He’d lost both his dog and his girl on the same night. The dog had been the bigger loss.
Shortly after she split he found an agent. Come spring, that agent had found an editor who liked his writing, and before he knew it, he had a two-book contract and an extensive rewrite to do. And with that Dirk Slade was born. Goodbye, Henry. Hello, Dirk.
People said you should never quit your day job until you had several books under your belt, but people, whoever that was, hadn’t been saving up for the day when a book contract would arrive. Henry could afford to take the summer off.
Before everything blew up he’d planned on surprising Nikki with a two-week vacation in Cabo. Now he was glad she’d split before he could tell her. He switched from Cabo to the funky little motel on the Washington coast and went from two weeks to all summer, letting one of the guys in his critique group crash in his houseboat.
Why not? Jenna Jones, the manager, had been delighted when he booked with her. And now here he was.
The funky old place suited him perfectly. He could do early-morning runs on the beach, write during the day and eat take-out, then duck into one of the local dives for a drink at night.
Nikki wouldn’t have liked this old-fashioned motel stuck in a time warp. She’d have wanted to know where the spa was and the gift shop. And she’d have wanted to know when he was going to get done with his stupid book so they could have a life.
Ha! He had a life now and it suited him fine. He liked being by himself. No woman to drive him nuts and make demands. No woman to chide him and make him feel like a loser.
And no dog.
He scowled and went back to his list of possible ways to kill his victims. Funny how every woman the serial killer in his book went after was cute and bubbly. Like the ex. And shallow. Like the ex. And great in bed. Like the ex.
Eventually, his detective would catch his killer, but until then—lots of vengeance to come.
Henry frowned. He was so over Nikki. He was so over women, period. Even cute, nosy ones with platinum curls, big green eyes and a nice pair of coconuts. Yes, even over women like that. And if he’d given the maid a scare, well, it served her right. Looking through a guy’s stuff was just plain wrong.
Maybe when she came to clean the room again she’d find him sharpening his hunting knife. Yeah.
Except he didn’t own one, and only a sick bastard would do something like that.
The next day when she appeared with her towels and her little scrub brush, she found him in jeans and a T-shirt, barefoot and sitting on the bed, typing on his laptop.
“Um, room service?” she squeaked.
“Thanks. Left my dirty towels in the bathroom. You don’t have to make the bed since I’m on it.”
She nodded and scuttled off to the bathroom, casting a quick glance over her shoulder—probably to make sure he wasn’t following with his trusty hunting knife. Then she scuttled back, carrying his dirty towels. Towel patrol finished, she raced for the bathroom again, this time with her cleaning supplies.
He could hear her in there, running the water. He was tempted to sneak up on her and say, “Boo,” but he didn’t. That, too, would be sick, and sick was reserved for fictional villains.
Still, when she came back out, he couldn’t resist saying, “I see you called the cops on me yesterday.”
The color disappeared from her face. “The police were here yesterday,” she admitted, hurrying for the door, all the while trying to look as though she wasn’t hurrying. “They keep a close eye on things.”
“Do they, now? A lot of crime here in Moonlight Harbor?”
“No,” she said, injecting bravado into her voice, “and we like to keep it that way.”
“Always on the watch for bad guys, huh? Is that why you were snooping in my things?”
Now her color came back, painting her cheeks red. “I wasn’t snooping.”
“Oh? What would you call it? I came out here to find you reading my notes.”
She licked her lips. “I was just straightening up.”
“You’re a lousy liar.”
“I’d rather be a lousy liar than a lousy person,” she retorted and grabbed the door handle.
“Well, good thing I’m neither,” he said. She was halfway out the door when he added, “I’m a writer.”
She turned and gaped at him. “You’re a...what?”
“You know. One of those people who sit around and make up shit.”
“Like...?”
“Murder shit.”
For a moment she looked shocked. Then her eyes narrowed and her lips pressed into an angry line.
“Surprise,” he muttered.
“You should’ve said something.”
“You shouldn’t have been snooping.”
She stood there in the doorway for a moment, wearing a pouty frown. She had the kind of lips a man dreamed of having on him. But he’d settle for putting her and her lips in a book.
“Okay,” she said with a nod. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have.”
A woman who could admit when she was wrong?
“I’m sorry.”
And one who said she was sorry? He’d figured that model had died out with his mom’s generation.
“No harm done,” he said. But he made sure to say it grudgingly to show her what he thought of nosy women.
“I did call the police,” she admitted. “Did you know you can be arrested for planning to commit a crime?”
“Do tell.”
“But it takes more evidence than I found. When I was snooping,” she added with a smile. And what a smile it was.
He supposed the incident would make a great anecdote to share when promoting his book. There was this nosy maid who saw my notes and thought I was a killer.
“You’re a writer. That’s cool,” she said, stepping back into the room.
That was what Nikki had said when he first met her. The walls went up.
“I’ve thought about writing a book.”
Who hadn’t?
“A children’s book.”
Next thing she’d be asking him if he knew a publisher who’d be interested in making her rich and famous. It was always that or, “Hey, why don’t you write my life story?”
“I thought of a great title the other day when I was on the beach,” she continued. “The Happy Clam.”
“The Happy Clam?” he repeated. Good Lord.
“I think it’s a cute title,” she said defensively.
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t write kid stuff.” Okay, that had sounded condescending.
“No, obviously, you’re into murdering people,” she shot at him before he could apologize.
Sticks and stones, baby. “Who doesn’t like a good serial killer?” he quipped.
Her features scrunched up as if he’d just offered to let her watch an autopsy. “You’re writing about a serial killer? Don’t you think that’s kind of sick?”
Now the clam girl was judging him? “No sicker than looking through people’s stuff.”
Her chin went up. “I said I was sorry.”
Okay, enough of this charming repartee. “You’re forgiven, my child. Go in peace.”
She went, but not in peace. The happy clam lady shut the door firmly. She was probably mentally listing the ways she’d like to do him in.
“Nice meeting you, clam girl.” And good riddance.
Chapter Five
After her unpleasant exchange with the jerk in room twelve, Celeste was more than ready for an afternoon beach walk.
“At least you know he’s not a murderer,” Jenna had said when Celeste told her about him.
Only a murderer of dreams. She was still smarting over the way he’d sneered at her children’s book idea. He’d probably approve if her clam met its death during the razor clam festival an
d wound up in some kid’s chowder.
Actually, she wasn’t sure what kind of story she could write about a clam. What did they do, really, but lie around in the sand until somebody harvested and ate them? Still, it was a cute title and there had been an idea in there somewhere. And writing something sweet for children had to beat bumping people off.
“He’s still a jerk,” she’d insisted, slipping her feet into her flip-flops.
“I don’t care, as long as he pays for his room,” Jenna had said. Her sister had become downright mercenary since taking over the Driftwood.
The June afternoon was warm and the sky was the kind of summer blue that would have made Monet weep for joy. Celeste soon forgot her irritation as she walked along the beach, looking for agates. Who cared about the jerk in room twelve? Who cared about anything on such a beautiful summer day?
She abandoned the agate search, kicked off her flip-flops and allowed herself a run at the water’s edge, enjoying the feel of the cool water on her bare feet. Suddenly, she heard a woof and found herself joined by a friendly yellow dog. He was some sort of mixed breed, probably part golden retriever, judging by his coat and friendly personality.
She stopped to pet him and he rewarded her with a vigorous tail wag and another bark, then jumped up and put his front paws on her white “I Heart Moonlight Harbor” T-shirt.
“Okay, manners,” she said, removing the paws and returning him to all fours. He barked and wagged his tail and she bent down and rubbed behind his ears. “Who are you, fella?”
“Orrroarorr,” he replied and tried to lick her face.
She checked him for a collar and dog license and found nothing, not even a flea collar. “Did you run away from home?” He must have. He was too friendly not to belong to someone. But whoever he belonged to sure wasn’t taking very good care of him. He needed a brushing, maybe a bath, too.
She straightened and looked up and down the beach, hoping to see a sign of the dog’s owner. Not a soul in sight. “You must be lost,” she said.
He wagged his tail once more as if to say, “Who cares? Let’s play.”
There were several vacation rentals and hotels along her stretch of beach. The dog must have wandered away from one of them. Hopefully, he’d find his way back.
After a final ear rub, she told him, “You’d better go on home, boy.” Then she continued on down the beach, this time at a walk.
Her new furry friend fell in step next to her.
She stopped.
He stopped.
“You need to go home.”
He wagged his tail.
Okay, she was going to have to get stern. She clapped her hands, then gave him the time-honored gesture for shoo. “Go home!”
He leaped, then bowed, tail still going, and barked. Obviously, he had no intention of shooing.
Best to ignore him. She turned around and started back to the house.
So did the dog.
She was nearly home and her new friend was still with her, demanding nothing more than to walk by her side. “You need to go home,” she said again. Firmly. Very firmly.
He kept walking along next to her, tongue lolling. She could have sworn he was smiling.
Okay, she’d reached her destination. Time to part ways. Of course, the dog had no intention of leaving her side.
“I suppose you’re thirsty,” she said.
The tail swept back and forth. Yup. How’d you guess?
“I can’t keep you,” she informed him. “I don’t live here. And that’s not my house.”
The tail kept wagging.
“Okay, I’ll give you a drink, but that’s it.” She probably shouldn’t even do that. But he did look thirsty. And hungry. They went up the back steps together. Good buds.
“Stay,” she commanded as she opened the door.
That word was not in the dog’s vocabulary. Before she could stop him, he’d pushed his way into the kitchen, trotting up to where Aunt Edie stood rolling out pie crust and jumping on her.
Aunt Edie yelped and dropped her rolling pin. Roger, who’d been seated on his kitchen perch, let out a squawk and took off for the living room. Meanwhile, the dog, mistaking the rolling pin for a stick, got it between his teeth.
“My rolling pin!” cried Aunt Edie.
“Oh, you bad dog,” muttered Celeste, starting for him. “Give that here.”
Now the game was on. The dog bolted away, rolling pin in his mouth, and raced from the kitchen to the living room with Celeste in pursuit.
Sabrina had been sitting on the couch, reading a book. She broke into a smile at the sight of their uninvited guest. “A dog! Come here, boy.”
The animal dropped the rolling pin, bounded over to the couch and jumped on her, barking a greeting.
Meanwhile, Roger had climbed into his cage and pulled the door shut after him. “Call the cops! Call the cops!”
“He’s so sweet,” Sabrina cooed as the dog tried to lick her. “Where did you get him?”
Aunt Edie chose that moment to march into the living room, frowning. “What is this animal doing here?” she demanded, retrieving her slobbered-up rolling pin.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Edie,” Celeste said, dragging their four-legged visitor off Sabrina. “He followed me home.”
Sabrina bent to pet the dog and he reached for her face with his tongue, making her giggle. “Who does he belong to?”
“I don’t know,” Celeste said. “He doesn’t have a collar.”
“He needs to leave,” Aunt Edie insisted.
“Maybe he doesn’t have a home,” Sabrina said hopefully.
Celeste couldn’t imagine that. “He’s too pretty not to belong to someone. Come on, boy,” she urged, patting her leg.
The dog bounded away from Sabrina, tail swinging hard enough to knock a candle from the coffee table.
“Oh, dear,” Aunt Edie fretted.
“Oh, dear,” echoed Roger from the safety of his cage. “Oh, dear, oh, dear. Give me whiskey.”
Aunt Edie was going to need some whiskey herself at the rate they were going. Celeste managed to get the dog out of the house and onto the back porch, then slipped inside before he could figure out he’d been tricked. With a doggy sigh, he slid down against the door and settled in.
Sabrina was in the kitchen now. “What if he’s lost?” she asked, looking out the door window at him.
“He’ll find his way home,” Aunt Edie assured her. She stood at the sink, squirting bleach on her rolling pin.
“He’s thirsty. I should at least give him a drink,” Celeste said, and dug a big metal bowl out of one of the cupboards.
“Give a mouse a cookie,” Aunt Edie warned. She added dish soap to the bleach and began to scrub vigorously.
Celeste knew that children’s book. “Just a drink, Auntie,” she pleaded. “You’d never refuse a drink to a stranger, would you?” After all, she’d taken in Pete.
“I would if he had four legs,” Aunt Edie replied. “Dogs are messy.”
Not like parrots who spread birdseed everywhere and sometimes pooped on your shoulder.
“All right,” Aunt Edie relented. “Give him a drink, dear, but he can’t come in.” She rinsed off her rolling pin and applied more bleach, lamenting, “My rolling pin will never be the same.”
Jenna entered the kitchen. “Who’s getting a drink?”
“We have a visitor,” Aunt Edie told her, sounding none too happy about it.
“Aunt Celeste found a dog,” Sabrina said, an eager smile on her face. “We don’t think he has a home.”
“We don’t know anything about him,” Aunt Edie corrected.
Oh, boy, thought Celeste. She’d brought home a problem. Aunt Edie was not in a welcoming mood and it was obvious Sabrina would like nothing better than to instantly adopt the dog. Which put Jenna uncomforta
bly in the middle.
“I’m sure he’s got an owner,” Celeste said, hoping to both placate her great-aunt and keep her niece’s hopes from rising any higher.
“But he didn’t have a collar,” pointed out Sabrina.
Jenna poured herself a glass of lemonade. “Sometimes people just dump their pets and leave.”
“That’s outrageous!” Celeste couldn’t restrain her disgust.
“Who’d dump a sweet dog like that?” Sabrina asked.
“He’s not very well-mannered. No wonder he got dumped,” Aunt Edie said as Celeste opened the door to put down the bowl of water for the dog, who was dancing around her in eager anticipation.
As soon as the bowl was down, he dove his face into the water and began to lap it up. That at least allowed Celeste to shut the door and keep him out.
Jenna looked at him through the back door window. “He’s really scruffy.”
“But pretty,” Celeste said. Once he was well groomed, he’d be gorgeous.
“Since we found him, we could name him Nemo, like the fish in the movie,” Sabrina said, joining them at the door.
Celeste saw the glance that shot between Jenna and Aunt Edie. We’re picking names.
“I’m sure he has an owner,” Jenna said. “Maybe he’s chipped.”
“What if he’s not?” Sabrina persisted.
“He has to belong to somebody,” Jenna said.
Yes, he did, but whoever it was didn’t deserve him.
“We should take his picture and put it up on Facebook,” Jenna continued. “We should probably make some flyers, too.”
“We should take him to the animal shelter,” said Aunt Edie.
Sabrina looked aghast. “If nobody adopts him, they’ll kill him!”
Aunt Edie’s stern expression melted. Way to find the chink in Auntie’s armor, Celeste thought with a smile. Aunt Edie was far too tenderhearted to want a stray dog’s death on her conscience.
“Let’s take this one step at a time.” Jenna pulled her phone out of her back pants pocket and opened the door to go out and take the dog’s picture.
Seeing the open door as an invitation, he squeezed past her and reentered the kitchen, his tail doing the hula, and began sniffing the floorboards.
The Summer Retreat Page 6
