Maple Syrup Mysteries Box Set 2: Books 4-6

by Emily James

  “I’m surprised she didn’t tell you,” Geoff said.

  “Me too.” At least he’d gotten a Dear John text. That was more than I’d gotten. Which didn’t fit, either. Why dump her boyfriend and her best friend all in the span of a couple of weeks? She was too young for a mid-life crisis. The anxious feeling crawled back up into my throat. “Did she seem okay to you before she called it off?”

  He sighed, and it sounded like a shrug. “I don’t know anymore. She was stressed out, but I thought that was normal wedding planning and apartment hunting jitters.”

  That might well be all it was. Ahanti could etch permanent ink onto a person’s face without so much as a hand tremor, but every year around tax time, she’d practically end up curled up in the fetal position around a bottle of wine.

  Still, in her meltdown moments, she was the kind of person to hold her loved ones closer rather than push them away.

  “Do you think it could be something else?” Geoff asked, fear and hope mingling together in his voice. “I never would have expected her to cut you off.”

  I could have said the same thing about him. Actually, I should. I knew too well what he must be going through.

  “Same with you. I’m only here for a bit, but I’ll try to track her down in person and get some answers.” If all else failed, I had resources for it that Geoff didn’t. My parents had a whole cadre of private investigators on speed dial. At least one of them had to be free from casework at the moment and willing to make some money from a different Fitzhenry-Dawes. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that, though. “Did you try meeting up with her at her studio?”

  “Yeah, but some big dude blocked the door and told me I wasn’t welcome inside.”

  Given that she hadn’t responded to my attempts at contact, I might very well receive the same reception. She wouldn’t recognize Mark as easily. That was another ace in my hand if I needed it.

  Since today was Monday, Ahanti’s studio was closed. It’d be at least tomorrow before we could swing by. “I’ll let you know once I’ve talked to her.”

  “Thanks, Nicole,” he said softly. “I’ve been worried about her.”

  I disconnected the call. Mark had angled in his seat so that he leaned back against the driver’s door, watching me.

  I felt a bit like a specimen in an experiment. “What?”

  His gaze moved over my face. “I figured something out about you.”

  My best friend had dropped her fiancé and me in one clean-slate wipe. There were no guarantees that Mark wouldn’t have a lightbulb moment one day and realize that I wasn’t what he wanted after all. We’d known each other less time than Ahanti and Geoff had, after all. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

  “When we talked about it before, you made it sound like the puzzle was why you kept getting involved in cases even when it was dangerous. I don’t think that’s it. At least not all of it.”

  I gave him a sidelong do tell look. If I’d had his unnatural eyebrow control, I would have quirked one at him.

  “You’re the opposite of the Grinch,” he said. “Your heart is three sizes too large.”

  I snorted. If you asked my dad, that was my biggest failing. But I was pretty sure Mark didn’t feel the same way. “Endearing or annoying quality?”

  One of his dimples peeked out. “A little of both. But mostly endearing. At least I know there’s plenty of room in that heart for me.” He shifted in his seat and put the car into drive. “Now, since I know we’ll be trying to track down Ahanti before our meeting tomorrow with my new potential boss, how about you show me some of the sights today?”

  2

  The next morning, Mark parked in a lot down the street from Ahanti’s tattoo parlor, Skin Canvas. Since I’d moved to Fair Haven, we’d had a running joke about what she’d have to rename it if she relocated there. Our top two picks had been Just Ink About It and INKcredible Tattoos.

  It was a strange feeling now walking up to her studio and not knowing if I’d be welcome or not. My sandals felt like they were sticking to the asphalt for more reasons than just the scorching sun.

  Mark and I had discussed it on the way there. I’d try to go in, and if no one stopped me, then he’d follow along. It’d be better if I could talk to Ahanti myself. If Ahanti put the same human barricade in place for me as she had for Geoff, then Mark would hang back and enter under the guise of being a potential customer.

  A glance through the window showed Ahanti’s co-artist Terrance working on a woman’s wrist. No Ahanti, and no human meat shield in sight.

  I went in with Mark close behind. The first time I’d visited Ahanti’s tattoo parlor, I’d expected someplace dark and kind of grungy, with dim lighting and an aroma of cigarette smoke and booze. I hadn’t been good at hiding the expectation, either. The first thing out of my mouth when I’d walked through the doors that first day into the bright, sterile environment was It’s so clean! It even smelled nice thanks to the bowls of lavender potpourri Ahanti kept around.

  Thankfully, Ahanti hadn’t taken my reaction personally. She’d had a few stereotypes about lawyers that we’d had to break through, too, in our early days of friendship.

  Terrance glanced up. With his head out of the way, I got a better look at the design he was working on—another biomechanical piece, his specialty. He’d made the woman’s skin look like it was peeling back to reveal a mechanical arm underneath.

  “Hey, Nicole. You in town for a visit? Ahanti’s in the back.”

  His gaze was already on his work again before he finished speaking. He was one of those people who asked questions, but then didn’t actually wait for you to answer them. When I used to hang out in the studio while Ahanti worked on designs for clients, that particular quirk of Terrance’s used to make my skin crawl. Turned out I hadn’t built up an immunity to it in my time away. It still made me want to slap tape over his mouth as soon as he asked a question so I’d be able to respond.

  As if she’d heard her name, Ahanti came through the back-room door, a bottle of red ink in her hand. She wore a mint-colored vintage flapper dress and was as long and lean as ever, but the bright blue streak in her hair showed dark roots at the bottom. I’d never seen her leave it the same color long enough for the roots to grow out before.

  She stopped one step through the doorway, and her hand clenched around the ink bottle. For an awkwardly long time, we stood and stared at each other. I wanted to run to her for a hug, and she looked like she wanted to run away.

  She licked her lips. “Unless you’re here for a tattoo, you’ll have to leave.”

  She completely ignored Mark as if she didn’t even see him. Either that, or she’d figured out who he was, and her dismissal included him as well.

  Terrance’s gaze hopped to Ahanti, then back to his work. A tiny frown formed between his eyebrows, and he leaned closer over his client’s arm.

  Mark wandered a little bit away and acted like he was interested in the photos on the walls of some of Ahanti’s more intricate designs. He stayed close enough to eavesdrop, but far enough away to be unthreatening to Ahanti.

  All the things I’d planned to say fell out of my mind and rolled across the floor and out of reach. A large part of me had believed that, once Ahanti saw me here in person, she’d throw open her arms and tell me exactly what was going on.

  Now I had no doubt that she’d gotten my messages and had chosen to ignore them.

  That still didn’t tell me why.

  Terrance’s client was openly gawking, and whatever was going on, I doubted Ahanti would discuss it in front of a client. The tattoo parlor didn’t have quite the same one-sided stereotypical dynamic of a bartender with a customer, but it did have a lot more in common with a beauty salon than most people probably realized. Tattoo artists often filled the role of listening ear and unofficial therapist for their clients, which meant they weren’t as forthcoming with their own personal lives. Clients wanted to unburden, not take on the added burden of whatever was happening
in their artist’s life.

  “Could we talk in the back?” I asked.

  Her fingers tapped against her leg. “We don’t need to talk. If you’d like to see a book of past designs, I’d be happy to set you up with that.” She gestured toward two plush chairs off to the side. “But we only do custom work, and we don’t take walk-ins.”

  This conversation had to sound strange to anyone listening. I clearly knew her, and she was acting like I was some gawker off the street. I moved closer and lowered my voice. “I talked to Geoff. He’s worried about you, and so am I.”

  Something flickered across her eyes—there and gone before I could figure out what it was. “Noted, but I know what I’m doing.”

  I know what I’m doing rather than I’m fine. Maybe it was my paranoia rearing up again and making me see dangers and cries for help where there weren’t any, but that struck me as a deliberate choice of words.

  “I can help.” I kept my response sub-vocal, trusting her to read my lips. “Is something wrong?”

  She set the ink down on the counter. “I know letting go of an old friendship can be hard, but people change, and it’s time to move on. I don’t have time for a long-distance thing.”

  Her expression stayed neutral. If she needed help, if something was wrong that she felt like she couldn’t talk about here, she could have given me some sort of tiny signal. She didn’t.

  I turned for the door. I felt more than saw Mark fall into step behind me. His hand slid gently onto the small of my back as we headed out the door.

  “If that’s your best friend,” he said once the door closed behind us, “I hope we don’t run into any of your old enemies.”

  He meant it as a joke to take the edge off the sting, I knew. That was the Cavanaugh way. The lump filling my throat kept me from answering.

  She sounded like she was fine and had decided she wanted a different life than the one she had. Like she’d decided, as abruptly as she’d decided she was done with Geoff, that my friendship wasn’t worth the effort.

  A BMW swerved in front of us, nearly clipping our front bumper. It wasn’t the first.

  Mark laid on the horn and let slip a curse word. He glanced over at me. “Sorry. That guy doesn’t know how to drive.”

  In the few minutes it’d taken us to drive from M Street to Georgetown University, I’d watched Mark transform from mild-mannered Dr. Cavanaugh into road-rage filled Mr. Hyde. He gripped the steering wheel so tightly that the bones in his hands stood out in harsh lines.

  This trip was turning out to be a learning experience for both of us. “I thought I didn’t like DC traffic, but you’ve got me beat.”

  The look Mark shot me was the closet I’d ever seen him come to scowling at me. “If we move here, we need to live near public transit.”

  “You didn’t have a car in New York?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll have an ulcer within a month if I have to drive in this every day.”

  I decided that this was one of the few times I probably shouldn’t tease him. I hadn’t actually minded the traffic that much when I lived here, but that was because I used the time to listen to audio books. A good story made bad traffic much more tolerable. We could find a place with convenient public transit for Mark, and I’d battle the traffic to work.

  The GPS told us to take the next exit, and we were soon safely parked. Despite the traffic, we were even five minutes early. The change in Mark as soon as he shut the car off was visible. The hard edges came out of his jaw, and the color returned to his hands.

  He stepped out of the car the way a seasick person steps off a boat onto solid land. “I’d suggest you drive us back to the hotel, but I know your driving record.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him. “Hardy har har. For your information, I didn’t have a single accident here.”

  He grabbed my hand and brushed a kiss across my knuckles before we headed inside.

  The tour almost made me forget Ahanti’s rejection, the horrible traffic, and the impending dinner with my parents.

  The lab was exactly what I’d expected from a research grant, but the people—it was like we’d been on an alien planet and we were returning home. The team leader met us in the lobby, wearing a t-shirt with a math joke on it under his lab coat.

  “Worth the drive,” I whispered to Mark at one point.

  I got the full force of his dimples in response.

  My heart felt cleaved down the middle. If he wanted this job, I’d come back here for his sake, but it held a lot less appeal now. Most of my so-called friends from when I’d previously lived in DC turned out to not be interested in keeping in touch when I went from lawyer to maple syrup farm owner. Ahanti had been one of the few who stuck by me.

  My steps slowed even though Mark and the team leader continued on.

  I don’t have time for a long-distance thing, Ahanti had said.

  But I’d already told her we might be moving back. She must have been betting on me realizing that what would sound like a brush off to anyone listening was exactly the opposite.

  It was a silent cry for help.

  3

  What kind of trouble had Ahanti gotten into that she was afraid of speaking freely even in her own studio? And that she’d feel the need to cut off her fiancé and me? I had to assume now that she’d done it to protect us.

  Mark came back around the corner, clearly wondering where I’d disappeared to.

  I spackled on a smile. No matter my suspicions about Ahanti’s situation, I wasn’t going to ruin this for Mark. We couldn’t do anything until the tour was done anyway. “There was an intersection, and I didn’t have a GPS.”

  One of our running jokes was how I had a special skill for getting lost. Hopefully that’d stall him from asking more questions at least.

  The look he gave me said he didn’t quite believe me, but he took my hand anyway, and we caught back up with the team leader.

  The rest of the tour only solidified in my mind that Mark would be happy if he decided to take the job. I doubted that would change after he got a closer look over the next week at the research they were doing.

  By the time we got lunch in the cafeteria, though, I felt like a kid at the end of a long drive.

  Mark slid his tray onto the table and took the chair next to me. “You have that look on your face like you’re desperate to tell me something.”

  I’d planned to at least wait until we were out of the building, but now that he’d asked, if I didn’t tell him, he’d probably worry that I was holding back something about the job. I filled him in on my revelation.

  “Are you sure it’s not just wishful thinking?”

  It might be, but there was only one way to find out. “I think I should talk to her.”

  “You already talked to her.”

  “We weren’t alone in her studio.”

  Mark steepled an eyebrow. “You think she was afraid of her employee or the woman getting a tattoo?”

  Not likely. Terrance had worked with Ahanti since she opened her tattoo parlor. If she’d been afraid of the woman customer, she could have waited until she left and then called me. For that matter, she could have emailed or texted me today, yesterday, or any time in the past week.

  Mark was probably right. It certainly sounded more reasonable than my grasping at what could have been simply me overanalyzing Ahanti’s choice of words.

  But she’d been my best friend for so long. She’d stuck by me through having my heart broken by a married man and changing careers and all manner of other things. If there was even a chance that this wasn’t what it seemed, I couldn’t abandon her. “I need to do this.”

  “Not by yourself.” Mark took the final swig of his soda, then piled all his trash onto the tray. “If we’re going to do this, we need to figure out how to contact her in a way she’ll feel safe responding to.”

  Good Lord, I loved this man.

  We still didn’t have a plan by the time we needed to leave for dinner with my parents. Wor
king on the assumption that she didn’t feel comfortable telling me what was going on using her phone or email or talking to me in person, it wasn’t as simple as sending her a message through one of those means.

  Mark had suggested sliding a letter under her apartment door, but I knew from living there that there wasn’t a gap under the door to slide anything. If we mailed a letter, it might not reach her before we left.

  “What about taping it to her door?” Mark asked. We were out of the worst of the traffic, so he’d relaxed his death grip on the wheel.

  “If she’s so worried about someone intercepting her communication, I’m not comfortable being so obvious about it.”

  I’d hate to cause Ahanti more trouble than she was already in if this was more than her deciding to make drastic changes in her life for the sake of change.

  Mark parallel parked on the street in front of my parents’ building. My parents could have easily afforded a house, but their apartment came with a superintendent and no need to upkeep a yard—or hire someone to do it. They’d never had much patience for anything that could interfere with their work time or their very limited leisure time. Besides, you could see the Washington Monument while swimming in the rooftop pool. Very few locales could boast that kind of a view. The waiting list for an apartment in their building could be two years or more.

  My mom buzzed us in, and my head felt a bit like I’d been given a dose of anesthetic—all fuzzy and disconnected. Assuming my dad spoke to me today, it’d be the first time in five months. Whether the silence was still anger-motivated or he thought he could shame me into coming back, I wasn’t sure. My mom didn’t even seem to know. According to her, my dad didn’t want to speak about me any more than he wanted to speak to me.