by S. E. Harmon
As I wrapped the towel around my hips, the low murmur of voices filtering through the door grew louder.
“Who’s he talking to in there?”
“Who knows? I just know I need to speak with the bridge.”
“You?” Another voice joined the party. “I was here first.”
“I was here last week.”
“Last week? I’ve been here twice that long—”
“Enough!” I pulled open the bathroom door in my version of a hissy fit. I made sure my towel was still tucked to avoid multiple ghost opinions on the size of my dick. “I’ll do as much as I can. Just one at a time. Deal?”
There was a murmur of discontent as I stomped to the closet and pulled out some freshly dry-cleaned clothes. I dressed quickly in a sharp heather gray suit with a blue tie. Two hours, I thought grimly. I’d dedicate two hours of my morning to this ghosting nonsense, and then it was back to business.
Chapter 9
My two-hour estimate turned out to be a little conservative. It was afternoon before I finally finished my medium duties. I spent the next three hours meeting with Mason’s ex-wives and interviewing them. They were all as different as could be, but they shared one glaring similarity—they harbored no ill will toward Mason.
It was late in the day by the time I finally headed out to Mason’s mother’s place. She lived in a retirement home in Boca, which was a good distance away. I didn’t mind because the long drive gave me a much needed opportunity to decompress.
It was hard not to resent the ghosts strong-arming me into doing things for them. The fair side of me acknowledged that maybe I didn’t really give them much of a choice. I’d ignored them for most of my life. Who could blame them for being anxious now that I’d finally decided to acknowledge them?
The fair part of me was easily drowned out by the part that wanted things to go back to normal—whatever that was. I guess the closest to normal I’d ever gotten was when I thought the ghosts were a figment of my imagination, and I just needed a little more sleep to make them disappear.
By the time I got off the exit to Sue’s retirement home, it was nearly dusk. The surrounding neighborhood was kind of rough, but the moment I passed by the cheery Sunnybrook Acres sign, it was like someone flipped a switch. Everything was neat and well-cared for. I didn’t have much experience with retirement villages, but on television they were cramped, smelly hovels where ungrateful children sent their parents to die. If that was the case, it appeared I’d stumbled on the exception.
I walked past a senior group doing yoga on the expansive front lawn, which made me think of my mother. I was a caring, dutiful son, so I made a mental note to grab a brochure to threaten her with. If tradition was anything to go by, my cheekiness would cost me one whack to the back of the head.
Sue Harris-Paige lived on the third floor. When she opened the door, she barely glanced at my identification. Instead, she peered up at me with rheumy blue eyes. “Are you here about Mason?”
“Yes, I am.” I flipped my badge closed and pocketed it. “I was hoping you had a minute to chat.”
“I’m not exactly busy here.” She stepped back to let me in with a wheezy chuckle. “Would you like some lemonade?”
“That’s very kind of you, but no.”
She shuffled away and after a brief pause, I realized I was supposed to follow. I closed the door quietly, returning the room to its earlier gloom, and trailed behind her to the screened balcony.
I walked slowly, so as not to overtake her, which gave me plenty of time to survey the small apartment. The furniture was outdated and the décor leaned toward cluttered, but it looked clean enough. I took a seat on a wicker chair that could’ve come straight off the set of The Golden Girls.
When Sue was settled, she looked at me expectantly. “When we spoke on the phone, you said you had some questions. What exactly do you want to know?”
“Anything you want to tell me about Mason.”
“Anything?” Those watery eyes squinted at me, as if expecting me to take it back… as if she’d been waiting and preparing for this question her entire life.
Oh boy. Despite my better judgment, I confirmed grimly, “Anything.”
The flood gates opened… actually, they didn’t simply open, someone blew the gates off their hinges with dynamite and a tsunami came rushing through.
She talked about his childhood, his teenage years, and his years in culinary school. She talked about finding out that he was gay from a member of her church who worried for his soul. She indignantly told that church member that he’d go to hell for being a gossipy twit far before Mason ever would, and then prayed for forgiveness later. She talked about his passion for baking, and then bustled off to dig up several dated, dog-eared magazines with articles that featured Bakeology. She talked until her throat was dry and she had to get another something to drink, leaving me stunned, with a Culinary Today magazine on my lap.
Good God, the woman had just medaled in the talking Olympics and didn’t even break a sweat.
It wasn’t all a waste. I felt like I knew Mason better than ever before. I knew that he’d been a sweet, shy kid who’d turned into a sweet, shy guy who was sometimes afraid to stand up for himself. He was artsy, talented, creative, and generous. It was nice to know that he was exactly what he seemed from our few, short interactions. It was just that I already had my motivation for solving his murder. Now I was looking for clues.
It hadn’t escaped my attention that she hadn’t mentioned her other son. At all. When she bustled back in with a glass of lemonade that I didn’t ask for, I jumped in quickly before she could take the reins of the conversation again. “So how did Luke and Mason get along?”
“What? Fine, dear.”
Fine? Just fine? I expected more, especially from the woman who talked for twenty minutes about the time Mason spearheaded her church’s annual bake sale.
“Were they close?” I prodded. “I know Luke moved in with his brother for a while.”
For the first time since she’d plopped her butt in that chair, she looked less than thrilled at my company. “He did,” she said shortly. “I don’t really know all the details.”
“Anything you can tell me would be helpful.”
“Like I said, I really don’t know anything, dear. I know Luke was having some money problems, and Mason offered him a place to stay while he got on his feet. That is what brothers do, isn’t it?”
I didn’t have any, so I didn’t know. I knew my twin sister would certainly let me stay with her, which was quite sweet. But if she thought I was ever going to stay in her glorified yurt, she had another thing coming.
“You don’t talk about Luke much,” I said, watching her carefully. “And I’ve noticed you don’t have many photos of him up. Is there a reason for that?”
“I don’t know what you’re implying, but I love both of my sons,” she said, wrinkled mouth pursed.
“I never thought you didn’t.”
“Good. My Luke has always had his problems, but he’s still my son.” She rocked a little in her chair, looking out the window, her expression pensive. “Growing up, he was always getting into fights and scrapes. Sometimes Mason would even be dragged into it, trying to defend his brother. I can’t tell you how many times they came home trying to hide a fat lip, or cuts and bruises. Howard was about to pull his hair out.”
“Your husband?”
“Yes.” We both glanced at the family picture on the wall. If Howard’s shiny dome was anything to go by, he’d succeeded in pulling out every blasted follicle. “Any serious trouble?”
“With the law, you mean? Oh, a few run-ins here and there. Mason paid to post bond for him a few times. It was like Luke had a magnet for trouble.” She rocked some more. “We were so glad when he followed Mason’s footsteps and enrolled in culinary school, but then he dropped out. Luckily, Mason was there to give him a job at the bakery.”
She hesitated, and I leaned forward. “Mrs. Paige, please. Anything y
ou know could help.”
“I… I want to be perfectly clear that I don’t think Luke would hurt his brother, but Mason asked him to move out. Luke wasn’t very happy about it.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “That was two weeks before Mason disappeared.”
“Why did Mason ask his brother to move out?”
“I don’t know. They weren’t getting along very well at the end there. Not that Mason had all that much time for us at the end. He had a new boyfriend, I think.” She smiled a little. “New love can be all-consuming.”
I swiveled my chair toward the door at the sound of a key in the lock. Sue didn’t seem perturbed—she just rocked a little in her chair and hummed. Before I could even ask if she was expecting someone, the door opened and a man appeared in the doorway. He had a brown grocery bag tucked under one arm, a bakery box perched on top of that, and two small pharmacy bags clutched in his teeth.
He was of medium build and height, casually dressed in ripped jeans and a short-sleeved flannel. It was hard to see much more than that because of the bounty in his arms. “Sue, I’ve got your meds,” he said around the bag.
“Thank you, my love,” Sue said. “You can just leave it on the counter.”
He struggled to unload his purchases on the already crowded countertop. The pink bakery box nearly went sliding off, but he caught it just in time. “I also stopped by Bakeology and snagged some fresh muffins. I know you love the blueberry best, so I mostly got those….” He faltered when he spotted me. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company.”
“It’s perfectly alright,” I said, half standing and putting out my hand. He shook it slowly. “I’m Detective Christiansen. I just stopped by to talk with Sue about—”
“Mason.” He swallowed. “I’m Casey, by the way.”
His brown hair was long enough that it kept falling in his eyes, a contrast to his neat appearance. When he tucked some of it behind his ear, I saw the reason he probably kept it that way. The right side of his face was crisscrossed with scars, thick ridged and shiny. They probably wouldn’t seem so stark if the rest of his face wasn’t so smooth and beautifully proportioned.
And he was striking still, at least to me. As a profiler, I was more aware than most of the human draw to facial symmetry. It was the first thing I usually noticed, even before eye or hair color. Regardless of his scarring, Casey had beautiful facial symmetry.
“Your timing is actually quite fortuitous,” I said, sitting back down. “I’d like to talk with you as well.”
“I’m actually a little booked today. I have to pick up a friend in a half hour.” The hank of hair dropped back down over his scars. “I just stopped by to give Sue her groceries.”
“Maybe tomorrow then,” I said smoothly.
“My schedule is jam-packed right now,” he said. “Maybe in a few days? I’ll give you a call.”
No one was ever really all that eager to speak with the police, but I couldn’t help but feel like he was being evasive. His schedule wasn’t so jam-packed that he couldn’t stop by the bakery, pharmacy, and grocery store for Sue. Then again, making time to help his best friend’s mother probably ate up a lot of his day.
“Make sure you do,” I finally said, “and soon.”
He nodded. “I will.”
He stood there for a few moments, shifting uncomfortably, almost like he was unsure if he was allowed to leave. Sue smiled. “We don’t want to keep you, dear. Detective Christiansen and I were just having a lovely chat. It’s always so nice to get company. I don’t get as much as I used to.”
“I stop by as much as I can,” Casey said, brow furrowed.
“That wasn’t a criticism, dear. Why don’t you put the groceries away before the ice cream melts? And put those muffins on the cake stand. They smell wonderful, by the way.”
He didn’t seem all that thrilled with leaving the room, but she hadn’t left him much of a choice. Sue and I watched as he disappeared into the kitchen.
“Such a nice boy,” she said. “Since Mason’s disappearance and the passing of my Howard, he’s really stepped up to help out.”
“That’s very kind of him.” It took me a moment to remember what we’d been talking about before the interruption. “You mentioned Mason was seeing someone. Do you know who this new person was?”
“He wasn’t ready to tell. He said he didn’t want to jinx things.” She was quiet for a moment. “I was hoping he’d finally met someone special.”
“Anyone else you can think of who would hurt Mason?”
“No,” she said. “I’m just so happy that you’re here. Thank you for reopening my son’s case.”
“Mason’s case was never actually closed,” I said gently.
“Oh, I know it’s supposed to still be an active investigation because someone hasn’t written closed on the box. But no one has been working on my son’s case. Every now and again, a reporter digs up the story and stirs things up. BBPD trots out an officer to my house, going through the motions.”
It was a bit jarring to hear someone so sweet and naïve sound so jaded. It kind of made me wonder how much of her bumbling grandma routine was an act.
Sue went on. “They ask me the same kind of painful questions they did the year before and write down some answers to go in that dusty file. And do you know why I went through with it?”
“Because you wanted him back,” I said quietly.
“Because I wanted him found.” She swallowed visibly. “Every year on the anniversary of his disappearance, I called BBPD. I know they thought I was a crazy old woman who thought her son was still alive, but I knew better.”
“Ms. Paige, we haven’t identified—”
“I already know. A mother always knows.” She rocked her chair some more. “I called to let them know that someone still cared about Mason. He wasn’t just a dusty box in an old storage room.”
“I understand,” I said softly.
“Now, I have a question for you. Are you going to be the detective to finally solve his case?”
I knew better than to promise her anything of the sort. “Yes,” I said firmly, even as I cursed my own impetuousness. “This isn’t just another wasted trip.”
“Good. I’m so glad.” She sighed. “You know, Mason wasn’t perfect, but he was a good man.”
“I never thought, or implied, otherwise.”
“I’m telling you this because you’re his last chance to speak. He deserves closure.” She twisted her hands together. “You’re the man working his case and he needs to be important to you.”
The sentiment was sweet but unnecessary.
He already was.
Chapter 10
I made the long drive home in mostly contemplative silence, with the radio so low I could barely hear it. When a particularly chatty DJ started up, telling me about a party I’d never attend headlined by an artist I’d never heard of, I shut it off completely.
Regardless of Sue’s intention, she put Luke directly in my sights. To hear her tell it, Mason had made a lifelong habit of pulling his brother’s chestnuts out of the fire. Not to mention he gave Luke a place to stay and a job that he probably wasn’t qualified for. Maybe Mason got tired of giving. Or maybe Luke got entirely too used to taking.
I hadn’t really realized I was headed for Danny’s until I was there. He’d centered the driveway. Again. I idled at the curb for a few seconds, searching my bleary mind, trying to remember if we’d talked about going solo tonight. I finally shrugged and pulled in behind his car, blocking him in.
As I got out of the car, my stomach gave an almighty growl. The scent of smoky deliciousness in the air synched up with the plume of smoke coming from the back of the house. He might not be that great of a cook—we usually kept a fire extinguisher at the ready—but Danny was an undisputed grill master. I could almost taste the char in the air as I crossed the yard and headed inside the house.
I showered and changed quickly, eager to get to the “chow down” part of the evening. Afte
r pulling on some comfortable khaki shorts and a shirt, I headed out back.
Danny stood at the grill, his face flushed from the fire, the weather, or maybe a combination of both. He’d also given his work clothes the boot, and looked relaxed and comfortable in some basketball shorts, a tank top, and some Nike flip-flops.
I smiled, watching him monitor his steak kabobs like they were actual children. Any moment, I expected him to read them a bedtime story. The A-1 Sauce kissed the steak, and they lived for another three minutes of bliss before being stuffed in my mouth. The end.
The half apron he’d tied around his waist read “Kiss the Cook,” and I followed that instruction to the letter, pressing a soft kiss at the base of his neck. It’d been a while since he had his almost fauxhawk shaped, and the hair back there was downy and soft. His hair was so beautifully midnight black that it was almost blue, and some fanciful part of me almost expected my lips to come away covered with ink.
I kissed his nape again. “Hi.”
He turned around briefly, just long enough to give me a quick smile. “Hi, yourself. I was starting to wonder if you were even coming over tonight. How was the retirement home?”
“It was nice. You’re going to love it when you’re old and senile.”
“Wait. Why do I have to be the old and senile one?”
I tapped my forehead. “I just have a hunch. I’m usually right about these things, D.” I noticed a little sauce pot with yellow sauce bubbling on the top rack and started to stick my finger in it to taste. He popped my hand with his tongs, and I yelped. “That hurt, you bastard.”
“Probably less than sticking your finger in bubbling hot queso.”
“For future reference, I like to be spanked on the ass, not the hand.” I rubbed at the injured spot. “You need any help?”
“No, I’m almost done.” He grabbed a beer off the side table and handed it to me. Then he gestured at the patio chairs with his tongs. “Sit. Relax.”
