sort of clue as to how I expected him to react.
Unlike young Dylan, I had a satisfactory poker face in most situations—if I do say so myself—and I kept my lips zipped. There was a risk of him walking away, but since he’d been the one to raise the subject of the murdered man, I gambled that he had more to say.
“He had a pretty sweet motorbike. I went over to the store a few times to check it out. Tried to convince him to let me take it for a ride.”
“How was that working out for you?”
Dylan grimaced and shot me a wry smile. “I’d made some progress.”
“He let you touch it?”
He laughed. “Yeah.”
“You’re into motorbikes?”
“Totally.” He broke eye contact to brush crumbs off the crease of his ironed-to-perfection trousers.
“What sort of bike is it?”
The boy’s forehead collapsed into thoughtful furrows. “Ah. A Harley.” His voice rose on the ‘ley,’ as if he were asking a question.
“Yeah. It’s a Harley,” he repeated with more confidence. “Mint condition.”
Everyone I knew who harbored a lust for anything with wheels would offer more than a brand name when asked about the object of their desire. They’d bombard you with so much detail, trivia, and history of that particular model that your eyes would glaze over within seconds.
I didn’t believe Dylan Werth was telling the truth about his love of motorbikes. Or his visits to Lucas Kerr.
But before I could figure out a way to dig a little deeper into his relationship with the dead man, someone blasted an air horn beside me.
Spinning around—and nearly falling on my butt in the process—I saw nothing but weather-worn gravestones and the depressed angel. Another vicious honk sounded. My gaze dropped to the base of the angel monument and the biggest, meanest bird I’d ever seen.
Its tail feathers quivering, it dipped its snake-like neck in our direction.
“What is that?” I asked Dylan out of the corner of my mouth, not daring to take my eyes off the critter’s sharp-looking beak.
“It’s Reggie,” Dylan said. “The vicar’s pet goose.”
Shows you how long it had been since I’d last attended church. I knew nothing about Peter Salmon’s soft spot for feathered demons. “Is it going to attack us?”
I calculated how fast I could run and divided the answer by how much my restrictive dress and pretty-but-useless heels would handicap me.
“Not if we feed him.” Dylan’s clothes rustled as he clambered to his feet. “I usually save him some cake, but today you distracted me, and I ate his share.”
Oops, my bad. Now we had a killer Godfather in avian form wanting to exact payment.
“I have Tic Tacs in my purse,” I said.
In case Reggie was partial to minty-fresh breath.
“Tic Tacs will only make him mad,” said a voice from the other side of the wall.
Eight
In slo-mo increments, I turned my head toward the owner of the voice.
Oliver Novak.
Beside his jeans-covered leg stood a panting, fluffy white cloud with a black nose and a pink harness around its body.
Both were grinning.
Glad I could provide free entertainment to the locals.
“This is much more to his liking.” He held up the remains of a croissant.
I narrowed my eyes at him, careful not to make any sudden moves that the demon goose might interpret as aggressive. “How much do you want for it?”
The white fluffball tilted its head up at the man who held the pink leash. Awaiting his answer.
Oliver’s grin expanded. “Just a replacement breakfast pastry at your convenience.”
Seemed fair. “I’ll agree to that.”
Reggie let out an extended hooooonk. Seemed someone was all out of patience.
Oliver tossed the chunk of croissant to the far right of where Dylan and I stood frozen. Wings beating, the goose waddled double time in that direction. Did Reggie enjoy his ill-gotten gains? No idea. I toed off my impractical shoes and hightailed it out of the cemetery, hot on Dylan’s heels. After hastily exchanged “Byes,” Dylan and I went our separate ways. Him to hunt down his parents, me as far away from the vicar and his bad-tempered fowl as possible.
At the corner of the church wall, where it finished on Beach Street, Oliver and the white ball of fur waited for me. At least, I assumed they were waiting for me.
“Thanks for your sacrifice.” I drew up alongside them and st
uffed my grass-stained feet back into my shoes, which the dog promptly set about sniffing. “If I’m not mistaken, that was a croissant from Disco’s.”
“It was. And you’re welcome.” He clicked his tongue, and the fluffball ignored him, continuing to investigate my shoes.
I hoped Kit hadn’t peed in them sometime in the recent past. “I kind of inherited my nana’s two cats. They like to hide in my closet and sleep all over my shoes. She must be able to smell them.”
Because a guy who looked tough enough to hold his own in a street brawl was interested in A: how many cats I’d inherited, and B: where I kept my footwear.
Then again, he was walking the doggy equivalent of a powder-puff.
“She’s a he,” Oliver said. “Meet Maki, the Japanese Spitz.”
We crossed the street, me pressing my lips together to hold in a snicker. “Maki, as in sushi rolls?
“Uh-huh.” His eyebrow quirked up, daring me to laugh. “He’s my neighbor’s dog. I walk Maki for her because she can’t.”
Feeling bad for mentally making fun of the pup, I crouched to let him sniff my fingers before scratching between his cute fuzzy ears. I also felt a warm fuzzy at Oliver’s kindness toward an elderly neighbor.
“You’re very, very sweet.” Maki licked my wrist in agreement, and I stood.
That compliment might have included Maki’s dog-walker—not that I was about to admit it.
“Appearances can be deceiving,” Oliver said as Maki, having lost interest in my shoes, yipped and trotted as far away from us as his leash would allow. “See you around.” He and the fluffball continued down Beach Street.
On the short walk back to Unraveled, my mind gnawed over my conversation with the Werth kid. Was Dylan what he appeared to be—a seventeen-year-old boy who admired a newcomer’s motorbike and still went to church with his parents? Or was he a seventeen-year-old boy who deceived his parents by sneaking out at night? The two were both normal teenage behaviors.
With a shake of my head, I scooped up Kit, who was sunning himself on a brick wall six houses away from home. Expecting a teenager to remain in his room was about as futile as expecting a cat to stay in its own yard. Just like my black kitties, teenagers lived to roam. Kit purred loudly in my ear as I stroked his soft fur and continued down the street.
If only people were as uncomplicated as cats.
The next morning, I prepared to take one for the team by going to my ten o’clock appointment at Discovery Dental Surgery. An email appointment had arrived in my inbox first thing this morning, thanks to a cancellation. Show me a person who doesn’t have a little lead in their shoes as they walk into a dentist’s, and I’ll show you a liar. With my it’s okay; I’m okay smile fixed in place, I made my way into the surgery’s reception, where Jennifer Werth sat behind the desk.
Jennifer was probably the only female alive over the age of twelve who could pull off the headband look. Today’s band, white with tiny turquoise flowers, perfectly complemented her white silk blouse. Come to think of it, Jennifer was probably the only female alive who could wear white silk without fear of dribbling coffee down the front or underarm stains appearing in the summer heat. White was not a color that appeared in my closet, mainly because black hides a multitude of sins.
“Tessa, isn’t it?” Jennifer said before I could announce myself.
“Yes. From across the road.”
As her plum-slicked lips puckered, I couldn’t help taking a mental snapshot of her lipstick color to compare with the smears on Lucas’s cup. It didn’t appear to be a match.
“We were so sorry to hear about Nana Dee-Dee, but wasn’t it a lovely send-off the ladies of Saint Barnabas gave her?”
“Lovely,” I agreed.
Though how an abundance of club sandwiches, cakes, and slices, plus the requisite funeral refreshment, sausage rolls, could take the sting out of the worst day of the Wakefields’ lives, I had no idea.
“And it was so lovely to see you at church yesterday.”
If the woman’s fake smile grew any brighter, I’d need sunblock. However, if I got in first, I might dodge what was likely to be an invitation to join a women’s bible study group…
“I had a chat with your Dylan after the service,” I blurted.
Maybe it was my imagination, but her smile seemed to dial down a notch. She gave an airy chuckle, flicking her hand as if swatting a fly. “Goodness! Did you manage to get more than a few grunts out of him?”
“A little. He mentioned his interest in motorbikes.”
Jennifer’s nose crinkled. “Motorbikes? That doesn’t sound like Dylan. He’s always on about carbon emissions and global warming. He’s mad on environmental stuff, just like my sister. That’s why he’s applying to study law at the University of Canterbury next year. Wants to be an ‘environmental lawyer.’” She used two fingers of each hand to punctuate this and rolled her eyes. But her tone was all proud mama bear.
“That’s impressive. He must be gearing up to work extremely hard during his final year,” I said.
“Dylan gets such good grades in school. Nose to the grindstone—he’s always got a book in his hands.”
The door into reception flew open, and Beth Chadwick stomped out, closely followed by the hulking white-shirted shape of the dentist. Who appeared to be making a valiant attempt to keep a grin hidden under his beard.
Without acknowledging me, Beth turned her steely gaze on Jennifer. “I’d wring his scrawny neck if I were fast enough to catch him. And you can tell the vicar I said so at the next prayer meeting, because I won’t be there.” Beth angled both double chins upward in defiance. “I refuse to step foot on hallowed ground until he gets rid of that…that disgusting, pooping thing.”
Pausing, probably to breathe since her cheeks had flushed chili-pepper red, she must have caught sight of me. Standing there with my jaw about to hit the floor. I snapped it shut. “Do you mean Reggie, the goose?”
Beth harrumphed. “Feathered devil.” She tapped the side of her nose. “Satan was once an angel with wings, did you know that? Reggie’s worse. I was cleaning the church after the service yesterday when that menace somehow got inside. He snuck up behind me in the ladies’ lavatory and let out an almighty squawk. I got such a fright; my bottom dentures flew out and went straight into the loo. I was so panicked, I flushed!”
“Oh, my.” With the effort of not exploding into ill-timed giggles, my voice came out all reedy. “How terrible.”
Perhaps mistaking my breathlessness for concern, Beth patted my arm. “Don’t you worry, dear. I’ll be passing on the bill for a replacement to Saint Barnabas.”
Brian cleared this throat and caught my eye. “If you’d like to come through?”
I could think of nothing I’d like less. As I slunk past the dentist’s formidable girth, it struck me that a possible murderer was about to poke sharp objects into my mouth.
Worst. Dentistry. Experience. Ever.
“Nervous?” Brian said as I made like a chameleon and attempted to disappear into the pasty-beige patient chair.
“Is it that obvious?” I white-knuckled the single armrest, my jaw already aching from the effort of clamping it shut.
The dentist’s shoes squeaked on the linoleum as he walked behind me and out of my line of sight, thanks to me being helpless in a chair designed by sadists and found comfortable only by masochists. Really, whoever built them should have had the foresight to include lockable straps to prevent people like me fleeing out the door.
I craned my neck, but to no avail. Seriously, what was he doing back there?
Inhaling what I hoped would be a calming breath, I reminded myself why I must suffer those sharp instruments.
“Your wife mentioned Dylan wants to study law next year.”
A grunt from behind me. “If he works harder. He’d rather game his days away than study or get a summer job. The boy needs to develop some kind of work ethic before he takes off to university. It’s crucial he doesn’t ruin his chances at
a successful career.”
Pressure much? But I latched onto his earlier statement. “A summer job, like at Hanburys? Or the pop-up store?”
Another grunt followed by a shoe squeak as Brian reappeared. “Just as well he didn’t get a job there, considering.” He shook out a paper bib and deftly fastened it around my neck. “Tragic business.”
“Yeah.” I slid him a sideways glance as he leaned the other way to retrieve a pair of dark-lensed sunglasses from his tray of lethal weapons. Had Dylan applied for a job with Lucas? Is that why he’d hung around the store?
Brian passed me the glasses, and I slid them on while he adjusted the torture chamber’s spotlight onto my face.
“Heard the cops questioned Sean at the Napier station on Saturday,” he said.
“Just dotting their i’s and crossing their t’s. Standard procedure.” I had no idea if this was true or not.
A scary-looking metal instrument appeared above my nose, followed by the bushy eyebrows of the dentist. “Let’s have a look.”
Cue for me to open my mouth; I did so with much trepidation.
Pick, pick, pick went the miniature hook as it worked around my back teeth. I clenched my hands into fists to keep myself from knocking the tool straight across the room.
“I’m sure your brother wasn’t involved.”
“Ee-osn’t,” I replied.
Brian’s nose filled my vision. The man needed to invest in a hair trimmer. Top left molars now, pick-pick-pick.
“Ee ott on ell if ookas.”
“He got on well with Lucas?” Brian translated, obviously fluent in wide-open-mouthed-English.
“Uh-uh.”
Nasal hairs rippled as Brian wrinkled his nose. “Not to speak ill and all that, but the man was scum. Your brother has poor taste in friends.” After picking around to my top right molars, he finally removed the instrument from my mouth.
